Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3

by B. B. Haywood

  She soon pulled into a primo parking spot on Ocean Avenue and hurried into Town Park, just as the day’s events were getting under way. The temperature had dipped into the teens overnight and was barely edging into the twenties as bright morning light slanted in from out over the ocean, but that hadn’t prevented a fairly large crowd of onlookers from gathering to witness the kickoff of the weekend’s ice-sculpting exhibition. The crowd stood around one of the mountains of ice behind a roped barrier while a smaller group of seven or eight individuals, dressed mostly in jeans, fleece pullovers, parkas, and boots, stood inside the ropes in front of the ice. Candy recognized Mason Flint, the chairman of the town council, standing between Oliver LaForce and Colin Trevor Jones. The ice sculptors stood to one side, while on the other side was Wanda Boyle, clicking off shots with her digital camera.

  As Candy approached she dug into her tote bag, pulled out her digital recorder, and flicked it on, just as Mason Flint launched into his opening remarks.

  “Good morning, everyone, and thank you for coming!” he said jovially. He was a lean, elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair hidden under a colorful knit cap. “It’s very exciting to see everyone here this morning, and we thank you all for coming, especially our professional ice carvers. We’re thrilled to host this very special exhibition here in our little seaside community, and we hope it leads to a larger professional event in the near future. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the generous support of local businesses, as well as the involvement of the Pruitt Foundation, which helped with the procurement and transportation of the ice. I’d also like to thank our wonderful anonymous donor, who helped underwrite the travel expenses and fees for all of our ice carvers here this weekend. Now, I’d like to briefly introduce our ice carvers, and then we’ll ask Chef Colin Trevor Jones of the Lightkeeper’s Inn to make the first cut.”

  Liam Yates gave a confident wave as his name was mentioned, and Felicia Gaspar and Gina Templeton smiled as warmly as possible, given the chilly temperatures. Next, Mason introduced two newcomers who had arrived in town overnight. Duncan Leggmeyer was an outdoorsy, construction type with a full beard and a ponytail that hung halfway down his straight, muscled back, while Baxter Bryant was a retired military man who’d spent twenty years as a cook in the navy and now specialized in barbecue during the summer months and ice sculpting in the winter. He traveled with his wife, Bernadette, in an RV, along with their little puffball of a dog, Snowball.

  With the introductions complete, Mason nodded toward Colin Trevor Jones, who started up an electric chain saw. With his black wavy hair stylishly uncombed and safety goggles firmly in place, he wielded the whirring chain saw at a red line marked on a block of ice, deftly made the first cut, and the ice-carving exhibition was officially under way.

  Muffled hand claps and a few bedraggled cheers and whistles rose among the sleepy onlookers, many of whom had steaming cups of coffee or hot chocolate in hand. Following Colin’s cue, other chain saws buzzed to life, and the serious work began.

  Candy wanted to talk to Duncan and Baxter, the new arrivals, but she knew she’d have to wait until later, as they were already busy cutting into the ice, calving off huge chunks as they began to shape the blocks. Like the other ice sculptors, they moved quickly with broad cuts; the detail work would come later.

  With the ice sculptors occupied for at least a while, Candy knew she’d have to be content with another approach, so she interviewed a few of the onlookers for local flavor. After that, she cornered Oliver LaForce and pried a few decent quotes out of him about the effect of the Moose Fest on the local economy. The inn would be full over the weekend, and the local establishments along Ocean Avenue and Main Street, not to mention those all the way up along Route 192 to Route 1, would get a sizable dose of much-needed revenue. The midwinter jolt in the economic arm would be enough to hold most of them over until the spring thaw and tourist season arrived.

  As far as the interviews went, it was all fairly mediocre stuff—not the hard-hitting copy she was looking for—but it was the best she could do for the moment.

  She looked around and realized Wanda had disappeared. She’s probably somewhere warm, uploading photos and posting to her blog, Candy thought grimly. She always seems to be one step ahead of me lately.

