Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3

by B. B. Haywood

  “I know,” Candy said, interrupting him. “Whatever it is, stay out of it.”

  The chief smiled broadly. “You took the words right out of my mouth, Ms. Holliday. Thanks for the cake and coffee. Doc, good to see you again. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some paperwork sitting on my desk desperately awaiting my signature.”

  Three

  Doc looked worried. “Are you sure you’re okay, pumpkin?”

  Candy reached for her new tote bag, a stylish Kenneth Cole tan and brown number she’d picked up at a discount store in Bangor a few weeks ago, between Christmas and New Year’s. She’d taken along her best friend, Maggie Tremont, and they’d made the rounds, looking for bargains. As soon as she came across the bag, Candy knew it was meant for her. It was casual yet classy, and gave her professional image a positive tweak.

  Today, it also gave her something to do with her hands. She was grateful to see they weren’t shaking as she checked the bag to make sure she had everything she needed—notepads, pens, her date book, digital tape recorder, business cards, flashlight, and her trusty cell phone, which was starting to show its age but still served her well.

  “Dad, for the hundredth time, yes, I’m fine,” she said without exasperation. She knew her father was worried about her. He worried about a lot of things these days. The past couple of years had been rough, and they’d had a few close calls, financially and with the crop. They’d also had to invest in some new farm equipment, which they couldn’t really afford, but they’d bought it anyway. And they’d managed to survive, thanks to small revenue streams from multiple sources—as many as they could come up with. It was the Maine way of getting by.

  Doc had recently published a couple of articles in a popular history magazine, and was working on another one, which brought in a few much-needed extra dollars. And Candy held down at least four jobs herself, though some were seasonal and others required only a few hours a week.

  It was her job as community reporter that had her headed out the door today.

  But Doc wasn’t ready to let her go quite yet. “You must have had a pretty good scare out there,” he said, giving her his most concerned look.

  Candy thought about that as she zipped up the bag and crossed the room to the coatrack by the kitchen door. She reached for a scarf and began to snug it around her neck. After a few moments she said softly, “Well, yeah, I guess he caught me by surprise. And I have to admit I’m still worried about Solomon.” She paused. “But the police are in charge now, right? I think it’s best if I just stay out of it and go about my business.”

  Even as she said the words, though, she wondered if that was possible. Once again, there were mysterious goings-on around Cape Willington. And the timing was curious. Could this have something to do with the upcoming weekend’s events? she wondered. And if so, what is the connection?

  She pondered these questions as she began to pull on her yellow fleece jacket.

  “I thought you were going to take the day off,” Doc said as he watched her.

  “I took the morning off.”

  “You get everything done you wanted to?”

  “No, but I’ll try again another day. For now, I have to go.” She slipped the tote bag’s strap over her shoulder and picked up her gloves.

  “You headed to Town Park?”

  Candy nodded as she took her keys from a hook by the door, and ticked off her plans for the afternoon. “The blocks of ice are arriving at around two, so I’m going to talk to some of the sculptors and watch them set things up. After that I’m headed across the street to the inn, where they have a couple of the sleighs on display. Maggie gets off at four, so we’re going to meet up, have a couple of drinks, maybe get something to eat.”

  She started toward the door but paused, turning back toward her father. “Hey, you want to come along? I could drop you at the diner while I’m doing my interviews. You’re welcome to join Maggie and me for dinner later on.”

  Doc considered the offer briefly but finally gave her one of his patented don’t-worry-about-me looks and waved his hand. “No, you go ahead. I have plenty to keep me busy around here. I have only a few chapters left of that historical mystery novel I’ve been reading, and I’m trying to finish up my article about Maine’s role in the War of 1812. There was a lot of fighting along this coastline, you know. I just have to put some time in at the historical society.”

  “Well, if you go over there, steer clear of Wanda Boyle. You don’t want to wind up in her blog.”

  “Heaven forbid!” Doc said in mock horror.

  “Are you all set for your presentation on Saturday?”

  “Oh, that?” He waved a hand. “Piece of cake. I can deliver a speech like that in my sleep.”

  Candy laughed. “I bet you can. Well, I’ll call you if I’m going to be out late. And give me a buzz if they hear anything about Solomon. I’m kind of worried about the old guy.”

  “Me too,” Doc said, and he turned toward his office as she headed out the door.

  After the biting cold they’d experienced over the past month and a half, today felt like a hint of spring, and she found she could actually breathe a little easier. She always seemed to hold herself tighter when it got really cold, as if she were freezing up herself. She didn’t mind it too much, though. It was just something to get through so you could enjoy the spring.

  During snowy weather she often parked her trusty old teal-colored Jeep Cherokee in the garage alongside the John Deere tractor and other farm equipment, but last night she’d left it in its summer place, in the driveway just off the back porch. She opened the cab, hopped into the seat, and headed toward town.

  During the spring, summer, and fall, Cape Willington was a beautiful village, but it took on a special glow in the winter, glazed by nature’s icing. It looked like a picture from a vintage Currier and Ives print. Of course, some of that icing had slipped a little with the warmer weather, covering the roads and sidewalks with an icy slosh that squelched satisfyingly under the shoe or boot.

