“The French, led by Samuel de Champlain, were credited with the so-called European discovery of Maine and many parts of New England,” Doc was telling his audience, which consisted of a good mix of generations. “They tried to establish an early settlement on Mount Desert Island but were driven off by the British. And although the British were the earliest landholders in this region, the Scotch-Irish and Germans were among the earliest European settlers here. The Scotch-Irish in particular founded a number of villages along the coast in the early to mid-seventeen hundreds, including Boothbay, which was originally called Townsend, and Belfast, named after the town in Ireland. The Germans followed and settled places like Waldoboro, which was originally called Broad Bay and initially populated by fifteen hundred German immigrant families from the Rhineland. Cape Willington, of course, started as an early British settlement, and saw activity before and during the Revolutionary War, after which it became a small fishing village for most of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries.…”
He continued on like that for the better part of an hour, as Candy politely listened, though her mind began to drift after a while, picking apart all the little factoids she’d gathered over the past day or two.
A few things stuck in her mind.
One of the most prominent was a recent development: Why was Preston Smith avoiding certain people in town—like the police… and Ben?
She’d seen it happen right in front of her, on the first day she met Preston, but she hadn’t suspected it was a deliberate move until recently.
Two: Why the hush-hush about the sponsorship program and the naming of a new spokesperson?
The point of anything like that was to promote a specific product or company. She knew. She’d worked in marketing for more than ten years in Boston. So why bury a press release about a high-priced spokesperson you’re about to spend tens, perhaps hundreds of thousands of dollars in an effort to promote your product or organization?
Third point: What was up with Liam?
The other ice sculptors seemed to be avoiding him and were reluctant to talk about him. Why?
There were other questions on her mind as well, but she was startled when she felt her phone buzz in her pocket. She’d put it on vibrate during the lecture (um, presentation, she reminded herself), and it was going off.
As surreptitiously as possible, she slipped it out of her pocket and glanced down at the phone number on the screen.
It was a text message. When she flipped open her phone, she saw it was from an unknown sender: Important an-nouncement coming soon, it read. Please stand by your cell phones.
Candy tilted her head as she read the message again. Obviously it was some sort of mistake—an ill-directed text meant for someone else, more than likely.
“…the Sykes family originally came here as seafarers,” Doc was saying. “Captain Josiah Sykes managed to purchase his own ship, a one-hundred-fifty-ton merchantman, which he called, ironically enough, The Tempest. It would become a metaphor for his life, and if you’re familiar with Shakespeare’s play, you’ll see the parallels. Josiah ran timber and salted fish from New England, cloth and fine whiskey from Britain, and sugar and molasses from the West Indies, which was turned into rum in the colonies. Unfortunately, when times got tough, he also followed the Middle Passage, running slaves from Africa. It was on one of these runs that he lost his ship, breaking it on the rocky point just south of Shipwreck Cove, after dropping off his human cargo in the West Indies, and loading up on other goods in Boston. His wife, Annie, was killed during the wreck, and he thought he’d lost a daughter, Miranda, and a son, Ferdinand. But both survived, unbeknownst to him. Thinking he’d lost everything, Josiah reportedly went mad.…”
Candy’s cell phone buzzed again.
She scowled. Who kept disturbing her in the middle of Doc’s speech?
Again she fished out her phone and checked the screen.
It was another text message from the same unknown sender. She flipped open the phone and read the message.
Just ten minutes until an important announcement at the noon hour, brought to you by ICICLE!
Candy sat up in her chair.
It must be from Preston Smith.
She quickly texted back, asking for more information and an interview, but whether it made its way to the unknown sender, she didn’t know.
She held her cell phone in her hand as she waited for an answer. Doc had moved on.
“The Pruitts came to the area in the 1730s, when they built the first mill on the cape, under a contract with the Massachusetts Bay Company. Pruitts from Maine fought in both the Revolutionary and Civil Wars, and steadily acquired land in the region between those two conflicts.…”
The phone in her hand buzzed again.
The official announcement of our sponsorship program award winner is now only moments away, the text message read.
“The ancestors of our current Pruitts,” Doc continued, “who still have sizable landholdings in and around Cape Willington, invested heavily in the region, especially in timber, and by the mid-eighteen hundreds had joined the ranks of the wealthiest families in New England.…”
Candy checked her watch. Five minutes to twelve.
“That should give you a brief idea about some of Cape Willington’s earliest families,” Doc said, wrapping up. “I’d be happy to answer any questions you might have individually, and I can recommend several books if you’d like to learn more about this fascinating material. Please see me after the presentation. Thanks very much for coming, and enjoy the day.”
As a smattering of applause and chattering voices rose around her, Candy jumped up out of her chair, gave another quick wave and a thumbs-up to her father, and headed out of the inn. She thought that Preston might make his an-nouncement along with Oliver LaForce in Town Park. But a few minutes later, as she walked down toward the ice sculptures, she saw only the innkeeper and Chef Colin, standing in front of a microphone stand and small speaker. Oliver was reading a bunch of names off a list and offering his heartfelt congratulations. Chef Colin was handing out certificates of achievement and small awards. Moms and dads applauded their talented little sculptors. The crowd was in a generally jovial mood.
