Town in a Wild Moose Chase

“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.”

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.

Five

“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.”