Town in a Wild Moose Chase

Praise for

Town in a Lobster Stew

“This is a charming cozy… With seafood and recipes adding to the flavor of a
Town in a Lobster Stew
, subgenre fans will enjoy spending early summer in Maine.”

—
The Best Reviews

Town in a Blueberry Jam

“In this debut mystery, Haywood has picked a winning combination of good food and endearing characters.”

—Sheila Connolly, national bestselling author of
Bitter Harvest

“An interesting cast of characters in a quaint Maine town. It’s not Cabot Cove, and thank God for that. Candy Holliday is an intriguing new sleuth in the lighthearted mystery genre.”

—
Bangor (ME) Daily News

“A delicious mix of yummy food and a good small-town mystery.”

—
The Romance Readers Connection

“This is a charming and amusing Pine Tree State cozy in which Cape Willington is vividly described so that the reader feels they are attending the Blueberry Festival. The cast is solid as the residents bring out the ambience of the seaside village… A fresh spin to B. B. Haywood’s first Candy Holliday whodunit.”

—
The Best Reviews

“A winning combination of great characters, warm setting, and mischievous locals will appeal to cozy lovers every-where.”

—
Romantic Times

Berkley Prime Crime titles by B. B. Haywood

TOWN IN A BLUEBERRY JAM

TOWN IN A LOBSTER STEW

TOWN IN A WILD MOOSE CHASE

BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

For James and Soren, as always

Thanks to the many readers and fans who have embraced the residents of Cape Willington, Maine, and provided nu-merous creative ideas and suggestions. As you’ll see, a few of those suggestions have been incorporated into this book. Special acknowledgment to Bill Hall of B&G Blueberries, who shared buckets of fresh-picked blueberries, provided valuable details about blueberry farming, and opened up his barn for a quick peek (even though he said it was too messy). Thanks to Sandre Swails and Jeanine Douphinett for their fabulous recipes and friendship, to Kae and Jon for lunch and career advice, and to Rock, Diane, and Laura Lee for continued support and good wishes. Finally, Leis Pederson’s keen storytelling instincts helped make this a better book. For more information about Cape Willington, Maine, and details on current and future books, visit
www.hollidaysblueberryacres.com
.

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Thirty

Thirty-One

Thirty-Two

Thirty-Three

Thirty-Four

Thirty-Five

Thirty-Six

Thirty-Seven

Thirty-Eight

Thirty-Nine

Forty

Forty-One

Forty-Two

Forty-Three

Forty-Four

Forty-Five

Forty-Six

Forty-Seven

Forty-Eight

Forty-Nine

Fifty

Epilogue

He found the body at the bottom of a gully, lying on its side, half buried in the snow.

The white moose had led him to the spot.

It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d expected to see when he set out from his fishing camp on English Pond that morning. If he’d had the good sense to let the moose be, or if he’d turned back at the edge of his property, or if he’d just stayed inside and worked on his carvings, he’d never have gotten himself mixed up in the whole blasted affair. But he walked right into it, all right. And he couldn’t really blame himself, could he? The day was too nice, too welcoming, and he couldn’t let the opportunity pass him by. They’d had some warmer weather lately, but it was coming to an end. Colder air and flurries were moving in, according to the almanac, which was accurate seventy percent of the time. Best get the chores done quickly while the nice weather lasted.

He’d laid up plenty of firewood for the season, but he liked to keep a good supply of kindling and lighter stock on
hand too, and it needed replenishing. So he’d pulled on his light winter gear, stepped into his insulated boots, yanked the slat-sided sledge out from under the lean-to next to the woodshed, and headed out into the snowy woods, dragging the sledge behind him.

The sun was out, slanting through bare branches and wet-trunked trees, and the snow crust was freeing up, loosening from the bottom and softening at the top. As he trudged across the winter landscape, he unhooked the top two buttons of his flannel shirt, and the ones at the wrists as well. He’d worn only the shirt and an insulated undershirt with his old down vest, which had flattened considerably over the years. It was warm out for a morning in late January, so the heavier stuff wasn’t required. He might have worn too much as it was. The mercury had touched forty-three degrees a couple of days ago, and had inched above forty yesterday. Temperatures were supposed to drop this afternoon, but the warmer air lingered, a few degrees above the freezing mark, continuing its gentle assault on the fringe of ice and snow that had tightly encased every single living and nonliving thing around Cape Willington for the better part of six weeks.

They’d had a couple of blizzards in early and mid-December, and a doozy of a sea storm right after the new year that left nearly twenty inches behind. The snowpack had thickened, and piles of snow driven by the hard winds had grown to chest height and beyond. But the January thaw of the past few days had cleared out some of it—enough so he could maneuver his way through the woods, going about his business.

A few birds sang high in the branches, and he looked up. A mild burst of wind brushed past his face, and he smelled the life hidden beneath the snow, aching to burst free. He looked down and swallowed. Not for the first time he missed Abby, his retriever. She’d loved days like this. She’d be in her glory if she were out here with him today. He’d had her
for nearly fourteen years, but she was gone now, and he hadn’t had the heart to replace her yet. He didn’t know if he ever would.