Free MURDER at CRAWFORD HOUSE (Allie Griffin Mysteries Book 3) by Leslie Leigh

upright, as she now saw, and it lumbered laboriously through the snow. As it got closer, she noticed it had on snow shoes, and that it was dressed in a one-piece ski suit with a camouflage pattern, and it wore goggles.
                  She watched it just long enough to see that it was now approaching the main entrance of the house, and thus was about to disappear from her field of vision.
                  Quickly and quietly, she descended the staircase and opened the front door.
                  The man – for it was a man – started at the sight of her.
                  "Hello!" he said jovially. "You scared me. I didn’t think anyone would be waiting for me!"
                  "I saw you coming from that direction. You a hiker or something?"
                  He got to the base of the porch and ascended the snow-heaped steps sideways. "I am a hiker," he said with shorted breath, "but I'm not on a hike per se . I came over here to see how my friends the Gordons fared in this lovely weather. As I cleared the woods I saw they had company. Everyone ok in there?"
                  "Uh, who are you again?" said Allie.
                  "Ah yes," he said as he made it to the top of the stairs, and took off his goggles, revealing soft eyes and a bearded, weather-beaten face. "So sorry. Brother Al." He held out his hand. "And you are?"
                  "Allie Griffin. Did you say Brother Al? You're a monk?"
                  "No, monks are ordained. I'm a brother in a Marianist Community, a layperson committed to acts of charity, prayer, and the support of our neighbors. We have a house about a mile beyond those woods over there."
                  He was tall, about six-foot-five, and he spoke in a chesty baritone that male singers would kill for.
                  "Sorry," said Allie, "Marianist?"
                  "Order of St. Mary."
                  "Ah. Well, Al – can I call you Al?"
                  "Brother Al."
                  "Yes, well, Brother Al, since you asked, we're having a helluva time here at Chez Gordon. Sorry, Crawford House. It seems one of our guests had a heart attack in the upstairs bathroom and that, coupled with our lovely weather as you put it, has sort of put a damper on the weekend."
                  The man's features froze. "Oh my... I'm sorry. Did you call 911?"
                  "We tried. There's no service."
                  He grimaced. "Yeah, it's the same over at our place."
                  "I just realized," said Allie, looking off toward the woods, "you hiked all the way here on snowshoes?"
                  "Yeah, I'm a hiker and a snowshoer."
                  "Crazy."
                  "So...may I come in?"
                  "Oh, terribly sorry. Of course."
                  "Just give me a moment," he said, plopping himself down in the threshold of the door and removing his snowshoes, which he steadied against the house. "Are Larry and Molly here?"
                  "They're here. Not sure if they're up yet."
                  He stood up and removed his hat, which he tucked into a front pocket, and he tousled the pate of short, dirty blond hair that grew thickly and showed no intention of receding.             
                  "So," he said, "let me get this straight. You have a man who passed away upstairs?"
                  "In the bathroom, yes."
                  "And..." He looked over at the staircase. "Is he still...?"
                  "Still up there, yes."
                  "Oh my," said Brother Al, and bit his bottom lip.
                  "Indeed."
                  "Well, that is a problem. I mean, no phone