“Okay. You do that. Think you can find your way back out?”
“Sure. Just follow my footprints in the snow, right?”
“That’s right. And if you get sidetracked, head south-southwest,” he said helpfully, pointing in the general direction with the vertical flat of his hand. “You’ll eventually come to the farm—or the sea. One or the other. Either way, you’ll be fine.”
She felt for the compass in her pocket and knew she had a backup in case she got lost. She nodded toward the woods. “What about our friend, the moose?”
Solomon put his hat back on and squinted at the creature. “Well, I guess that’s up to him, isn’t it?”
“I guess it is.” She watched the moose for a few moments, still awed by its silent majesty. “Do you think that’s why it came this way? Because it sensed that body out there?”
“Been wondering that myself,” said Solomon thoughtfully. “It’s the strangest behavior I’ve ever seen for an animal like that—and I’ve seen some strange things out in these woods. What drew it to the body, or made it come after us, I couldn’t say.”
“Well, I figured something was bothering him,” Candy said. “He’s been chasing me all over town.”
Solomon chuckled. “Chased by a wild moose, huh? He must have given you quite a start.” He laughed a little harder, amused by the thought.
Now it was Candy’s turn to give him a sideways look. “So, you think it’s funny too? My friends think he’s in love with me.”
Solomon laughed again. “Well,” the old hermit said, slapping her on the back, “if that’s true, he’s not the only one.”
Twenty-Eight
She emerged from the woods to find it snowing again.
Somehow the weather had changed in the time it had taken her to walk from Solomon’s camp to the blueberry farm. She’d been enclosed by the embrace of the woods and hadn’t been aware of the gathering clouds. Looking up now, she noticed a pregnant dark cloud flitting past, one of a line of low clouds moving at a steady pace along the coast.
It was just a passing flurry, she surmised. It would probably clear up later on.
But she felt no relief in that knowledge as she cradled the burlap bag in her right arm, mindful of what it contained: evidence that would convict someone and send that person—possibly someone she knew—to jail for a long time.
There was no doubt she would turn the items over to the police today, immediately. There was no doubt that she would spend no more time studying them. They were tied inside the bag now, and that’s where they would stay, until she handed them over to the police.
Still, she couldn’t help wonder what she would discover if she ran down the leads herself.
It was a tempting thought—one she resisted with all the willpower she could muster.
Doc had rescued the Jeep. It was parked in front of the house, snow caked in around its bumpers and wheel wells. He must have pulled it out with his truck while she was in the woods.
With the burlap bag under her arm, she went inside.
Doc was in his office when she entered the house, but he came running when he heard her open the door. “There you are, pumpkin. Are you all right? I was worried about you.”
“I’m okay, Dad,” she said as she placed the bag on the counter and made her way to the sink, peeling off her gloves so she could rinse her cold hands under the water. “It’s chilly out there,” she added, experiencing a few moments of sublime bliss as her fingers warmed and loosened.
“Where’d you go?”
“I found Solomon Hatch,” she said simply.
Doc’s eyes widened. “Where was he?”
“Hiding out in a small cave in the woods. He gave me that.” She pointed to the bag and briefly explained what it contained.
“He gave you evidence? Of a murder?” Doc asked in disbelief when she’d finished.
“He said he had no interest in delivering the bag to the police himself. So naturally he thought of me.”
Doc’s expression changed to one of mild amusement. “You’re developing quite a reputation around here, pumpkin.”
“I know. Don’t remind me.”
He indicated the bag with a finger. “You’re going to take that to the police right away, correct?”
“Correct,” Candy said, “but first I have to check out one quick fact.” She made a beeline for her writing desk in the living room, where she kept her laptop. They’d installed a wireless network in the house the previous summer, since they both used the Internet for research. She slipped into the straight-backed chair sitting in front of the desk, powered up the computer, and opened a browser window.
In the search field, she keyed in
Quickly she scanned the results. One link caught her eye.
It was a web page for
Wanda Boyle’s website.
Doc watched over her shoulder as she clicked the link, opening the page.
It was one of Wanda’s recent blog posts about the participants in the ice-sculpting contest. Wanda had written brief bios for several of the sculptors. One sentence in particular caught Candy’s eye.
Candy’s gaze shifted to the name of the sculptor highlighted at the beginning of the paragraph.
It was Duncan Leggmeyer.
Twenty-Nine
Ninety minutes later, she sat in a small, bare conference room at the Cape Willington Police Department, sipping on a cup of bad coffee and wondering if she’d ever get out of here alive.
Doc was somewhere out front, in some waiting area, probably wondering what the hell had happened to her. She hadn’t seen him since they’d whisked her away to this windowless room—decorated only with a table, a few chairs, an American flag, and a black-and-white framed portrait of the president—once they’d found out what she’d discovered.
She’d already been through the story more times than she could count, including what she’d found out about Duncan Leggmeyer, and thought she’d done a pretty good job telling it all as correctly and honestly as possible, emphasizing the parts about how hard she’d tried to stay out of it. Whether they believed her or not—well, she just hoped for the best, and that it didn’t involve jail time.
Chief Daryl Durr sat across from her, arms on the table, hands clasped together, and tie loosened, perhaps in an attempt to show her how he’d managed to remain calm and reasonable. He was the last of several interviewers, though they’d been more like a series of interrogators, she thought. They had started out gently enough, but each subsequent questioner had become a bit more accusatory. Despite a few tense moments, however, there’d been nothing she couldn’t handle. She’d worked for the better part of a decade within the chaotic world of start-up high- tech companies in Boston. This was a piece of cake, comparatively. At least these people were sane.
Well, mostly.
A uniformed policewoman stood near the door, arms folded behind her, apparently guarding the exit in case
