The Nightingale Before Christmas (15 page)

“Excellent.” Grandfather nodded with approval, clearly assuming this was the fairy tale's obligatory happy ending.

“But the emperor played the golden nightingale so much that it began to wear out,” Ivy went on. “And the watchmaker called in to fix it couldn't. He warned the emperor that every time it sang could be its last. So they put the golden nightingale on a pedestal and only played it once a year. And the emperor began to pine away and grew sick, and all his courtiers and servants deserted him to flatter the one who would be the next emperor.”

I had been watching Ivy's careful brushstrokes, but I suddenly realized that Grandfather had stopped interrupting. I glanced up and saw that he was intent on Ivy's words. Probably more worried about the real nightingale than the emperor, but still.

“The real nightingale heard of the emperor's illness and came to perch on a branch outside his window to sing to him,” Ivy went on. “She found Death sitting on the emperor's chest, and she sang so beautifully that she charmed Death into leaving. And the emperor promised her anything she wanted as a reward. And she asked only that she be allowed to stay free and to perch on the branch and sing to him every night of what was happening in his kingdom.”

“No more cages?” Grandfather asked.

“He'd learned his lesson,” Ivy said.

“So they lived happily ever after,” Grandfather said. “They always do in fairy tales.”

“Not always in Andersen,” Ivy said. “Some of his are downright depressing. But I imagine the emperor and the nightingale lived happily for a good long while. The story actually ends with the emperor saying good morning to all the servants who had run out on him the night before. Leaves it to your imagination what happens next.”

She'd been working all this time on the emperor, and I had to smother a giggle when I realized that she'd given him Grandfather's face. There he sat, incongruously dressed in elaborate court robes and sitting on a bejeweled golden throne, his face rapt with wonder as he listened to the nightingale that was perched near the ceiling.

“Very nice,” Grandfather said. “You've got the nightingale pretty accurately. But I'm not sure about the foliage. Doesn't look like anything that would grow in China. I can recommend a nice botanist if you'd like some accurate information.”

“Ah, but I'm not trying to portray real Chinese foliage,” Ivy said. “Andersen was a Victorian, a child of poverty, and a native of the frozen north. I'm painting the China of his imagination.”

Grandfather didn't try to argue with her, and we both stood there for quite a while watching Ivy paint, until we heard Caroline calling downstairs.

“Monty? We're leaving. Where's that old fool got to now?”

“On my way,” Grandfather said. And then nodding to Ivy, he said, “Nice bird.”

Then he ambled back downstairs and left.

Vermillion appeared out of her room. She paused as if she'd like to watch Ivy, then nodded to us and left. I noticed, as I always did, her elegant, expensive-looking coffin-shaped black leather purse. But I waited until the door had closed behind her downstairs before saying what came into my mind whenever I saw the purse.

“She's got to be putting us on,” I said.

“Vermillion?” Ivy looked puzzled. “What do you mean?”

“Everything she does is over the top,” I said. “The coffin sofa, the Spanish moss, the bats, and most of all that coffin purse. Would a real Goth actually carry a coffin-shaped purse?”

“I'm not sure a real Goth would carry anything else,” Ivy said. “And it's very nicely made. Your mother says she has a good eye. ‘If she ever gives up this macabre obsession with death and spiderwebs she could be quite a good designer.'”

Her imitation of Mother's gently regretful tone was spot-on. I burst out laughing.

“And if she doesn't give up her obsession?” I asked.

“Then she will continue to be her very interesting self.”

I watched Ivy paint for a few moments. It was curiously restful, watching the mural slowly come to life under her brush.

She glanced over her shoulder at me, and I suddenly remembered that she didn't always like onlookers.

“I can leave if I'm bothering you,” I said.

“You don't bother me.” She turned back to her painting. “Not like that reporter.”

“Jessica? The one from the student newspaper?”

“That's the one.” She nodded, and took a step back to study what she'd been working on. “She was driving me crazy last night.”

“Last night?”

“Between eight and ten o'clock,” she said. “She got on everyone's nerves after a couple of hours, so Rose Noire kicked her out—ever so politely. But someone must have let her back in and then gone off without making sure she was gone. She was driving me crazy—asking questions, darting around the house, tapping on things, coming up behind and startling me. But maybe it's lucky for me she came. I'd been planning to work as long as it took to finish ‘The Nightingale,' but after just an hour with her underfoot I had such a headache that I went home early. Maybe Jessica saved me from encountering the killer.”

Or maybe she'd cleared the field for the killer to work.

“Was she still here when you left?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said. “I kicked her out, and checked all the doors and windows before I locked up.”

I tried to imagine Ivy kicking out so much as a stray kitten and failed. Clearly she had hidden depths.

“She shouldn't have been hanging around here at all after Rose Noire made her leave.” I pulled out my notebook and began making a note. “I'm going to complain to her editor.”

“Good idea,” Ivy said.

“Meanwhile, we seem to be the last ones here,” I said to Ivy. “And I'm about to leave. Should you be staying here alone?”

“Oh, nobody will notice I'm here,” she said.

“I'll make sure all the doors and windows are locked,” I said.

I made the rounds, checking every room, every door, and every window. Everyone had gone, and everything was locked up tight. I had the nagging feeling I was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something in particular, but then I'd felt that way at the end of most days lately. Time to head home for some rest.

As I headed for my car, I realized I wasn't sure if I should be pleased with my day or frustrated. On the positive side, I felt a lot more certain that none of the designers I was working with day-in and day-out had killed Clay. The only ones for whom I hadn't heard a plausible alibi were Vermillion and Ivy, and neither of them had ever been at the top of my list of suspects anyway. As the day wore on and as I talked to each of the designers, I'd started feeling less tense. Less apt to start if someone walked up behind me.

