“We’ll need to keep the yarn for evidence,” Mac said.
“Evidence?” Isabel squeaked.
“It looks like you just found the murder weapon.”
A murmur went through the crowd, punctuated by Vi’s “I knew it!”
Selma covered her mouth, her eyes large. Mavis clutched Selma’s hand. Amy and Heather backed away from the bag of yarn while Vi and Mom stepped closer to it.
“At least the murderer hid it with the acrylic,” Tina said. “If they had put it in with the silk-mohair there might be another murder.”
Nervous chuckles spread among the group.
“How could this happen?” Selma asked. “I thought the room was locked up at night.” Her face was pale and I worried she might faint.
“Unless it was one of us,” Mavis said. She glowered at Vi and then turned angry eyes on Isabel.
“It doesn’t matter who it is!” Selma said. “We’re all stuck here with a murderer. We could all be dead by the end of the weekend just like that Agatha Christie story.”
Mom went to Selma and patted her on the back. She talked quietly to her and I saw Selma’s shoulders relax.
“Was the room locked?” I asked Isabel.
Isabel tore her gaze from Selma and looked at me. “I haven’t locked it the whole time we’ve been here.” Isabel held her hands out. “I didn’t see the point. We’re the only guests, and it’s not like there’s a black market for knitting supplies.”
The knitters murmured agreement and Mavis humphed.
“Clyde and I will take the light and yarn and store it in case we need to send it to a lab,” Mac said.
“If we ever get out of here,” Selma said.
“The snow will melt eventually,” Mom said in her “look at the bright side” voice. “In the meantime, we should enjoy the time we have to knit.” She went back to her seat and pointedly picked up her needles.
Mom was a professional worrier, but she also was great in a crisis. It was one of her many contradictions.
The rest of them also returned to their seats and rescued their projects from the floor.
Mac spoke quietly to Isabel, who nodded and darted glances at her group.
“Okay, ladies,” she began. “Let’s try to get back to work.” Her hands shook as she picked up her needles and yarn.
We left the workshop room with the offending flashlight and yarn. Mac gestured up the stairs.
“I want to put this somewhere safe,” he said.
We walked down the hallway to the room he shared with Lucille. He pulled the old-fashioned key from his pocket and slid it into the lock. I couldn’t remember the last time I used a key at a hotel. The sound of a real lock is more satisfying than the beeps of the key-card locks so many hotels use.
Mac swung the door wide and gestured inside. I stepped in and surveyed the room. It was decorated in light yellow and green with dark wood twin beds flanking a large bureau. They also had a small sitting area near the window. Their room boasted a view out the side of the building and down the hill into the woods. I wandered to the windows while Mac rummaged in the closet with the wall safe.
I glanced at the small table between the chairs and caught my breath. A manila file folder sat on top of a knitting magazine. Stamped on the front was the seal of the Ann Arbor police department and my name was typed on the tab. The envelope with my name scrawled on it sat on top.
I took a deep breath and glanced at the closet. Mac was mumbling to himself about old safes. I flipped open the file and saw exactly what I was expecting—a report on the shooting that had occurred almost a year ago.
It had been the catalyst that sent me back to Crystal Haven. My partner and I had chased a suspect through backyards and eventually ended up in a cemetery. When the man had turned to face us, I was certain he held a gun. I didn’t actually see the gun. I felt the malicious intent with some other sense. I shot him, but aimed for his leg and he went down. That one decision had effectively ended my career, at least as far as I was concerned. If I was sure he was aiming a gun, I should have aimed for the largest target—his torso. In that situation the surest way to protect myself and my partner would not be to simply wound the gunman. However, he wasn’t holding a gun. I was thankful that I hadn’t killed him, but he would always walk with a limp and had to undergo surgery to repair his knee. He was only seventeen, not much older than Seth. The guilt from harming another person ate away at me and the knowledge that I couldn’t shoot to kill ate away at my reputation with the other officers.
I picked up the file and flipped through the pages. Interviews and witness accounts were followed by my report of the shooting. I flicked the folder shut and realized Mac was now quiet.