Silas grumbles on the other end of the phone.
“What is it? That didn’t sound like a good grumble.”
“A powerful motive carries a degree of heft. I assume you’ll be wanting a copy of the medical examiner’s report.”
“You couldn’t be more correct, Mr. Willoughby.”
“Very well. I will officially offer my services to Mr. Harper, and, acting on his behalf, obtain a copy of the ME’s report as soon as it becomes available. Is that satisfactory?”
“That’s completely awesome. I’ll dig into this case and see what else I can find out. Any idea why Klang would play for Koochiching county’s broomball team even though he was a professor at Birch County Community College?”
“I am afraid I do not follow the ins and outs of the Great White North’s broomball league. I believe your best resource on that subject will be Twiggy.”
“Copy that. Keep me posted, Silas.”
“Indeed.”
Ending the call with my mentor, I take a quick detour into the cul-de-sac on Main Street, beside the bookstore. The cold came early, but the snow is late. This combination allows for the formation of impossible ice walls and waves along the shore of our great lake.
Some of the fins and swirls are almost transparent, while others hold the whites of glacial milk. My desert-based childhood never prepared me for such a deep attraction to the cycles of water—the beauty of floes. It would’ve been amazing to visit this place with my mother. The tragedy of losing her when I was eleven hurts as freshly as if it were yesterday.
Wandering down memory lane causes me to lose track of time. Only the chill threatening to nip off my nose ends my reverie and turns me away from the harbor.
The thick wooden door at the front of my bookshop, with its intricate carvings of magical vignettes, is unlocked.
Twiggy is in the house.
Hurrying to the back room, I find her hunched over the keyboard of our ancient computer.
“Are you working on the weekly order?”
Her fingers abruptly stop and the chair sweeps around to reveal the irritated face of my volunteer employee. “Is that your idea of a joke, Your Highness?”
Oops. Time to do some serious backpedaling. “Not at all. I was legitimately asking. If it’s not too much trouble, I need another skein of green yarn for the murder wall. You know we can’t have red, because it reminds Grams of blood and gives her a fright. I don’t want to be accused of scaring any ghosts.”
This jab at my grandmother brings a chuckle, and Twiggy nods her head appreciatively. “I wish I could see her, you know. You and Silas are lucky. You got the gift, and he’s got those transmuted spectacles he’s always bragging about. You say her ghost looks about thirty-five, eh? She was in her sixties when she passed, and, of course, she’d been sick for a couple years . . . Sure would be nice to see her looking young and full of life.”
This unusually verbose speech from Twiggy catches me off guard and I nearly forget what I came for. “Yeah, I wish you could see her too. She looks great in that fancy dress, with all her rings and strands of pearls.”
Twiggy shakes off her brief foray into emotions like a dog drying his coat after a dash into the lake. “Anyway, you musta wanted something before I went on a trot down flashback drive. What can I do ya for?”
Her folksy twist brings a smile despite my agitated state. “Gerhardt Klang was murdered last night. I’m—”
“Boy, oh boy! Good thing Harper’s got a badge. If not, he’d be my number one suspect.” Twiggy cackles and slaps her thigh.
The color drains from my face and I struggle to find the right words.
Her eyes widen. “You can’t be serious? That devil of a deputy! How could she think for one minute—?”
“Well, she does. Erick is sitting in a holding cell right now waiting for a time-of-death ruling from the medical examiner. I need to dig into this, Twiggy. Everyone’s always saying that Paulsen is a good cop, but we both know she’s had her eyes on the sheriff’s chair for quite a while.”
“I’m your gal. Erick’s the best lawman this town has had in decades. What do you need?”
“I probably need to know more about the victim. If I can understand him, hopefully I can figure out who else had a motive. I mean, who has the motive.”
Twiggy leans back in the cracked, brown-leather office chair and crosses her arms. “Shoot.”
“All right, first off, why did Klang play for the Koochiching Arctic Arrows if he was a professor at BCCC?”
Twiggy lets out a low whistle. “That is not a short story, doll.”
Pulling out a weather-beaten wooden chair from under the small table, I take a seat and match her pose. “I’ve got nothing but time.”
By the time Twiggy finishes breaking down the finer points of the various rivalries and secret alliances amongst the teams, I’m shocked to still be awake.
“So, to shorthand it, Klang is an arrogant so-and-so, and only wanted to play for a team that he could captain?”
She nods curtly. “That’s the gist of it.”
“What do you know about his day job?”
Twiggy sniffs and shrugs. “Not a thing.”
“Great. How am I going to find out why a bigwig professor, in the prime of his life, is teaching at a community college in almost-Canada?”
Twiggy shivers uncontrollably. “Isadora? Is that you?”
Grams pops into the visible spectrum with a mischievous grin. “Tell Twiggy it’s me, and everything’s fine, and then—I have an idea!”
Tilting my head toward Twiggy, I confirm her suspicions. “What’s your idea, Grams?”
She rubs her ethereal hands together gleefully. “You could go undercover at the community college!” She shrieks with glee, throws her hands in the air, and spins like a dervish.
“Grams thinks I should go undercover as a BCCC student.”
Twiggy groans and shakes her head. “Let’s agree amongst ourselves to call it ‘the college.’ It’s the only one around; not like there’ll be a lot of confusion.”
“Understood. What do you think about her plan?”
“Might as well. I’ll work my contacts in the broomball league and you can make nice with some students.”
My shoulders droop and I flop forward, banging my forehead on the table. “The things we do for love. I didn’t enjoy college the first time around. Hooray for second chances.”
Grams swirls around the room, spouting off addendums to her astonishing plan. “I’m sure you can use the same name you used before, Darcy something. Technically, you never went to the college even though you were posing as a college student . . . but that was at the high school. Never mind. The name’s fine. I’ll start working on wardrobe. You’ll have to get Silas to mockup some identity papers. You’re starting right before Thanksgiving break, and you’ll need to have transfer paperwork or something.”
“Mamma Mia!, Grams. Simmer down. I’m pretty sure this is one of those situations that can be easily handled by a large donation. And, if it happens to go to the anthropology or archaeology department, it seems like that might make the perfect in.”
Twiggy stands and rakes a hand through her short grey hair. “They’ll need a temporary professor.”