B. Haywood - Town in a Wild Moose Chase

“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.”

“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.

“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.”