Town in a Wild Moose Chase

by B. B. Haywood

  Instinctively Ben checked his watch. Candy noticed the gesture. She knew what he was thinking.

  He’s wondering if he can slip out to cover the story.

  He glanced up and caught her looking at him. He gave her a knowing smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t disappear on you. At least not right at this moment.”

  She was suddenly serious. “It’s an important story. If you need to cover it…”

  He shook his head as Jesse turned back toward them. “Oh yeah, there was one more thing,” he said. “The word is, they’ve found evidence that other people were present in that motel room with him.”

  Ben’s brow fell, and Candy was suddenly suspicious. “Jesse, where’d you hear that?”

  He shrugged. “I just read it on the Web a little while ago,” he said, indicating his smart phone, and walked away.

  She wanted to ask him which site, or perhaps even grab his phone and find out for herself, but he was already snapping away at the next table, and she knew she’d never get him back, not when he had his eye behind the lens of a camera.

  It was probably Wanda Boyle’s site, she thought darkly, turning to gaze into the fire.

  Wanda.

  Why did she seem so plugged in all of a sudden? A few weeks ago she was covering doggie birthday parties and the latest selection of the local book club. Now here she was at the center of a developing news story—a murder mystery no less. How had the level of her reporting changed so quickly? Where was she getting her information? Did she have a source inside the police department? Candy wondered—maybe the same person Finn Woodbury talked to? But that didn’t make any sense. Finn would never betray his source to anyone. It was possible Wanda could have connected to the person in a different way, but Candy thought it unlikely that Wanda and Finn moved in the same circles or talked to the same people.

  But then who was tipping her off? If everything Jesse said was true, Wanda was getting some pretty big scoops. How was she doing it?

  Candy heard a slight disturbance by the French doors and turned to see what was going on. She heard the voice then, a penetrating tone that somehow seemed to drill right into her skin, a voice both smooth yet cackling at the same time.

  “…as most of you might know, my husband, Bart, broke his leg over the holidays while skiing at Sunday River and won’t be joining us tonight, so rather than come alone, I thought I’d bring the man of the hour, the sponsorship award winner himself,” said the person who was just entering the room through the French doors in a triumphant tone.

  Candy let out an involuntary breath.

  It was Wanda Boyle. She stopped just inside the doors, and with a flourish of her arm, announced, “Ladies and gentlemen, you all know my escort, Mr. Liam Yates!”

  Candy was somewhat surprised. The woman had apparently just written and posted a breaking news story, and now here she was, decked out in a shivery blue number, looking like an overripe blueberry. Beside her, Liam wore a white dinner jacket with black pants and a black silk scarf draped around his neck. His blond, wavy hair was stylishly un-combed and still thick, despite the fact that he was probably pushing fifty. And his lined face was still tanned and handsome, with defined features. He artfully feigned mild interest in the evening’s proceedings, Candy noticed.

  As Wanda greeted her friends and followers, she surreptitiously scanned the room, scoping out the location of the town’s important people, as if they were targets to intercept. When her gaze alighted on Candy, it paused only for an instant before moving on, without any sort of greeting or acknowledgement.

  Wanda was soon deeply engrossed in her little circle of friends, crowing and launching into several loud stories. She obviously felt like the belle of the ball, due in part to her escort.

  Liam stood nearby, checking the chandelier, his fingernails, the bottom of his shoe. He looked at his watch several times with exaggerated gestures and brushed absently at his clothes as he tried, and failed, to stifle a yawn.

  He seemed to sense her watching him, and shifted his gaze toward her. He nodded slightly and gave her a smile before glancing at Ben and then away toward the French doors, as something suddenly drew his attention.

  Candy turned to look as well. There was a shout. Murmurings.

