Page 8 of No Business Like Snow Business

I stared for a few seconds before taking the cup from him. “Thanks.”

He gave a quick nod. “You ready?”

I followed him out into the cold, where he made a beeline for a bright red Yaris. “This is Grandma’s ride, huh?”

He glanced at me as he opened the driver’s side door. “Her pride and joy. She keeps a pair of quilting shears in the cupholder, so don’t spill any hot chocolate in the car, or I won’t be able to protect you from whatever she does to you with those shears.”

I climbed in, holding my hot chocolate very carefully. “Wouldn’t the blood make just as much of a mess?”

“Well, she’s not going to murder youinthe car. She’d do it somewhere with easy cleanup.”

“I see.” I wasn’t sure where to set the hot chocolate, since my cupholder was, in fact, occupied by a menacing pair of scissors. “So I take it she’s also into true crime?”

“We listen to podcasts together.”

“Bonding time, huh? Does your whole family gather around the phone like people used to gather around the radio back in the day?”

He hesitated. “It’s just her and me.” He glanced over to make sure I was buckled and then pulled out of the parking lot.

Well, didn’t I feel like an idiot? “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make that awkward.”

He shot me a smile. “It’s okay. I’m not, like, traumatized or anything. My grandma raised me, and she’s amazing.”

“That’s good,” I replied awkwardly. The only thing I could say for my own grandmother was that interacting with her provided valuable insight into why my father was the way he was.

“My dad’s out of the picture. And my mom died when I was four.”

I winced internally. “I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago,” Harvey said. And then the corner of his mouth quirked up as he saw I was still holding my cup. “You can move the shears, you know.”

I gingerly moved them to the backseat. “Did you say she’s at quilting class? Doesn’t she need her shears there?”

“Quilting club,” he corrected. “She has club shears. These are just backup.”

“Ah, got it. Do you think we should keep them on us, though, in case it turns out Mary did Freddy in years ago and she doesn’t appreciate us snooping around?”

He glanced at me doubtfully—likeIwas the weird one, the one who listened to true crime podcasts with his scissors-wielding grandma. But then he grinned, and my stomach did that flip-flop again. “Sounds like you’re no stranger to the amateur sleuth genre.”

“I was Nancy Drew. Not Trixie Belden.”

“Nancy, huh? Not the Hardy Boys?”

“If you thinkThe Haunted Forthas anything onThe Secret of the Old Clock…”

“I don’t. I promise you.”

A long pause.

“OrThe Mystery at the Moss-Covered Mansion.”

He laughed, and I realized just how much I was coming to enjoy making him laugh. “You know, there was a secret at a mansion in Trixie Belden too.”

“Of course there was. Mansions always have secrets.”

“Does your family’s mansion have secrets?”

I started. “What makes you think my family has a mansion?”

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