“Yeah, that was Doleson all right,” Randall said.
“Actually, that was Scrooge,” I said. “Michael’s rehearsing. Don’t you say his name in there, somewhere?”
Michael consulted his text.
“You’re right,” he said. “ ‘Oh! But he was a tight-fisted hand at the grindstone, Scrooge!’ ” he repeated. “For the show tonight,” he added, for Randall’s sake.
“A one-man show of Dickens’s Christmas Carol,” I said.
“I heard,” Randall said. “I’ve got tickets. It’s still on, then?”
“Far as I know,” I said. “Assuming the power’s still on at the theater, and anyone can get there.”
“Power’s fine in town,” Randall said. “So far, anyway. And plenty of people can walk to the college theater. But if I were you, I’d head in there now, before the second storm gets going.”
I looked at Michael.
“We’d probably get snowed in there rather than here,” Michael said. “And that would spoil our plans for a quiet Christmas alone together.”
“I could try to bring you back afterwards on the plough,” Randall said. “Of course, I can’t do anything about the power in the house—odds are that’s out till after the second storm. But if I can get through, I’ll bring you back.”
“But you can’t guarantee that even you can get through,” Michael said. “How many inches were they predicting? Six to twelve?”
“Ten to fifteen, last I heard,” Randall said, looking out the window and nodding. “You don’t see many snows like that around these parts.”
He sounded as if he approved of the weather’s rare burst of industry.
Michael looked wistful.
“You want to do the show,” I said. “And I want to see it. Let’s get packing.”
“You’re on,” Michael said.
I handed Randall the tray of ciders and hot chocolates and turned to go upstairs.
“Take the truck,” Randall said. “No offense, Meg, but that Toyota of yours can’t handle what’s on the roads now. And as for that little windup convertible of Michael’s—”
“No way I’m taking the convertible out in this,” Michael said. “The truck it is.”
“And if you can be ready in half an hour, you can follow me back to town,” Randall said.
Chapter 25
Half an hour later, we were on the road, sandwiched between the tractor Randall Shiffley was using to pull the Dumpster and the truck carrying the Boy Scouts and their gear. We’d packed enough clothes for several days. We didn’t know if the rest of the family would come to town to ride out the storm or hole up at Mother and Dad’s farmhouse, but just in case, we brought all the Christmas presents and a cooler containing our contribution to tomorrow’s potluck dinner. We also brought our camping gear, in case we ended up sleeping on the floor of Michael’s office in the drama department building. First Llama Ernest was with us, in an old horse trailer we’d bought in case of just such an emergency, and Spike was in his dog carrier on the seat between us. We didn’t even have children yet, and already our days of traveling footloose and fancy free were clearly behind us.
And what were we going to do with Ernest if there wasn’t room for him in the barns of the college Agricultural Sciences Department?
I’d worry about that later. First things first: get Michael to the theater, so he could start all his pre-performance rituals. Then I could get Ernest settled—wherever—and look for someplace better than Michael’s office for the two of us.
I reached back to pat the pocket where I’d put my notebook.
There was one silver lining to being snowbound in town—at least we wouldn’t be completely cut off from hearing any news about the murder investigation. And maybe even helping with it, assuming I could find a way of helping that wouldn’t look like interference.
Behind us, in the other truck, I heard the Boy Scouts strike up another chorus of “Jingle Bells.”
“This must be how our pioneer ancestors felt, heading west in covered wagons with all their worldly belongings,” Michael said.
“Maybe your pioneer ancestors,” I said. “Mine stumbled off the ship from England, still seasick, got down and kissed the ground, and refused to stir a step from the Virginia coast. Caer-philly is as far inland as I’ve ever lived.”
He chuckled, and began singing along with the Boy Scouts. I filed away my worries for the time being and joined in.
Caerphilly looked magical, with all the Christmas lights ablaze and the snow frosting the evergreen wreaths and garlands and the red bows trimming them. Even the police station looked welcoming, with candles in all the windows, including the narrow barred windows in the attached jail. Seeing Caroline’s truck in the parking lot dimmed my enjoyment a bit, though.