  To make herself feel better, Candy lingered near Colin Trevor Jones for a bit, watching his graceful, precise movements as he shaved away at the ice, until he finally stepped back to take a break. When he turned her way, she gave him a quick wave. He grinned back and, ruddy-faced and en-crusted in ice crystals, walked over to talk to her. Before long he was describing the exhilaration of cutting into ice and pulling out the shapes within. It was just the type of stuff she was looking for, plus it gave her an excuse to hang around Colin awhile, though she realized he was probably a little too young for her.

  Of course, it never hurt to enjoy the view.

  When she asked him for his opinions of the other ice sculptors, he was quick and witty in his assessments, calling Liam “focused and aggressive yet nimble” and saying of Felicia, “She has the delicate touch of a painter, even when she’s holding a chain saw in her mitts.”

  They talked a little longer, but finally he went back to work, and she stepped back to assess the progress the ice sculptors had made so far. The shapes hidden within the ice were still indistinct, though she could see a general framework beginning to emerge. Still, it was clear there was much work left to be done. This was confirmed for her by Preston Smith, who appeared suddenly at her side, two cups of coffee in hand.

  “Ah, Ms. Holliday, you’re looking very chilly out here this morning,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps I could interest you in a warm beverage.” He held out one of the foam cups to her.

  Candy took it gratefully. “That’s very nice of you, Preston, and yes, thanks, I’ll gladly accept.”

  “No cream, one pack of sugar substitute, just the way you like it,” he said with a broad smile as he passed her the cup.

  Candy gave him a curious look. “Well, that’s… that’s very sweet of you. But how do you know how I like my coffee, if I may ask?”

  Preston was sipping from his cup and so couldn’t answer immediately, but instead pointed up the street with a gloved finger. “The waitress at the diner. She told me,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Such friendly people! What a wonderful town you have here! I’m confident I’ve chosen the right place for our new event.” He paused as his expression turned to one of concern. “Unfortunately, this issue with the dead body in the woods could make us reconsider our decision—if it’s true, of course. What’s the status of the case? Have the police found out anything?”

  Candy shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, but I think they’re still looking.”

  “And what about you? I’ve heard you’re something of a detective around here. Are you conducting your own investigation?”

  A brief smile crossed Candy’s face. “I’m not really a detective,” she said simply.

  “But you’ve apparently had some success solving a few local mysteries. One of the waitresses over at the diner seems to think you’re a local celebrity. In fact, you’ve developed quite a reputation with the townspeople. And from what I’ve heard, you’re personally involved in this latest… episode. Surely you have some interest in it.”

  “Of course I do,” Candy said, “but I’ve been asked to stay out of it.”

  Preston gave her a discerning look, his eyes gauging her. “Perhaps I’m prying too much. There’s no reason you should betray your confidences to me, of course. Perhaps, if I tell you a little bit of news I’ve heard, you’ll let me know a bit about your investigation.”

  Clever, Candy thought. “As I said, I’m not a detective, and I’m not conducting an investigation. But I’m always interested in the latest news. What have you heard?”

  “Well, this isn’t public knowledge yet, but I can assure you it’s accurate.” He leaned closer to her and said in a l
ow, conspiratorial whisper, “Victor Templeton has pulled out of the event.”

  Candy’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”

  “Indeed.” He drew back. “I received a communiqué from him just last night. He has been, well, he says he’s been irretrievably delayed, but I suspect there’s something else going on.” He gave Candy a knowing smile.

  She was intrigued. “Like what?”

  “Weeeelll,” Preston said, drawing out the word dramatically, “there have been rumors of, shall we say, ill feelings among some of the sculptors? Which, naturally, has led to some complications.” He turned to face the sculptors, then subtly nodded with his head in their direction, a smile like the Cheshire cat’s playing across his face. “See for yourself. It’s quite evident if you know what you’re looking for.”

