Town in a Wild Moose Chase

by B. B. Haywood

  “Oh my! What a wonderful idea!” Maggie was almost breathless.

  “It could put your town on the map with the international ice-carving crowd,” Preston said.

  “Oh… is that a large group?” Candy asked skeptically.

  “Larger than you might guess,” Preston assured her.

  “I never realized that,” she replied, her voice only slightly betraying her doubt.

  Preston went on. “We think Cape Willington would make an ideal setting for one of our keystone annual events. While the event you’re presenting here this weekend is merely an exhibition—though an informative one, naturally—our organization could stage a worldwide competition, with awards, cash prizes, international press, that sort of thing. Think of it as a sort of Boston Marathon for Cape Willington—we believe the level of prestige would be that high. Such an event could bring widespread attention to your village, as well as a substantial amount of dollars for your local businesses.”

  Candy found herself becoming mildly intrigued. “When you say a substantial amount—just how much are we talking about?”

  “Oh, well.” Preston drew his head back and pursed his lips in thought. “We’d probably be talking in the tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of dollars spent locally.” His grin grew sly as his gaze narrowed in on her. “All of it in cash, of course, running through your neighborhood businesses and giving a boost to the region’s economy.”

  “Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Maggie said. “We could use a boost like that around here.”

  “We sure could,” Candy agreed, eyeing Preston. “But why tell me this? You should be talking to the town council. They meet the second and fourth Tuesday of every month. You could talk to them next week.”

  “Yesss,” said Preston Smith, drawing out the word in a hiss as his smile broadened again. “I certainly could. And I plan on doing just that, as soon as we can set something up. But first I wanted to talk to you—the beating heart of the village. The person who can carry my message to the masses.”

  “Like the town crier!” Maggie said helpfully.

  Preston angled a long finger at her for emphasis. “Yes, exactly! That’s what you are, Ms. Holliday. You’re the town crier—and we need to talk business.”

  FOUR

  Leaving Maggie to finish up her shift at the dry cleaner’s, Candy headed out the door, slinging the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder as she angled down the street toward Town Park at the lower end of Ocean Avenue. Preston bid adieu to Maggie as well before he followed Candy out the door. He fell into step beside her, continuing the conversation, his tone turning serious and businesslike.

  “We’d like to move fairly quickly on this,” he told her, “but we can’t go forward without the blessings of the town council and the support of local businesses and residents. Frankly, to make that happen, we need the help of the local media.”

  Candy swiveled her head toward him. “Ah, so that’s where I come in,” she said, beginning to understand her role in Preston’s plan.

  “Exactly. We’ll need the full cooperation of the townspeople and perhaps even some help from the state to pull this off. Some positive comments in your column should get the ball rolling in the right direction. It’s completely up to you, of course. We don’t wish to put any pressure on you. But if you decide to write about this… well, this opportunity, shall we call it?… the result will be worth the effort, I promise you that! The entire town will benefit in numerous ways.”

  “Really? You sound very persuasive,” Candy admitted.

  “I’m simply passionate about our organization,” Preston said evenly, “and I’m hoping to pass some of that passion and excitement along. Should you decide to help us in that effort, perhaps you could mention our proposal in your newspaper. You could explain something about our organization, point out the benefits of an event of this magnitude, and help us clear a quick path to approval.”

  “A path to approval.” The phrase had a marketing ring to it that made Candy wary. She wanted to believe his story, but something about it didn’t ring quite true. It seemed just a little too perfect—and perfect plans rarely worked out as intended. “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” she said after a few moments.

  “Quite a bit, in fact,” Preston told her bluntly. “We’ve been evaluating your community for the better part of a year.”

  That caught her by surprise. “A year? But I thought you said this was your first trip here.”

  “It’s my first time visiting in person, yes. But as I said, I’ve been reading your columns—the entire newspaper, in fact. I’ve devoured every word of every issue for the past year or so, and I’ve been following news about the town on the Internet, mostly by keeping up with the postings by some of your citizens—personal blogs, tweets, Facebook pages, that sort of thing. All very informative, and perfectly legitimate in a legal sense, of course—we were just doing our homework.”

  “But why Cape Willington?” Candy asked, and let out a cry of surprise as she barely dodged an ottoman-sized clump of snow that rolled into her path from the top of the snowbank to her right. She stumbled sideways, her feet beginning to slip out from under her, until quick as a cat, Preston reached out and took her arm, steadying her.

  “Oops, careful there,” he said easily as Candy got her footing. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She slipped again and reached for his arm, absently noticing how muscular it felt underneath his coat. He’s been working out, she thought. Out loud, she said, “I guess I’d better watch where I’m going.”

  “Well, if your tumbles take you my way again, I don’t mind lending a helping hand,” he said with a chuckle, and released his hold on her. “There you go.”

  “Thanks for catching me.”

  “Think nothing of it. I’m glad to be of service. Now, to answer your question: Why Cape Willington? Well, a number of reasons. The town is incredibly picturesque, of course, with the lighthouses, opera house, museum, and historic inns. It’s a vibrant, close-knit community with a colorful, engaged citizenry. And the town is well set up to accommodate tourists in all seasons. It’s the perfect place from which to launch our first competitive event.”

