Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3

by B. B. Haywood

  He pointed out ahead of them. “That’s why I’m hoping we might find some answers at Whitefield.”

  Candy looked out through the windshield at the white and gray landscape, muted under a lowering sky. “Can we get into it?”

  Ben shrugged. “As far as I know, the place has been abandoned for decades. Why they haven’t condemned it or torn it down, I don’t know. Even though the place has gone into decline, the Sykes family still owns the mansion and surrounding acreage, and as far as I can tell they’ve had quite a few offers for the place. But they refuse to sell.”

  “I wonder why,” Candy said, partially to herself.

  Ben had no answers for her, and kept his jaw tightly clenched as they reached Route 1 and turned eastward toward Jonesboro and Machias.

  They drove for perhaps twenty or twenty-five minutes before turning south again, onto a narrow, winding road that hugged the rugged, rocky coast, until they came to a spur that cut inland to a high bluff overlooking Englishman Bay and, off to the right, Roque Island. Ben checked the GPS on his smart phone and slowed to a crawl, until he finally pointed toward a side road that looked as if it hadn’t been plowed in several days. “That way.”

  He dropped the transmission down into low gear. “Fortunately we’ve got a high ground clearance in this thing,” he told her as they turned onto the snow-swept road, plowing their way through blowing drifts that had crept across the road surface and frozen in place.

  Two miles along, they came across a tall black iron gate set between two pillars ten feet back from the road. Weathered lettering across the top of the gate announced that they had arrived at Whitefield.

  Ben slowed, pulled off to the side of the road as best he could, and pointed out past Candy through the passenger-side window. “That’s her.”

  They both looked.

  Beyond the iron gate, a snow-covered driveway wound back around a rising section of land, at the summit of which sat the mansion, facing southeastward. Candy turned back to her left. Trees blocked her view of the bay from here, but she imagined the mansion’s front porch and windows offered spectacular views of the coast and the sea beyond.

  “It’s a prime piece of land, that’s for sure,” Ben said, following her gaze. “No wonder they’ve received offers for it.”

  “Probably pretty hefty ones too,” Candy said, “despite the economy.”

  “Doesn’t look like anyone’s been out here in a while, though,” Ben observed.

  He was right. Beyond the gate, they saw no tire tracks in the snow, no footprints, nothing to indicate anyone had visited recently.

  “I’ll check the gate.” Ben put the transmission into park but left the engine and the heater running as he opened the driver’s-side door and hopped out. Despite the higher elevation, the snow wasn’t too deep, probably because a good bit of it had melted down during the warming trend of the past week and a half.

  Ben walked to the gate and peered through the iron bars, some of which were showing rust and disrepair. He reached out a gloved hand and grasped one of the bars, giving the gate a tentative shake. Its age and appearance belied its condition, for it held solid, giving no indication that it would give way or allow them to gain entrance to the property beyond.

  A heavy chain and lock wrapped around and through several bars further prevented entry.

  Ben studied it all before returning to the Range Rover. He climbed inside, and pulled the door shut behind him. “The place is locked up tight,” he said, “but I think I saw a break in the fence back over that way. We’re going to have to trudge through knee-deep snow. You up for it?”

  Candy checked her watch. In his esoteric message, Preston had said he’d meet her here at ten. It was already quarter past. Had they missed him?

  Whitefield at 10. Ben will know the way, the posting had said. Had she misread it? Had it been meant for someone else? Or was someone just leading her along?

  She opened her door and climbed out, the determination clear on her face. “Let’s check it out.”

  Ben took only a few items with him before locking up the vehicle: his 3G cell phone with GPS, which was having trouble getting a signal out here; a flashlight he’d scrounged out of the back; and a tire iron (“Just in case,” he told her). She pulled a flashlight from her tote, which she’d brought with her, but left everything else in the bag on the backseat.

  “All right,” Ben said, turning toward the mansion on the hill, “let’s see if this lady is willing to give up some of her secrets today.”