But no Preston Smith.
Or Gina Templeton, Candy noticed as she scanned the crowd. Or Liam Yates. Or Felicia Gaspar.
Only Duncan Leggmeyer and Baxter Bryant were sculpting at the moment, giving demonstrations to the curious onlookers.
Her cell phone buzzed again. She flipped open her phone and read a new message.
The winner and new spokesperson is…, it teased.
She checked her watch and waited. It was twelve noon on the dot.
A final buzz.
…Liam Yates!!!
There was a final message a few seconds later.
Sorry, Victor. Better luck next time.
Candy looked at the message in disbelief. What the heck did that mean?
Her phone buzzed again, vibrating in her hand, and at first she thought it was another text message. But she realized she was getting a phone call.
It was from Finn Woodbury.
“I tried calling Doc,” he told her, “but he’s not answering his cell phone.”
“He probably has it turned off,” Candy said. “He’s just finishing up his presentation.”
“Oh! How was it?” Finn asked.
“Informative,” Candy answered.
“Tell him I’m sorry I missed it. But it’s seventy-nine degrees in Florida today. Light breeze out of the northwest. Not a cloud in the sky.”
“Don’t rub it in, Finn, or I’ll have to come down there and give you a piece of my mind.”
He chuckled. “You’re welcome anytime, Candy. It’d be a nice break for you and Doc. Think about it. Anyway, I have some details for you about that body they found. They finally ID’d it. Are you ready for this?”
“I’m ready.”
“Well, it was this ice sculptor guy who disappeared a few days ago. Hi
s name was Victor Templeton.”
Twenty-Two
Candy had to admit she wasn’t surprised. It just confirmed what she’d already suspected.
But it also opened up a whole new set of questions, adding to the ones she already had.
Was the body found by the road, now officially identified as Victor Templeton, the same one Solomon Hatch had allegedly seen in the woods? If so, how did it get from the woods to the road, where Francis Robichaud found it? Bodies didn’t walk. It was a proven scientific fact—unless you read one of those zombie novels she’d seen at Pine Cone Books in town. So if it was the same body, someone must have dragged or carried it to its new location. And if it wasn’t the same body, then who had Solomon found in the woods?
And where, she still wondered, was Solomon himself?
And what about Gina Templeton? Victor’s death explained why the Templetons had been absent at the ice-sculpting exhibition that morning. But did Gina know more than she was telling about her husband’s absence over the past few days? She had seemed distracted yesterday when Candy had talked to her. Was she hiding something?
Candy let out a breath as she folded up her phone and slipped it into her coat pocket. But it rang again almost at once.
“I should just have the darn thing implanted in my head,” she grumbled as she fished it out of her pocket and checked the number on the readout.
This time she recognized it. She’d seen it yesterday. It was Annabel Foxwell.
The Psychic Sisters were paging her.
She flipped open the phone. “Hello, this is Candy Holliday.”
“Miss Holliday, it’s Annabel Foxwell.”
After they’d exchanged brief pleasantries, Candy asked, “How can I help you, Miss Foxwell?”
“Well,” Annabel said, her voice sounding a little shaky, “it’s Elizabeth. She’s had another one of her premonitions. This time she says she has a message for you.”
“What kind of message?”
“We don’t know. She’ll have to tell you that herself. I know it sounds rather odd, but she insists on seeing you in person. I wonder if you would be available to stop by the house for a visit sometime today?”
“Well, yes, I suppose I could do that.”
“Wonderful. What time would you be able to come by? If it’s not too much of an inconvenience.”
“Not at all. I’m actually free at the moment. I could stop by in fifteen or twenty minutes.”
“That would be perfect. I’ll let Elizabeth know you’re coming. We’ll see you shortly then,” Annabel said, and hung up the phone.
“Hmm. Curiouser and curiouser,” Candy said to herself as she returned the cell phone to her pocket.
Before she left Town Park, she scanned the crowd one last time, looking for someone who could answer a few questions for her about Victor and Gina. Finally her eyebrows lifted. She’d spotted someone who might be able to help.
Felicia Gaspar stood off to her left, perhaps twenty-five feet away, wrapped in a long hooded cape, with the top of the hood pulled so far down over her head it almost covered her eyes. Her long, straight black hair was tucked inside, although a few strands tumbled out, partially obscuring her face. Her dark eyes, half hidden beneath the hood, swept the crowd repeatedly, as if she were in a state of constant vigilance.
Candy rubbed her hands together to warm them and, as casually as possible, started toward the dark-haired woman, moving in a wide, indirect arc around the crowd, staying on the outskirts of the activities.
She did her best not to draw attention to herself, but Felicia must have noticed the movement out of the corners of her eyes, because she spotted Candy almost instantly. She instinctively shrank back several steps, between the dark trunks of pine trees, as if attempting to hide herself.
Candy remained undeterred, pressing on and waving in as nonthreatening a manner as possible. “Felicia! Hi!” she called out in an easy tone. “I thought that was you I saw standing over here. I don’t suppose I could get a few minutes of your time?”