  So Candy looked.

  The ice sculptors were busy at work, chipping away at the ice, following a pattern marked on the surface in broad sweeps. Most of them seemed absorbed in their work, but Baxter Bryant was cracking jokes with one of the onlookers and, in a playful moment, tossed a handful of shaved ice into the crowd, drawing a mixture of squeals, groans, and laughter. He did it again, much to the delight of the crowd. He appeared to have quite an outgoing personality.

  Duncan Leggmeyer, on the other hand, was quieter and more studious, peering intently at the ice, as if searching for the perfect form within. He was working close by Felicia, who kept glancing his way, as if trying to catch his attention. But he either didn’t notice her or was trying to ignore her.

  On Duncan’s other side was Gina Templeton, and on the other side of her were Baxter and Colin. They were all picking away at the same sculpture, working on different parts of it, as if in a team.

  That’s when Candy realized what Preston meant. Liam Yates was working all by himself on the other sculpture.

  It was as if the ice carvers were allied five to one, and Candy suddenly felt a wave of fierce, unspoken competitiveness wash over the field.

  They’re all working together to try to beat Liam, she realized.

  Liam himself appeared oblivious to what was going on around him. He had an intent expression on his face, and despite the fact that he was working alone, he was proceeding nearly as quickly as the other five sculptors combined, efficiently trimming away at the ice with a steady hand.

  “What’s going on?” Candy asked, turning back around. But she received no answer from Preston. He was no longer standing beside her. She twisted back and forth, searching for him, muttering under her breath about the strange behavior patterns of everyone in this odd little village, and finally caught sight of him headed away from her, turning just slightly to wave over his shoulder.

  She also spotted someone else as her gaze swept the park. She focused in on his face.

  It was Officer Jody McCroy, standing perhaps twenty-five feet away, almost directly in front of her, alternatively looking her way and down at his notebook. He was writing something.

  Probably something about her, she thought as a flash of anger swept through her.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was marching toward him, determined to find out what was going on.

  Eleven

  She approached him at a brisk pace, bearing down on him like a bull on a matador, but he held his ground almost casually. Slipping his notebook and pen into a pocket, he shifted his body around slightly to face her full on, and pulled his coat aside as he dropped one hand to his utility belt, perhaps in an effort to draw attention to the items it held, including a flashlight, Taser, handcuffs, and pepper spray, as well as his sidearm, all within easy reach.

  Candy barely noticed. She was determined to get answers.

  “Officer McCroy,” she called out when she was still several yards away, “will you tell me what in the heck’s going on?”

  He nodded curtly and professionally. “Ma’am, just calm down.”

  “I am calm,” Candy said as she stopped a few feet in front of him, crossing her arms tightly in front of her for emphasis, “but I want to know what you’re up to. You’ve been following me around for two days now, writing things down in that little notebook of yours and making no effort to conceal yourself. Am I under investigation?”

  The police officer pressed his lips together, but otherwise his face remained stoic. “No, ma’am.”

  “Then why the shadow routine?”

  “Ma’am?”

  She let out a breath of frustration. “Why are you always standing there when I look around? Just tell me what this is all about.”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am.”

  “You can call me Candy. Who is at liberty to say?”

  “That would be Chief Durr, ma’am, um, Ms. Holliday.”

  “The chief?” Candy made a face. “But why would he tell you to…?

  She caught herself as she suddenly realized the answer. “Does this have anything to do with that body in the woods?”

  “I can neither confirm nor deny that, ma’am, pending chief’s orders.”

  “You’re trying to keep me out of trouble, aren’t you? You’re afraid I’m going to solve another mystery in this town and embarrass the police department, right?”

  Officer McCroy remained silent. She knew she had struck a nerve. She pressed on.

  “So, what? You’re following me because you think I’m investigating the mystery on my own and will stumble upon a few clues?”

