Candy listened for a while but soon lost interest, as she often did when they fell into their guy talk. She put her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed out at the winter scene beyond the diner’s windows. The streets were starting to fill up, and she noticed a police car slowly moving along Main Street. She looked around for Officer McCroy but saw no sign of him. Probably directing traffic around the dead body, she thought, darkly amused. That’s why she hadn’t seen him on her tail this morning.
It made her feel suddenly very free… and strangely vulnerable. Her safety net apparently had been called away to other duties.
She sighed. She was back on her own, trying to solve a mystery.
Deciding she needed to do something, she took a last few gulps of coffee and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be right back,” she told Doc and the boys, though she wasn’t completely sure if they’d heard her as she left the diner.
Maggie was just opening the dry cleaner’s, so she slipped in to say a quick “hi” before heading back down to Town Park. The ice-sculpting exhibition was scheduled to officially kick off at ten, but several sculptors, including Duncan Leggmeyer and Baxter Bryant, were already on the scene, laying out their tools and preparing for the day’s events. But so far there was no sign of Liam Yates, Felicia Gaspar, or Gina Templeton. Had she withdrawn from the exhibition too, like her husband?
Fresh blocks of ice had been set up around the park for carving demonstrations throughout the morning and afternoon. Candy had seen a schedule of events and knew that Felicia and the Templetons (minus Victor) were slated to give demonstrations later in the morning, while Liam Yates, Duncan, Baxter, and Colin would entertain crowds with their skills in the afternoon.
A small crowd, consisting mostly of older married couples or families with young children, had gathered expectantly in the park, viewing the already-completed sculptures and checking out the as-yet-uncarved blocks while sipping coffee or hot chocolate.
Candy checked her watch. More than forty minutes before things got started, and maybe an hour or more before they got interesting.
Making up her mind, she turned on her boot heels and headed up the gentle slope, out of Town Park and up along Ocean Avenue, moving with the crowds. At midblock she crossed the street, checked the door that led to the Cape Crier’s offices, and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked.
Upstairs, she found Ben at his desk. He looked as if he’d been there for a while.
“Up early?” she asked.
“Yeah. You too?”
She nodded. “Finn’s been talking to his connection, and the boys are monitoring the situation. We’ve heard a few details. What about you? Anything new?” She’d brought her tote bag with her, thinking she might need it sometime this morning, and now slung it down off her shoulder, resting it on the floor beside her.
“It’s a male in his early forties,” Ben answered, swiveling around from the computer screen to face her. He’d failed to shave or comb his hair that morning, which emphasized his rugged good looks. He checked his notes. “Above average height, fairly well dressed. No one’s recognized him so far, so he’s probably not from around here.”
“It’s not Solomon then.”
“No, it’s not Solomon.”
Candy breathed a sigh of relief as a guilty weight, which she hadn’t realized was there, suddenly lifted from her shoulders. She felt herself physically relax. “Thank goodness. I was so worried about him. It almost seemed like it’d be my fault if he… but he’s still okay, isn’t he? Or at least he’s not dead.”
“He’s not dead,” Ben confirmed. “Not that we know of,” he amended.
“Then where is he?”
Ben shrugged. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. He’ll turn up. In the meantime, I have a murder story to run down.”
“Need help?”
“Possibly,” Ben said, “but let me get a better grasp of the situation first.”
Candy nodded as she picked up her tote bag. “I’m just going to check on something in my office,” she said, and started along the hall.
“Oh, hey,” he called after her, sticking his head around the corner, “are we still on for our date tonight?”
She stopped and turned. “Date?”
“The Moose Fest Ball, remember? I got us two tickets a couple of weeks ago.”
Candy furrowed her brow, as if trying to remember. “You did?”
“Yeah, didn’t I… tell you?” He made a face as he considered his own words. After a moment it dawned on him. “I guess I didn’t, did I?” He looked surprised. “I think I completely forgot to tell you. I can’t believe it. That was actually very thoughtless of me. Candy, I’m sor—”
“So you got us tickets?” she interrupted.
He hesitated, uncertain of her reaction. “I did.”
She smiled. “That was actually very sweet.”
His expression turned hopeful. “You really think so?”
“Yes, I do, and I’d love to go to the ball with you, although….” She paused, concern showing on her face as she turned her head in thought.
He looked at her expectantly. “What?”
She turned back to face him. “It’s just… I don’t think I have a thing to wear.”
At that, he laughed. “Come on, I’m sure you can find something in your closet. Besides, you’d look good in just about anything. I bet you could get away with wearing what you’ve got on right now.”
Skeptically, she glanced down at her ensemble, which, admittedly, did not show off her best assets. “I’m not sure jeans, boots, insulated gloves, and a fleece coat would be appropriate for a semiformal dance.”