  “Your first event?”

  His toothy grin returned. “Yes. Didn’t I mention that?”

  “I don’t think so, but… do you have any experience doing this sort of thing?”

  He laughed congenially. “Of course! I’d be happy to provide you with my credentials, if that would help.” And without hesitation, he reached into a pocket, pulled out an ice blue business card with white frostinglike lettering, and placed it in the palm of her hand. “You’ll want to check my references, of course. You’ll find a website and e-mail address on the card. If you send a message to my assistant, she’ll make sure you get all the appropriate documentation.”

  Candy studied the card for a moment, reading the inscription: Preston J. Smith, Executive Director, International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts (I.C.I.C.L.E.), it read, and listed a post office box in Washington, D.C., as its address. At the bottom were the phone number, fax number, and e-mail address. She slipped the card into an outside pocket of her tote bag and pulled out one of her own, which she handed to him. “Here’s mine, in case you need to contact me. So when are you thinking of launching this event?”

  “As quickly as possible. A year from now, preferably, to coincide with your next winter festival.”

  She let out a low whistle. “That’s moving pretty quickly. You’re not wasting any time.”

  He gave her another smile, though it looked more calculated this time. She noticed a sudden glint of determination in his eyes—and something else, though she couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

  “We’re deadly serious about this,” he told her, holding her gaze for only a few moments before looking around. “Ah, here we are!”

  They had reached the bottom of Ocean Avenue and entered Town Park, whe
re preparations were well under way for the upcoming ice-sculpting exhibition, part of the weekend’s Winter Moose Fest event. Trucks had delivered huge blocks of ice, which ice wranglers were busily transporting on forklifts to two main work areas. Teams of sculptors would work nonstop to create two large ice sculptures—one a long, winding ice dragon, and the other a scene of the great Maine wilderness, complete with moose, elk, and other creatures native to the state. On Saturday morning, the sculptors would also create a number of smaller, single-block sculptures, which would remain on display throughout the weekend.

  “I’ve heard they’ll be lighting the large sculptures,” Preston told her as they approached the area of activity, “though externally, not with internal lights.”

  “I’m looking forward to it. Everyone in town is excited about the sculptures.”

  “I can understand why. It should be a magnificent display.”

  “Do you sculpt yourself?” Candy asked him.

  “I’ve dabbled in it,” Preston said amiably, “but I realized a while ago I don’t have the artistic ability required for the finer pieces. That’s why I’ve shifted to the administrative side, where I seem to have found my niche. I’ve also been asked to judge a number of international competitive events, including ice art championships in Alaska, Quebec, and Colorado.”

  “I guess you spend a lot of time in cold places.”

  Preston chuckled. “Yes, that’s true. I seem to follow winter around the world. A few months ago I was in Argentina for one of their winter events, and Japan before that, and Germany before that. I spend a lot of time getting on and off planes, as you can imagine. But I love the work.” He pointed toward the blocks of ice. “Each block weighs three hundred pounds, you know, and measures three by four feet, with a depth of three feet. Large sculptures like the ones they’re creating here this weekend will use anywhere from fifteen to twenty blocks. They’ll shave and heat the surfaces first so the blocks meld easily together and let them freeze overnight into the large structures, which will serve as the foundations. They’ll carve some of the extensions and detailed pieces individually and add them on with the forklifts, as you’ll see. In the next couple of days, using the tools of their trade, the sculptors will reveal the art hiding inside these frozen cubes.”

  Candy’s curiosity got the best of her, and she couldn’t help assuming her reporter’s role. “What types of tools do they use?”

  “They’ll start with chain saws, which they use to carve away larger chunks of ice and for some of the broader shaping. For detail work they’ll switch to smaller, handheld power tools like sanders, grinders, and routers. Everything has to be very sharp to work with the ice, so I’m sure they’ll use crowd barriers to keep observers at a safe distance. The carvers will finish with heat guns, which help smooth and round the ice, although some sculptors prefer to simply douse the finished work with a bucket of water.”

  Candy pointed toward the rising blocks of ice. “And how long will it take to create these sculptures?”

  “Well, a skilled ice carver can create a sculpture from a single block of ice in a matter of minutes. But these works are more involved. The sculptors will be working off computer-generated designs, though more than likely they’ll revert to a freehand style as the work progresses. I’ve met most of these sculptors at previous events. Here, let me introduce you to some of them.”

  But before he could start showing Candy around, a familiar yet cold voice sounded behind them, stopping them in their tracks. “Well, here you are. And I see you’ve found the I.C.I.C.L.E. guy. I’m sure he’s discussing some important piece of news with you, but what I really want to know is, what happened to Solomon Hatch?”

  Candy tried to stay calm as she turned.

  There, in a wide stance with her arms crossed, stood Candy’s nemesis, Wanda Boyle.

