Candy scanned the rest of the posts, and about halfway down found one that drew her attention. It concerned two of the sculptors, Liam Yates from Vermont and Victor Templeton, Gina’s husband.
Wanda had apparently dug up some old newspaper clippings and online postings, which detailed a fairly intense feud between the two sculptors. Tempers had flared and words had been exchanged between the two as recently as a few weeks ago. The feud seemed to stretch back several years. Candy remembered that, earlier in the day, Felicia Gaspar had alluded to animosity between the two sculptors.
Wanda also noted a year-old battle between Liam Yates and Duncan Leggmeyer, which centered on some sort of trophy for a hatchet-throwing contest, but details were sketchy. Candy scanned through it all with mild interest. Wanda promised her readers that she’d continued to dig and post more revelations as she unearthed them.
Maybe I need to do some digging around myself, Candy thought.
A long list of comments to Wanda’s posts had generally expressed interest in her revelations and curiosity about future findings, though a few posters had defended the sculptors and called the disagreements overblown. And one comment in particular, posted by someone identified only as Whitefield, thought there was something much more sinister going on.
That caught Candy’s attention. Disagreements among sculptors were one thing, but sinister? That seemed a little extreme.
Candy read through the rest of the comments, and finding nothing else of interest, decided to give up for the night. As she logged off, she pondered the animosity between Liam Yates and some of the other sculptors. It was something she’d have to keep an eye out for the following day. She’d also try to figure out who, if anyone, was missing around town, and find out, one way or the other, what had happened to Solomon Hatch.
As her computer powered down, she glanced toward the filing cabinet against the opposite wall. She’d been in the bottom drawer only once in the past two years. It held the writings and research of a ghost. “I don’t think you can help me tonight, Sapphire,” she said, addressing the bottom drawer with a melancholy smile, “but thanks for the offer.”
She shrugged into her coat and slipped the scarf around her neck. Turning out the light in her office, she retraced her steps to the front door, walking past Ben’s office. But she didn’t go in. She’d decided she wasn’t about to start snooping on him, no matter what he might be up to.
Back at the farm that night, after Doc had gone to bed and the world had quieted down under its winter blanket, Candy lay awake with the lights off, turned toward her bedroom window, which looked out over the blueberry fields behind the house. The nearly full moon had risen, casting its soft blue glow on the landscape. The Native Americans called this the Wolf Moon, Doc had told her a few days ago, though sometimes it was called the Snow Moon. Either would fit, she decided, pulling the top blanket off the bed and wrapping it around her as she rose and walked to the window.
Few things in this world were more beautiful than a moonlit winter’s night, she mused as she gazed out through the frost-speckled glass. In the moon’s light, she could see every undulation of the landscape, every dip and swell, every shelled boulder and sugared bush.
She could also see something moving.
Startled, she took a step back into the shadows of the room, watching as… something… emerged from the woods at the top of the ridge. At first she thought it was Solomon Hatch again, until she realized it stood taller than a man, and had an elongated head.
It turned and ambled along the edge of the woods at a leisurely pace, headed in a westerly direction, away from her. After a few moments it disappeared back into the woods.
It was a white moose.
TEN
She woke in the early morning light, feeling unrested and off center. She knew she needed another hour of sleep, maybe two, but she was determined to be present in Town Park when the first chain saw bit into a block of ice. So she pulled herself out of bed and padded across the cold wood floor to the bathroom, where she struggled to force herself awake.
After her bout of midnight restlessness and the unexpected moonlit moose sighting, she had returned to her bed and burrowed under the blankets, but instead of falling asleep, she lay for what seemed like hours as everything that had happened the day before played back in her head. Her mind seemed to be searching for something—clues, connections, relationships, secrets… something.
When her thoughts had finally quieted down and she’d drifted into a light sleep, she’d dreamt of shadows and light and things in the woods—of Solomon Hatch and the white moose, and of something else, a presence she couldn’t quite identify.
