Chapter 27
A nita answered Gordon’s call on the first ring.
“I know it’s almost nine,” he said. “Is it too late for Judy and me to stop by? We think we’ve unraveled the mystery of the Candy Alley bootlegger.”
“That’s exciting!” Anita said. “I can’t wait to hear all about it. Of course you can come over, but I’m still at the bridal shop.”
“I didn’t know you planned to work late tonight,” Gordon said. “I thought business was slow right now.”
“I’m not working on bridal shop business,” she said. “I’m dumping bootleg whiskey down the drain.”
“What?”
“We don’t know if the whiskey is safe to drink, so I won’t want it hanging around. I asked Sam and Jeff to have one of their crew bring the crates up from the basement and over here to the shop. They did that this afternoon. I got busy right after closing time.”
“You’ve been uncorking bottles and pouring the contents down the drain for almost four hours?” he asked.
“I took a break and ran over to Pete’s for dinner. To tell you the truth, the repetition has been cathartic. I pulled up my favorite playlist of Broadway show tunes, and it’s actually fun.”
“Are you almost done?” he asked.
“I’ve got three more crates to go,” she said.
“How about if Judy, Sunday, and I come to the bridal shop to present our findings?” he said. “I’ll stay and help you finish up.”
“I wouldn’t say no to either of those,” she said.
“We’ll see you in about five minutes,” he replied.
Anita finished emptying the bottles in the crate she’d been working on before her friends arrived. She locked the front door behind them and escorted them to one of the high, rectangular worktables that sat empty beneath a bright overhead light.
“Oh, this will be perfect,” Judy said. “Much better than my kitchen table.”
Gordon opened his satchel and spread its contents across the table: dog-eared newspaper clippings, a receipt book, a cloth-bound diary stained with age, a packet of handwritten letters tied with a frayed velvet ribbon, and a folded telegram.
“I believe these supply the answers we’ve been seeking,” Gordon said, gesturing to the items on the table.
Sunday and Judy perched on tall stools, while Anita leaned against the edge of the table, peering down at the items like they were puzzle pieces.
“Candy Alley was started in 1903 by Charlotte’s grandparents,” Gordon began.
“Her grandmother’s parents were successful candy makers in Boston, and her grandmother’s older brother was set to inherit the business.
Charlotte’s grandparents moved to Westbury as newlyweds with her family’s blessing and the recipes from the Boston store.
They bought the building, set up shop, and were off to a fine start in the prosperous, turn-of-the-century community of Westbury. ”
He picked up the bundle of letters.
“These are from Charlotte’s great-grandmother to her daughter.
At first, the tone is light and breezy. The newlyweds were happy, the store was thriving, and the birth of Charlotte’s mother is discussed with great affection.
They wrote about planning a trip for the Boston relatives to visit Westbury and meet their granddaughter. That’s where the letters end.”
He lifted the fragile telegram and handed it to Anita.
She scanned the brief message and gasped before reading it again. “I take it this is from the brother who stayed in Boston and ran the original store?”
“It seems so,” Gordon said.
“How tragic,” Anita murmured. “That elderly couple got diphtheria and died within a week of each other—before they could make the trip.”
Gordon pointed to the date. “1910. At that point, the Westbury candy store was still prospering. The trail goes dark until 1917.”
He lifted the newspaper clippings.
“Here’s the obituary for Charlotte’s grandfather. He died in a hunting accident. There are several news stories about it, too.”
“Oh gosh,” Anita whispered.
“You’ll want to read these,” Gordon said. “There was speculation at the time that it wasn’t accidental, but the police couldn’t prove anything. Hector Martin—Silas’s son—was the close friend who allegedly shot him. There were rumors that Silas used his influence to clear his son’s name.”
“I guess some things never change,” Anita said grimly. “How awful for Charlotte’s grandmother.”
“She continued to run the candy store after his death. World War I broke out in 1914, and the U.S. joined the fight in 1917. While general food rationing didn’t hit America, sugar was in short supply. The government restricted imports from the Caribbean, and overseas demand soared.”
“That would’ve been devastating for a candy maker,” Anita said.
Gordon nodded. “Our next clue is in this receipt book. It appears Charlotte’s grandmother turned her culinary skills to whiskey making. The first entry shows a sale of twelve bottles of high-proof whiskey to Silas Martin in 1921.”
“When was Prohibition again?” Anita asked.
“1920 to 1933,” Sunday supplied.
Gordon flipped more pages. “Her biggest customers were Silas Martin and the Olsson family. She made regular sales to both. My guess is they kept her and the candy business afloat.”
“Then why was all that inventory left in my basement?” Anita asked.
“We may have found the answer in my mother’s diary.
My mother and Charlotte were great friends,” Judy said, rising to take over.
“But first, more of the backstory. Charlotte’s grandmother died right after Prohibition ended.
Her mother took over the shop, and, by then, liquor was legal again.
Those twelve crates were probably bottles she couldn’t sell.
Charlotte’s mother may have feared being arrested if anyone knew she had them, so she locked them away in the basement. ”
“Why didn’t Charlotte get rid of them later? Why hang onto them for decades?”
“Here’s the clue from the diary. My mom wrote that Charlotte was bitten by a poisonous spider in the basement as a child and nearly died. She never went down there again—not once. She probably didn’t remember those bottles were still there.”
Anita took a step back and gestured to the table. “What a story. Did you find anything about where the still might have been?”
Gordon, Judy, and Sunday shook their heads.
“This secret was very well kept, it seems,” Sunday said. “I’m not sure we’ll ever learn more.”
Anita bit her lower lip. “This is a story of women doing what was required to survive.”
“In a way, it fits the theme of your museum,” Sunday said. “Women using their intelligence and ingenuity to get by.”
“I like the sound of that,” Anita replied. “Now, more than ever, I want my museum to incorporate this history.”
Gordon walked from the table to the open crates lining the perimeter of the workroom, their lids leaning nearby. He picked up one of the empty bottles and held it to the light.
“I have an idea,” he said. “Have a plexiglass partition made with shelves for these bottles. It might work as a room divider. You could include a few of the crates to honor the building’s past.”
“That’s a genius idea,” Sunday said. “These bottles are beautiful. If you positioned the partition to catch the light, it would be stunning.”
“I love it,” Anita said. “But I don’t know where I’d find something like that.”
“You’d have it custom-made,” Gordon replied. “Art galleries do this sort of thing all the time. I have sources. And it’s not terribly expensive.”
Judy blew out a breath. “I can’t believe how interesting this building has turned out to be. Who would’ve thought?”
Sunday stood and pointed to three crates set apart from the others. “Do those still contain full bottles?”
Anita nodded. “Gordon said he’d stay and help me finish emptying them.”
“I’ll lend a hand too,” Sunday said, stepping over and removing four bottles. “Where do I dump these?”
Anita pointed toward the break room.
“Many hands make light work, as my grandmother used to say,” Judy added, joining them.
Within half an hour, the remaining whiskey had been poured down the drain. They washed the bottles and returned them to their crates to dry.
Gordon and Anita said goodbye to Sunday and Judy. He packed the papers back into his satchel, and he and Anita linked arms as they walked to his car.
“I’m tired,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “But my thoughts are racing. I don’t know how I’ll ever get to sleep.”
“Sleep is overrated,” he murmured, bending to kiss her.