“Maybe not,” he said, his tone a little more thoughtful, “but remember, this is Maine, not Boston or New York. You don’t have to dress like you just came from a high-society cocktail party. And there’s still time.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you see what you can come up with this afternoon? If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just spend the evening in. But from my point of view, you’ll look beautiful, no matter what you wear.”
Her smile returned. “Well. After a statement like that, what else can I say? I guess I’ll see what I can do.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe Maggie can help me.”
He winked at her. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else about Solomon or the body.”
He tucked his head back around the corner, and Candy floated to her office.
Maybe there’s hope for the two of us after all.
Twenty
She was so engrossed in her research that she barely noticed Ben as he entered her office and plopped down in the old folding chair beside the door. “Want to hear the latest?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts, an edge of excitement evident in his voice.
She blinked several times and swiveled around toward him. Quickly she refocused. “Yes.” She dropped her hands between her knees and gave him her full attention, her earlier thoughts of bafflement driven to the back of her mind for the moment.
“I just got a call from the police department. There are a few interesting things about the body they found this morning.”
“Have they identified it?”
“Not yet, but they’re running the fingerprints. Here’s the interesting thing, though. The body had been stripped of its identification. The police found nothing to tell them who it was—no wallet, cell phone, car keys, wristwatch, comb, papers in the shirt pockets, glasses—anything that might help ID the body. The police are calling this a suspicious death.” He paused. “I think they have a good idea who it is, but they’re waiting for confirmation before they announce it.”
“Any idea who they might be thinking of?”
He shook his head. “Could be anyone, but probably someone we don’t know. That’s my guess.” He tilted his head, studying her, then flicked his eyes to the computer screen to see what she’d been reading. “You have any ideas?” he asked her.
She gave him a knowing smile. “I might.” She
swiveled back to the computer screen. “Look at this, tell me what you think about it.”
She pointed to the story in the right window of the computer screen. “This is a press release from this organization called I.C.I.C.L.E. Ever hear of it?”
He shook his head. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t know much about it.”
“Until Thursday morning neither did I. But it’s an acronym. It stands for the International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts.”
“You’re joking, right?”
Candy smiled shrewdly and shook her head. “I said exactly the same thing when I first heard of it. But apparently it’s true… at least part of it.” She pointed again at the screen as Ben pulled his folding chair closer so he could get a better look. “I found this on a popular blog for fans of ice sculpting. It’s an anonymous post and includes details about this sponsorship program I.C.I.C.L.E. is putting together. Apparently some company that makes chain saws wants to hire one of the ice carvers to be its spokesperson. I’ve heard it could be a pretty hefty offer, though something about it doesn’t feel quite right to me. This is fairly general stuff, but look at all the comments.” She clicked to another screen. “Lots of posts about the sponsorship—some saying the value of the total package, with gear and all, could be worth a hundred grand or more. And look here.”
She scrolled down through the comments.
“Look whose name keeps popping up, over and over.”
“Victor Templeton’s,” Ben said, after focusing on the screen for a few moments.
“That’s right. There are several key posters who are keeping this stream going, all with anonymous names, things like PowerSculptor and SnowQueen. Most of the posts are pro-Victor, promoting his name for the spokesperson. A few here and there mention other names, primarily Liam’s. There’s quite a conversation going on here about something most people have never heard about. I haven’t been able to identify any of the posters yet, except one. Preston Smith.”
He made a face at her.
“You’ve heard the name, right?”
Ben shrugged. “Should I have?”
“Yes, probably, and that’s what bothers me. He’s been hanging around town for the past few days, mostly down in Town Park with the ice sculptors. I’ve e-mailed his assistant to see if I can find out more about him and his organization, but so far I haven’t heard anything back. He’s supposedly making some sort of announcement about the spokesperson at noon today—at least that’s what it says in a press release on his website. But no one I’ve talked to knows anything about it. I even called Oliver over at the inn, and he says there’s no announcement on the schedule. They’re going to hand out a few awards at noon, mostly for a kid’s ice-carving contest they’re running this morning. Oliver’s apparently officiating. But nothing about a sponsorship program or spokesperson for a chain saw company.”
Ben shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Candy agreed.
“So do you think something fishy’s going on?”
Candy thought about that before she spoke. “I’m not sure yet,” she said finally, “but I’m going to find out.”
Twenty-One
After Ben headed back to his own office, she spent another forty-five minutes digging around online, searching I.C.I.C.L.E.’s website for any additional clues and trolling through a number of other blogs and websites, especially those for chain-saw companies and tool manufacturers. But she found nothing else about the sponsorship program or spokesperson gig, nor did she find out much more about I.C.I.C.L.E. itself. There were a few obscure postings, more comments on blogs, remnants from press releases, that sort of thing. But curiously, nothing went back more than a few months.
She finally checked her watch. It was a quarter to eleven. Doc was scheduled to give his presentation in fifteen minutes at the inn, and she wanted to be there to show her support. After that, she planned on heading over to Town Park to watch the brief awards presentation and maybe grill Preston Smith about his organization, if she could get a few words with him.
