The Nightingale Before Christmas (9 page)

“On my way,” I said.

I threw on my clothes, ran down to the kitchen, and stuck my head out the back door. Michael, Rob, and the boys were making snowmen, snow dogs, and snow llamas in the backyard.

“Going back to the house,” I shouted.

Michael waved, and the boys followed his example.

I ran down the hallway to Michael's office and photocopied a page from my notebook—the page on which I had the names, e-mails, addresses, and phone numbers. I remembered the chief would be wanting it. Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a yogurt and some granola bars to eat on the way, and then dashed out to my car. It was gloriously free of snow, and someone—probably the snow creature construction crew—had done a beautiful job of shoveling our driveway.

I'd heap praise on them later.

On my way to the house, I turned on the radio and hummed along with the carols. Carols—at least the old-fashioned kind—always helped me focus on the here and now instead of the long list of holiday tasks waiting in my notebook. The sun was shining, the snow made the Caerphilly countryside look like a Christmas card, and while I would rather be making snowmen with the boys, I knew they were happy and safe at home with Michael. And we had tonight's
Christmas Carol
performance to look forward to.

I tried to enjoy my Christmas mood while it lasted, since I suspected that between Clay's murder and having to deal with the stressed-out designers, the house would bring my spirits down soon enough.

There were a lot of cars parked in front of the show house. Several police cruisers. The chief's sedan. Cousin Horace's Prius—not surprising that he'd still be there, since his crime-scene investigation work could easily take hours. I was a little worried to see Dad's minivan—was he still there in his official capacity as medical examiner? If he'd stayed on to kibitz, the chief's patience might be wearing thin.

Most of the cars that had been parked up and down the street were still there, but someone had dusted off the back or front of each so they could check the license plates. Across the street from the house, one car had been completely cleared of snow, and I recognized Clay's silver Acura.

The front walk was nearly shoveled, and Tomás was finishing off the last bit.

“
Buenas dias, señora,
” he said as I passed.

“
Buenas dias,
” I echoed. I hadn't seen him quite so cheerful the whole time he'd been in the house. I wondered if the designers would be quite so honestly upbeat this morning, or if they'd all feel obliged to put on sober looks and struggle to find something nice to say about Clay.

I couldn't help thinking of the scene in
A Christmas Carol
in which the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shows Ebenezer Scrooge exactly how little his death would mean to any human soul. Instead of three spirits bent on his reformation, Clay had encountered a single vengeful one. No chance at reformation for him.

In this somewhat pensive mood, I entered the house. I found Dad, the chief, and Randall standing in the hallway.

“Meg—good!” the chief exclaimed. “I was hoping you'd get here soon. I want to hear again exactly what happened when you got here last night.”

My stomach churned, making me regret the yogurt, just for a moment. I'd been staying pretty calm by shoving last night's events out of my mind—focusing narrowly on what we needed to get done in the show house. It had been working fine. But now the chief needed me to go back to last night.

He ushered me into Sarah's study. I took one of the armchairs, the chief took the other, and Randall and Dad perched on metal folding chairs that had been brought in from somewhere. Clearly the chief was using the study as his on-site headquarters. I hoped to clear him—and the battered metal chairs—out before Sarah returned.

“So tell us everything that happened,” he said. “Start from when you were approaching the house.”

I took a few of the deep, calming yoga breaths Rose Noire was always ordering me to take, and then I told him everything. The snow-covered cars. Stepping into the dark hallway. Hearing the faint noise upstairs. Dodging the bullets. Seeing—well, hearing—the intruder drive away.

He didn't interrupt me once, which was rare for him. When I finished, I felt curiously better, as if I'd gotten something nasty out of my system. He waited a few minutes before asking anything.

“Her 911 call came at twelve eighteen,” he said finally.

“That fits,” Dad said.

“Meg, how many shots did you hear again?”

“Two,” I said. “Close together.”

“You're sure,” he said. “No chance it was more?”

