The Nightingale Before Christmas (13 page)

“Then I'll nail the damned door shut if that's what it takes,” Randall said. We had reached the top of the stairway, right outside the door to Clay's room. Both of us couldn't help staring at the door for a few minutes.

“Puts it all in perspective, doesn't it?” Randall said.

I nodded.

He went downstairs, and I pulled out my notebook to see what other tasks awaited me.

Sammy came up to fetch Vermillion for her interview. As they went downstairs together, Martha came out into the hallway and started after Vermillion.

I decided that if she made another complaint about Vermillion, I'd tell Randall to forget the pocket door and paint the whole damned door black.

But she stopped beside me.

“Why's he spending so much time interviewing us?” Martha said.

I suspected this was a rhetorical question rather than a real one.

“Because all of us had access to the crime scene,” I said. “And some of us could have a motive to kill Clay, and any of us could have seen something that would give him a clue to who did it.”

“And they took all our fingerprints,” she said. “Took me forever to wash that nasty stuff off. Even those of us with alibis.”

“For exclusionary purposes,” I said. “I expect all of us have been in Clay's room at one time or another, touching stuff. They need to identify our fingerprints so they'll know if there are any outsiders' fingerprints in there.”

“Well, that makes sense,” she said. Her tone implied that few other things the police were doing did. “And I suppose the police will have a better idea who might have done it once they trace the gun.”

“First they'll have to find the gun,” I said.

“What do you mean, find the gun?” she asked. “Haven't they searched Clay's room?”

“Yes, but apparently the killer took the gun with him.”

“Took it with him? Are you sure?”

“Reasonably sure,” I said. “I was there, remember?”

“Sorry,” she said. “Yes, you should know. Well, that stinks.”

“Why?”

“Means the gun is still out there somewhere,” she said. “On the loose.”

“Yes,” I said. “Just like the killer.” Was it just me or was it weird for her to be more focused on the missing gun than the missing killer?

“I felt a lot better thinking the police had the damned gun.”

Did she think it was the only gun in the state of Virginia?

“Great,” she went on. “We're stuck here in this house, sitting ducks, with an armed killer on the loose—maybe even among us.”

“Well, that's why the chief is checking out everyone in the house pretty carefully,” I said. “And what makes you think the killer was after anyone other than Clay?”

“Till we know why he killed Clay, we don't know that he isn't. Maybe we should ask for police protection.”

I reminded myself, not for the first time, that Martha was a bit of a drama queen.

“I'll let you take that up with the chief,” I said. “I just plan to be careful until the police catch the killer.”

“With any luck, that will be soon,” she said. “He must be a pretty stupid killer, taking the gun with him like that. If the police catch him with it, that will pretty much prove he's the one, won't it?”

“If he—or she—is stupid enough to hang on to it,” I said. “If I were planning to shoot someone, I'd make sure to do it with a gun that couldn't possibly be traced to me, and then I'd dispose of it afterward someplace where there was almost no chance anyone would ever find it. Like dumping it in the middle of a river. Or down a mineshaft.”

“How do you come up with stuff like that?” She looked at me as if she thought I might be speaking from vast criminal experience.

“My cousin's a crime scene specialist,” I said. “And my father's the medical examiner. Sometimes they talk shop.”

“Goodness.” She shuddered slightly. “Well, I'm going to get back to working on my rooms. Got to take my shot at winning the prize for the garden club.”

As she strolled downstairs, I reminded myself that at least, if Martha won, the garden club would benefit. Although come to think of it, so would Martha, since she'd recently staged a coup and taken over the presidency of the club, and was reputed to be running it like a personal fiefdom.

But that reminded me of something. I flipped to the page of my notebook where I'd listed which charities each designer had designated to benefit if they won the judging. And then I pulled out my phone and called Stanley Denton, Caerphilly's resident private investigator.

“Can you check out a charity?” I said. “I mean, is that something you've got contacts or access to do?”

“I can try,” he said. “What's the charity?”

“Designers of the Future,” I said. “Supposedly it gives out scholarships to needy but deserving art students.”

