by Dawn Eastman
The room held more yarn than I had ever seen in my life. I had been to many yarn stores as a child when Violet had dragged me along on her shopping trips, but this was overwhelming. Skeins and balls of yarn congregated in soft, fuzzy piles. Eight women sat scattered around the room, all holding a piece of knitting while a very attractive instructor spoke in that strange knitterly language. She said things like “keep your tension steady,” “don’t forget the yarnover in the middle of the fourth row,” and “I have a great new cable needle to try, plus I’ll show you how to cable without a needle—you’ll love the freedom.”
The library was smaller than the lounge, with a scaled-down fireplace and walls covered in bookshelves. Ornate Victorian wallpaper in bright green and blue covered whatever wall space was left. Two small couches and several chairs made a conversational arrangement in the center of the room. It still retained the masculine aura of pipe smoke, whiskey, and leather, and must have been Alastair’s personal refuge. He likely would have been outraged by the invasion of fluffy balls of mohair. The knitters had dragged in some dining room chairs to accommodate their group. A wall of windows showed large flakes settling on the trees.
Mac seemed paralyzed and I pushed him to get him to move into the room. Either our tussling or Vi’s loud “ahem” caught the interest of the knitters. They all turned in our direction.
Mom jumped up, letting her knitting fall to the floor.
“Clyde! Mac! What are you doing here?” Mom said as she approached. “Is something wrong? Is Seth okay? Is it your father?” She clutched my arm, and her forehead crinkled in dismay. “The cards warned me that something terrible would happen this weekend. . . .”
She and Vi shared similar delicate features but rather than a braid and brightly colored skirts, Mom pulled her hair back in a bun and favored either tracksuits (she had one in every color) or khakis and blouses.
“Mom, everyone is fine. Our flight was canceled and we came here to stay because of the storm.”
Mom relaxed her grip on my arm, and a smile spread across her face. “Oh, how fun! You can finally learn to knit. Lucille was just saying how she thinks you’re a natural.” Mom leaned closer to me and lowered her voice. “I didn’t want to burst her bubble and tell her you don’t like knitting.”
Lucille had joined us at the door by this time. She was my height, very thin, and wore her silver hair short and spiky. She turned to Mac and said, “Phillip, I’m so glad to see you. I was worried about you flying in the storm.”
Mac’s face turned a bit pink as it always did when his mother called him Phillip.
“Hi, Mom,” he said.
Two of the other knitters, about the same age as Mom, Vi, and Lucille had joined us at the door. The younger ones showed a bit more decorum and remained in their seats. One of them had tattoos snaking up both arms, one sported hot pink spiky hair, and the other looked like a human Tinkerbell—tiny with a blond pixie cut.
“Oh, Lucille. Is this your son?” a short round woman with bright red lipstick on her lips and teeth asked. “He’s much more handsome than you said.” She batted her eyes at Mac.
Mac stepped back, onto my foot, and recovered by draping an arm over my shoulder. Lucille introduced the woman as Mavis Poulson and claimed Mac as her son. Mavis looked me over and returned to her seat without further comment. Her friend, Selma Stone, thin, tall, and entirely beige, shook my hand and then followed Mavis back to her seat.
The other knitters said hello and I quickly forgot their names in the sea of comments and yarn.
“Okay everyone, let’s get back to our projects!” The instructor clapped her hands. “We only have a few more minutes to work on them before dinner.”
She walked over to us and smiled. “Hello. I’m Isabel Keane.” She was petite, with short dark hair and large, expressive eyes. She had tossed a multicolored scarf artfully around her neck.
She shook my hand briefly and then took Mac’s hand and held on to it.
“It’s lovely to meet you . . . both,” she said.
Mom, Vi, and Lucille had returned to their chairs as instructed. Isabel asked us if we’d like to join them in a knitting lesson.
Mac shook his head. We smiled and backed out of the room.
“I don’t know if I can do this for the whole weekend,” Mac said. “My mother is here and that woman looked at me like I was dessert.”
“I noticed. She’s very pretty.”
“Who?”
“Isabel.”
“No, not her. Mavis—with the lipstick.”
I smiled. “Oh, her. I don’t think you have anything to worry about. I’m sure you can outrun her.”
“Let’s go talk to Wally and see when this storm is supposed to end. Maybe we can book another hotel and leave first thing in the morning.”
He steered me back toward the front of the building. We stopped when we got to the turn in the hallway.
“Any idiot could do your job—I don’t know why you can’t!” a shrill voice announced from around the corner. “You must be a special kind of idiot.”
I glanced at Mac. I didn’t want to embarrass whoever was being yelled at by walking in on this scolding, but I wanted to stop it as well. Mac and I nodded at each other and swung around the corner. A young woman in a maid’s uniform stood alone in the hall but I caught a glimpse of shiny black heels as they went up a nearby staircase.
The woman scrubbed at her eyes and turned away from us as we approached.
“Are you okay?” I said to her.
She nodded and sniffed. “I’m fine, ma’am. Thank you.”
She smoothed her skirt and walked down the hallway away from the stairway.