  A moment later Duncan Leggmeyer burst into the room. He paused only briefly, until he spotted Liam Yates nearby, crossed quickly to him, and slugged him firmly on his aristocratic jaw, sending Liam to the floor in a heap, unconscious.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Wanda shrieked, her friends cried out, and the assembled group of guests gasped collectively. Several people rushed into the room, several people rushed out of the room, and Jesse Kidder turned toward the action, camera clicking as he documented the entire scene.

  “Oh my God!” Candy said, her hand going to her face.

  “What did I miss?”

  She glanced back. Ben had been deep in a conversation with Judy Crockett’s husband and had been facing the other direction during the confrontation.

  “Duncan Leggmeyer just hit Liam Yates,” she told him.

  “Really?” Ben curiously studied the activity on the other side of the room. “Anyone hurt?”

  “Looks like Liam was knocked out cold.”

  “Do you have any idea what provoked it?”

  Candy didn’t, but she wondered if it had something to do with the hatchet. In fact, she was surprised to see Duncan here at all. She’d told the police about Duncan’s connection to the weapon, and she suspected they’d called him into the office for questioning. But what did any of that have to do with Liam?

  Duncan was having harsh words with several guests, and a few moments later a security guard arrived. “He set me up!” Duncan shouted, pointing down at Liam’s inert body. “The bloody bastard set me up!”

  The security guard approached Duncan, held out the flat end of his hand, and spoke to him in a low, controlled manner. Duncan said something back, and the security guard’s gaze turned steely. Finally Duncan backed away, bowed his head, and walked from the room without another word, the security guard close behind.

  Meanwhile, a crowd of concerned people had gathered around Liam, checking him out to see if he was okay. But an even bigger group enveloped Wanda Boyle, who had had to sit down. Her closest friends fussed about her as if she were a diva who had fallen off a stage. They seemed upset at what had just occurred, obviously worried about Wanda’s well-being—as well as her reputation.

  “That’s what happens when you get involved with out-of-towners,” Candy heard one woman, who stood nearby, whisper to her tight-jawed elderly friend.

  The string quartet had stopped playing at the disruption, but they started up again, launching into Vivaldi, and the hushed room soon filled with murmuring voices.

  “I’d better get over there and see what’s going on,” Ben said, and he rose out of his chair and headed across the room.

  “Maybe we should call the paramedics,” Judy Crockett said from across the table.

  There was no need. A clerk appeared with smelling salts in hand, and she soon brought Liam around, though he stayed in a prone position. A guest who happened to be a nurse performed a cursory examination, feeling for his pulse and checking for injuries.

  Assured the experts were on the job, most of the guests returned to their conversations, recongregating in groups and duos or heading off to the bar or to find their seats.

  Maggie walked into the midst of it, bewildered.

  She stood just inside the French doors, taking in the chaotic scene, her gaze wandering in disbelief from the groggy Liam to the distraught Wanda, around to all their respective attendees, and back again. Finally she looked across the room and caught Candy’s eye.

  Candy waved and pointed to the seat next to her. Maggie nodded and, giving the group gathered around Liam a wide berth, headed across the room.

  “What in heaven’s name happened here?” she asked, aghast, “and how in the heck did I miss it?”

  “I’ve se
en some strange things lately,” Candy told her friend, “but this takes the cake.” And quickly she explained what had happened as Maggie sank into the seat next to her.

  Maggie was dressed elegantly yet rather sedately, in a stylish burgundy waist-length jacket with wide faux fur lapels, a white ruffled blouse, ankle-length gray wool skirt, and elegant silver jewelry. As Candy finished, she looked her friend up and down. “You look great, by the way. But where have you been?”

  Maggie glanced around the room, as if looking for someone. “He called and said he was running late. He asked if he could meet me here. We were supposed to rendezvous at seven thirty.”

  Candy checked her watch. “It’s just past that and—”

  “Oh, there he is,” Maggie said, suddenly animated. She stood and waved.