  Two town maintenance workers were out today, operating a nimble duo of industrial lawn-sized tractors equipped with snow shovels and large rotating brushes. They were clearing away some of the built-up snow from the sidewalks and parking spaces, making quick work of preparing the town for the weekend’s festivities. Of the many things Mainers excelled at, clearing away snow was near the top of the list. Lord knows, they’d had plenty of practice over the years.

  Candy found a parking spot at the lower end of Ocean Avenue, just past the opera house and almost directly in front of the old Stone & Milbury Insurance Agency. The place had been closed for nearly a year now, ever since Mr. Milbury, one of the firm’s co-owners, absconded with hundreds of thousands of dollars in embezzled funds. They’d caught him in Arizona as he was attempting to cross the border into Mexico. Now he was serving time at a federal prison in northwestern Pennsylvania.

  Stone & Milbury had occupied a fairly large space along Ocean Avenue, where it had been a fixture for more than two decades. But after the firm’s implosion and the store’s closure, the landlord had eventually split the storefront into two smaller spaces. A dry cleaner’s now occupied the right side of the space, while a ritzy new art gallery had moved into the other side. The gallery had opened during the fall leaf-peeping season and had done a brisk business through the holidays, but Candy had heard that sales had slowed dramatically after the beginning of the year, causing the gallery to open only on weekends since midmonth. But today the store’s OPEN sign was prominently displayed, and through the window Candy noticed a few folks browsing around inside. And that made her happy. With the Winter Moose Fest kicking into high gear, tourists were once again filling the town’s inns, restaurants, and shops. The increase in activity was evident—and very welcome.

  Grabbing her tote bag, Candy slid out of the front seat, locked up the Jeep, and carefully negotiated a narrow pathway through a chest-high streetside snowbank before dashing into the doorway on the right. Inside,
her best friend, Maggie Tremont, stood behind the counter, chatting amiably with a customer. As soon as Candy entered, both pairs of eyes turned toward her.

  “Well, look who’s here,” Maggie said, proudly extending an arm in greeting, as if the Queen of England herself had just entered the room. “Our very own town detective and star reporter, right on cue!”

  Candy stopped and blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. “Who, me?”

  “Of course you, silly,” Maggie said with a wave of her hand as she came around the end of the counter and took her friend by the arm, leading her forward. “Someone here wants to meet you.”

  Candy’s gaze angled to the customer who stood in front of the counter. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his midsixties, with gray, longish hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tanned complexion, as if he had spent the past few months wintering under the Florida sun. He was smartly dressed in a black woolen overcoat, expensive-looking cream-colored dress shirt, gray and yellow argyle vest, and dark, sharply creased dress slacks. It was a stylish ensemble, disturbed only by the black rubber boots, encrusted with muddied, caked-on snow, poking out from under the cuffs of his slacks.

  She’d never seen him before, but his boots gave her a clue to his identity. He’s a true New Englander, she thought.

  He came toward her with his hand outstretched and one of the widest smiles she’d ever seen, framed by a thick gray moustache. “Candy Holliday, this is a thrill!” he said with great enthusiasm. He shook her hand warmly. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for quite some time. I’m Preston Smith.”

  Candy gave him a guarded smile. “Hello, Mr. Smith, it’s very nice to meet you.” She glanced sideways at Maggie, hoping for some explanation.

  “He says he’s read your columns,” Maggie said, as if that explained everything.

  “My columns?”

  “Oh yes, I’m a big fan,” Preston Smith told her. “I’m quite intrigued by them. I’m from the city, you see. All that noise and traffic and people jammed together. But your columns truly capture everyday life here in this wonderful little village of yours. I’ve been hoping to visit for quite a while, so I couldn’t be happier I’ve finally found the time to make the trip. And please, call me Preston.”

  He smiled at her so warmly she couldn’t refuse. “Well, okay, Preston.” She paused. “Where did you say you’re from?”

  “He’s from I.C.I.C.L.E.!” Maggie interjected excitedly.

  Candy looked confused. “Icicle? What state is that in?”

  Preston Smith laughed heartily. “I see you’re not familiar with this particular usage of the term,” he said with a toothy grin. “It’s an acronym, actually, for the International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts.”

  “You’re kidding me,” Candy said.

  Preston chuckled. “No, we’re quite serious, though our name is a little mischievous, I’ll admit. But we thought it would be fun and grab people’s attention. We’re a relatively new organization, you see, which probably explains why you haven’t heard about us. In fact, not many people have. But we’re growing fast. We truly believe in the beauty of carving and lighting ice. We’re hoping to turn it into an inter-national phenomenon—a type of sport, if you will, rivaling the popularity of football and baseball.”

  “Oh. Well, that’s wonderful,” said Candy, not completely convinced. Still, she thought as her reporter instincts took over, it might make a good story. “I’d love to write an article about your organization sometime.”

  “Perfect! To be honest, that’s one reason I’m here, Ms. Holliday. As I said, I’ve been reading your columns for quite some time, and I’ve enjoyed following all the activities and events taking place in your charming little town. One day recently, I was struck with this epiphany: what if we held one of our international ice-carving events right here in Cape Willington!”

