Town in a Wild Moose Chase

by B. B. Haywood

  Almost immediately he headed back up the stairs.

  A moment later he knocked on her door.

  “Pumpkin?” he called, opening the door a crack. “You awake?”

  She poked her head out from underneath the warm, cozy covers. “Yeah, Dad, what is it?”

  “They found a body.”

  NINETEEN

  For an hour Candy fretted, wandering around the house in her fluffy pink slippers and thick bathrobe, wondering if the body they’d found at dawn along the Coastal Loop just outside of town was Solomon Hatch.

  She could think of no other scenario that might fit, and blamed herself for it. She should have done a better job searching for him. She should have spent more time in the woods, looking behind every tree and beneath every rock. She should have done whatever she needed to do to find him, wherever he’d been hiding. But she’d been too distracted, and she hadn’t devoted the time to the search she now felt she should have. If she’d been more focused on the woods behind her house than on Town Park, she might have found him—and maybe saved his life.

  But Doc warned her not to jump to conclusions. “Let’s wait until we hear back from Finn before we go about burying Solomon,” he told her in his thick morning voice. He’d been on the phone several times since he’d woken, and still hadn’t had his first cup of coffee. Candy offered to make him a pot, but he waved her off. “Just give me five minutes,” he told her, “and we’ll get in the truck and head to the diner.”

  But five minutes came and went several times as Doc stayed on the phone and Candy paced nervously. Finn Woodbury had an inside connection in the local police department and usually was able to get information before anyone else. Even though he was wintering in Florida, at an RV park about an hour south of Orlando, Finn stayed connected to Cape Willington and was working the phones, trying to find out more about this latest mystery. But so far he’d heard nothing definitive about the identity of the body, or how the person had died.

  Tired of waiting, Candy jumped in the shower. By the time she’d toweled off, dried her hair, and dressed in her regular jeans, turtleneck sweater, and fleece jacket, Doc was ready to go. “We’re reconvening at the diner,” he informed her as she grabbed her tote bag.

  Duffy’s Maine Street Diner was hopping with activity on this Saturday morning, due to the influx of tourists in town. All the booths as well as most of the seats at the counter were occupied, but Artie Groves and William “Bumpy” Brigham, the two members of Doc’s inner circle who had remained in town for the winter, had managed to hold the horseshoe-shaped corner booth for them.

  “Anything new?” Doc asked as he slid into the red-upholstered seat next to Artie, who was digging into a tall plate of pancakes dripping with maple syrup. He had grown a goatee for the winter and sported a new pair of silver-rimmed glasses, which replaced his previous horn-rimmed ones, giving him a nattier appearance. Naturally, the rest of the crew had endlessly commented on Artie’s new look. Even Finn had weighed in from Florida after Artie posted a new photo on his Facebook page. Rumor was that he had cleaned up his look because he had a new girlfriend, though so far he had neither confirmed nor denied that point.

  Candy slipped into the booth on the other side, next to Bumpy, who had packed on some extra weight for the winter, which he called his “insulation.” Apparently he felt as if he’d packed on a little too much insulation, however, since he’d decided to forego the pancakes this morning and had settled instead for oatmeal and fruit. From the furtive glances he cast across the table at Artie’s plate, it was clear he wasn’t completely satisfied with his breakfast choice.

  Candy had barely sat down when a steaming cup of hot coffee magically appeared before her.

  She looked up. Juanita Perez, one of the diner’s longtime waitresses, beamed down at her. “I’ve already ordered a toasted English muffin for you, just the way you like it, with blueberry jam on the side,” she told Candy before she hurried away to check on her other customers.

  Candy graciously accepted the premium customer service, even though Doc and the boys still sometimes kidded her about it. Ever since Juanita had won a cook-off contest the previous summer, for which Candy had been a judge, the waitress had made her gratitude well known, telling Candy she had “an endless cup of coffee and anything she wanted” whenever she stopped by the diner. Candy had protested at first, to no avail. And, truth be told, she kind of liked the way it made the boys in the corner booth jealous, especially when Juanita sent her home with a special treat, such as a thick slice of chocolate cake or a bowl of the diner’s newly famous lobster stew.

