Town in a Wild Moose Chase (6 page)

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.

“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 been 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—”

“Yeah, yeah, I got all that,” Candy said, hurrying him along. “But where do the blocks of ice come from? And how does one get into this business? We’ve got a bunch of sculptors here today. Is there, like, a master carver or anything like that? A top dog? Which one would that be?” She scanned the crowd ahead of them.

“A top dog? Oh, well, now let me see.” Distracted, Preston stumbled over a rough spot on the pathway. “I suppose there is, though you’d probably get some argument from the sculptors themselves. But if you look over that direction—”

“Hey, there’s Ben!” said Candy, pointing off to her left.

Ben Clayton was the editor of the
Cape Crier
, Candy’s boss—and her sort-of boyfriend, though they’d kept their relationship low-key so far. He was walking toward them with long, purposeful strides, head down, hands lodged deep in his pockets. He seemed oblivious to all the activity going on around him, as if his mind were a million miles away. But when Candy called out to him, he stopped and looked up. It took him a few moments to locate her and focus in on her face, but when he finally recognized her he smiled crookedly. He waved and started toward them.

Candy felt Preston grasp her arm. “I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said, standing slightly behind her, “but I just remembered I’m scheduled to meet someone at the inn.”

When she looked back over her shoulder, he was glancing down at his watch and already turning away. “Oh, I was going to introduce you to Ben.”

He threw her a regretful smile. “I’ll catch up with the two of you at another time—perhaps at the inn later this afternoon? Please give him my best for now.”

Without another word, Preston Smith headed back across the park toward the Lightkeeper’s Inn, head low as he turned up the collar of his coat.

Candy watched him go, shaking her head. She was about to call out, “You were going to tell me about the sculptures!” but he was too far away, and then Ben was there. He leaned toward her and kissed her on the cheek. “Hi, you.”

“Hi yourself. You look like you’re deep in thought. Having a good day?”

He shrugged, his smile fading. “Just a typical one so far. Hopefully it will improve now that I’ve run into you.”

“That bad?”

“I’ve had better. I heard you had some trouble out at the farm.”

“You could say that.” It never failed to surprise her how fast word got around town when anything unusual occurred. “I had a strange visit from Solomon Hatch.” Quickly she told him what had happened. “The police are supposed to be checking it out,” she finished. “I think they’re headed out to his camp by English Pond to see if he’s all right.”

“They’ve already been there, and found nothing,” Ben told her. “A couple of officers made a cursory search of the woods, but they’ve already been called away by an accident up 192 toward Route 1. They said they might get back to the search later today.”

“But what about Solomon?” Candy asked, concern in her voice. “They’re just leaving him on his own?”

Ben nodded solemnly. “It looks that way for now. Unless you want to get a group together and organize a search ourselves.”

“I’ve been considering that,” she said. “Do you think it’s something we should do?”

He thought for a few moments before he replied. “Maybe… if we have to. But for the time being, it’s probably best to let the police do their jobs. Speaking of which”—he pointed behind her with his chin—“who’s your friend?”

At first Candy thought he was referring to Preston Smith, but then she realized he was looking in a different direction. It took her a few moments to figure out who he was talking about.

Not far away stood a young, tall police officer—the same one who had been out at the farm that morning with Chief Durr. What was his name? Jody something? That was it. Officer Jody McCroy.

As she studied him, he stared right back at her, unfazed. Over his neat uniform he wore the same standard-issue
brown jacket she’d seen him in that morning. He had broad shoulders, she noticed. Not muscled but firm. He looked like the type of guy who ran five miles before his Wheaties, and another five after work. With a brisk walk later in the evening, just for the fun of it. He kept meticulous records, she guessed. He had a notebook in his hands now. In fact, as she watched, he looked down and wrote something in it.

She felt a sense of apprehension as she watched him.
Is he writing something about me?
she wondered.

She turned back to Ben. “He was out at the farm today. He’s supposed to be searching for Solomon. What’s he doing here?”

Ben ignored the question as he took a step closer, his angular face showing concern. “Look, I’m not doubting you or anything, but are you sure Solomon was injured? Maybe he just lost his way and stumbled onto your field.”

“He had a gash on his forehead and he looked dazed,” she said matter-of-factly. “Something was wrong with him, that’s for sure. I just hope they find him soon.”

Ben looked back over at Officer McCroy, who was still watching them intently.

“Me too,” Ben said thoughtfully. “Me too.”