  FIVE

  “Late as usual.” Wanda made a show of checking her silver-banded wristwatch. She’d dressed casually for the day, in a cream-colored turtleneck sweater, thick raspberry fleece vest, khaki safari-type jacket, and gray ski pants tucked into calf-high black rubber boots. Designer sunglasses perched atop her flaming red hair, and over her shoulder she carried a black canvas tote bag, not unlike the one Candy had carried before she bought her new tote. Wanda had clipped a badge that read PRESS to the collar of her vest. The spiral wire of a reporter’s notebook stuck out of one of her jacket pockets.

  “I’ve already had time to interview the ice sculptors and post my first story of the day online,” Wanda continued in a self-congratulatory tone, “and here you come, traipsing in after all the hard work’s been done. They’ve already un-loaded the ice blocks, you know.”

  “They have?” Candy looked expectantly across the park and noticed a colony of busy worker bees hovering around large blocks of ice. She could hear the voices of the workers and sculptors as they moved and positioned the blocks into what looked like a huge, white, drawn-out Lego construction.

  “They have,” Wanda confirmed, “and you missed it.” She gave Candy a tight, knowing smile. “So what have you been up to? Taking long walks in the woods?”

  Candy turned back to Wanda, her brow falling into a questioning look. “I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, but I’m sure you are,” Wanda said in a smooth tone. “I’ve heard you had some trouble out at Blueberry Acres this morning. Something involving the police. And a body, right?”

  “A body?” Preston Smith interjected himself into the conversation as his expression changed to one of alarm. He looked from one face to the other. “Has someone been hurt?”

  “Not that we know of,” Candy told him truthfully, keeping her eyes firmly fixed on Wanda. “There’s been a report of an injury, yes, but nothing’s been confirmed. The police are checking it out.”

  “The police! Good gracious!” Preston looked around worriedly. “I hope there’s no trouble—anything that might interfere with this weekend’s activities.”

  “I’m sure everything will be fine,” Candy reassured him. To Wanda, she added curiously, “How did you hear about that?”

  Wanda feigned a bored look, as if the answer were obvious. “I have my sources. You’re not the only one in town who has good reporter instincts, you know.” She paused, tightening her birdlike gaze on Candy. “So spill the beans. What really happened out at the farm this morning with Solomon Hatch? Was he wounded, like I’ve heard? Or was it just something you made up to get attention?”

  Where did that come from? “You think I need attention?” Candy asked as she shook her head and let out a breath. The old wounds between her and Wanda just didn’t seem to want to heal, especially with Wanda always picking at them. She was still offended Candy had left her son’s name out of a newspaper column more than a year ago, and despite Candy’s apologies, and the fact that they had collaborated—in the loosest sense of the word—on a murder mystery last May, Wanda apparently had no intentions of letting bygones be bygones.

  In fact, she’d upped the ante. Upset she hadn’t been hired as the community editor for the town’s local newspaper, the Cape Crier, Wanda had started her own online community blog and website, which she called the Cape Crusader. She updated the blog daily and posted news items, photos, calendar events, and other tidbits regularly, and had quickly drummed up traffic using social media sites. She was also handy with her smart phone, regularly sending out instant messages, texts, and tweets. She was a veritable digital multitasker.

  Her newfound media voice had emboldened her, and she relished the fact that in some ways she’d left her rival in the dust. Candy, after all, just wrote a community column for a print newspaper that came out bimonthly in the winter. Without the frequency of writing for the paper’s summer editions, which were published twice a week, Candy and the newspaper had fallen behind in the up-to-date news category. At least that’s how Wanda probably viewed the situation, Candy thought, and Wanda exploited it in every way possible. Admittedly, there hadn’t be
en much to write about over the past few weeks as winter had settled snugly into the region. But now, with the Moose Fest activities gearing up, Wanda was back in competitive mode.

  Candy tried not to let herself get drawn into Wanda’s world of constant one-upmanship, but there were times she couldn’t help herself.

  “Well, Wanda,” she said, trying her best to keep her voice even, “it sounds like you’re the one with all the sources, so why don’t you ask them?”

  And with that, she took Preston Smith by the arm and tugged him along with her as she started off toward the rising mountains of ice at a brisk pace, doing her best to tamp down her anger. She didn’t look back, though she was tempted. Determined to put Wanda right out of her mind, she pointed ahead of them, twirling her finger around in the air to indicate the entire scene.

  “So tell me what’s going on here,” she said to Preston as they followed a cleared, well-traveled path through Town Park. “I need to catch up fast, so give me all the details.”

  Preston gave her a somewhat bewildered look, not completely understanding everything he’d just heard. “What would you like to know?”

  “Anything you can think of. How long until they get all the blocks set up? When are they going to start carving? Where do they get the designs? How long will it take them? That sort of thing.”

  “Oh, yes, I see.” Preston nodded as he grasped the type of information Candy sought. “Well, let’s see. Where should I start?” He pondered a moment as he focused in on the scene before them. “Of course, I’m not an organizer of this event—I’m merely an interested party and observer—but they’ve brought in a lot of very skilled people this weekend. At the moment they’re setting up for two multiblock sculptures, as I understand it. The one on the right will be a dragon, which should be quite spectacular, while the other will be a tribute to—”