“Supposedly?” he asked. “You think it might not be on the up-and-up?”

“It's the charity Clay Spottiswood designated to get the money if he won the best room contest,” I said. “And I suppose it could still get the money if his room wins—always possible he could get the sympathy vote.”

“I hope not,” Stanley said. “You got an address on that?”

“Seems to be local,” I said. “The address is 1224 Pruitt Avenue in Caerphilly.”

“That's familiar address,” Stanley said. “Hang on a minute. Yeah, very familiar. That's Clay Spottiswood's home address. Home and business. I remember it from serving papers on him a couple of times.”

“That jerk,” I muttered.

“Don't jump to conclusions,” he said. “It could be a small but legitimate charity that he's running in his spare time.”

“Or it could be he was trying to pull a fast one. Randall has the paperwork Clay provided. That might give you a starting point.”

“I'm on it.”

I made a note in my notebook to bug Stanley if I didn't hear from him for a few days. And then I glanced over the other items on my list. Calling the graphic designer to see when we'd get the program proofs. Writing another press release to go to the Richmond, D.C., Northern Virginia, Hampton Roads, and other regional papers. Finding out if we had enough shuttle buses to take people to and from the satellite parking. And a dozen other tasks. All the practical minutiae necessary to make the show house actually happen.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Michael.

“Meg? Are you ready?”

“For anything you have in mind, always,” I said. “But was there anything in particular I'm supposed to be ready for right now?”

“Santa Claus,” he said. “Remember, Mom asked if we would wait to see Santa until she could be there?”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I forgot that was today. Are you still sure you want to do it? This late? They've already written their letters to Santa, remember? What if they come up with some enormous, important last-minute must-have thing that Santa can't get by Christmas?”

“Then we'll ask Santa to write them a letter explaining why their big present will be a little late,” he said. “We'll manage. I'm more worried about a repeat of last year's disaster. Was it Josh or Jamie who bit Santa?”

“Josh,” I said. “Jamie just ran away screaming and hid in the fake igloo.”

“I warned Mom about that,” Michael said. “But they are a year older. And Mom will be so disappointed if we cancel, so let's do it. Your dad and I are about to load the boys in the car. We'll be by for you and your mother in ten minutes.”

“I'll tell Mother.”

I found her staring at a white board on which someone had painted a dozen stripes in various shades of red.

“What do you think, dear?” she asked. “I'm leaning toward the ‘Red Obsession.' But ‘Ablaze' is also nice. And ‘Positive Red' is rather more Christmassy—but maybe too Christmassy? Or should we consider ‘Rave Red,' or possibly ‘Habanero Chile'?”

“Time for Santa,” I said.

“I don't think we have that one, dear,” Mother said. She frowned slightly at Mateo, who was holding the board, and presumably had been under orders to bring back samples of every possible red.

“It's not a color, it's a family event,” I said. “Michael and his mother and Dad are taking the boys to see Santa Claus. If you want to come and take cute pictures of your grandsons on Santa's lap, be on the steps in five minutes.”

“Well, why didn't you say so, dear?
Mas tarde,
” she added to Mateo. He smiled and whisked the board away. “I do hope we can avoid bloodshed this year,” she added as she followed me to the front door.

 

Chapter 11

The Twinmobile pulled up a few minutes later. Michael's mother, who was quite spry for a grandmother, had crawled into the third row and was sitting between Josh and Jamie. From the exuberance of their greetings to me and Mother, I suspected Granny Waterston had been bribing them with candy and they were riding the resulting sugar high.

I took a seat in the middle row, and once we got underway, I turned around to start preparing the boys for what lay ahead.

“Did Daddy tell you where we're going?” I asked.

“Santa!” they both exclaimed. There was a telltale whiff of chocolate and peppermint on their breaths.

“And we love Santa, don't we?” Michael added from the front seat.

“Santa! Love Santa! Santa!”

“I seem to remember that last year someone was a little nervous when we met Santa.” Calling either boy's reaction “a little nervous” was like calling a blizzard “a few scattered flakes.”