Shutting down the computer, she grabbed her tote bag, switched off the light in her office, and walked back down the hall to talk to Ben. But he was gone, though his computer was still on. It looked like he’d just stepped away briefly.
As she turned away, her gaze swept across his desk, seeing everything in a glance but nothing in particular. Several steps down the hall, however, she stopped, turned around curiously, and on an impulse returned to Ben’s office.
It was an old volume that had caught her eye. Heavily bookmarked, it sat to one side of his desk, the gold lettering rubbed off of its battered, dark purple cover, its ragged-edged pages thick and brown with age. She’d never seen it before, which is probably why it jumped out at her.
She hesitated at the door only briefly before she took a few steps into his office and lifted the small, thick volume.
She tried to read the title printed on the spine, but it too was partially rubbed away, so she opened the cover and turned to the title page, taking extra care with the fragile, spotted pages.
The volume was titled A History of the Early Families of Cape Willington, Maine: 1735 to 1900. With Diagrams and an Introduction by Jeremiah Sykes.
Jeremiah Sykes.
Candy shivered, and wondered if there was a connection.
She’d had a frightening encounter with a contemporary member of the Sykes family just last summer, one that had left her shaken and anxious. It had taken her months to recover mentally and emotionally from the encounter, given what she’d learned when she thought the episode was all over.
Again, she recalled an inscription she’d seen printed in the upper left corner of that set of blueprints, laid out early last summer on a table in Doc’s office at home.
The inscription, written in cursive, and apparently scribbled quickly, had read: Here are the plans. PS Make sure no one else sees this.
PS. At first she had thought the letters referred to postscript, which made perfect sense. But she soon realized they meant something else.
They were initials.
She’d figured it out while reading a newspaper article about a developer named Porter Sykes, who was in the process of building a hotel and convention complex along Portland’s waterfront. The project had stalled up over the past couple of years because of the economy, but she’d seen Porter Sykes’s name in the papers a few times over the past nine months, assuring the citizens of Portland that he planned to make good on his promise to give the city everything it deserved.
But why would Ben have a book about the Sykes family?
Then it came to her.
The Sykes brothers had been Ben’s best friends in college. They had betrayed him—or, at least, one of them had—and even tried to frame him for murder. So now he was researching their family tree, probably trying to learn more about them.
But why?
She put the book back where she’d found it and left his office with more questions than answers.
Across the street, the dry cleaner’s was surprisingly busy, with an elderly couple talking to Maggie at the counter and another five or six other people standing in line, talking softly to one another or shuffling restlessly. Candy made her apologies as she hurried past them and leaned across the counter.
“I’m sorry, but this is an emergency,” she said as pleasantly as possible to the elderly couple. To Maggie, she added, “I’m desperate, and I need your help. I have to find a dress for the Moose Fest Ball this evening. Everything I have is either out of date, decades old, or the wrong size. You wouldn’t happen to have a little number at home you could lend me, would you?”
Maggie was about to answer when she stopped herself. “Wait a minute—you’re going to the ball? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Just now, and I am. Ben bought tickets for us a couple of weeks ago but he forgot to tell me about it until a few minutes ago.” She waved a hand im
patiently. “Anyway, that’s not important. What’s important right now is, I need a dress! Can you help?”
“Let me think,” Maggie said, regaining her composure and speaking quickly as she punched a bunch of keys on an old cash register. “To answer your question, yes, I happen to have a whole lot of cute little numbers in my closet, including that red spaghetti-strap cocktail dress I bought went we went shopping at the outlet malls. Remember? But the problem is, they’re all about three or four sizes too big for you. Too bad we didn’t know about this a few weeks ago. We could have picked something up.”
“I know but that doesn’t help me now. Isn’t there something hanging in the back of your closet, or an evening dress Amanda left behind?” Candy gave her friend a pleading look.
The cash drawer rang and slid open. Maggie handed the elderly couple their change and their dry cleaning. She thanked them for their patronage before looking back over at Candy. “We’ll figure something out. I close here in an hour. Stop by my place this afternoon and we’ll dig through everything I have. We’ll make it work.”
Candy flashed her a grateful smile. “You’re the best,” she said, and flicked her scarf back around her neck as she dashed out of the store.
Doc was just getting started as she slipped into the small conference room at the Lightkeeper’s Inn. She gave him a quick, supportive wave when he flicked his gaze toward her, took a seat by the door, and looked around. The place, with its aged oak wainscotting and dark green walls, sat about twenty or twenty-five people. A majority of the seats were filled, which obviously thrilled Doc, though he didn’t show it. He looked good, dressed in a white shirt and sport jacket—the same outfit he’d worn through all his years of teaching. He stood at a podium with his notes in front of him, though he rarely glanced at them as he spoke.
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