“Positive.”

“And you didn't hear any shots as you approached the house?”

I shook my head.

“That fits, too,” Dad said.

“Fits what?” I asked.

“It appears that Mr. Spottiswood was shot shortly after eleven,” the chief said.

“The wound would have been almost instantly fatal,” Dad added.

“And then the killer stayed around to vandalize the house for approximately an hour,” the chief said. “Not leaving until you interrupted him or her at around twelve fifteen.”

“Vandalize the house?” I shot upright and looked around frantically. “How bad is it?”

“Calm down,” Randall said. He was gesturing with both hands for me to sit down, so I sat. “Most of it's in the master bedroom, which is going to need some cleanup anyway. The boys and I can knock it all out in an hour or two. I already sent Mateo for supplies.”

“So,” the chief went on. “Let's assume Dr. Langslow's estimates are correct—and I have no reason to think they're not,” he added, nodding and smiling at Dad. “You did not interrupt the murder, but you did interrupt whatever the killer was doing after the murder. And it's possible that Mr. Spottiswood wasn't deliberately targeted—merely unfortunate enough to interrupt an armed intruder.”

“That would be ironic,” I said. “The guy everyone hates gets knocked off just after one of his worst rampages since we started working here, and it turns out to be a coincidence? Something that could have happened to any one of us if we'd been unlucky enough to come here at the wrong time?”

Something that could have happened to me if Michael's rehearsal had ended an hour earlier and I'd shown up to do my inspection at eleven instead of midnight. I shoved that away with all the other things I didn't really want to think about, until later, when the killer was behind bars.

“That's one theory,” the chief said. “I'm not discounting the possibility that someone with a strong motive to kill Mr. Spottiswood lay in wait and staged the damage to make it look as if an intruder had been here.”

“Makes sense to me, because the damage was so random and illogical,” Randall said. “Drawers pulled out as if they were looking for something. Chunks of wall hacked out as if all they wanted to do was cause maximum chaos. Curtains and bed linens slashed. Stupid, mean stuff. But almost entirely in that one room.”

“Maybe that was all they had time to do before I arrived,” I said.

The others nodded.

“There's also the question of how the intruder gained entry,” the chief said. “No sign of a break-in, and I understand it's only the designers who have keys.”

“The designers, and a couple of the show house committee members, and anyone clever enough to pick up one of the dozen or so keys various designers have managed to lose over the last several weeks.” I could tell my irritation was showing, so I took a couple of deep breaths before going on. “Violet alone has lost at least seven keys.”

“That would be Miss Madsen, in the … frilly bedroom upstairs,” the chief said.

“And one of the reasons I came back to check on the house is that half the time, even when they've got keys, they don't use them,” I went on. “I seem to be the only one who ever bothers to go around and see that all the doors and windows are locked at the end of the day.”

“This in spite of our attempts to make sure all the designers were aware that there was a history of vandalism here at the house,” Randall said. “Not surprising, given how long it's been vacant.”

“Only surprising it took several years for the vandals to find it,” the chief said. “Getting back to the murder—do you know if any of the other decorators particularly disliked Mr. Spottiswood?”

I thought about it for about two seconds.

“Particularly disliked—no. Though I can't think of anyone who actually liked him. At least half of them resented him because they thought they should have been given the master bedroom. And he was harassing most of the women. Probably not Mother,” I added to Dad, who was frowning thunderously. “Or he wouldn't have survived till last night. But pretty much everybody else.”

“Did he harass you?” the chief asked, scowling.

“Until he figured out what a bad idea it was.”

Randall made a snorting noise that I suspected was suppressed laughter.

“Define harassment,” the chief said.

“Patting me on the rear,” I said. “Finding it necessary to squeeze past me when I was standing in a narrow space. Stuff like that.”

“And this was typical of his behavior toward the women in the house?”