  It was a benefit she’d secretly come to enjoy, and even at times to relish.

  Today, though, she was less concerned with the food and drink, and more focused on hearing the latest information.

  “I just got a text from Finn. We now know who discovered the body,” Artie said, dousing his pancakes with more syrup. “It was Francis Robichaud.”

  “The snowplow driver?” Candy asked.

  Bumpy nodded. “He was plowing that stretch of the Loop up past Fowler’s Corner right after daybreak and saw the body lying by the side of the road, halfway stuck in a snowbank, right there in front of him. They had to dig the body out, from what we’ve heard. How it got in there, no one knows.

  “We still don’t know if it was an accident or something more serious, like homicide,” Artie continued evenly while Bumpy scooped up another spoonful of oatmeal. “They’ve got the area blocked off and the police are checking it out now.”

  “Do they have any idea who it is… or was?” Candy asked.

  “No word yet,” Bumpy said, “but Finn’s on it.”

  “He said he’ll let us know as soon as he hears something,” Artie added.

  “I can’t believe it,” Doc said, shaking his head. “Another mysterious death in town. This makes how many?”

  “Not that we’re keeping score, but that’s five in less than two years,” Artie said, adjusting his glasses.

  “That’s just great,” Doc said. “If this keeps up, they’ll start calling us the murder capital of Maine.”

  Juanita brought Candy’s English muffin, along with a small plate of homemade blueberry jam, and she delivered Doc’s coffee and took his order, joking with him and the boys the entire time. That got them going, and they fell into their typical morning chatter session, which today focused on a variety of pertinent topics, including the mysterious body, the Moose Fest, Doc’s historical presentation later in the morning, parking in town, taxes, the weather, the latest eBay trends, and the upcoming spring baseball training season. “Twenty-two days until pitchers and catchers re-port,” Artie cheerfully informed them, and he proceeded to give his impression of the upcoming baseball season.

  Candy listened for a while but soon lost interest, as she often did when they fell into their guy talk. She put her chin in the palm of her hand and gazed out at the winter scene beyond the diner’s windows. The streets were starting to fill up, and she noticed a police car slowly moving along Main Street. She looked around for Officer McCroy but saw no sign of him. Probably directing traffic around the dead body, she thought, darkly amused. That’s why she hadn’t seen him on her tail this morning.

  It made her feel suddenly very free… and strangely vulnerable. Her safety net apparently had been called away to other duties.

  She sighed. She was back on her own, trying to solve a mystery.

  Deciding she needed to do something, she took a last few gulps of coffee and slid out of the booth. “I’ll be right back,” she told Doc and the boys, though she wasn’t completely sure if they’d heard her as she left the diner.

  Maggie was just opening the dry cleaner’s, so she slipped in to say a quick “hi” before heading back down to Town Park. The ice-sculpting exhibition was scheduled to officially kick off at ten, but several sculptors, including Duncan Leggmeyer and Baxter Bryant, were already on the scene, laying out their tools and preparing for the day’s events. But so
far there was no sign of Liam Yates, Felicia Gaspar, or Gina Templeton. Had she withdrawn from the exhibition too, like her husband?

  Fresh blocks of ice had been set up around the park for carving demonstrations throughout the morning and afternoon. Candy had seen a schedule of events and knew that Felicia and the Templetons (minus Victor) were slated to give demonstrations later in the morning, while Liam Yates, Duncan, Baxter, and Colin would entertain crowds with their skills in the afternoon.

  A small crowd, consisting mostly of older married couples or families with young children, had gathered expectantly in the park, viewing the already-completed sculptures and checking out the as-yet-uncarved blocks while sipping coffee or hot chocolate.

