A Fright to the Death by Dawn Eastman
For Steve, my patron of the arts.
Acknowledgments
I am very fortunate to be able to work with the Berkley Prime Crime publishing team.
Many thanks go to my editors, Andie Avila and Katherine Pelz. Andie has nurtured these characters and this writer through three books. None of us would be the same without her and I will always be grateful for her friendship. Katherine is new to Team Family Fortune—her enthusiasm for these characters is awesome and I look forward to crafting more adventures with her.
A huge thank-you to Judith Lagerman and Daniel Craig for their work on the covers for the series. My favorite part of the production process is the cover reveal. Each time I think that they can’t possibly create a cover as wonderful as the one before—and then they do.
I also want to thank Danielle Dill in publicity for getting the books into the right hands and helping to spread the word about the Family Fortune series.
Special thanks go to my writing group, Wendy Delsol, Kimberly Stuart, Kali Van Baale, and Carol Spaulding. Their encouragement, humor, and friendship help me to keep putting words on the page. A special shout-out to Murl Pace, self-appointed Baxter fan club president and early champion of the series.
Thank you to my street team, otherwise known as my family, Ann and Bob Eastman, Barb Laughlin, Brent and Nancy Eastman, Jim and Alyce Mooradian, and Kristin Morton. If you have been forced to accept a card touting the series, you have met one of them.
And, as always, I am grateful to Steve, Jake, and Ellie for tolerating a writer in their midst, and for making each day fun.
1
I knew Mac scoffed at all things psychic, but why must he taunt the fates?
“I can’t believe we’re finally getting away,” he said with a boyish grin and took my hand. “This is going to be fantastic.”
I smiled and hoped he would stop talking. The man had no sense of jinxes and self-preservation. We were barely twenty minutes down the snowy tree-lined highway away from Crystal Haven. Away from my parents, my aunt, his mother, my nephew, and two spoiled dogs. The back-patting phase of the trip sat happily in our future. Sometime after I had returned to my small Victorian, Mac had returned to his cottage, and we had shared the photos with our inquisitive families. We had decided to take my new Tahoe on the trip. Mac’s pickup truck and my ancient Jeep seemed inappropriate for a potentially icy drive to Chicago. The unfamiliar vehicle made it feel like we were already far from home.
I looked out the window at the gray sky of a Michigan winter. It had snowed almost daily in January. Mac and I got through it by plotting our escape over a few chilly evenings as the white fluff had piled up outside.
I wasn’t just excited to get away—I was desperate. Between Mac’s job as a homicide detective, my live-in teenage nephew, and the rest of my interfering family that lived a stone’s throw away and had no qualms about stopping by, we had little time to spend alone together. Plus, the pressure to either return to my own police career or find a new job that didn’t involve walking dogs increased daily. I was more than ready to escape my everyday life and all I wanted was to step off that airplane in Mexico with Mac, alone. I craved it so badly that I felt certain I might hex it. What can I say? A life with psychics and tarot readers had instilled a strong superstitious streak. And the longer I stayed in Crystal Haven, the worse it got.
But, we were together. Finally. And we were about to jet away from winter for a week. Ignoring caution to join his reckless glee, I said, “What should we do first when we get there?”
Mac ticked an eyebrow upward in an exaggerated leer. His blue eyes sparkled and the lines around his eyes deepened. He spent so much of his life keeping every emotion in check that I cherished the moments he relaxed and allowed his humor to take center stage.
“Oh, nice. I walked into that one.” I laughed, relaxing in my seat. I reached for my phone as it buzzed in my pocket. “After that,” I said as I clicked the phone open.
My grin faded and my mood nosedived when I saw the message.
“Mac, pull over up here.” I pointed to an exit just outside of Kalamazoo.
Mac turned away from the road long enough to see the concern on my face. He glanced at the phone in my hand and flicked the turn signal. “Was that Seth? Is something wrong?”
I shook my head. I wished it were from my nephew, Seth.
“The text was from the airline. Our flight got canceled. It says due to weather.”