“As far as I know, yes,” I said. “He was a pig. And it's possible he was more offensive toward the women who weren't as comfortable confronting him. Rose Noire thinks Vermillion had some kind of run-in with him, so she and Mother made sure never to leave her alone. And I wonder about Violet, or even Sarah.”

The chief nodded.

“You were going to give me the full contact information for all the designers,” he asked.

I pulled out my notebook and handed him the photocopy I'd made.

“While I'm here—” I began.

“Meg!” It was Mother. “Are you really all right?”

She put her hand to my forehead, as if expecting the shock of encountering a murderer to have given me a dangerous fever.

“I'm fine,” I said.

“James, you were supposed to call me once you'd seen her.” Mother turned to Dad with a look of deep disappointment on her face.

“I was caught up in the case,” Dad said. “Trying to find whoever took a shot at Meg.”

Mother looked somewhat mollified.

“And do you have any idea how soon we can get back to work?” she asked, turning to the chief.

“I'm going to hold the master bedroom a few more hours,” the chief said. “But there's no reason not to release the rest of the house. If you don't mind, I'd like to ask you a few questions, and when I'm done, I can let you get back to your work.”

“That would be fine,” Mother said.

“Here, take my chair.” I stood up and stepped aside. “Chief, may I do a tour of inspection?”

“Just stay out of the master suite till I give the word,” he said. “I'll be interviewing all the designers this morning. Try to avoid discussing the case with any of them until after I've had my chance. Sammy!”

The deputy raced into the study.

“Start calling the designers.” The chief held out his copy of my contact list. “Start with Mr. Goodwin.”

“Right, chief!” Sammy dashed out again.

Randall, Dad, and I followed, and the chief closed the French doors that separated the study from the foyer.

“Meg, if you're sure you're all right…” Dad began.

“Nothing wrong with me that a real night's sleep won't fix,” I said.

“Then I'm going to head down to the hospital,” he said. “I don't want to miss the autopsy.”

He dashed out.

“I've already got a punch list of things we need to fix,” Randall said. “Most of them in the master bedroom, so I'll have to wait till Horace finishes his forensic work. In here, nothing much. Couple broken crystals in the chandelier, and a bullet hole over there.”

He point to one wall.

“That's a bullet hole?” I exclaimed. The hole was more fist- than bullet-sized.

“Okay, the hole where Horace dug out the bullet. Looked to me like a .22, which is also what I bet they'll be taking out of Clay. I saw the wound. Luckily the bullet that hit the chandelier just ricocheted and landed down the hall. Anyway, we can patch the hole pretty quick, though I'm afraid Miss Ivy will need to redo that part of her mural.”

Poor Ivy. She had already been worrying about how to finish all the walls. And she was making it harder for herself by having pretty much nothing but wall. At the moment, the only pieces of furniture in any of her spaces were a small nondescript cabinet in the back of the foyer and a large bronze Art Nouveau umbrella stand beside the front door. I had a feeling she was only using the cabinet to store her paints in and would whisk it away before the house opened. The umbrella stand was probably staying, because she clearly enjoyed seeing her painting of “The Little Match Girl” peeping out from behind it. Maybe I should suggest altering her design to cover the unpainted stretches with a big piece of furniture or a tapestry.

No, better not. I'd figured out that the designers rarely appreciated what I thought were brilliant practical suggestions.

“We've pretty much cleaned up what the water leak did to the den,” Randall said. We both glanced over at the French doors. Mother was gesticulating dramatically. I suspected she was giving the chief chapter and verse of Clay's sins.

I walked through all the rooms, starting with the upstairs, with Randall trailing me. We found a few small things to add to his list, but none of them appeared to be the result of the intruder. No sign that the intruder had damaged anything on his flight path through the Princess Room, the back bathroom, the quilt room, or the garage. No sign that he'd been in the Goth room, the kitchen, the dining room, or the great room.

“Tree looks nice in that new position,” Randall said when we'd finished our detailed inspection. “I just hope your mother doesn't up and decide to move it again.”