It all left her feeling unsettled, and as she dressed quietly, she cast a few wary glances out the bedroom window, at the woods and the fields behind the house. But she saw nothing unusual. It looked typically peaceful, a landscape intimately familiar to her, though she couldn’t help but feel it had somehow changed in subtle ways. Her sense of safety had been breached the moment Solomon Hatch stepped out of the woods nearly twenty-four hours ago. Her gaze drifted several times toward the line of trees on the far ridge, searching into the muted shadows that faded back into ghostlike infinity.
Solomon was out there somewhere, but so was something else, deep in the woods. She knew it; she could feel it.
If there were any answers to be found, that’s where she would have to look, out among the trees. But she had no time to investigate now. That would come later in the day.
As she passed Doc’s half-opened bedroom door, she heard him rustling around inside, and downstairs he’d put on a pot of coffee for her. She poured a packet of sweetener into the bottom of a cup, splashed the coffee over it, took a few quick sips, and ate half a piece of buttered toast before she bundled up, grabbed her tote bag, and journeyed out into the clear, frosty morning.
Her trusty old Jeep started on the third try, and she nimbly negotiated the snow-packed roads toward town. The Jeep’s four-wheel-drive system came in extra handy at this time of year, especially on the dirt road leading out to the farm, which gained a thick layer of snow and ice in mid-December that didn’t melt away entirely until late March, if they were lucky.
She soon pulled into a primo parking spot on Ocean Avenue and hurried into Town Park, just as the day’s events were getting under way. The temperature had dipped into the teens overnight and was barely edging into the twenties as bright morning light slanted in from out over the ocean, but that hadn’t prevented a fairly large crowd of onlookers from gathering to witness the kickoff of the weekend’s ice-sculpting exhibition. The crowd stood around one of the mountains of ice behind a roped barrier while a smaller group of seven or eight individuals, dressed mostly in jeans, fleece pullovers, parkas, and boots, stood inside the ropes in front of the ice. Candy recognized Mason Flint, the chairman of the town council, standing between Oliver LaForce and Colin Trevor Jones. The ice sculptors stood to one side, while on the other side was Wanda Boyle, clicking off shots with her digital camera.
As Candy approached she dug into her tote bag, pulled out her digital recorder, and flicked it on, just as Mason Flint launched into his opening remarks.
“Good morning, everyone, and thank you for coming!” he said jovially. He was a lean, elderly gentleman, with a full head of white hair hidden under a colorful knit cap. “It’s very exciting to see everyone here this morning, and we thank you all for coming, especially our professional ice carvers. We’re thrilled to host this very special exhibition here in our little seaside community, and we hope it leads to a larger professional event in the near future. Of course, none of this would have been possible without the generous support of local businesses, as well as the involvement of the Pruitt Foundation, which helped with the procurement and transportation of the ice. I’d also like to thank our wonderful anonymous donor, who helped underwrite the travel expenses and fees for all of our ice carvers here this weekend. Now, I’d like to briefly introduce our ice carvers, and then
we’ll ask Chef Colin Trevor Jones of the Lightkeeper’s Inn to make the first cut.”
Liam Yates gave a confident wave as his name was mentioned, and Felicia Gaspar and Gina Templeton smiled as warmly as possible, given the chilly temperatures. Next, Mason introduced two newcomers who had arrived in town overnight. Duncan Leggmeyer was an outdoorsy, construction type with a full beard and a ponytail that hung halfway down his straight, muscled back, while Baxter Bryant was a retired military man who’d spent twenty years as a cook in the navy and now specialized in barbecue during the summer months and ice sculpting in the winter. He traveled with his wife, Bernadette, in an RV, along with their little puffball of a dog, Snowball.
With the introductions complete, Mason nodded toward Colin Trevor Jones, who started up an electric chain saw. With his black wavy hair stylishly uncombed and safety goggles firmly in place, he wielded the whirring chain saw at a red line marked on a block of ice, deftly made the first cut, and the ice-carving exhibition was officially under way.