  Candy turned to see Preston Smith approaching them. “Ah, here you are, Mrs. Tremont,” Preston said, all smiles and twinkling eyes as he approached her. He wore a well-tailored black jacket with silk lapels, gray tie and vest, and a white shirt, well starched, giving him a crisp, classic look. His longish gray hair was disheveled, as if he’d failed to comb it that day, and he’d switch out his wire-rimmed glasses for black ones, which gave him a different look—more distinguished, perhaps. His thick gray moustache seemed thicker than usual.

  But he was no less enthusiastic, and as he approached, he bowed dramatically from the waist, lifted Maggie’s hand, and kissed it lightly. “My apologies, my lady, for inconveniencing you this evening. It was regrettable, I assure you, but I’m afraid it couldn’t be helped. There have been a number of developments, as you may well know.”

  “It really wasn’t much of an inconvenience at all,” Maggie said, waving a hand toward the other side of the room, “except I apparently missed the only real action this town has seen in weeks—other than the murder, of course.”

  “Hmm, yes, nasty business that,” Preston said with an air of distaste. “I’ve heard they have a number of suspects in mind, including”—he turned just slightly to glance over his shoulder—“some people in this very room.”

  “No kidding,” Maggie said, and she turned toward Wanda and Liam.

  Candy looked too. They had Liam sitting up and were attempting to move him to another room. Ben was talking to one of the hotel staffers, and Wanda was fanning herself dramatically, milking her role in the evening’s events for all it was worth.

  Candy was struck by a sudden thought, and she scanned the room. She realized several people were still missing. She double-checked herself but knew she was correct. Colin and Oliver were obviously busy behind the scenes, so their absences were explainable. Baxter Bryant had told her yesterday that he and Bernadette wouldn’t be attending, as they were headed home Sunday morning and wanted to get an early start.

  But that left Felicia Gaspar. And Gina Templeton.

  Candy could understand why Gina wasn’t here. Her husband was dead, allegedly murdered. She was obviously distraught. Candy imagined she’d talked to the police, though there’d been no official word on that. If she wasn’t currently talking to the authorities, she was probably holed up in a hotel room somewhere or making funeral arrangements for her husband.

  She must be going through a terrible time, Candy thought. Her husband’s body had been found in a snow bank, and abandoned in the woods earlier.

  What had happened to him? Candy wondered. How had he wound up in a snowdrift at the bottom of a gully?

  That was the key, she realized. If she could figure that out, it might help her solve the mystery of Victor’s death. Had he been murdered in the woods with the hatchet, or had he been killed somewhere else, and then dragged into the woods and dumped?

  Either scenario was possible. But Candy wondered if the stolen toboggan had anything to do with this. It all seemed a little too coincidental—the toboggan, the car, the room. Had he been murdered at the motel and then hauled into the woods on the toboggan?

  That made sense, she thought. But what about the time frame? When would he have been dumped in that gully?

  She considered the question for a few moments. She still didn’t know Victor’s time of death but figured it must have been sometime early Thursday morning.

  That sparked a memory, something that had been bugging her for a while. It was a burr in her brain, a detail she had missed, a clue that seemed to lurk in some out-of-the-way corner of her consciousness. But suddenly it clicked, and she knew what it was.

  She turned abruptly to Preston, who was chatting pleasantly with Maggie. “Excuse me, Preston, may I ask you a question?”

  He stopped in midsentence and turned to her. “Ms. Holliday, I am your obedient servant. Please, ask away.”

  “Well, something’s been bothering me for the past day or two, and I finally realized what it was. It involves you.”

  “Really? I’m intrigued. Please, continue.”

  “Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but yesterday morning you and I ran into each other in Town Park, and you handed me a cup of coffee. We talked for a while. Do you remember that encounter?”

  “Every second of it,” Preston answered truthfully.

  “And you said something to me then, if I remember correctly.”

  “Um, yes, and what would that be?”

  “Well, you said you’d heard from Victor. You told me that he’d pulled out of the exhibition.”

  Preston considered her statement for a few moments and finally nodded. “Yes, I believe that’s correct. Was I in error?”

