Town in a Wild Moose Chase

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.”

Six

As they turned away from the young police officer, leaving him to his note taking, and started off toward the rising sculptures, Candy couldn’t help but shiver. Ever since she’d seen Solomon Hatch stumble out of the woods that morning and collapse in the middle of the blueberry field, she’d had a strange feeling in the pit of her stomach. Some part of her hoped the whole thing was a fluke, a mistake, nothing more than a disoriented old hermit who got spooked in the woods and overreacted. Maybe he’d let his imagination run a little too wild and mistook an animal carcass for a human body. Or something like that.

But she feared a more sinister scenario was playing out.

Twice before she’d stumbled into mysteries that had involved murder, and even though she’d eventually unmasked the villains, she’d put herself and her friends in danger. She hoped she wasn’t seeing a repeat of those events.

What bothered her at a deeper level, though, was a secret she’d uncovered last May, hinting at an ominous force behind the murders eight months ago. She had linked initials written in the corner of a set of blueprints to a Boston developer named Porter Sykes. Though she couldn’t prove it, she felt he had been responsible, at least in some way, for the deaths in town last year. Over the summer she’d quietly made a few inquiries and conducted what research she could, but she hadn’t been able to put all the pieces together, to figure out what it all meant. Wanda Boyle still held a piece of that puzzle, in the form of the blueprints in question, but, naturally, she had refused to cooperate. So Candy had eventually let it go. And as the months passed and summer faded into fall, which slipped into winter, she’d let her concerns retreat to the back of her mind, where they’d become overshadowed by more pressing demands, like paying for the oil bill and bringing in a few more armloads of wood.

Now, those earlier concerns were again coming to the fore.