  “It’s possible Mr. Hatch might contact you again at some point,” Officer McCroy confirmed. “We want to be there if he does.”

  “Ah, so that’s it. I’m sort of an accessory to an alleged murder?”

  After a few moments, the officer said, “It’s for your own safety, ma’am.”

  “Hmm.” Candy studied him for a few moments. “Have you found Solomon yet?”

  No response.

  “Are you conducting any more searches today, or have you called the whole thing off?”

  “I’m not at liberty to discuss police business with a civilian.”

  “So,” Candy said, as if that proved her theory, “I’m right, aren’t I? This is Chief Durr’s way of keeping me in line.”

  Officer McCroy’s gaze narrowed in on her, and as if he were echoing the chief’s words, he said, “If I can give you one piece of advice, ma’am, you should leave the detecting to the detectives.”

  “Yeah, I’ve heard that before,” Candy muttered under her breath as her cell phone buzzed, distracting her. She shook her head as she turned away and fished in a pocket for her phone. She didn’t recognize the number that flashed on the phone’s small front display screen, though it was a local area code. She flipped it open and held it to her ear. “Hello?”

  “Is this Candy Holliday?”

  She said that it was. “Who’s this?”

  “My name is Annabel Foxwell. You may have heard of me. I live at Shipwreck Cove with my sisters.”

  Candy had indeed heard of her. The Foxwell sisters—Annabel, Isabel, and Elizabeth—were local, middle-aged eccentrics who lived in a weathered, hundred-year-old saltbox on a seaside homestead not far from Blueberry Acres. They had quite a piece of land—somewhere in excess of ten acres, Candy remembered, some of it prime coastline—that had been handed down in their family far generations. People around town called them the Psychic Sisters and rarely disturbed them, an arrangement that seemed to be a silent agreement among all parties. Candy had caught fleeting images of them around town but had never met any of them personally.

  To receive a phone call from one of them was a major coup.

  “Yes, Ms. Foxwell, I’ve heard of you. It’s wonderful to hear from you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  When she spoke, Annabel’s voice was rushed and whispery. “I don’t mean to alarm you, Candy, but my sisters and I have received a message, and we have some very important information we need to share with you.”

  “What type of information?”

  “It’s not something we can discuss
over the phone. We’ll need to speak to you in person. As you probably know, we’re not used to entertaining guests. But we’ve decided to make an allowance just this once. Would you be able to come out to see us at Shipwreck Cove?”

  Candy blinked several times. She was surprised by the invitation. “Well, yes, of course. When were you thinking?”

  “Today,” Annabel said emphatically. “This morning if possible. When would be a good time?”

  Candy thought quickly and glanced at her watch. It was just past nine. She still wanted to finish up some interviews here, and she’d thought about stopping in to see Doc and the boys at the diner to find out if they’d heard any news about Solomon, but that could wait until later. “About ten thirty?”

  She heard discussion in the background. “That would be fine. Do you know how to get here?”

  Candy said she did, and after saying good-bye, she keyed off the call.

  She felt her heart beating just a bit faster. She seemed to finally be onto something, though what it might be, she had no idea. Still, she knew the clues were all around her, just as Judicious had said. She just had to follow them.

  The game was on.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she glanced over at Officer McCroy, who had taken a few steps away and was engaged in a conversation with one of the younger men in the crowd—a friend of some sort, Candy surmised.

  If she was going to have any sort of freedom to begin her own investigation, she’d have to lose the Boy Scout.

  After a few moments, she grinned to herself. “I think I have an idea.”

  Twelve

  She spent the next forty-five minutes darting around the ice sculptures, conducting quick, on-the-run interviews, trying to shoot a few decent pictures, and making sure she appeared as normal—and as unexciting—as possible. She spent an-other fifteen minutes or so mingling with the growing crowd, drinking coffee, and talking with Maggie on her cell phone as she bided her time, watching for her best opportunity.