“Not me,” Josh said.

“Him,” Jamie countered, pointing.

“It's okay to be nervous,” Michael said. “Santa's a very important person. But if you feel nervous, just tell Mommy or Daddy or Grandma or Grandpa or Grammy.”

“We'll be fine, won't we?” Michael's mother said.

I pretended not to notice as she slipped them each another bit of candy cane.

“So, Meg,” Dad said. “How's the mood at the house? Is everyone upset by the—”

“James!” Mother exclaimed. “Little ears!”

“By the M-U-R-D-E-R,” Dad continued.

“Hard to say,” I said. “No one much misses Clay, but I think everyone will be on edge till they catch who did it. What's that, Jamie?”

“M-U-R-D-E-R,” Jamie repeated.

We all looked back at him, startled.

Josh had printed the word in the condensation on his window.

“Muh … Muhr … Murd…” Josh muttered.

“Murder!” Jamie exclaimed.

“Grandpa, what's murder?” Josh asked.

There was a brief silence.

“Adult communication suddenly becomes a lot more difficult,” Michael said.

“Grandpa,” Jamie began.

“Murder,” Michael's mother spoke up. “Is when someone hurts someone else. It's a very bad thing to do.”

She reached over and rubbed out the writing on the car window.

“Grammy, is murder an inappropriate word?” Josh asked.

“It's a little inappropriate,” Michael's mother said. “You don't really need to use it.”

“So, it's kind of like poopie or booger?” Jamie suggested. “And not a really bad word like—”

“Look! Is that a reindeer!” Michael exclaimed. I couldn't see anything that even vaguely resembled a reindeer, but his remark served the double purpose of distracting the boys and almost drowning out the highly inappropriate word Jamie had brought forth to appall his grandparents.

I was relieved that the rest of the ride downtown passed without further incident. And after the ride over, the actual visit to Santa was delightfully uneventful. These days, the Caerphilly Volunteer Fire Department hosted Santa's local stay. They had built a large Styrofoam igloo at the back of the vacant engine bay and hauled in a brightly painted red sleigh to serve as Santa's throne. If we ever raised enough money for a much needed fourth fire engine, they might need to find Santa a new home, but in the meantime, the kids—and grown-ups—enjoyed getting tours of the fire engines while waiting their turn on Santa's lap. And everyone seemed to enjoy the occasional days when the firemen got a call and Santa clapped on his fire hat and took off driving the ladder truck.

Michael's fellow firemen greeted him with enthusiasm. Perhaps all the times the boys had visited their daddy during his volunteer shifts at the fire station helped keep them from being scared of Santa this time. After staring at the burly, bearded man in red for a few moments, Jamie turned to me.

“Is that a real beard?” he stage-whispered.

“Of course it is,” Santa said. “Want to give it a tug?”

Both boys were charmed by the idea, and after each had given Santa's beard a few relatively gentle tugs, they settled down to the business of reiterating their Christmas requests—no new major demands, to my relief—and having their pictures taken. Michael and all three grandparents drained their camera and cell phone batteries taking endless pictures—Jamie with Santa. Josh with Santa. Both boys with Santa. Both boys with Santa and various configurations of parents and grandparents. The boys climbing on the fire trucks. The boys wearing firefighter hats, with and without Fireman Santa.

At one point I noticed Josh in deep conversation with Santa, so I inched a little closer to eavesdrop.

“No, Josh,” Santa was saying. “I don't understand it myself, but for some reason mommies don't usually like getting boa constrictors for Christmas.”

“So you think a basketball hoop is a better idea?”

“To tell you the truth, Josh,” Santa began.

I slipped away, reassured that St. Nick would save me from hoops and snakes. And reminded myself again to drop some hints for things the boys might enjoy giving me. As soon as I thought of some ideas.

Meanwhile, Mother was quite taken with the deep, glossy red of the sleigh, and I looked around several times to see her taking pictures of it with her camera and digging into her purse for fabric samples to hold against it.