On the other hand, if none of the designers had killed him, who had?

“The chief's problem,” I muttered to myself as I got into my car. He'd be spending the coming days—or weeks—digging into Clay's life. Interviewing disgruntled clients, angry exes, and rival decorators. Poking and prodding the decorators' alibis to see if they held.

I had other things to worry about, I told myself as I set off for home.

Though I should probably tell him that Jessica had been hanging around only an hour or so from the time of the murder.

I was only a block from the show house when my phone rang. I glanced down—it was Michael. And I suddenly remembered what I was supposed to be doing—tonight was the first night of his one-man performance of Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
.

I felt guilty. Last year, on the day of show, I'd spent the whole day pampering him and distracting him. And this year I'd left him to take care of the boys all day. Well, at least he'd had the distraction part.

I pulled over to the curb and answered the phone.

“I'm so sorry!” I said. “I'm on my way to take the boys off your hands and feed them and—

“Don't hurry!” he said. “I figured after last night you needed a break, so I arranged for Mom and Rob to take the boys to the zoo. They'll bring them along to the theater full of pizza. And probably smelling like camels, but who cares.”

As he was talking, I saw Vermillion drive by. Her black Subaru station wagon was festooned with moons and spiderwebs in silver paint, so it was pretty distinctive. I waved, but she didn't see me.

“That's great about the boys,” I said. “I'll go home, clean up, and meet you all at the theater.”

“Fine,” he said. “Has the chief figured out who killed Clay yet?”

“Not that I've heard,” I said. “But I've figured out that most of my friends didn't do it, in spite of pretty extreme provocation, so I'm feeling a lot more cheerful. I'll fill you in later.”

I was about to pull away from the curb when I spotted Vermillion's car again, pulling up to the stop sign on the side street ahead of me. Weird. To get there, she'd have had to turn off the main road and circle back. Had she left something back at the house?

No. Instead of turning to go back to the house, she continued through the intersection along the side street. I waited a few moments, then pulled back onto the road and made a left to follow her.

I wasn't sure why I was doing it, but I followed Vermillion for the next ten minutes. She was making apparently random turns, zigzagging through subdivisions and circling some blocks two or three times. Was she looking for something? Or was she trying to make sure no one was following her? If that was what she was up to, she wasn't very good at it. I'd have had no trouble following her, even if she'd been smart enough to ditch her highly distinctive car for something more nondescript. And she didn't seem to have spotted me.

Eventually she reached the center of town and pulled into an alley that I knew was a dead end. I continued on past the alley and parked a little way down the street.

After a minute or two, her car backed out of the alley. I could see another person in the passenger seat. Then the passenger ducked down and Vermillion turned onto the street and continued on past me. I waited till she'd pulled a safe distance ahead and then took off after her again.

More perambulations through the byways of Caerphilly. I began wondering if I should give up following her. I was already running short on time if I wanted to get home and change for Michael's show.

But just as I was about to call off the chase, she stopped in front of a house with a high fence around it. I stopped, too, and watched from a distance as a gate swung open. Vermillion drove inside, and the gate closed after her.

Okay, now what? I parked my car and watched for a few minutes. I should be heading home.

What the heck. I could go straight to the show in what I was wearing. Who dresses up with a foot of snow on the ground?

I got out of the car and strolled down the street, as slowly and nonchalantly as I could. The house was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall wooden fence. There were lights in some of the windows, but all of them were protected by curtains, shades, or blinds.

I continued on to the corner and then paused. I was on a quiet residential street lined with small but tidy bungalows. Even if I had all night to carry out surveillance, there wasn't really anyplace to hide and keep an eye on the house into which Vermillion had gone.

I turned and headed back for my car, again walking slowly.

This is ridiculous, I told myself. I should come back tomorrow, in daylight, and figure out the address of the house behind the fence. If there were numbers, I couldn't see them in this light. And then I could look it up in the county records. Get Stanley to check it out. Maybe even tell Chief Burke about Vermillion's furtive behavior. And then—

“Psst! Meg!”

I was past the gate now. I turned and looked back.

The gate was open about a foot, and Reverend Robyn Smith from Grace Episcopal was peering out.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I followed Vermillion,” I said.

Robyn closed her eyes, sighed, and then opened them again.

“Come in for a minute,” she said.

She swung the gate open. I stepped into the yard and waited while she closed and latched it. Then she led me into the house.

“It's okay,” she called as she stepped inside. “I know her.”

She moved aside so I could see. The room was filled with women and children and sparsely furnished with what looked like castoffs. Three children were playing Parcheesi on the floor. Another knot of children were playing with toy cars. A girl of perhaps eleven or twelve sat on one of the faded sofas, playing with a baby. At the far end of the room, three women were setting out plates and silverware on two card tables, and another woman peered out from the kitchen.

“Welcome to the Caerphilly Battered Women's Shelter,” Robyn said.

 

Chapter 13

“I didn't know Caerphilly even had a women's shelter,” I said.

“We like it that way,” Robyn said. “If you tell anyone where it is, you could be putting these women's and children's lives in jeopardy. They're all taking refuge from dangerously abusive men.”

“It's okay,” I said. “I haven't the faintest idea where I am anyway.”

Robyn smiled at that, and a couple of the women giggled.

Vermillion, carrying a toddler, came over.

“Why were you following me?” she asked.

“I'm sorry—” I began.

“The safe house is supposed to be a secret,” she said. “I was supposed to pick up Eil—one of the residents—at her job and bring her back here without anyone following us, especially her horrible ex. And—”

“Then maybe you should take some lessons on how to lose a tail,” I said. “Starting with driving a less distinctive car.”

She blinked and took a step back as if I'd hit her.

“Now, now,” Robyn said.