Jessica took her mother’s hand and I sensed that she was sending her a signal to keep control of herself.

“We had our monthly meeting on Wednesday,” Jessica said. “It’s always the first Wednesday of the month. It was just the usual thing—staffing, repairs, and plans for the month. Clarissa wanted to talk about the spa. It’s all she could think about. She was so convinced that putting a spa here would somehow catapult Carlisle Castle into a destination-hotel category.”

Linda sniffled. “The truth is, the hotel has been struggling for a few years now. The winters are always lean. We haven’t been able to cover the slow times as well as we did in the past. We aren’t near a big city, there’s not a lot of shopping in Kalamazoo the way there is in Chicago, and with the economy the way it is, people just aren’t taking vacations like they used to.”

“Did you two and Clarissa ever argue about how to run the hotel?” I asked.

Jessica snorted. “When did we not argue about it?”

“Well, it wasn’t that bad . . . ,” Linda said. She cut her eyes to Jessica and then smiled weakly at us. Linda’s knuckles had turned white where she clasped Jessica’s hand.

And Jessica’s mutinous face had me thinking it was that bad and maybe worse.

“Thank you for talking to us again,” Mac said. “If you think of anything else, even if it seems small or obvious to you, please let us know. We don’t have the same sense of the history of the castle or the hotel that you do, so it will help us to get a better picture of what might have happened if you can give us as much background as possible.”

Both women nodded agreement.

Mac and I stood to leave and Jessica followed us out into the hallway.

Jessica leaned into the room. “I’ll be back in a little while with some tea, Mom.” Jessica quietly closed the door and turned to us.

She put her hands out, palms up. “I’m sorry we didn’t mention the meeting or the stairway. I guess we took for granted that those things would be unimportant. We want nothing more than to find out how this could have happened.”

“Jessica,” I said, “when was the last time you saw Clarissa?”

Jessica looked at the ceiling as if trying to find answers there. “I saw her just before dinner—after we left the lounge we talked in the hallway for a few minutes.”

I remembered them talking in urgent, angry whispers in the hall.

“Then during dinner, we passed in the hallway. She was leaving, I was going in.”

Mac leaned forward. “That was the last you saw of her?”

Jessica looked at us with a wide, innocent stare. She nodded.

Mac looked at the floor and gave a disappointed sigh. “You were seen coming out of the stairway door—much later.”

Jessica took a step back. She shook her head. “I didn’t see her. I was still angry with her about our earlier conversation and I was going to go talk to her about it.” Jessica stopped and took a breath. “I got partway up the staircase and thought better of it. I decided to talk to her in the morning after we had both cooled off.”

I crossed my arms.

Jessica looked from me to Mac. “I didn’t kill her—I get squeamish if we have to set traps for mice.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t kill someone and I can’t believe that anyone here in the castle would have killed her.” Jessica lowered her voice. “As I’ve said, plenty of the staff might have wished her dead in a passing sort of way, but I work with these people every day and none of them seems like the type who would actually kill another human being.” She hugged herself and shivered. “The truth is, it’s freaking me out to think I’ve been working with a murderer all this time.”

20

That evening, Seth and Dad returned from the cottage for dinner. Mom and Vi had spent most of the afternoon in the workshop and everyone was tired. The news that the police would not arrive was met with dismay, but spirits seemed a bit better this evening with electric lights and heat to accompany dinner.

Our family took the largest table in the room and the dinner conversation centered on the murder and who might have done it. I wish I could say this was unusual for us, but it wasn’t. Only Mac and Lucille seemed surprised at how easily we discussed motives and methods of murder over our beef bourguignon.

“I don’t like the idea that I might be knitting next to a murderer.” Lucille shuddered. “I don’t think any of them could have done it. They’re all so nice.”

“That’s how they trick you, Lucille,” Vi said. “They lure you in with charm while they’re out attacking innocent people.”

“It doesn’t sound like Clarissa was very innocent,” Mom said. “You heard what Isabel and Mavis said about her.”

“Mavis,” Vi said, her voice a low growl. She glanced around the table and lowered her voice. “She probably did it. I hate to accuse another knitter, but I don’t trust her.”

I covered a smile with my water glass, knowing that Vi’s accusation came from a competitive place. The afternoon with the knitters had not been conflict free.

“Why would Mrs. Poulson want to kill Ms. Carlisle?” Seth asked while slathering butter on a slice of bread.

Mom glanced at the other tables and leaned toward Seth.

“Apparently, Clarissa bullied Mavis’s daughter in high school. The girl got very depressed and eventually committed suicide. Mavis and Isabel have always blamed Clarissa for Teresa’s death.”

“Oh. That’s rough.” Seth shook his head. “Girls can be really brutal.”

“Shhh!” Mac said to the table. “We cannot discuss this. It’s an active investigation.” He lowered his voice. “The suspects are all in the vicinity, this isn’t a game of Clue.”

The table fell silent for a few moments, then Seth asked for the bread basket again and people gratefully began discussing the meal.

Dad leaned toward Mac and said in a low voice, “If incompetence is an indicator of guilt, then you should consider Kirk as your number-one suspect. I don’t think he’s ever worked as any type of maintenance person before, unless it was just on the landscaping side of things. He certainly knows how to work a snowblower. He has no idea how to fix anything.”

“We haven’t taken anyone off the list,” Mac said quietly. “If they weren’t in the dining room for the whole time that night, then I consider them a suspect.”

“I suppose anyone is capable if given the right circumstances,” Dad said.

“I still think there’s something sketchy about the chef,” Seth said.

“What?” Mac said.

“I told Clyde earlier today,” Seth said. “The chef claims he’s French, but I think he must be Canadian.”

“What does it matter?” Vi said.

“That’s what Clyde said. But why would he lie about it?” Seth said.

“Jessica did seem impressed that he was from France,” Mom said. “It’s part of all their literature about the restaurant—that they have a ‘real’ French chef who trained at Cordon Bleu.”

“It can’t be hard to check,” Mac said.

“It is when the cell service is down and there’s no Wi-Fi,” Seth said. “I tried to connect this afternoon—it’s like the dark ages out here.”

“At this point, I’ll look into anything—once the phones are back on I’ll call Pete Harris and see if he can run a check on René Sartin,” Mac said.

Vi leaned forward. “The chef did it,” she whispered. “I don’t trust the French. I don’t care if he’s Paris French or Canadian French, he’s sketchy.”

I wondered if Vi had given up on Kirk as a suspect because Dad thought he was guilty.

Seth’s eyebrows came together. “What’s wrong with the French?”

“They’re snooty and they eat weird food,” Vi said as she took another bite of her beef bourguignon.

Mom glanced nervously around the table and decided to step in. “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Vi.” She clamped her hand onto Vi’s wrist. She looked at the rest of us, particularly Mac and Lucille. “She’s joking.”