  “You said,” Candy continued, “that you had received a communiqué—I believe that’s the word you used—from Victor the previous evening, which would have been Thursday evening. But according to the timeline I’ve been able to establish, Victor was killed sometime early Thursday morning. The body was cold when Solomon Hatch found it, so it must have been there for a while, so let’s say he died sometime around dawn on Thursday, give or take a few hours. But if that’s true, it would have been impossible for him to contact you on Thursday evening, since he would have been dead about twelve or fourteen hours by then.”

  Maggie gave her a questioning look. “What are you saying?”

  Candy shrugged. “I don’t know. I’m just pointing out a few facts.”

  “All of which are more than likely easily explainable,” Preston said.

  “Really? How?”

  “Well, it’s quite simple. You see, Victor contacted me via e-mail, which I accessed from my iPad at a wireless café here in town—although I also have wireless in the hotel, of course. He could have sent the e-mail at an earlier time, several hours, or even several days, before I accessed it. Or he could have written it at an earlier time and delayed the sending of it via an automated setting. Or perhaps someone else sent me a phony message in Victor’s name.”

  Candy considered that. It was possible, she thought, but she wasn’t buying it. “That’s not how you presented it yesterday. You inferred it was inside information—I can assure you it’s accurate, I think you said, or something like that. So if you’re right, how did you know?”

  “I was obviously mistaken,” he said, giving her a disinterested look and turning away. Candy shifted her gaze as well and spotted movement out of the corner of the eye. “Oh, here comes Ben.”

  “Ah!” Preston’s eyebrows rose. “We should give you two some time together,” he said smoothly. He held out a hand to Maggie. “Would you care to dance?”

  Maggie gratefully placed her hand in his. “I would love to.”

  They were gone by the time Ben arrived at the table. “It looks like Liam’s going to be all right,” he said as he settled in next to her. “Nothing busted except his pride. Duncan must have hit him with a pretty good right.”

  Candy nodded and pointed to Maggie and Preston on the dance floor. “That’s Maggie and her date,” she said.

  Ben squinted in their direction. “Who’s that she’s with?”

  “It’s a great question,” Candy said. “Have you noticed that he’s avoiding
you?”

  Ben made a face and shrugged. “Not particularly. But why would he avoid me?”

  Candy leveled a finger at him. “That’s a great question. And I think I’m going to go find out. Excuse me.”

  She rose from her chair and started across the room. Maggie and Preston were currently on the opposite side of the dance floor, so she angled toward them, threading her way through the other couples on the floor.

  She was several couples in when she felt a hand brush across her shoulder. She stopped and turned.

  A svelte woman in her mid to late fifties, dancing with her spouse, smiled at her. “I’m sorry,” the woman said, “I don’t mean to disturb you, but I love your dress. Where did you get it?”

  “Oh, this?” Candy looked down absently. “A friend loaned it to me.”

  “Well, it looks lovely on you. You know, I have one exactly like it. I bought it at Neiman Marcus when we were visiting our daughter down in Boston last fall. I would have worn it tonight, but my husband forgot to pick it up at the dry cleaner’s yesterday.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Candy was mortified. She could feel her cheeks redden and her face grow hot. Her whole body began to tingle. She felt lightheaded, and for a few moments thought she might collapse if she didn’t sit down instantly.

  But she steadied herself, blinked several times, forced herself to focus, and said in the most natural voice she could muster, “Well, if I had known that I would have worn something else.”

  “Oh, dear, don’t you see?” the woman said with obvious delight. “If Sid had picked up the dry cleaning, we’d both be wearing the same dress! This way is much better. I decided to wear Chanel, which I picked up in New York the last time we were down in the city, and you look so much better in that dress than I do. Everything turned out for the best, you see!”

  Candy mumbled a quiet “thank you” and slinked away as the woman turned back to her husband, Sid, delighted at her good fortune.