  Forty-Seven

  “There’s nothing here,” Ben said forty-five minutes later.

  The place was abandoned—just as it had looked from the outside.

  They’d trudged through the knee-deep snow to the mansion’s expansive front porch, then circled around the back, soaking their jeans from midthigh down in the process, until they’d found a side door curiously unlocked. It had given them entry into a narrow passageway with a few steps that led up to the main floor. “Servants’ entrance,” Ben said as he pushed his way through.

  The place smelled old, moldy, and unhealthy. Trash was strewn about. It was obvious squatters had been here, taking advantage of the old building as shelter and leaving their detritus behind. Ben and Candy had searched the place cautiously, thinking someone might still be here, but the place was empty—and without heat. The cold seemed to come out of the walls, as if the weather had seeped into the building’s very bones.

  Remembering a discovery in another old house, though one not nearly as grand as this, Candy said, “Maybe there’s a hidden room, or passage or alcove—someplace where documents might be hidden.”

  But if there was such a place in this old mansion, they did not find it this day.

  Ben looked eminently disappointed as they arrived back on the first floor after checking the upstairs bedrooms. “I was hoping we’d find something,” he said, “but if this old house is still keeping secrets, she’s not telling us.”

  Candy checked her watch again. It was just past eleven. Preston Smith—or whoever had posted that message to her—had never showed.

  As if reading Candy’s thoughts, Ben said, “You know, I did a quick Internet search on Preston Smith’s name last night, after you sent me that message. I found a few things about him, but most seemed recent—within the past six months or so.”

  Candy nodded. She’d found the same thing. “Whatever’s going on,” she said in a resigned tone, “we’re not going to find the answers here.”

  Ben made a quick turnaround, looking out through the windows in various directions. “There are a few more buildings outside. I’ll go have a look. Want to come along?”

  Candy studied the piles of snow outside and then looked down at her still-wet jeans, which had her shivering. “No thanks. I’ll check upstairs again. Just swing back and get me when you’re ready to go.”

  He told her he would, and walked back toward the rear of the building, to access the servants’ entrance through the kitchen.

  Candy was alone.

  The house creaked around her. Outside, a frozen branch banged against a window, driven by a sudden gust of wind. She thought she heard a low moan, somewhere in the bowels of the house. And then… a footstep.

  It seemed to have come from one of the rooms off to her right.

  She heard a door close somewhere behind her.

  She twisted around. “Ben?”

  “Ben seems to be occupied at the moment,” another voice said. “Which is just as well. You and I, we need to have a little talk.”

  Candy froze. She knew the voice. She’d heard it before.

  Preston Smith stepped out of the shadows near her. “Hello, Ms. Holliday. We meet again.”

  Forty-Eight

  “You!” Candy said in an accusatory tone. “What are you doing here? Where did you come from?”

  Preston gave her a broad grin and waved an expansive hand. “Why, I’ve been here all along.”

  “But we searched the house.”r />
  “You missed a few spots. It’s a big house. It’s easy to do if you’re not familiar with it.”

  That made Candy pause. She looked at him with scrutinizing eyes. “What kind of game are you playing, Preston?”

  “Hmm. Interesting choice of words.” He took a few steps toward her, and she backed away.

  “Come any closer and I’ll scream,” she warned.

  But the smile did not leave Preston’s face. “Well. We wouldn’t want that, would we? With Ben so nearby, just outside?”

  He held up a small, thin metallic object in his hand. It was a black key.

  “Unfortunately, you see, I’ve locked the servants’ door,” Preston said. “But there’s no need to panic, Ms. Holliday. I’m not here to hurt you. I’m just here to talk.”

  Candy backed away a few more steps, casting a glance out one of the nearby windows, hoping to catch sight of Ben. But she saw no sign of him.

