Town in a Wild Moose Chase

by B. B. Haywood

  They’d taken turns pulling the toboggan, and it sounded like they’d struggled every step along the way. “We thought if someone found him in the woods they’d think his death was an accident,” Gina said, sadness and regret evident in her voice. “We just didn’t think he’d be found so soon.”

  When she finished, they were all silent again. Candy thought over everything she’d just heard, but some of it still didn’t make sense to her. “I don’t understand,” she said after a few moments. “Victor was found with a hatchet in his back. But you didn’t put it there?”

  Gina shook her head. “We never had the hatchet. Victor died from a head wound.”

  “But how did Liam’s hatchet get in Victor’s back?”

  “We don’t know,” Felicia said. “Someone must have tampered with the body. All we can tell you is that Victor went crazy and tried to hurt Gina—so we did what we had to do to defend ourselves. In some way, Victor got what he de-served. And neither of us is going to pay for it, because we’re leaving.”

  “But you can’t,” Candy said. “You have to go to the police. You have to tell them what happened.”

  “And go to jail for twenty years?” Felicia sneered.

  “They’ll understand it was in self-defense. You can’t run all your lives. You have to give yourselves up.”

  “We’re still talking jail time,” Felicia said. “And why? Because of Victor? Or because of Liam? That’s something neither of us is willing do.”

  She nodded at Gina. “We have to leave,” she said, softly yet firmly.

  Equally firmly, Candy said, “I can’t let you go.”

  Felicia reached under her black cloak and withdrew a small pistol. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  FORTY-THREE

  Felicia motioned toward Gina with the gun. “Get your stuff. We’re going.”

  But Gina shook her head. Her expression had changed. A few minutes earlier she’d been ready to run, but at the sight of the gun she collapsed in on herself, losing her resolve. “Felicia, put that away.”

  “Shut up. Just do as I say.”

  “But you can’t hurt anyone else.”

  “We’re in this together. You know that. We’ve talked about that.”

  “But maybe Candy is right,” Gina said, sounding ex-hausted. “If we start running now, we’ll never stop, and I don’t want to live this way for the rest of my life.” She looked with pleading eyes at Felicia. “I think Candy’s right. We should go to the police and turn ourselves in.”

  “We have a car outside,” Candy added in an encouraging tone. “We can all go together. I’ll help you explain what happened.”

  “It’s the right thing to do,” Gina insisted. “We have to tell them.”

  A dark look crossed Felicia’s face. “Fine,” she said, shifting the gun toward Candy and back to Gina. “You go ahead and turn yourself in. Tell them everything that happened. But you’re not the one who smashed in Victor’s head with a bottle of Champagne. They’ll let you off easy.” Her voice grew tight. “But not me.”

  Ominously she waved the gun between the two of them. “So what am I going to do with the two of you?”

  Candy tensed. “Felicia, don’t do anything crazy.”

  “I’ve already done something crazy,” Felicia said. “One or two more somethings won’t make much difference at this point, will they?”

  “Yes, they will,” Candy said in her most convincing tone. “It’s like you said. Killing Victor was an accident. The police will understand that. But killing us…” She let her voice trail off.

  Gina continued, speaking calmly. “We’ll tell them what happened. They’ll understand.”

  But her words were lost, for Felicia was already moving. She crossed the room in a half dozen steps, keeping the gun pointed at them the whole time. “Don’t be naive, Gina. We covered up a murder. We dumped the body in the woods. They may not lock us up for the rest of our lives, but one way or another, the next few years will be hell. And I’m not going to put myself through that.”

  “So what are you going to do?” Candy asked, steeling herself.

  Felicia thought about it briefly before she said, “I’m going away.”

  “But where will you go? You’ll be running from the law for the rest of your life. They’ll come after you. They’ll find you.”

  “Let them try,” Felicia sneered. “They’ll never find me. And at least I’ll be free.” She motioned toward the luggage by the door, then pointed the gun at Candy. “The two bags on the left. Carry them out to the car.”

