The Nightingale Before Christmas (8 page)

“What kind of problems did you have today?”

I brought him up to speed on what I knew about Clay's last day on earth. The chief listened in silence, scribbling occasionally in his notebook. He pondered for a while after I finished speaking.

“Not a particularly likable man,” he said. “But—spattered paint, a misunderstanding about a vase, and some accidental water damage. Are you suggesting that any of these incidents could be related to his murder?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “None of them seem important enough to kill over. I know Mother wouldn't kill him for stealing her vase—she'd just make sure anyone who might possibly want to hire him for a decorating job knew about it. I can't imagine Princess Violet killing anyone over anything. She's like Rose Noire—she escorts spiders out to the garage. Martha was positive we were going to kick him out and let her take over his room, and I'm pretty sure she'd want him alive to gloat over it. I can't imagine any of them doing it.”

But what if one of them had?

“It's not just these incidents,” I said. “They were just the latest in a series of things Clay did that upset everyone in the house. He was a poisonous influence. There was a cumulative effect.”

The chief nodded, but didn't look convinced.

I remembered something else.

“Talk to Stanley,” I suggested. “Clay and one of his former clients were in a big legal battle. Stanley knows more about it. He was trying to find Clay yesterday to serve some papers on him. No idea if he succeeded.”

He nodded and scribbled.

“You look done in,” he said. “Go home.”

“Roger,” I said. “Will you be keeping us out of the house in the morning?”

He looked tired.

“I don't know yet,” he said. “I realize that you are supposed to open in a couple of days, and a lot of people have spent a ton of money on this, and the historical society will be pretty badly hurt if anything cancels or delays the show—”

“But it's a murder,” I finished for him. “You have stuff you've got to do.”

He nodded.

“I should let all the decorators know that they won't be able to get in,” I said. “And tell Randall that the committee will need to decide what happens with Clay's room.”

“Let me handle that,” he said. “I've already called Randall—he's on his way. And let me tell the other decorators. It could be interesting to observe their reactions.”

“Because they're all suspects,” I said.

“Yes. Can you give me their contact information?” He held out his notebook, open to a blank page.

I pulled out my own notebook and copied out the names and telephone numbers of the designers for him.

“I've got e-mails and home addresses if you want them,” I said.

“Tomorrow.” He closed his notebook and stood up. “You'll be my first call when I'm ready to reopen the house. Sleep well.”

Fat chance.

I drove home. It was nearly two o'clock. My mellow Christmas mood had vanished. When I looked at the snow, instead of appreciating its beauty and being grateful that it was coming down at a pace the county snowplows could handle, I started to feel claustrophobic. I was relieved when I finally let myself into the house and breathed in the evergreen scent. And someone had been cooking. Gingerbread? Yes, and apple pie, too. Unless Rose Noire was experimenting with a new holiday potpourri. If so, it had my approval. She could call it Holiday Happy. Or Mistletoe Mellow. I could feel my spirits rising.

All the little LED fairy lights Mother had used to decorate the hall still twinkled merrily, so I didn't have to turn on the overhead light. The tree and the poinsettias and all the other holiday frills were merely shapes in the darkness, but shapes that gleamed here and there when the light from the LEDs hit some bit of tinsel or glitter.

The boys wanted leave the fairy lights up all year. I had pointed out that we'd take them for granted if we had them all the time. But tonight I decided maybe the boys might have the right idea. Hard to take for granted anything that cheered me so, I thought, as I tiptoed up to bed.

I didn't get much sleep that night. I know I got some sleep, because the boys woke me out of it at five.

“Mommy, there's a foot of snow!” Jamie shrieked as he bounced onto our bed.

“
Only
six inches,” Josh said.

“I'm thinking eight or nine inches,” Michael said. “But who cares how many inches—the important thing is that it's perfect for sledding!”

The boys cheered and began jumping up and down on our bed as if it were a trampoline. Michael observed my feeble attempts to share their enthusiasm.

“Anyone who wants to eat pancakes and then go sledding had better get dressed pronto,” he exclaimed.

The boys cheered again, bounced off the bed, and disappeared.

“I didn't even wake up when you came in,” he said. “I gather you had something to deal with at the house.”

“Someone decided to get rid of Clay,” I said.

“The committee finally got enough nerve to kick him out?” Michael was throwing on jeans and an old sweater.

“No, they voted to keep him, for fear he'd sue,” I said. “And then he went back to the house, where someone shot him.”

“He's dead?” Michael paused in the middle of pulling the sweater over his head.

“As the proverbial doornail,” I said. “Someone shot him right between the eyes.”

“Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

He hurried back over to the bed, sat down beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.

“I'm fine,” I said. “Just a little short of sleep.”

“How late were you up last night?” he asked.

“Past two.”

“Then go back to sleep,” he said. “Rob and Rose Noire and I can keep the kids busy. And you'll need sleep to deal with whatever happens when you're able to go back to the house.”

Thank goodness for family. Even family who, like Rob and Rose Noire, seemed to have settled in as permanent residents in several of our extra rooms. And thank goodness that Caerphilly College was on winter break, and that Michael, as always, was eager to spend his vacation time with his sons.

I turned over to go back to sleep. But I didn't drop off right away, or I wouldn't have heard Rose Noire's soft voice.

“Meg? You awake?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What's up?”

I sat up and turned to look at her. She was standing in the doorway wringing her hands.

“Michael said that someone shot Clay Spottiswood.”

“Yes,” I said.

“That poor man.” She shook her head. “He was such an unhappy, troubled soul. Such a waste.”

She was right, of course, but I found myself wondering if anyone else would feel much sadness over his demise.

“And did it happen in the house?” she asked.