Muffled hand claps and a few bedraggled cheers and whistles rose among the sleepy onlookers, many of whom had steaming cups of coffee or hot chocolate in hand. Following Colin’s cue, other chain saws buzzed to life, and the serious work began.
Candy wanted to talk to Duncan and Baxter, the new arrivals, but she knew she’d have to wait until later, as they were already busy cutting into the ice, calving off huge chunks as they began to shape the blocks. Like the other ice sculptors, they moved quickly with broad cuts; the detail work would come later.
With the ice sculptors occupied for at least a while, Candy knew she’d have to be content with another approach, so she interviewed a few of the onlookers for local flavor. After that, she cornered Oliver LaForce and pried a few decent quotes out of him about the effect of the Moose Fest on the local economy. The inn would be full over the weekend, and the local establishments along Ocean Avenue and Main Street, not to mention those all the way up along Route 192 to Route 1, would get a sizable dose of much-needed revenue. The midwinter jolt in the economic arm would be enough to hold most of them over until the spring thaw and tourist season arrived.
As far as the interviews went, it was all fairly mediocre stuff—not the hard-hitting copy she was looking for—but it was the best she could do for the moment.
She looked around and realized Wanda had disappeared. She’s probably somewhere warm, uploading photos and posting to her blog, Candy thought grimly. She always seems to be one step ahead of me lately.
To make herself feel better, Candy lingered near Colin Trevor Jones for a bit, watching his graceful, precise movements as he shaved away at the ice, until he finally stepped back to take a break. When he turned her way, she gave him a quick wave. He grinned back and, ruddy-faced and en-crusted in ice crystals, walked over to talk to her. Before long he was describing the exhilaration of cutting into ice and pulling out the shapes within. It was just the type of stuff she was looking for, plus it gave her an excuse to hang around Colin awhile, though she realized he was probably a little too young for her.
Of course, it never hurt to enjoy the view.
When she asked him for his opinions of the other ice sculptors, he was quick and witty in his assessments, calling Liam “focused and aggressive yet nimble” and saying of Felicia, “She has the delicate touch of a painter, even when she’s holding a chain saw in her mitts.”
They talked a little longer, but finally he went back to work, and she stepped back to assess the progress the ice sculptors had made so far. The shapes hidden within the ice were still indistinct, though she could see a general framework beginning to emerge. Still, it was clear there was much work left to be done. This was confirmed for her by Preston Smith, who appeared suddenly at her side, two cups of coffee in hand.
“Ah, Ms. Holliday, you’re looking very chilly out here this morning,” he said pleasantly. “Perhaps I could interest you in a warm beverage.” He held out one of the foam cups to her.
Candy took it gratefully. “That’s very nice of you, Preston, and yes, thanks, I’ll gladly accept.”
“No cream, one pack of sugar substitute, just the way you like it,” he said with a broad smile as he passed her the cup.
Candy gave him a curious look. “Well, that’s… that’s very sweet of you. But how do you know how I like my coffee, if I may ask?”
Preston was sipping from his cup and so couldn’t answer immediately, but instead pointed up the street with a gloved finger. “The waitress at the diner. She told me,” he said after he’d swallowed. “Such friendly people! What a wonderful town you have here! I’m confident I’ve chosen the right place for our new event.” He paused as his expression turned to one of concern. “Unfortunately, this issue with the dead body in the woods could make us reconsider our decision—if it’s true, of course. What’s the status of the case? Have the police found out anything?”
Candy shook her head. “Not that I’m aware of, but I think they’re still looking.”
“And what about you? I’ve heard you’re something of a detective around here. Are you conducting your own investigation?”
A brief smile crossed Candy’s face. “I’m not really a detective,” she said simply.