Mac sighed and shook his head. “Let’s go.” He tugged on my arm as I watched the young woman turn the corner at the end of the hall.
* * *
Wally clacked away on his keyboard as we approached.
He flipped it shut when he spotted us.
“How can I help you?”
“Do you have a weather report?” Mac asked.
“I just checked the radar.” Wally shook his head. “It doesn’t look good. High winds and more snow tonight. They say it will be blizzard conditions in another hour or so.”
The wind rattled the windows to punctuate Wally’s claim.
Mac slumped. “How long is it supposed to last?”
“They say it could blow through overnight, unless it meets another storm front they’re watching from the south. If they meet, the whole thing could stall right over us and then they don’t know how long it will last. The newspeople are saying everyone should check their supplies and stay off the roads.”
I glanced at Mac and felt my shoulders droop.
Mac’s grimace reflected my own emotions. When would we escape?
“We’re having a cocktail party tonight to kick off the knitting conference and Isabel Keane’s new book. I’m sure you’d both be welcome,” Wally said. He tilted his head and gave a sympathetic smile.
Mac blew out air, but then pulled himself to his full height. “I’ll go grab our suitcases before the weather gets even worse.”
“I’ll help you.” Wally hurried from behind the desk.
“Thank you,” I said. I followed them to the back door, where they donned coats and hats. The snow crunched underfoot as they stepped into the parking lot. A gust of wind almost pulled the door out of my grasp and I wrestled it closed as they made their way to my SUV.
Other than my toothbrush, there was very little in my Mexico suitcase that would be useful in a snowbound castle. I had the jeans I was wearing and one other long-sleeved T-shirt I had planned to wear on the plane ride home. The rest was swimsuits, shorts, and tank tops.
I opened the door again when I heard them approach. Stepping back, I barely avoided the spray of snow as they brushed it off while still outside.
“I’ll set these in your rooms while you’re in the lounge—unless you need something.” Snapping open the pull handles on the suitcases, Wally nodded toward the stairs.
Mac echoed my thoughts and said, “I’m not sure I’ll use any of it here—we were headed to warmer weather.”
Wally dragged the wheeled suitcases down the hall. Mac pulled me into a side hug and dropped his voice. “I think I’m going to need a drink to get through the rest of the evening.”
5
We approached the lounge and peeked inside. Women were scattered throughout the room with drinks and balls of yarn. Apparently the knitting wasn’t limited to the workshop room.
Mac and I took a deep breath and squared our shoulders.
“There you are!” Mom said when she spotted us.
Mac nodded to her and planted a kiss on the top of my head before heading to the drinks table. I held onto his hand as he walked away, feeling that this was the last moment of any semblance of a vacation. I turned to my mom with a forced smile.
She leaned toward me and said, “Vi is going to tell you that she knew your flight would be canceled, but that’s just because the tarot had indicated that something would happen to ruin your trip.” She used her I’m-sorry-things-didn’t-go-as-planned smile. She patted my shoulder. “I’m sure you and Mac can take another trip. And I’d rather you were safe. If I thought you were on an airplane in this kind of weather . . .” She put a hand to her chest in a dramatic display of distress.
A few months ago, Mom’s constant worry would have irritated, but now I understood its roots. Neila Whittle, who was helping me understand my own psychic gifts, had once predicted that Mom would attend a funeral for one of her children. It was Neila’s dubious talent to sense when a parent might lose a child.
I had yet to discuss Neila with my mother—unsure if she would be thrilled I was pursuing my gifts or furious I was spending time with Neila. As if proximity would make her prediction come true. But Neila had helped me and I felt I was finally gaining control of some of the premonitions that came unbidden in dreams or flashes of history when touching an object, and I was better able to find lost items. For whatever that was worth.
Mac caught my eye from across the room and held up a glass. I nodded gratefully and he turned to fix my drink.
Thoughts of Neila reminded me that I was supposed to practice whenever possible. A room full of strangers was a great opportunity to test my skills. My insights are enhanced through touch—mostly skin-to-skin contact. In my days with the police it was often difficult to maneuver that type of contact. Officers don’t tend to shake hands with suspects. But the information, if it came, was invaluable and I trusted it.
I brought my thoughts back to my mom, who was looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, Mom, what did you say?”
She grinned. “You can’t keep your eyes off him, can you?”
“Pardon?”
“Mac. You’re aware of every move he makes.”
I felt my face growing hot. “I don’t know what you mean.” I studied her brightly colored scarf to avoid eye contact.
She put her hand on my arm. “It’s lovely. I’m very happy for you.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
I glanced toward Mac again and saw that Mavis and Selma had ambushed him. Mom followed my gaze.
“I’ll go rescue him in a moment,” she said. “I want you to meet the rest of the knitters.”
She steered me toward the fireplace, where a trio of young women were laughing and knitting. They turned and smiled when we interrupted.
“This is my daughter, Clytemnestra,” Mom said.
I smiled while clenching my jaw—not easy to do, but I had a lot of practice.
“Call me Clyde,” I said. I shot a look at Mom and said, “Everyone does.”
Mom smiled at me and went to pry Mavis away from Mac.
Tinkerbell stood and introduced herself as Heather.
