Town in a Wild Moose Chase

naturally—our organization could stage a worldwide competition, with awards, cash prizes, international press, that sort of thing. Think of it as a sort of Boston Marathon for Cape Willington—we believe the level of prestige would be that high. Such an event could bring widespread attention to your village, as well as a substantial amount of dollars for your local businesses.”

Candy found herself becoming mildly intrigued. “When you say a substantial amount—just how much are we talking about?”

“Oh, well.” Preston drew his head back and pursed his lips in thought. “We’d probably be talking in the tens of thousands, perhaps even hundreds of thousands of dollars spent locally.” His grin grew sly as his gaze narrowed in on her. “All of it in cash, of course, running through your neighborhood businesses and giving a boost to the region’s economy.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful?” Maggie said. “We could use a boost like that around here.”

“We sure could,” Candy agreed, eyeing Preston. “But why tell me this? You should be talking to the town council. They meet the second and fourth Tuesday of every month. You could talk to them next week.”

“Yesss,” said Preston Smith, drawing out the word in a hiss as his smile broadened again. “I certainly could. And I plan on doing just that, as soon as we can set something up. But first I wanted to talk to you—the beating heart of the village. The person who can carry my message to the masses.”

“Like the town crier!” Maggie said helpfully.

Preston angled a long finger at her for emphasis. “Yes, exactly! That’s what you are, Ms. Holliday. You’re the town crier—and we need to talk business.”

Four

Leaving Maggie to finish up her shift at the dry cleaner’s, Candy headed out the door, slinging the strap of her tote bag over her shoulder as she angled down the street toward Town Park at the lower end of Ocean Avenue. Preston bid adieu to Maggie as well before he followed Candy out the door. He fell into step beside her, continuing the conversation, his tone turning serious and businesslike.

“We’d like to move fairly quickly on this,” he told her, “but we can’t go forward without the blessings of the town council and the support of local businesses and residents. Frankly, to make that happen, we need the help of the local media.”

Candy swiveled her head toward him. “Ah, so that’s where I come in,” she said, beginning to understand her role in Preston’s plan.

“Exactly. We’ll need the full cooperation of the townspeople and perhaps even some help from the state to pull this off. Some positive comments in your column should get the ball rolling in the right direction. It’s completely up to you, of course. We don’t wish to put any pressure on you. But if you decide to write about this… well, this opportunity, shall we call it?… the result will be worth the effort, I promise you that! The entire town will benefit in numerous ways.”

“Really? You sound very persuasive,” Candy admitted.

“I’m simply passionate about our organization,” Preston said evenly, “and I’m hoping to pass some of that passion and excitement along. Should you decide to help us in that effort, perhaps you could mention our proposal in your newspaper. You could explain something about our organization, point out the benefits of an event of this magnitude, and help us clear a quick path to approval.”

“A path to approval.” The phrase had a marketing ring to it that made Candy wary. She wanted to believe his story, but something about it didn’t ring quite true. It seemed just a little too perfect—and perfect plans rarely worked out as intended. “It sounds like you’ve given this some thought,” she said after a few moments.

“Quite a bit, in fact,” Preston told her bluntly. “We’ve been evaluating your community for the better part of a year.”

That caught her by surprise. “A year? But I thought you said this was your first trip here.”

“It’s my first time visiting in person, yes. But as I said, I’ve been reading your columns—the entire newspaper, in fact. I’ve devoured every word of every issue for the past year or so, and I’ve been following news about the town on the Internet, mostly by keeping up with the postings by some of your citizens—personal blogs, tweets, Facebook pages, that sort of thing. All very informative, and perfectly legitimate in a legal sense, of course—we were just doing our homework.”

“But why Cape Willington?” Candy asked, and let out a cry of surprise as she barely dodged an ottoman-sized clump of snow that rolled into her path from the top of the snowbank to her right. She stumbled sideways, her feet beginning to slip out from under her, until quick as a cat, Preston reached out and took her arm, steadying her.

“Oops, careful there,” he said easily as Candy got her footing. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She slipped again and reached for his arm, absently noticing how muscular it felt underneath his coat. He’s been working out, she thought. Out loud, she said, “I guess I’d better watch where I’m going.”

“Well, if your tumbles take you my way again, I don’t mind lending a helping hand,” he said with a chuckle, and released his hold on her. “There you go.”

“Thanks for catching me.”

“Think nothing of it. I’m glad to be of service. Now, to answer your question: Why Cape Willington? Well, a number of reasons. The town is incredibly picturesque, of course, with the lighthouses, opera house, museum, and historic inns. It’s a vibrant, close-knit community with a colorful, engaged citizenry. And the town is well set up to accommodate tourists in all seasons. It’s the perfect place from which to launch our first competitive event.”

“Your first event?”

His toothy grin returned. “Yes. Didn’t I mention that?”

“I don’t think so, but… do you have any experience doing this sort of thing?”

He laughed congenially. “Of course! I’d be happy to provide you with my credentials, if that would help.” And without hesitation, he reached into a pocket, pulled out an ice blue business card with white frostinglike lettering, and placed it in the palm of her hand. “You’ll want to check my references, of course. You’ll find a website and e- mail address on the card. If you send a message to my assistant, she’ll make sure you get all the appropriate documentation.”

Candy studied the card for a moment, reading the inscription: Preston J. Smith, Executive Director, International Committee of Ice Carvers and Lighting Experts (I.C.I.C.L.E.), it read, and listed a post office box in Washington, D.C., as its address. At the bottom were the phone number, fax number, and e- mail address. She slipped the card into an outside pocket of her tote bag and pulled out one of her own, which she handed to him. “Here’s mine, in case you need to contact me. So when are you thinking of launching this event?”

“As quickly as possible. A year from now, preferably, to coincide with your next winter festival.”

She let out a low whistle. “That’s moving pretty quickly. You’re not wasting any time.”

He gave her another smile, though it looked more calculated this time. She noticed a sudden glint of determination in his eyes—and something else, though she couldn’t quite figure out what it was.

“We’re deadly serious about this,” he told her, holding her gaze for only a few moments before looking around. “Ah, here we are!”

They had reached the bottom of Ocean Avenue and entered Town Park, where preparations were well under way for the upcoming ice-sculpting exhibition, part of the weekend’s Winter Moose Fest event. Trucks had delivered huge blocks of ice, which ice wranglers were busily transporting on forklifts to two main work areas. Teams of sculptors would work nonstop to create two large ice sculptures—one a long, winding ice dragon, and the other a scene of the great Maine wilderness, complete with moose, elk, and other creatures native to the state. On Saturday morning, the sculptors would also create a number of smaller, single-block sculptures, which would remain on display throughout the weekend.

“I’ve heard they’ll be lighting the large sculptures,” Preston told her as they approached the area of activity, “though externally, not with internal lights.”