Felicia gave no answer. Instead, she turned on her boot heels and fled back up through the park, dodging tourists as she pulled her cape and hood tighter around her in an effort to disguise herself.
Candy watched her go, mystified. “Well, what was that all about?” she said to herself, letting out a quick breath of frustration. “The plot thickens.”
She was tempted to follow, to see if she could track Felicia down and ask her about her strange behavior, like she’d seen detectives do in the movies, but she decided against it. She was no Humphrey Bogart, or even Miss Marple.
Better to go with a known quantity—or, rather, three of them.
The Psychic Sisters awaited her, and they, at least, wanted to talk to her.
She headed out of Town Park to her Jeep.
The day had turned out cold but bright, a definite improvement over the long string of overcast days they’d had recently. For some reason she felt upbeat, which surprised her. Maybe it was just the bright sun, or the incredible landscape unfolding before her, or maybe it was something else. Maybe she felt like she was finally moving in the right direction—whatever that direction might be. She still didn’t know what had happened to Solomon, or to Victor Templeton, but she was determined to find out. As she drove out of town along the southern leg of the Coastal Loop, past the small coastal cabins and the Lobster Shack, all closed up tight for the season, she gazed left, out over the ocean, which stretched away to the curve of the horizon. She never tired of seeing it. There was something special about the coast of New England, and Maine in particular. It was a place unlike anywhere else in the world. The sea here was quixotic and passionate, beautiful yet dangerous, ever changing yet forever unchanged. Somehow it made her relax, and she took a deep breath. She even rolled down the driver’s-side window, just a little, so she could get some of that salt smell in her nostrils. It made her breathe a little easier and helped to clear her head. She took several quick breaths before she raised the window again. It was, after all, winter in New England. And it was cold out.
In the afternoon light, the house at Shipwreck Cove looked snug and still, its windows frosted and flower boxes stacked high with snow. But birds were at the feeders, squirrels scampered in the snowy yard after peanuts that had been thrown out for them, and a column of smoke rose from the chimney, promising warmth within.
Not only warmth, she found out as she entered the house, but more tea and treats—lemon squares this time, fresh out of the oven and dusted on top with powdered sugar. Candy had to admit, they were delicious.
“Maggie would devour them,” she told the sisters, allowing herself a second one after she quickly (yet as daintily as possible) finished off the first. She suddenly realized that, with all the excitement that morning, she’d forgotten to eat lunch. No wonder I’m famished, she thought as she took another bite, savoring it. She turned to Isabel. “So is this from a family recipe?”
“Oh no, my dear. It came from a recipe book put out by The Old Farmer’s Almanac. We found it at a garage sale, must have been, oh, ten or twelve years ago, wasn’t it?” she asked her sisters. “It’s a treasure. We’ve found a number of wonderful New England potluck recipes in it.”
“Things like Boston baked beans, johnnycakes, and brown bread,” Annabel clarified.
“Well, these are wonderful,” Candy said, finishing the lemon square. She resisted taking a third. Instead, she sipped at her tea.
They talked for a while about recipes, New England dishes, local seafood, the cost of firewood, and the charm and challenges of living in an old house. While the other women chatted, Elizabeth sat quietly by the fire in a padded wicker rocker chair, her legs tucked up underneath her. She had pulled her long gray hair into a ponytail, which spilled over her right shoulder, and was wrapped tightly in a plum-colored shawl over a long white dress.
During a lull in the conversation, she finally spoke up. “Annabel has told you about my premonition.”
The
room grew suddenly still. Candy took the opportunity to shift her body so she could give Elizabeth her full attention. “Yes, she has. She said you had something you wanted to tell me. That’s why I came over so quickly.”
Elizabeth nodded. In a soft yet determined voice, she said, “I know how it must sound, me telling you all this. I don’t know why it happens, or what it means. Some might consider it a curse, but I don’t see it that way.” She paused and gazed into the fire. “I have received two messages, and I believe I’m to direct them to you.”
“Why me?”
“As I’ve said before, you seem to be at the center of all this.”
Candy still didn’t know if she believed any of this, but the sisters all seemed so sincere that she decided to give them the benefit of the doubt. “What are the messages?”
“They came to me in a dream vision,” Elizabeth clarified. “I’ve had the same dream for several nights now. And it’s always the same.”
“What do you see in your dream?” Candy asked, almost in a whisper.
“Many things. Clouds. Fields. Rocks. Trees. Woods,” Elizabeth said as a log in the fireplace cracked, sending out sparks, and the sea broke on the shore.
“And what’s in the woods?” Annabel asked quietly, prompting her sister.
Elizabeth had a distant look in her eyes. “It’s changed,” she said after a few moments. “Something is different. A presence is no more. But the darkness remains.” She turned to look at Candy. “And the light.”
Candy leaned in a little closer. “Is that the message?”
“No,” Elizabeth said. “The first message is, Follow the light.”
Still not totally believing what she was hearing, Candy asked, “Follow it where?”
Elizabeth shook her head but gave no other answer.
Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3 Page 15