  Candy hesitated. In her mind she ran through a number of scenarios but quickly realized the best approach was just to do whatever Felicia asked. Still, she hesitated, which caused Felicia’s dark side to flare.

  “Now,” she growled, “or I’ll put a hole in you.”

  Candy doubted Felicia would take such an extreme measure but she had no interest in putting her theory to the test. She glanced at Gina, who was grim-faced, and then did as Felicia asked, moving cautiously to the door and taking one of the heavy bags in each hand. As she lifted them, she struggled and stumbled a little, causing Felicia to bark at her as she opened the door, letting in a blast of cold air. But Gina rushed forward, taking one of the bags from Candy’s hand and heading out the door into the dark night.

  Outside, Candy immediately thought of Maggie and surreptitiously looked over toward the far side of the parking lot, where the Subaru wagon was parked. But it was partially obscured by the trees along the front of the cabin, and she couldn’t get a clear view of it.

  Felicia impatiently poked her in the back with the muzzle of the gun. “Wait here,” she instructed as she walked to the driver’s-side door, opened it, and reached inside, pulling a small lever that popped open the rear hatchback door. “Put the bags in there.”

  Candy hesitated again. Felicia was several steps away from her. She toyed with the idea of dropping the bag and making a run for it, perhaps trying to get to Maggie’s car, or perhaps even hefting the bag up and flinging it at Felicia in an effort to throw her off balance long enough for her and Gina to escape.

  But again she quickly decided against it. She was too tired, too cold, and too cautious to put herself and Gina in further danger. So she did as Felicia instructed, and lifted the bag up into the back of the vehicle. She then helped Gina lift the other bag in.

  “Close it,” Felicia said.

  Candy did as she was instructed.

  “Now stand over there.”

  Felicia indicated a dimly lit spot back toward the trees. “I don’t really want to do this,” she said as she raised the pistol. “I’m sorry.”

  Candy squinted and turned her face away. Felicia wasn’t really going to shoot them, was she?

  Just then a blast from a car horn tore through the air. Felicia, Gina, and Candy all turned toward Maggie’s car. Even through the trees, Candy could see that Maggie had jumped out of her car and was waving frantically in the opposite direction.

  Candy heard another sound then, the piercing whine of a police car siren. A few seconds later, she saw the spinning red lights, and a squad car with the insignia of the Cape Willington Police Department came dashing up the parking lot, swerved into the short driveway, and skidded to a halt next to Felicia’s vehicle.

  The driver’s-side door swung open and Officer Jody McCroy jumped out, assuming a defensive stance with his firearm in his hands. “Police!” he shouted. “Drop your weapon!”

  A second police car raced into the driveway, and another officer climbed out. Candy could hear more sirens in the near distance.

  Seeing the police officers, Felicia’s face grew as cold as ice, and she began to back away beyond her vehicle, toward the edge of the cabin. She started to raise her arm, as if to fire, but shouts from the police stayed her hand. Finally, reluctantly, she let go of the weapon. The police rushed forward to arrest her.

  Candy let out a breath and looked gratefully at Officer McCroy as he approached her at a br
isk pace, holstering his weapon, ever watchful as he nodded toward her. “Ms. Holliday, are you all right?” he asked, looking from her to Gina.

  Candy nodded and was surprised to find she had tears in her eyes. “Felicia told us the whole thing. She killed Victor.”

  “It was an accident,” Gina put in.

  Officer McCroy nodded. “We’ll take it from here,” he said, giving Candy a quick pat on the shoulder.

  He started off, but Candy called after him, “Hey, how did you know we were here?”

  The young officer pointed toward Maggie. “Your friend called in and told us what was going on. We got here as quickly as we could. Fortunately it looks like no one was hurt.”

  “Thank you!” Candy said, letting the words out in a great gush of relief. “Thank you for showing up when you did, Officer McCroy!”

  He gave her a professional smile and tipped his hat. “You’re welcome, ma’am, but I was just doing my job.”

