off at four, so we’re going to meet up, have a couple of drinks, maybe get something to eat.”
She started toward the door but paused, turning back toward her father. “Hey, you want to come along? I could drop you at the diner while I’m doing my interviews. You’re welcome to join Maggie and me for dinner later on.”
Doc considered the offer briefly but finally gave her one of his patented don’t-worry-about-me looks and waved his hand. “No, you go ahead. I have plenty to keep me busy around here. I have only a few chapters left of that historical mystery novel I’ve been reading, and I’m trying to finish up my article about Maine’s role in the War of 1812. There was a lot of fighting along this coastline, you know. I just have to put some time in at the historical society.”
“Well, if you go over there, steer clear of Wanda Boyle. You don’t want to wind up in her blog.”
“Heaven forbid!” Doc said in mock horror.
“Are you all set for your presentation on Saturday?”
“Oh, that?” He waved a hand. “Piece of cake. I can deliver a speech like that in my sleep.”
Candy laughed. “I bet you can. Well, I’ll call you if I’m going to be out late. And give me a buzz if they hear anything about Solomon. I’m kind of worried about the old guy.”
“Me too,” Doc said, and he turned toward his office as she headed out the door.
After the biting cold they’d experienced over the past month and a half, today felt like a hint of spring, and she found she could actually breathe a little easier. She always seemed to hold herself tighter when it got really cold, as if she were freezing up herself. She didn’t mind it too much, though. It was just something to get through so you could enjoy the spring.
During snowy weather she often parked her trusty old teal-colored Jeep Cherokee in the garage alongside the John Deere tractor and other farm equipment, but last night she’d left it in its summer place, in the driveway just off the back porch. She opened the cab, hopped into the seat, and headed toward town.
During the spring, summer, and fall, Cape Willington was a beautiful village, but it took on a special glow in the winter, glazed by nature’s icing. It looked like a picture from a vintage Currier and Ives print. Of course, some of that icing had slipped a little with the warmer weather, covering the roads and sidewalks with an icy slosh that squelched satisfyingly under the shoe or boot.
Two town maintenance workers were out today, operating a nimble duo of industrial lawn-sized tractors equipped with snow shovels and large rotating brushes. They were clearing away some of the built-up snow from the sidewalks and parking spaces, making quick work of preparing the town for the weekend’s festivities. Of the many things Mainers excelled at, clearing away snow was near the top of the list. Lord knows, they’d had plenty of practice over the years.
Candy found a parking spot at the lower end of Ocean Avenue, just past the opera house and almost directly in front of the old Stone & Milbury Insurance Agency. The place had been closed for nearly a year now, ever since Mr. Milbury, one of the firm’s co-owners, absconded with hundreds of thousands of dollars in embezzled funds. They’d caught him in Arizona as he was attempting to cross the border into Mexico. Now he was serving time at a federal prison in northwestern Pennsylvania.
Stone & Milbury had occupied a fairly large space along Ocean Avenue, where it had been a fixture for more than two decades. But after the firm’s implosion and the store’s closure, the landlord had eventually split the storefront into two smaller spaces. A dry cleaner’s now occupied the right side of the space, while a ritzy new art gallery had moved into the other side. The gallery had opened during the fall leaf-peeping season and had done a brisk business through the holidays, but Candy had heard that sales had slowed dramatically after the beginning of the year, causing the gallery to open only on weekends since midmonth. But today the store’s OPEN sign was prominently displayed, and through the window Candy noticed a few folks browsing around inside. And that made her happy. With the Winter Moose Fest kicking into high gear, tourists were once again filling the town’s inns, restaurants, and shops. The increase in activity was evident—and very welcome.
Grabbing her tote bag, Candy slid out of the front seat, locked up the Jeep, and carefully negotiated a narrow pathway through a chest-high streetside snowbank before dashing into the doorway on the right. Inside, her best friend, Maggie Tremont, stood behind the counter, chatting amiably with a customer. As soon as Candy entered, both pairs of eyes turned toward her.
“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 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
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,