When we shook hands I focused my thoughts on that contact and opened my mind to any insights. A fizzy, bright tingling touched my face and I knew Heather was just as open and friendly as she appeared.
“I work as an ICU nurse, but only to support my yarn habit.”
The other two chuckled.
“I’m Amy,” the pink-haired woman said. “I own the local yarn store. And this is Tina.” She gestured at her tattooed friend. “She’s a fiber artist.” Tina flicked a glance in my direction and grimaced a small smile. Both held a knitting project and didn’t offer to shake hands.
“She’s the mastermind behind the yarn-bombing competition,” Heather said and hooked her thumb at Tina. “Isabel even donated a cool set of knitting needles as the grand prize!”
“We were admiring the yarn bombing earlier,” I said. “It’s a very . . . unique competition.”
“Knitting isn’t just for grandmas anymore,” Tina said. “I like to see so many new people embracing it and using knitting to make an artistic statement and bring awareness.”
I wasn’t sure what kind of awareness was related to colored tubes on chandeliers, but sensed this sentiment would not be met with warmth.
“It’s a fun thing to do and since the owners are knitters—” Amy said.
Heather interrupted. “Not all of them. Clarissa has made her feelings pretty clear.”
“Right, well Jessica and Linda don’t mind having yarn draped everywhere,” Amy said.
Heather turned brightly toward me. “Your mother told us you’re a police officer on leave. Are you planning to go back to work?”
Amy elbowed her in the ribs. “She just met us—save the interrogation for later.”
“Oh.” Heather’s smile slipped a bit but she recovered quickly. “Sorry, I’m so used to asking personal questions at work that sometimes I forget . . .”
“It’s fine.” I smiled to reassure her. But how do I answer a question I had been asking myself every day for the past couple of months?
My search for a new career was reaching a critical point. My sister, Grace, had a knack for investing in the stock market and she had parlayed my inheritance from last summer into a great nest egg. But I couldn’t continue to use the money I had inherited for everyday expenses and I was getting bored. I didn’t want to return to police work. I had to live in Crystal Haven for at least six more months before I could sell the house or move out—an odd and meddling stipulation of the will.
I chose the simplest route. “I doubt I’ll move back to Ann Arbor, but I’m still figuring out what I’ll do next.”
“I understand that,” Tina said. “I feel like I change careers almost as often as Amy changes her hair color.”
The three of them laughed, and I grinned at them.
Heather tilted her head and looked into my eyes. “Your aunt was right: Your eyes are very striking. You know, people used to think that indicated psychic abilities.”
I looked away. “Yes, I’ve heard that.”
“Uh-oh.” Amy tilted her pink head toward the refreshment area. “You might want to go rescue your boyfriend. Clarissa doesn’t take no for an answer—ever.”
I turned and saw Mac holding two drinks and leaning away from a stunning blonde who was invading his personal space. She wore a tight black pencil skirt with a leopard-print blouse and shiny five-inch black heels. A panther stalking its prey flashed into my mind. She didn’t seem to be picking up on his signals, but I caught the SOS look he shot me.
“Excuse me,” I said to the knitters.
I heard quiet giggles from the trio as I made my way across the room toward Mac.
“This is Clyde,” Mac said, when I was still several feet away.
“Another surprise visitor! This weekend is getting more and more exciting.” The blonde turned a brilliant smile in my direction. It rapidly fled when she saw me.
Mac handed me my drink and slung an arm over my shoulder.
“Ah, I see,” Clarissa said. “Well, you can’t blame a girl for trying.”
Something caught her attention over my shoulder and her lips tightened.
“You must be the guests the storm blew in!” a woman with mousy blond curls said as she came from behind us to stand next to Clarissa. The two couldn’t have dressed differently if they’d tried. Jessica wore comfortable flats, khakis, and a cozy-looking cardigan over a white T-shirt. “I’m Jessica Garrett, one of the owners. I see you’ve met Clarissa.”
“We were just getting acquainted,” Clarissa said. She finished her drink in one long swallow.
“I hope you’ll enjoy your time here,” Jessica said. “I heard you had planned a warmer vacation than this one.”
“I’m sure it will be very relaxing,” I said. “The hotel is beautiful.”
“You’ll have to return when we have the spa open,” Clarissa said. “Have you ever had a spa treatment?” She looked me over and did not appear impressed.
“Once or twice,” I said. “What I really like is the sense of stepping back in time. It feels like a different century here.”
Jessica’s smile appeared more triumphant than pleased. “See, Clarissa? People like the cozy feel of antiques and warm colors.”
Clarissa’s lip curled. “They’ll like the new look even better, I’m sure. I can’t wait to update this place.” She swung an arm to encompass the whole lounge. “If we can convince your mother to part with even a few of her precious antiques, we can bring this . . . castle into the twenty-first century.”
Jessica’s triumphant smile slipped into a frozen, not-in-front-of-the-guests grimace. “Clarissa, could I speak to you in the hallway?” She turned to Mac and me. “Excuse us.”
Clarissa beamed at Mac, set her glass down on the table, and stalked into the hallway after Jessica.