  “The outbuildings are quite extensive,” Preston said by way of explanation. “It’ll take him a while to search them all. And as I recall, Ben Clayton is a very thorough individual. I’d say we have ten or twelve minutes, at least. That should be enough.”

  “For what?” Candy asked warily.

  “As I said. For us to talk.”

  “And what do we have to talk about?”

  “Well, a misplaced hatchet, for one thing. A hermit who encountered some sort of mysterious creature in the woods, which appeared to chase him and appropriately scared him. A mysterious donor who funded most of the ice-sculpting exhibition and lured all the participants here with visions of wealth and grandeur. An informant who’s been feeding inside information to that wonderful Ms. Boyle for her popular blog. An unsubstantiated rumor about a sponsorship award program promoted by a certain dubious international ice-carving organization. And, oh yes, an anonymous blog poster and instant messenger who pointed certain key individuals in certain key directions—including you, I might add. And you followed the clues impeccably—just as I knew you would. Your growing reputation is well founded, you know. You have definitely lived up to the hype, and it’s been a great joy watching you work this weekend.”

  He had said all of this in a casual, lighthearted sort of way, but Candy knew there was nothing innocent about what he was telling her. She glared at him. “So you’re the one who’s behind all this.”

  “Why, yes, I am,” Preston said proudly, “although that’s one mystery you haven’t been able to quite figure out yet. So if I were to grade you for this weekend, I’m afraid I’d have to give you a B minus. Not quite award-winning territory yet, but you’ll get there. You just need a little help every once in a while. So here’s another clue for you: not everything is as it appears.”

  Something in the way he said it—a slight change in tone, a flicker in the eye, a word pronounced in a marginally different manner—made her look at him again, and this time she saw behind the persona, behind the public man who had been meandering not so aimlessly around town for the past few days. “It’s you, isn’t it?”

  “Why, Ms. Holliday,” he said, his voice dropping and changing noticeably now, “you’ve finally found me out.”

  He reached up and tugged at the corners of his moustache. They came away with some effort. She heard a slight tearing sound as he whisked the moustache off. The glasses next. And a prosthetic nose. The wig was the last to come off.

  “You know,” he said as he dramatically removed his disguise, “I had Charlotte Depew make this little getup for me. A couple of years ago, I think it was. She was skilled at that sort of thing. I used it for a masquerade party once.”

  He removed his fake teeth. “I went as Mark Twain to that particular event. I modified the costume a little for this weekend’s impersonation. Do you think it worked?”

  When his disguise was fully removed, she saw a man in his early forties, with thick brown hair, an aristocratic nose, a rugged face, and piercing blue eyes. He gave her a devious smile. “It’s good to finally meet you for real, Candy. My name is Porter Sykes.”

  Forty-Nine

  “We don’t have much time,” he said, “but I wanted to let you know what was going on before I left town.”

  “Left town?” Candy gave him a hard look. “They’re going to arrest you and throw you in prison. If you’re lucky, maybe you can arrange for a family reunion.”

  The man formerly known as Preston Smith, but now revealed to be Porter Sykes, chuckled as he pulled a large plastic storage bag from a coat pocket, slipped the wig and other components of his disguise inside, zipped it closed, and slid it away again. “I’m afraid that won’t be the case.”

  “And why not? What’s to prevent me from yelling for Ben right now and calling the police?”

  “Frankly, nothing at all. But I don’t think you will.”

  “And why not?” Candy asked.

  “Because right now you’re too curious to hear what I have to say. You’re wondering what my angle is—what I want. And you’re trying to figure out why I would go to all this trouble.”

  Candy had to admit, he was right. The extent of all he’d done was impressive. She had to think it through for a few moments, until she finally looked at him with grudging respect. “It was all a lie, wasn’t it? There is no I.C.I.C.L.E., is there?”

  “Unfortunately, no,” Porter said.

  “No sponsorship program, no spokesperson, no international event that would have put our town on the map, no huge economic windfall from this wonderful ice-carving competition of yours.”