  Candy checked her watch. More than forty minutes before things got started, and maybe an hour or more before they got interesting.

  Making up her mind, she turned on her boot heels and headed up the gentle slope, out of Town Park and up along Ocean Avenue, moving with the crowds. At midblock she crossed the street, checked the door that led to the Cape Crier’s offices, and wasn’t surprised to find it unlocked.

  Upstairs, she found Ben at his desk. He looked as if he’d been there for a while.

  “Up early?” she asked.

  “Yeah. You too?”

  She nodded. “Finn’s been talking to his connection, and the boys are monitoring the situation. We’ve heard a few details. What about you? Anything new?” She’d brought her tote bag with her, thinking she might need it sometime this morning, and now slung it down off her shoulder, resting it on the floor beside her.

  “It’s a male in his early forties,” Ben answered, swiveling around from the computer screen to face her. He’d failed to shave or comb his hair that morning, which emphasized his rugged good looks. He checked his notes. “Above average height, fairly well dressed. No one’s recognized him so far, so he’s probably not from around here.”

  “It’s not Solomon then.”

  “No, it’s not Solomon.”

  Candy breathed a sigh of relief as a guilty weight, which she hadn’t realized was there, suddenly lifted from her shoulders. She felt herself physically relax. “Thank goodness. I was so worried about him. It almost seemed like it’d be my fault if he… but he’s still okay, isn’t he? Or at least he’s not dead.”

  “He’s not dead,” Ben confirmed. “Not that we know of,” he amended.

  “Then where is he?”

  Ben shrugged. “I’m sure he’s around here somewhere. He’ll turn up. In the meantime, I have a murder story to run down.”

  “Need help?”

  “Possibly,” Ben said, “but let me get a better grasp of the situation first.”

  Candy nodded as she picked up her tote bag. “I’m just going to check on something in my office,” she said, and started along the hall.

  “Oh, hey,” he called after her, sticking his head around the corner, “are we still on for our date tonight?”

  She stopped and turned. “Date?”

  “The Moose Fest Ball, remember? I got us two tickets a couple of weeks ago.”

  Candy furrowed her brow, as if trying to remember. “You did?”

  “Yeah, didn’t I… tell you?” He made a face as he considered his own words. After a moment it dawned on him. “I guess I didn’t, did I?” He looked surprised. “I think I completely forgot to tell you. I can’t believe it. That was actually very thoughtless of me. Candy, I’m sor—”

  “So you got us tickets?” she interrupted.

  He hesitated, uncertain of her reaction. “I did.”

  She smiled. “That was actually very sweet.”

  His expression turned hopeful. “You really think so?”

  “Yes, I do, and I’d love to go to the ball with you, although….” She paused, concern showing on her face as she turned her head in thought.

  He looked at her expectantly. “What?”

  She turned back to face him. “It’s just… I don’t think I have a thing to wear.”

  At that, he laughed. “Come on, I’m sure you can find something in your closet. Besides, you’d look good in just about anything. I bet you could get away with wearing what you’ve got on right now.”

  Skeptically, she glanced down at her ensemble, which, admittedly, did not show off her best assets. “I’m not sure jeans, boots, insulated gloves, and a fleece coat would be appropriate for a semiformal dance.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, his tone a little more thoughtful, “but remember, this is Maine, not Boston or New York. You don’t have to dress like you just came from a high-society cocktail party. And there’s still time.” He gave her an encouraging smile. “Why don’t you see what you can come up with this afternoon? If it doesn’t work out, we’ll just spend the evening in. But from my point of view, you’ll look beautiful, no matter what you wear.”

  Her smile returned. “Well. After a statement like that, what else can I say? I guess I’ll see what I can do.” She thought for a moment. “Maybe Maggie can help me.”

  He winked at her. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything else about Solomon or the body.”

  He tucked his head back around the corner, and Candy floated to her office.

