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 stony ridge museum hatching throwing champion and hit the return button.
Quickly she scanned the results. One link caught her eye.
It was a web page for The Cape Crusader.
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.
…won the hatchet throwing competition at the Stony Ridge Museum in Virginia three years in a row…
Candy’s gaze shifted to the name of the sculptor highlighted at the beginning of the paragraph.
It was Duncan Leggmeyer.