Town in a Wild Moose Chase chm-3

by B. B. Haywood

  Doc looked her up and down. She could see the pride in his eyes. “Sweetie, you look like a billion bucks. We’ve increased it, you know, due to inflation.”

  She beamed. “The dress does look good, doesn’t it?”

  “It’s beautiful on you. It fits perfectly.”

  “Almost like it was tailored for me.” It was expertly crafted, that was certain—a black, sleeveless Givenchy number with a form-fitting design that fell to just above her knees. She knew Maggie had good taste, but never guessed she or Amanda owned anything this nice. She must have picked it up at one of the outlets somewhere, Candy surmised, or maybe even at the Goodwill—though it must have been at a time when Candy hadn’t been with her, for she’d surely have remembered if Maggie had bought a dress like this.

  She’d managed to locate a fairly decent pair of black high heels at the back of her closet, and a dark gray wool business coat she’d kept from her earlier days. It felt a little loose around her but would work for tonight. She’d also pulled a silver clutch purse from the bottom drawer of an old bureau in the corner of her room, and found a black tote bag to carry her heels in. She had no intention of putting them on until she was at the ball. She’d wear her boots until then, high society be damned.

  She’d done her best with her hair, which she’d kept at shoulder length for most of the past year. She’d toyed with the idea of growing it out again but liked the simplicity of simply washing it out, combing it loosely, and letting it go au naturel around the farm. For tonight, however, she’d combed it out and arranged it neatly around her face, tucking one side behind her ear. This showed off her earrings and gave her an elegant yet not too formal look. She liked it.

  In fact, she liked the way she looked tonight. She’d even applied a little makeup, including red lipstick.

  She hadn’t dressed up this nice since she moved to Blueberry Acres, and she was pleased and a little surprised by the result. “You clean up real nice for a farmer,” she said into the mirror.

  Doc had his camera out and snapped a few pictures of her, and took a few more when Ben arrived, decked out in formal attire, his long hair combed back from his forehead, to take her to the ball.

  He told her she looked beautiful, helped her into her coat, and shook hands with Doc before escorting her out to his warmed-up Range Rover. “I have the heat on full blast,” he told her as he opened the passenger-side door. “I didn’t know what you’d be wearing so I wanted you to be comfortable.”

  She climbed inside, and he closed the door behind her, locking out the cold. As he ran around to the other side, skirting the front of the vehicle, she arranged her dress and coat carefully around her, settling in front of the hot air vent, and turned to admire Ben in his stylish attire as he climbed into the driver’s seat beside her.

  “You’re looking particularly dashing this evening,” she told him.

  He laughed as he put on his seat belt. “To be honest, I kind of feel dashing. I haven’t dressed up like this in a while.”

  “Me neither.”

  “Well,” he said, eyeing her one last time before he turned his attention to the road, “I’m glad we’re doing this together then. I think it’s long overdue for both of us.”

  The small yet elegant ballroom at the Lightkeeper’s Inn was attached to the back of the building, though to call it an add-on would be a gross understatement. Officially referred to as the Elias J. Pruitt Ballroom, it had been built in the 1920s to Elias’s precise specifications for the wedding-eve dinner of his beloved daughter, Eleanor, a debutante from Boston. The room was large enough to accommodate one hundred and sixty guests, though it seemed intimate, thanks to its design. It was decorated in sage greens, pale yellows, and muted browns, giving it a casual yet classic look, enhanced by a simply designed wainscotting of Maine pine. The multilevel ceiling, higher in the middle and lower on the sides, added a dramatic architectural element and served an important function during the day, letting in filtered light through windows high in the raised center section.

  Tables draped with crisp linen cloths were carefully arranged on either side of the room, some tucked under sconces or into alcoves, leaving the center of the room open for one of its most distinguishing features, a highly polished floor of imported exotic hardwood that Elias, an international merchant, had shipped in from Africa for precisely this purpose. He’d had all the tableware brought in from England, the silverware from China, and the linens from France. He’d ordered the creation of the delicate central crystal chandelier, called the Queen by the staff, handmade in Germany, and the furniture, designed and built by the finest New England craftsmen. He’d even brought in his own mason to create the magnificent floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace, the room’s centerpiece, ablaze for the evening, its flames reflected by the polished dance floor that stretched out in front of it, leading all the way to the double French doors at the opposite side of the room.

  Candelabra on each of the tables were lit, giving off a soft glow, and in the corner, a string quartet played a Strauss waltz as Ben and Candy entered.

  Ben stopped just inside the French doors and looked down at the card in his hand, which they’d exchanged for their thirty-dollar tickets at a table in the hallway outside, right after Candy had switched out her boots for heels and stowed her outer gear at the hat check. “We’re at table seven,” he said, looking around the room, which was beginning to fill with guests. He pointed to the left of the fireplace. “I think we’re over that way.”