“In the middle of his room. I'm sure by now the house is filled with all kinds of bad karma and negative energy. Maybe you can do some kind of cleansing before we all get back to work there.” Even though I only half believed in them, Rose Noire's cleansings and blessings always raised my spirits.

“Of course.” She nodded absently. “But who did it? It wasn't Vermillion, was it?”

“I have no idea who did it.” I sat up straighter, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. “Why would you think it would be Vermillion?”

“Your mother and Eustace and I were sort of keeping an eye out for her,” Rose Noire said. “Clay made her anxious. She was bothered by the way he was flirting with her.”

“Probably because Clay's idea of flirting corresponded with most sane women's idea of sexual harassment and sometimes actual assault,” I said. “Do you mean he kept it up after the tongue lashing I gave him the first week we were all there?”

“Not that I saw,” she said. “But of course I'm sure he'd have been very careful about doing it when you were around, or your mother or me.”

“And you didn't trust him not to do it when she was all alone.”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “So we made sure she never was alone. She felt very safe when you were around, which was most of the time, and when you were gone, your mother and I kept an eye on her.”

“So as far as you know, he didn't bother her again.”

“As far as we knew.”

I could see from her face that she was worried. Afraid that perhaps her watchdog mission hadn't been as successful as she had thought.

On the surface, the idea of Rose Noire protecting Goth Girl seemed funny. Rose Noire had never met a New Age theory without embracing it, was an ardent vegetarian, dressed in romantic flowing dresses trimmed with ethereal wisps of gauze and lace, and felt guilty thinking bad thoughts about anyone. Goth Girl wore a lot of black leather pocked with spikes and studs, sported jewelry featuring skulls and snakes, and liked to imply that she knew quite a lot about vampires, necromancy, and abstruse poisons.

But Rose Noire, at five eight, was only two inches shorter than I was, in excellent condition from working in her organic herb garden, and fierce as a mother hen about anything smaller or weaker than she was. Goth Girl was reed-thin, nearly a head shorter than me, and I'd always suspected her bark was much worse than her bite. Yeah, Rose Noire would protect her. And besides, they were both part of the sisterhood who, like Cher and Madonna, were on a first-name-only basis with the rest of the world.

“He was shot,” I said. “That doesn't seem in character for Vermillion. Unless we find out it was done with silver bullets, or maybe a special antique revolver with an onyx handle.”

Rose Noire smiled faintly at that.

“You really think she could have done it?” I asked.

“No.” She sounded uncertain. “But I think we should make sure the chief knows about the harassment. Because it would look suspicious if he found out the wrong way.”

“I'll make sure he knows about all the harassment,” I said. “Vermillion wasn't the only one.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved to have delegated her worries to me. “Get some sleep now.”

I tried. But I lay awake a long time, thinking about Vermillion. Would it really be out of character for her to shoot Clay? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she seemed like someone who'd been through a lot, but hadn't necessarily emerged unscathed.

Could I see her as fearful, and anxious, and deciding to protect herself by carrying a gun in her coffin-shaped black leather purse? Unfortunately, yes.

What I couldn't see nearly as easily was her showing up at the house at midnight. She always seemed very cheerful in the mornings, with the sunshine streaming through the faux stained glass she'd applied to all her room's windows. And always seemed in a hurry to leave before sunset.

A Goth who was afraid of the dark?

Or maybe just one who knew better than to be out “in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.”

Now where had that quotation come from? Thanks to Michael's annual one-man
Christmas Carol
shows, I was now incapable of getting through a December day without quoting Dickens at least half a dozen times, but I was pretty sure that line had nothing to do with Scrooge. Or did it?

I began silently reciting the text of the show to myself to make sure and fell asleep long before even the first of the three ghosts arrived.

 

Chapter 7

December 21

“Sherlock Holmes,” I exclaimed.

“What's that?” Randall said.

I appeared to be holding the phone. Evidently, Randall had called, and the phone's ring had awakened me from a dream in which I'd identified the source of the quote about “the powers of evil” that I'd gone to sleep muttering. Sherlock Holmes. I didn't remember which book, but I could always ask Dad, the mystery buff, who could quote countless pages of Conan Doyle from memory.

“Meg?” Randall again. “Something wrong?”

“Long story,” I said aloud. “Please tell me you're calling to relay the news that the chief's letting us back in the house again.” It was—good grief, nearly 10:00
A.M.
Sunlight was pouring through the window, and I could hear giggles and shrieks of delight from the backyard.

“Not just yet,” he said. “Although I think the chief's getting close. I've been hanging around here at the show house wearing my mayor's hat and kibitzing, and I think they're close to finishing up. No, I was calling to let you know that the committee decided not to give Clay's room to another designer.”

“What are we going to do—exhibit the crime scene?” I asked. “Complete with bloodstains and an outline of the body and those little numbered cards they use to keep track of evidence in the crime-scene photos?”

“It's a thought,” Randall said, with a chuckle. “Bet we'd sell tickets. No, we decided to complete his room as close as possible to the way he was doing it. Like a memorial. We thought we could get a couple of the other designers to supervise the workmen doing it. He left behind some sketches of his plan for the room—I found them in the dresser drawer. We can use those.”

“Nobody's going to be thrilled with this solution,” I said. “Every other designer in the house thinks his style is hideous.”

“If they're right, all the more chances for their rooms to win,” he said. “And won't it be a little bit of consolation that they'll never have to put up with him again?”

“Good point,” I said. “I'll ask Mother, Eustace, and Martha. They've kind of got seniority. And I trust Mother and Eustace to be balanced about it. Martha will hate the whole thing, but she'd be furious if we didn't ask her.”

“Sounds good to me and—hang on.… Yes, I'm talking to her now … Meg, the chief wants to know if you can come down to the house. He wants to go over a few things before he's ready to release it.”