After an uncomfortable night listening to the howling wind, snow lashing the windows, and Vi’s snoring, by Friday morning I felt cranky and tired. The frigid air chilled me through my thin sleep shirt as I climbed out of bed in the dark. A quick flick of the light switch confirmed that the power had not been restored.
I fumbled with a pack of matches and lit a candle.
Vi sat up in her bed as I shivered and hopelessly examined my suitcase full of shorts and T-shirts. I had planned for a Mexican vacation, not a blizzard in Michigan.
“Look in the closet, Clyde,” Vi said through a yawn. “I brought lots of sweaters. Knitters get pretty competitive so we all bring our best stuff.”
“Thanks, Vi,” I said.
I slid the closet door open. The candle flickered as I held it up to better examine the sweaters. Assaulted by the bright, multihued choices, I flipped through the hangers until I found a muted purple cardigan that looked soft and warm.
“That color will be perfect for you,” Mom said from the bed. “It will show off both colors of your eyes and complement your dark hair.”
“I’m just interested in being warm, Mom.”
“It never hurts to look nice while you’re getting comfortable,” Mom sniffed.
I tossed the sweater on over a T-shirt and my one pair of jeans, told the ladies I’d see them later, and slipped out into the hallway.
The candle cast jumping shadows on the walls as I walked down the staircase. I got a tingly feeling along my spine remembering Vi’s ghost story. I’m embarrassed to admit how many times I glanced over my shoulder. I wanted to run down the hall toward the lounge, but didn’t want the candle to blow out.
Mac and I had planned to meet in the lounge at seven a.m. to avoid the knitters, but we hadn’t planned on it being so dark. Their first workshop wasn’t until nine and they were meeting at eight for breakfast. At least the sun would be up by then.
After my spooky trek from upstairs, I found Mac huddled by the fire with a pot of tea all ready for me. His small notebook was open and he flipped it shut when I approached. He was wearing a thick, dark blue cardigan with no buttons and loose strings hanging off of it. When I got closer I saw the smiling snow couple that had been knitted into the front. Neither of us had packed for winter in a cold, drafty castle. I assumed one of the knitters had taken pity on him.
I sat next to him and kissed him in spite of the snowman.
“Nice sweater.” I tried to swallow the giggle.
“I think it brings out my eyes.” He wiggled his eyebrows to demonstrate.
“Oh, it’s definitely you,” I said. “I assume it’s a loan from Mavis?”
“How did you know?” He pretended to be shocked.
“A hunch.” I smiled. “Plus, I’m psychic.”
Mac’s slow grin spread. “So I hear.”
“I’ll have to keep my eye on her.”
“Now that I have this sweater, you might have to keep an eye on all of them.”
I laughed and kissed him again.
“How did you get this?” I asked as I lifted the pot of tea and poured a cup.
“I have connections.” He smiled. “The gas stove still works if you light it with a match.”
I sipped the tea and pulled Aunt Vi’s sweater closer around my shoulders.
“What’s the plan for the day?”
His smile faded and was replaced by his cop face. “Ideally, the power comes back on, the phones are reconnected, and the police arrive to take over. But I’m not holding out much hope.”
I could tell there was more, and waited.
“I don’t see how we can leave now,” he said. “Even if the power comes back on and the roads are miraculously cleared, we’re witnesses. I wouldn’t let us leave if I was in charge of the investigation, and right now I guess we are in charge.”
I felt another little thrill at the thought of investigating a case with Mac, even though we’d miss our time alone in Mexico. Crystal Haven had unfortunately seen several murders in the last nine months and Mac and I had found ourselves, if not on opposite sides, at least on different teams. He viewed me as a civilian until I returned to the police force, but both situations had been too close to home for me to sit back and wait for the murderer to be caught. Now, we were both unofficial investigators.
“So, we start building a timeline and questioning people about their whereabouts?” I asked.
He nodded. “Maybe not everyone. I’d rather not start a panic by telling them we think it’s murder, but we might not be able to avoid it. I made a list of the people that weren’t with us in the dining room. Remember, Clarissa came in, talked to a few people and left. That was the last we saw of her. Lots of people stayed in that room.”