  Hand in hand, they started through the crowd, stopping first at the bar to pick up drinks—Champagne for Candy, a martini for Ben—and chatting along the way with those they knew. They ran into Lyra Graveton and her husband Llewellyn, Jane and Bill Chapman, Delilah Daggerstone and her ebullient husband Drew, new shop owners Ralph Henry and Malcolm Stevens Randolph decked out in their finest, town council chairman Mason Flint escorting the latest Mrs. Flint, and the Reverend James P. Daisy with his wife of nearly forty years, the delightfully regal Gabriella Daisy, who looked resplendent in a pale pink chiffon dress that showed off her straight frame and fashion-model shoulders.

  In fact, Candy thought, looking around the room as she sipped Champagne, her right arm slipped in through Ben’s, everyone looked amazing tonight. Somehow they’d all managed not only to find formal clothes—or clever facsimiles thereof—in the dead of winter, with half the shops in town closed down and a half-day trip at the very least to anything that could remotely pass as an actual department store, but they’d also survived the day’s uncertain weather, slushy streets, slippery sidewalks, and sanded pathways to arrive here looking resplendent.

  Candy suddenly felt very proud of her hearty little—and surprisingly stylish—town.

  They found their table and set down their glasses, but as the string quartet launched into a popular number, a classical take on a Billy Joel song, Ben pulled Candy out onto the dance floor and put his arm firmly around her waist. “I’ve been wanting to do this ever since I saw you in that dress,” he said as he pulled her close.

  She slipped into his arms, her right hand tightly clasping his left, her left arm curling around the back of his shoulder. “Really?”

  “It looks fantastic, like it was made for you. And you look fantastic in it.”

  She gave him an affectionate smile. “You say the sweetest things when you’re wearing a tux.”

  He laughed. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything to wear. Where did you find it?”

  “The dress?” She glanced down at it, then back up at him with an amused look. In an exaggerated whisper, she said, “Would you believe it’s a loaner?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “From who?”

  “I’ll give you three guesses.”

  “That’s too easy. And the pearls?”

  “Hmm.” She arched an eyebrow of her own. “You’re very inquisitive tonight, aren’t you?”

  He smiled and shrugged. “Can’t help it. It’s my job.”

  “But a woman ca
n’t give away all her secrets,” Candy protested lightly.

  “True. That would ruin the mystery.”

  “And have I been so mysterious?” she said to him, only somewhat facetiously.

  “You? I’m not sure I’d call you mysterious. Certainly beautiful. Definitely dependable. Tenacious at times, when you have to be. Sometimes surprising. Usually unique…”

  “Usually?”

  “Well, almost always.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” she said, her smile returning. “And what about you?”

  He was silent for a moment, with a look on his face she couldn’t quite read. “Hmm, yes,” he said finally, “what about me?”

  “Well you have to admit, you have been somewhat mysterious lately.”

  “Have I?”

  “A number of people have noticed it.”

  “And would that number include the same person who loaned you that dress?”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “You’re smarter than you look.”

  “I’ve heard that before. And more charming too.”

  “Yes,” she said, leaning into him, “you are.”

  For a few moments they danced in silence, enjoying the opportunity to hold each other close after the unsettled nature of the last few days. Finally he said softly into her ear, “I don’t know why it took us so long to do this.”

  She smiled into his shoulder. “I don’t know either.”

  Several other couples had joined them on the dance floor, while the rest of the guests chattered in the room around them. Candles flickered, the music rose and fell, and the fire crackled, but for Candy it all seemed to recede into the background. She could feel Ben’s arm around her back, strong and assured, and she could smell his cologne. His left hand felt warm in hers.

  I could get used to this, she thought as she tightened her hold on him.

  The music stopped, the moment passed, and they stepped apart, applauded lightly, and looked at each other.

  An older woman, who had been dancing nearby with her husband, leaned over, laid a thin hand on Candy’s arm, and said to her, “You two dance beautifully together.”

  “Oh, well, thank you very much.”

  She felt Ben squeeze her hand and looked up. His eyes were making strange movements sideways. It took her a few moments to turn, survey the faces around them, and realize they’d somehow become the center of attention. Ben nodded his head in awkward acknowledgement as a few people applauded, and Candy looked a little embarrassed. She squeezed his hand back. “I think we’d better sit the next one out.”

  He nodded. “Good idea.”

  As the room continued to fill and the music swelled, they lingered by the fireplace for a while before taking two seats on the back side of their table, along the wall to the left of the fireplace, where they could have a little privacy, since the other couples were still milling about, gathered in duos and groups around the room.

  But several friends from work, including Betty Lynn Spar and Judy Crockett, soon wandered over to say hello, dragging along their better halves, and they all soon got to talking about the recent developments around town. They’d heard bits and pieces, and Ben listened to all the details with interest.

  But it was Jesse Kidder, the paper’s photographer and graphic artist, who had the juiciest piece of news. He’d stopped by the table to snap a few photos of the group for the paper’s society page, though they all knew Ben would never approve the use of his photo in a non-news-related item, so a few alternatives were snapped as well.

  Before Jesse wandered off to photograph the other guests, he told them, “The police are up at some motel just outside of town. Apparently they’ve found Victor Templeton’s car and the room he was staying in. They’re searching it now. The crime van’s headed over from Augusta.”

  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.