“But you’ve apparently had some success solving a few local mysteries. One of the waitresses over at the diner seems to think you’re a local celebrity. In fact, you’ve developed quite a reputation with the townspeople. And from what I’ve heard, you’re personally involved in this latest… episode. Surely you have some interest in it.”
“Of course I do,” Candy said, “but I’ve been asked to stay out of it.”
Preston gave her a discerning look, his eyes gauging her. “Perhaps I’m prying too much. There’s no reason you should betray your confidences to me, of course. Perhaps, if I tell you a little bit of news I’ve heard, you’ll let me know a bit about your investigation.”
Clever, Candy thought. “As I said, I’m not a detective, and I’m not conducting an investigation. But I’m always interested in the latest news. What have you heard?”
“Well, this isn’t public knowledge yet, but I can assure you it’s accurate.” He leaned closer to her and said in a low, conspiratorial whisper, “Victor Templeton has pulled out of the event.”
Candy’s eyebrows rose. “Really?”
“Indeed.” He drew back. “I received a communiqué from him just last night. He has been, well, he says he’s been irretrievably delayed, but I suspect there’s something else going on.” He gave Candy a knowing smile.
She was intrigued. “Like what?”
“Weeeelll,” Preston said, drawing out the word dramatically, “there have been rumors of, shall we say, ill feelings among some of the sculptors? Which, naturally, has led to some complications.” He turned to face the sculptors, then subtly nodded with his head in their direction, a smile like the Cheshire cat’s playing across his face. “See for yourself. It’s quite evident if you know what you’re looking for.”
So Candy looked.
The ice sculptors were busy at work, chipping away at the ice, following a pattern marked on the surface in broad sweeps. Most of them seemed absorbed in their work, but Baxter Bryant was cracking jokes with one of the onlookers and, in a playful moment, tossed a handful of shaved ice into the crowd, drawing a mixture of squeals, groans, and laughter. He did it again, much to the delight of the crowd. He appeared to have quite an outgoing personality.
Duncan Leggmeyer, on the other hand, was quieter and more studious, peering intently at the ice, as if searching for the perfect form within. He was working close by Felicia, who kept glancing his way, as if trying to catch his attention. But he either didn’t notice her or was trying to ignore her.
On Duncan’s other side was Gina Templeton, and on the other side of her were Baxter and Colin. They were all picking away at the same sculpture, working on different parts of it, as if in a team.
That’s when Candy realized what Preston meant. Liam Yates was w
orking all by himself on the other sculpture.
It was as if the ice carvers were allied five to one, and Candy suddenly felt a wave of fierce, unspoken competitiveness wash over the field.
They’re all working together to try to beat Liam, she realized.
Liam himself appeared oblivious to what was going on around him. He had an intent expression on his face, and despite the fact that he was working alone, he was proceeding nearly as quickly as the other five sculptors combined, efficiently trimming away at the ice with a steady hand.
“What’s going on?” Candy asked, turning back around. But she received no answer from Preston. He was no longer standing beside her. She twisted back and forth, searching for him, muttering under her breath about the strange behavior patterns of everyone in this odd little village, and finally caught sight of him headed away from her, turning just slightly to wave over his shoulder.
She also spotted someone else as her gaze swept the park. She focused in on his face.
It was Officer Jody McCroy, standing perhaps twenty-five feet away, almost directly in front of her, alternatively looking her way and down at his notebook. He was writing something.
Probably something about her, she thought as a flash of anger swept through her.
Before she knew what she was doing, she was marching toward him, determined to find out what was going on.
ELEVEN
She approached him at a brisk pace, bearing down on him like a bull on a matador, but he held his ground almost casually. Slipping his notebook and pen into a pocket, he shifted his body around slightly to face her full on, and pulled his coat aside as he dropped one hand to his utility belt, perhaps in an effort to draw attention to the items it held, including a flashlight, Taser, handcuffs, and pepper spray, as well as his sidearm, all within easy reach.
Town in a Wild Moose Chase Page 8