  Maybe there’s hope for the two of us after all.

  TWENTY

  She was so engrossed in her research that she barely noticed Ben as he entered her office and plopped down in the old folding chair beside the door. “Want to hear the latest?” he asked, breaking into her thoughts, an edge of excitement evident in his voice.

  She blinked several times and swiveled around toward him. Quickly she refocused. “Yes.” She dropped her hands between her knees and gave him her full attention, her earlier thoughts of bafflement driven to the back of her mind for the moment.

  “I just got a call from the police department. There are a few interesting things about the body they found this morning.”

  “Have they identified it?”

  “Not yet, but they’re running the fingerprints. Here’s the interesting thing, though. The body had been stripped of its identification. The police found nothing to tell them who it was—no wallet, cell phone, car keys, wristwatch, comb, papers in the shirt pockets, glasses—anything that might help ID the body. The police are calling this a suspicious death.” He paused. “I think they have a good idea who it is, but they’re waiting for confirmation before they announce it.”

  “Any idea who they might be thinking of?”

  He shook his head. “Could be anyone, but probably someone we don’t know. That’s my guess.” He tilted his head, studying her, then flicked his eyes to the computer screen to see what she’d been reading. “You have any ideas?” he asked her.

  She gave him a knowing smile. “I might.” She swiveled back to the computer screen. “Look at this, tell me what you think about it.”

  She pointed to the story in the right window of the computer screen. “This is a press release from this organization called I.C.I.C.L.E. Ever hear of it?”

  He shook his head. “Sounds vaguely familiar, but I don’t know much about it.”

  “Until Thursday morning neither did I. But it’s an acronym. It stands for the International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  Candy smiled shrewdly and shook her head. “I said exactly the same thing when I first heard of it. But apparently it’s true… at least part of it.” She pointed again at the screen as Ben pulled his folding chair closer so he could get a better look. “I found this on a popular blog for fans of ice sculpting. It’s an anonymous post and includes details about this sponsorship program I.C.I.C.L.E. is putting together. Apparently some company that makes chain saws wants to hire one of the ice carvers to be its spokesperson. I’ve heard it could be a pretty hefty offer, though something about it doesn’t feel quite right to me. This is fairly general stuff, but look at all the comments.” She clicked to another screen. “Lots of posts about the sponsorship—some saying
the value of the total package, with gear and all, could be worth a hundred grand or more. And look here.”

  She scrolled down through the comments.

  “Look whose name keeps popping up, over and over.”

  “Victor Templeton’s,” Ben said, after focusing on the screen for a few moments.

  “That’s right. There are several key posters who are keeping this stream going, all with anonymous names, things like PowerSculptor and SnowQueen. Most of the posts are pro-Victor, promoting his name for the spokesperson. A few here and there mention other names, primarily Liam’s. There’s quite a conversation going on here about something most people have never heard about. I haven’t been able to identify any of the posters yet, except one. Preston Smith.”

  He made a face at her.

  “You’ve heard the name, right?”

  Ben shrugged. “Should I have?”

  “Yes, probably, and that’s what bothers me. He’s been hanging around town for the past few days, mostly down in Town Park with the ice sculptors. I’ve e-mailed his assistant to see if I can find out more about him and his organization, but so far I haven’t heard anything back. He’s supposedly making some sort of announcement about the spokesperson at noon today—at least that’s what it says in a press release on his website. But no one I’ve talked to knows anything about it. I even called Oliver over at the inn, and he says there’s no announcement on the schedule. They’re going to hand out a few awards at noon, mostly for a kid’s ice-carving contest they’re running this morning. Oliver’s apparently officiating. But nothing about a sponsorship program or spokesperson for a chain saw company.”

  Ben shook his head. “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Candy agreed.

  “So do you think something fishy’s going on?”

  Candy thought about that before she spoke. “I’m not sure yet,” she said finally, “but I’m going to find out.”