  FORTY-FOUR

  “Something’s not right,” Candy said.

  It was near midnight, and they were back at Maggie’s place, where they’d gone after spending hours at the Cape Willington Police Department. They were exhausted.

  They sat on Maggie’s sofa with their boots off and stocking feet up on the coffee table. Foregoing wine at such a late hour, they’d opted for hot cocoa to warm themselves, and Maggie had lit a fire. They were sharing a flannel blanket Candy had made for Maggie a few years back as a Christmas present.

  Maggie had been staring into the fire, her eyelids growing heavy, but at the comment from Candy, she blinked several times, took a sip of her cocoa, and looked over at her friend with a vaguely interested expression on her face. “What do you mean?”

  Candy pulled the blanket up to her chin and settled further back into the sofa as she thought. “Well, there are just too many missing pieces—the most glaring being the issue with the hatchet.”

  Maggie yawned. She looked bleary-eyed. “And what issue is that again?”

  “Felicia and Gina wrapped Victor’s body up in a blanket and dumped it in the woods using the toboggan. But when Solomon found it, it had a hatchet in its back, and Solomon didn’t mention anything about a blanket. So where did the blanket go? And how did the hatchet get there? Did someone put it there after Victor died? If so, why? Then there’s the issue of their tracks—why didn’t the police find any when they searched the woods?”

  “Easy,” Maggie said tiredly. “Someone erased them using a tree branch or something like that.”

  “Right, but who? Solomon said he erased his own tracks but not the tracks around the body. So who did?”

  “Maybe the wind,” Maggie said, stifling another yawn. “You know, snowdrifts, that sort of thing.”

  “And what about Gina?”

  “What about her?”

  “Well, she said someone texted her and told her where Victor and Felicia were shacked up. Who did that?”

  Maggie sighed and dropped sideways, her head falling to a pillow at the end of the sofa. “I’m too tired to worry about it tonight. Can we talk about this in the morning? You want to stay over?”

  Candy seriously thought about it, but in the end decided her own bed would be best. “I don’t suppose I could borrow your car one more time—that is, unless you want to drive me home?

  Yawning again, Maggie handed her the keys. “I’m not going anywhere tomorrow, honey. Just drop it off whenever you get a chance.”

  Doc was asleep when she got home, so she locked up the house, turned out all the lights downstairs except for a night light, made sure the fire had burned down far enough, and went upstairs to her room.

  The house was cold, since they kept the thermostat turned down at night to save on heating fuel. So Candy changed quickly into her flannel pajamas, turned out the light, and crawled into bed.

  But a few minutes later she turned the light back on, put on her slippers and bathrobe, and padded downstairs to her desk in a corner of the living room.

  She powered up her laptop, waited until it booted up, and logged on to Wanda Boyle’s site.

  She couldn’t get all the unanswered mysteries out of her head, and one in particular bothered her. Preston Smith. What had become of him? Why had he been acting so strange lately? And what was his role in everything that had happened this weekend?

  Some of the answers, she thought, might be online.

  She’d intended to search back through Whitefield’s postings to see if Preston had left any other clues there. But she was surprised to find a new posting from him, dated only minutes earlier.

  To Town Crier, it read. Well done. Whitefield at 10. Ben will know the way.

  She read over the message several times. Again, it seemed obvious that it was meant for her. But what did it mean?

  Whitefield at 10. Ben will know the way.

  She thought of calling Ben but decided against it when she checked the clock on the fireplace mantel behind her. It was quarter to one. So, instead of calling him, she sent him an e-mail, explaining everything and telling him that she’d call him in the morning to discuss.

  By the time she’d logged off, shut down the computer, and climbed back up the stairs to her bedroom, her cell phone was buzzing. She’d set it down on the top of her dresser and forgotten to turn it off or charge it.

