Town in a Wild Moose Chase

maybe I’ll even spring for a glass of wine afterward.”

“Hmm, that would be heavenly.”

“Shall we rendezvous at the inn then?”

She leaned in the window and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. “It’s a date,” she said, “and thanks for helping me out today.” Then, as Ben wheeled around the Range Rover and headed back out the lane, she walked over to Maggie’s car, climbed inside, and cranked up the engine.

The streets leading into town were busier than usual, thanks to the influx of tourists for the weekend’s festivities. Most of the license plates that weren’t local were from the New England region, primarily Massachusetts and New Hampshire, although she spotted a few plates from New Jersey and New York. The crowd for this weekend’s festivities wouldn’t be nearly as large as those at summer events, but Candy knew they would be no less enthusiastic, and were no less important to the town’s proprietors and shopkeepers.

On the trip back to town, the snow started to fall heavily, and by the time she found a parking spot on Main Street, not too far from where she’d found the car, the town was already blanketed under a thin yet rapidly growing layer of fresh snow. She grabbed her tote and bag from the passenger seat, locked up, and hurried to the corner and then down along the busy sidewalk, aswarm with chattering tourists in colorful winter garb. Many of the shops she passed were crowded as well, with patrons slipping in and out of their front doors, and she smiled with a sense of relief and happiness. It would be a good weekend in Cape Willington, Maine.

Halfway down the block, she entered the dry cleaner’s, only to find the front room empty. She heard Maggie puttering around in the back, humming happily to herself.

“Hello in there,” Candy called out. “It’s me.”

“Oh, hey, there you are!” Maggie called excitedly as she emerged from the back room wearing a very stylish, and very expensive looking, embroidered Scandinavian sweater. “So how did it go? Did the costume work?”

“It did.”

“And did you talk to the Psychic Sisters?”

“I did. And I got to hang out a little with Ben in the woods.”

“That’s good, honey. I’m real happy for you. Hey, what do you think about my new sweater? Isn’t it a beaut?” She put her hands on her hips and turned back and forth, modeling it for Candy. “I’ve been getting all kinds of compliments on it. Everyone who comes in here loves it. So, how do I look in it?”

Candy studied the sweater with a calculating eye. “It fits you great. Is it yours?”

Maggie waved a dismissive hand. “I’m just borrowing it.”

“You’re not shopping the racks in the back, are you?”

“No…”

“Mags, we talked about this, remember?” Candy leaned in closer as she lowered her voice. “It’s not a good idea to wear clothes that other people bring into the store for cleaning, see? It’s not considered good manners, even though—”

Maggie was about to say something in her defense, but Candy beat her to it: “— even though, yes, I know they’re cleaned before you wear them, and yes, you send them back for cleaning again after you wear them. But it’s still not something normal people do.”

Maggie pursed her lips. “But no one really minds,” she said in an assuring tone, “and besides, it’s no different than wearing clothes that came from a thrift shop, when you think about it—although, yes, technically these have to go back to their owners.”

“So, in other words, you are completely sane, and you do understand what you’re doing.”

“You’re making it out to be a bigger deal than it really is.”

“That’s because it is a big deal,” Candy insisted.

“Well,” Maggie said with a touch of indignation in her tone, “I guess we’ll just have to agree to disagree.”

“Maggie,” Candy said, coming around the counter and giving her friend a big hug, “I love you, but you can’t wear it anymore. You have to take it off.”

“But it’s been hanging around the racks for weeks, even months,” Maggie protested, “and the owner hasn’t come in to pick it up. I’ve called—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Candy said, cutting in for emphasis. “People get upset about things like this.”

“But it’s sooo pretty,” Maggie said, dragging out the word for dramatic emphasis, “and it’s been calling to me. Oh yes, I’ve heard it back there, whispering to me, telling me not to let it be forgotten. Clothes are made to be worn, Candy. That’s one thing I’ve learned since I started working here. Clothes must be worn regularly, and if they’re not, it makes them unhappy.” She tapped her friend lightly on the forearm. “Come on, admit it, you have some unhappy clothes in your closet, right? They’re begging to be worn, and you really, really would like to wear them, but something about them just doesn’t work—the color’s not quite right, or the fit’s off just a bit in the shoulder—but they’re such nice clothes, they’re like your family, and you can’t get rid of them. Right?”

She was beaming, as if she’d just made the game-winning point.

Candy’s gaze narrowed to a thin slit. “So… I was mistaken, then, right? You really, really are insane.”

Maggie looked at her expectantly. “Does that mean I can keep wearing it?”

“No!” Candy threw up her hands. “Haven’t you heard a single thing I’ve said?”

“Sure, I’ve been listening. So…?”

“You’re incorrigible, you know that.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Look, just do me one favor, okay?”

“You got it.”

“Don’t ever wear anything from this shop again, ever. But if you do, please, please, please don’t tell me about it. Promise?”

Maggie beamed and held up three fingers in a Boy Scout salute. “I promise!”

Seventeen

An hour later, the snowfall lightened as dusk fell, and Cape Willington turned into a magical winter wonderland.

Strings of lights, some left over from Christmas and some hung especially for the Moose Fest, made the town seem to glow under its fresh glazing of snow. Streetlights and store windows, benches and tree trunks were all alight, reflecting off the surrounding snow and ice, making everything sparkle. Even many of the townies and tourists who had gathered for the parade, decked out in their most colorful hats and scarves—a Moose Fest tradition—wore lighted necklaces and bracelets, or carried flashlights wrapped in green or blue or orange cellophane, turning the oncoming night even more colorful and festive.

Candy barely noticed the gathering crowds and building buzz, for she was deep in a conversation with Duncan Leggmeyer, who was confirming information she’d heard from several other people during the past hour as she’d made her rounds in Town Park.

“I just hope they keep it all on the up and up,” Duncan was telling her, the intensity strong in his dark chocolate eyes. “We really don’t know what’s going on. It’s been a fairly secretive process, which concerns me a lot.”

He’d taken a break from finishing up work on a one-block sculpture of a bear cub, part of the larger ice display depicting Maine wildlife, when Candy had asked for a few mo-ments of his time. It had turned into a nearly twenty-minute conversation, with Duncan doing most of the talking and Candy doing most of the listening. He’d started off discussing the general stuff—the art and craft of carving ice—but when Candy had asked him about Preston Smith’s organization, the conversation had taken a serious turn.

“Have you talked to Preston personally about this sponsorship issue?” Candy asked.