  He shook his head.

  “But why?” Candy asked, astounded by the scope of it all. “Why go to these lengths?”

  At the question, Porter Sykes shrugged. “I have my reasons. But for now, let’s just say I wanted to stir things up—to get to know some of the people around town without them knowing who I was, and to see how they behaved under pressure.”

  A shadow crossed Candy’s face. “This isn’t a game. People have died.”

  “Yes, well, that sort of thing happens when you’re playing the big game. It was unexpected, I’ll admit, but I was able to take advantage of it. And it worked out quite well. You see, Victor was starting to get suspicious of me. I’d tried the Preston Smith act on some of the sculptors—Victor and Gina, especially. Felicia’s too perceptive—I knew she’d see through the disguise quickly enough, so I tended to avoid her, as well as Ben. I’m sure you can understand why. As for Liam, he’s a liar and a cheat. I have to admit, it was somewhat satisfying to see him in cuffs, even if it was just for a short while. And as for Duncan, well, he’ll gain some notoriety out of it, which might give his career a boost.”

  Candy crossed her arms, reluctantly impressed by the way he’d set things up. And there was more, she suspected. She was beginning to see all the links. “You’re the one who sent that text message to Gina, telling her where to find Victor and Felicia.”

  “She was oblivious about what was going on,” Porter said. “She needed a nudge.”

  “And,” Candy said, “you were the one who put that hatchet in Victor’s back.”

  Porter let out a sigh. “I picked that motel strictly for its reputation. I didn’t figure any of the ice carvers would stay there. So I was surprised to see Victor and Felicia driving by one night, headed for one of the back rooms. I texted Gina, and kept an eye on them. But once Gina arrived, no one left—until dawn. That’s when they took the body out. I followed, of course, and when I saw where they dumped it, I sensed an opportunity. Liam’s worked for me a few times down in Boston. He kept showing off that hatchet of his, and I got so tired of hearing about it that I took it from him at an event we both happened to attend.”

  “You stole it,” Candy corrected.

  “I had every intention of just getting rid of it, but I couldn’t help thinking that there might be a better purpose for it. So I brought it along with me when I came to Maine. And wouldn’t you know…”

  “So you went back out to the body, taking Liam’s h
atchet, and plunged it into Victor’s body.”

  Porter’s face grew still. “He was already cold, and stiffening. I cleaned up my tracks—and Gina’s and Felicia’s. I’m not really sure what I planned to do about the body. Leave it there and let someone discover it in the spring? Perhaps it would never have been found—but it worked out for the best, didn’t it?”

  “And now you’ll go to prison.”

  Porter laughed and shook his head again. “You’re not seeing the reality here, Candy. I certainly won’t be going to prison. And you won’t tell anyone about what you’ve learned here today.”

  Candy felt a cold shiver deep inside her. “And why not, Porter?”

  “Because I haven’t done anything. Because I was never here—Preston was, but he’s a ghost. And because if you tell anyone about me, no one will believe you.”

  Candy’s anger flared. “You were involved in at least two murders that I know of, including Victor Templeton’s,” she said, “and I can prove that.”

  Porter Sykes sighed. “You could try, but you’d lose. I won’t go into the details here. There’s just not enough time. But trust me—I’ve taken great care to cover all my tracks. None of the clues can be traced to me, and all of the online evidence has already been erased. You’ll find only residual references to Whitefield or I.C.I.C.L.E., and those will be only ghosts. Just so you know, I’ve technically been in Boston all weekend. I attended a fundraiser this morning and will be at another tomorrow. There’s no trace of me up here. And besides, I’m sure you’re aware that I own your newspaper. It’s part of my family’s holdings. As such, both you and Ben work for me. You wouldn’t want me to shut down your own paper, would you? You wouldn’t want Wanda Boyle to become the sole news reporter in town? You wouldn’t want Ben to leave town for another job, and lose that extra income for yourself and Doc?”