  It was a text message from Ben:

  Meet me for breakfast at the diner at nine. Urgent. Dress warmly. I know what Whitefield is.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Candy awoke in the morning with the odd feeling that the previous day had been nothing more than a bad dream—or, more accurately, a recurring nightmare—until she’d dressed and headed downstairs. Doc had left part of the Sunday paper sitting on the kitchen table. A quick scan of the headlines revealed that, yes, indeed, it had all been for real. Felicia Gaspar was under arrest for the murder of Victor Templeton, and Gina Templeton was in custody as an accomplice.

  Candy just shook her head at the truth of it all. She found it very dismaying. Sometime during the night she’d come awake with the disturbing thought that, for the third time in less than two years, she’d had a gun pointed at her and been threatened with her life. For more than ten years, she’d lived and commuted in metro Boston, renting places just outside of the city in suburbs like Arlington and Watertown, and never once had anything remotely like this happened to her. But here she was in safe, quiet, off-the-beaten-path Cape Willington, Maine, and she’d already stared death in the face three times too many.

  What was happening to her beloved little town? What was happening to her? The realization that this staring-death-in-the-face sort of thing was starting to happen often, and that it might actually be turning into something of a habit, was enough to keep her awake during the deepest hours of the night, until she’d finally fallen asleep again right before daybreak.

  Even now, as she stood next to the kitchen table, feeling off center and mentally drained after the intensity of the past few days, it was a troubling thought, causing a cold shudder to run through her bones.

  Thoughtfully she dropped into a chair, taking a few minutes to scan the rest of the front-page story. It was a fairly accurate account of how Felicia had killed Victor, and of how she and Gina had dragged the body out to the woods on the toboggan and rolled it into a gully, where it had been discovered by a local hermit named Solomon Hatch, currently being sought by police for questioning.

  Candy herself was not mentioned in the article, thankfully. Liam Yates was in the process of being released, it said. Chief Darryl Durr was quoted, singling out Officer Jody McCroy for special recognition in the investigation, specifically for following up an important lead, which Candy suspected was that phone call from Maggie.

  There was no mention of a hatchet, or Preston Smith, or Duncan Leggmeyer and the award for the hatchet-throwing contest, or of the feud between Victor and Liam. And, of course, there was nothing about a white field, or Whitefield, or even whitefield, as Ben had referred to it in his text
last night, though all his characters were lowercase, which he’d probably done for the sake of expediency.

  So what, or who, was Whitefield?

  Candy checked the clock on the kitchen wall. Quarter to nine.

  It was time to find out.

  On this particular morning, she and Doc reversed their typical roles. He was staying home, working his way through the Sunday edition of the Boston Globe while tuned into the morning national news commentary programs, and Candy was the one heading off to the diner for a morning breakfast rendezvous.

  She found Ben, as promised, sitting in a booth by the window at Duffy’s Main Street Diner, waiting for her. He’d already ordered coffee for both of them and an English muffin for her—with homemade blueberry jam on the side, of course. For himself, he’d ordered up hash browns and a breakfast steak, doused heavily with Juanita’s special hot sauce.

  When he looked up and saw her, he waved, half rose, and pointed to the seat opposite him. “Good morning,” he said. “Hope I didn’t get you out of bed too early on a Sunday.”

  Candy pulled off her knit cap, shaking free her hair, and tugged off her gloves as she slid into the seat. She managed to smile for him. “How could I turn down a chance to have breakfast with you? Besides, I wasn’t sleeping very well anyway.”

  He gave her a worried look. “You’ve had a rough couple of days, haven’t you, with Solomon, and the body, and now the whole thing with Gina and Felicia? You want me to order something else for you?”

  “No, I—”

  “Good morning, Candy!” said a voice to her side. Candy looked up at Juanita, the waitress.

  “I brought you something, just out of the oven,” she said in a conspiratorial tone. “A fresh-baked blueberry muffin.” She set a plate down in front of Candy and gave her a quick pat on the arm. “Nice job solving that murder, Candy! This is on the house. Let me know if you need anything else,” she said earnestly and dashed off.