  “Oh my! What a wonderful idea!” Maggie was almost breathless.

  “It could put your town on the map with the international ice-carving crowd,” Preston said.

  “Oh… is that a large group?” Candy asked skeptically.

  “Larger than you might guess,” Preston assured her.

  “I never realized that,” she replied, her voice only slightly betraying her doubt.

  Preston went on. “We think Cape Willington would make an ideal setting for one of our keystone annual events. While the event you’re presenting here this weekend is merely an exhibition—though an informative one, naturally—our organization could stage a worldwide competition, with awards, cash prizes, international press, that sort of thing. Think of it as a sort of Boston Marathon for Cape Willington—we believe the level of prestige would be that high. Such an event could bring widespread attention to your village, as well as a substantial amount of dollars for your local businesses.”

  Candy found herself becoming mildly intrigued. “When you say a substantial amount—just how much are we talking about?”

  “Oh, well.” Preston drew his head back and pursed his lips in thought. “We’d probably be talking in the tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of dollars spent locally.” His grin grew sly as his gaze narrowed in on her. “All of it in cash, of course, running through your neighborhood businesses and giving a boost to the region’s economy.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Maggie said. “We could use a boost like that around here.”

  “We sure could,” Candy agreed, eyeing Preston. “But why tell me this? You should be talking to the town council. They meet the second and fourth Tuesday of every month. You could talk to them next week.”

  “Yesss,” said Preston Smith, drawing out the word in a hiss as his smile broadened again. “I certainly could. And I plan on doing just that, as soon as we can set something up. But first I wanted to talk to you—the beating heart of the village. The person who can carry my message to the masses.”

  “Like the town crier!” Maggie said helpfully.

  Preston angled a long finger at her for emphasis. “Yes, exactly! That’s what you are, Ms. Holliday. You’re the town crier—and we need to talk business.”

  Four

  Leaving Maggie to finish up her shift at the dry cleaner’s, Candy headed out the door, slinging the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder as she angled down the street toward Town Park at the lower end of Ocean Avenue. Preston bid adieu to Maggie as well before he followed Candy out the door. He fell into step beside her, continuing the conversation, his tone turning serious and businesslike.

  “We’d like to move fairly quickly on this,” he told her, “but we can’t go forward without the blessings of the town council and the support of local businesses and residents. Frankly, to make that happen, we need the help of the local media.”

  Candy swiveled her head toward him. “Ah, so that’s where I come in,” she said, beginning to understand her role in Preston’s plan.

  “Exactly. We’ll need the full cooperation of the townspeople and perhaps even some help from the state to pull this off. Some positive comments in your column should get the ball rolling in the right direction. It’s completely up to you, of course. We don’t wish to put any pressure on you. But if you decide to write about this… well, this opportunity, shall we call it?… the result will be worth the effort, I promise you that! The entire town will benefit in numerous ways.”

  “Really? You sound very persuasive,” Candy admitted.

  “I’m simply passionate about our organization,” Preston said evenly, “and I’m hoping to pass some of that passion and excitement along. Should you decide to help us in that effort, perhaps you could mention our proposal in your newspaper. You could explain something about our organization, point out the benefits of an event of this magnitude, and help us clear a quick path to approval.”

  “A path to approval.” The phrase had a marketing ring to it that made Candy wary. She wanted to believe his story, but something about it didn’t ring quite true. It seemed just a little too p
erfect—and perfect plans rarely worked out as intended. “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” she said after a few moments.

  “Quite a bit, in fact,” Preston told her bluntly. “We’ve been evaluating your community for the better part of a year.”

  That caught her by surprise. “A year? But I thought you said this was your first trip here.”

  “It’s my first time visiting in person, yes. But as I said, I’ve been reading your columns—the entire newspaper, in fact. I’ve devoured every word of every issue for the past year or so, and I’ve been following news about the town on the Internet, mostly by keeping up with the postings by some of your citizens—personal blogs, tweets, Facebook pages, that sort of thing. All very informative, and perfectly legitimate in a legal sense, of course—we were just doing our homework.”

  “But why Cape Willington?” Candy asked, and let out a cry of surprise as she barely dodged an ottoman-sized clump of snow that rolled into her path from the top of the snowbank to her right. She stumbled sideways, her feet beginning to slip out from under her, until quick as a cat, Preston reached out and took her arm, steadying her.

  “Oops, careful there,” he said easily as Candy got her footing. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She slipped again and reached for his arm, absently noticing how muscular it felt underneath his coat. He’s been working out, she thought. Out loud, she said, “I guess I’d better watch where I’m going.”

  “Well, if your tumbles take you my way again, I don’t mind lending a helping hand,” he said with a chuckle, and released his hold on her. “There you go.”

  “Thanks for catching me.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m glad to be of service. Now, to answer your question: Why Cape Willington? Well, a number of reasons. The town is incredibly picturesque, of course, with the lighthouses, opera house, museum, and historic inns. It’s a vibrant, close-knit community with a colorful, engaged citizenry. And the town is well set up to accommodate tourists in all seasons. It’s the perfect place from which to launch our first competitive event.”