I could see my own breath, too, which meant that either the power was still off or it hadn’t been on long. I flicked a light switch back and forth a few times. Nothing.
The idea of a cold shower in a cold house didn’t appeal to me, so I threw on several layers of clothes and followed Michael downstairs.
He had pulled out our camping stove and was heating two enormous pots of water.
“We’ll have to give them instant coffee,” he said.
“I imagine they won’t care as long as it’s hot.”
Roused by the carolers, our guests were waking up and either gathering at the front windows to appreciate the music or stumbling into the kitchen in search of caffeine. Except, of course, for Clarence, who went outside leading Spike—probably to take his mind off his legal problems with another canine behavioral therapy session.
Just as the water came to a boil, “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” gave way to a solo rendition of “Rise Up, Shepherds, and Follow.” I selfishly grabbed one of the first cups of hot water, stirred in the instant coffee, and inhaled the steam as I blew on the top of the cup.
Okay, it was still too early, but the alto voice doing this solo was worth waking up for. I closed my eyes to enjoy both the music and the steam and jumped when someone spoke at my elbow.
“Is Henry up yet?”
Minerva Burke, resplendent in her maroon robe, billowed into the kitchen.
“Not yet,” Michael said, handing her a cup. “I’ll start working on breakfast for our guests,” he added to me.
“He cooks?” Minerva said. “No wonder you married him. Henry burns toast. Speaking of Henry . . .”
“He’s up in Rob’s room,” I said. “Third floor. Want me to show you the way?”
Minerva nodded, Michael handed her a second mug for the chief and I led the way. But when we reached the second floor landing, she stopped.
“Can I have a word with you?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. I leaned against the banister. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s this murder investigation.”
Had the chief asked her to warn me off?
“Don’t worry,” I said. “If I think of anything else important, I’ll call the chief, and I won’t interfere with his investigation by trying to dig up information myself.”
“Well, I wish you would.” She took a quick sip of her coffee. “I’d like him to spend at least part of the Christmas holiday with his grandchildren, and the way things are going, that’s looking less and less likely.”
“The investigation’s not going well?”
“I have no idea if it’s going well or badly,” she said. “Not having seen the man since last night. But from the number of messages coming in, clearly it’s still going. Someone has to keep working on it, and he’s not going to ask anyone to do what he won’t do himself. The more he works on it, the higher his blood pressure will rise. As it is, I can’t in good conscience give him a piece of my sweet potato pie, and you can’t imagine how much Henry loves that pie.”
I made a sympathetic noise.
“I picked up tickets to that show of Michael’s tonight,” she continued. “But the way things are going, I’ll be by myself. Again. I was used to doing without him on holidays back in Baltimore. Big city like that, you’re bound to have a few people mean enough to shoot each other on Christmas or New Year’s. But here—well, I expected better.”
She shook her head as if sadly disappointed by the inconsiderate behavior of the local criminal classes.
“I’m not asking you to interfere,” she went on. “But in a small town, people talk to each other more than to the police. Henry should learn to work with that. If you hear something he needs to know, please tell him.”
I nodded.
“And if he won’t listen, tell me. He in the room at the end of the hall?” she asked.
I nodded again and left her to wake the chief. I strolled downstairs and followed the intoxicating smell of cooking bacon into the kitchen.
I heard the chief and Minerva coming back downstairs again. Outside, Horace was handing out steaming cups of coffee, and I could hear cheerful voices chattering and car doors slamming. The New Life choir was moving on in search of new audiences. In the kitchen, I found Rob sitting at the table, wolfing down a plate of scrambled eggs and bacon. Michael had both burners of our camping stove going and was frying up more eggs and bacon.
“I made it!” Rob announced, as if reporting a major triumph.
“Are the roads bad, then?” I asked.
“Horrible,” he said, through a mouthful of egg. “They’re pretty full up over at Mother and Dad’s. I had to sleep on the couch. By the way—look at this.”