Town in a Wild Moose Chase (5 page)

“Well, look who’s here,” Maggie said, proudly extending an arm in greeting, as if the Queen of England herself had just entered the room. “Our very own town detective and star reporter, right on cue!”

Candy stopped and blinked, surprised by the sudden attention. “Who, me?”

“Of course you, silly,” Maggie said with a wave of her hand as she came around the end of the counter and took her friend by the arm, leading her forward. “Someone here wants to meet you.”

Candy’s gaze angled to the customer who stood in front of the counter. He was an older gentleman, perhaps in his
midsixties, with gray, longish hair, wire-rimmed glasses, and a tanned complexion, as if he had spent the past few months wintering under the Florida sun. He was smartly dressed in a black woolen overcoat, expensive-looking cream-colored dress shirt, gray and yellow argyle vest, and dark, sharply creased dress slacks. It was a stylish ensemble, disturbed only by the black rubber boots, encrusted with muddied, caked-on snow, poking out from under the cuffs of his slacks.

She’d never seen him before, but his boots gave her a clue to his identity.
He’s a true New Englander
, she thought.

He came toward her with his hand outstretched and one of the widest smiles she’d ever seen, framed by a thick gray moustache. “Candy Holliday, this
is
a thrill!” he said with great enthusiasm. He shook her hand warmly. “I’ve been looking forward to this moment for quite some time. I’m Preston Smith.”

Candy gave him a guarded smile. “Hello, Mr. Smith, it’s very nice to meet you.” She glanced sideways at Maggie, hoping for some explanation.

“He says he’s read your columns,” Maggie said, as if that explained everything.

“My columns?”

“Oh yes, I’m a big fan,” Preston Smith told her. “I’m quite intrigued by them. I’m from the city, you see. All that noise and traffic and people jammed together. But your columns truly capture everyday life here in this wonderful little village of yours. I’ve been hoping to visit for quite a while, so I couldn’t be happier I’ve finally found the time to make the trip. And please, call me Preston.”

He smiled at her so warmly she couldn’t refuse. “Well, okay, Preston.” She paused. “Where did you say you’re from?”

“He’s from I.C.I.C.L.E.!” Maggie interjected excitedly.

Candy looked confused. “Icicle? What state is that in?”

Preston Smith laughed heartily. “I see you’re not familiar with this particular usage of the term,” he said with a toothy
grin. “It’s an acronym, actually, for the International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts.”

“You’re kidding me,” Candy said.

Preston chuckled. “No, we’re quite serious, though our name is a little mischievous, I’ll admit. But we thought it would be fun and grab people’s attention. We’re a relatively new organization, you see, which probably explains why you haven’t heard about us. In fact, not many people have. But we’re growing fast. We truly believe in the beauty of carving and lighting ice. We’re hoping to turn it into an inter-national phenomenon—a type of sport, if you will, rivaling the popularity of football and baseball.”

“Oh. Well, that’s wonderful,” said Candy, not completely convinced. Still, she thought as her reporter instincts took over, it might make a good story. “I’d love to write an article about your organization sometime.”

“Perfect! To be honest, that’s one reason I’m here, Ms. Holliday. As I said, I’ve been reading your columns for quite some time, and I’ve enjoyed following all the activities and events taking place in your charming little town. One day recently, I was struck with this epiphany: what if we held one of our international ice-carving events right here in Cape Willington!”

“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.”

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, where 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.”