The Nightingale Before Christmas (28 page)

I would never admit as much to Michael, but I wasn't paying attention to the script tonight, only letting his voice and the words flow over me like a well-loved and utterly familiar piece of music. I could laugh when the crowd laughed and look solemn when they did, on autopilot, while my thoughts kept turning back to the house. Tomorrow I had to get there early enough to let in anyone who still needed a key. Supervise the photographer. Pick up the programs from the printer. Make sure the volunteer ticket takers and docents knew when to show up on Wednesday.

I'd almost forgotten—the banker's lamp. Probably a bad idea to pull out my notebook in the middle of the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Present, so I focused for a few moments on visualizing the banker's lamp sitting on top of my dashboard, in the hope that if I got into my car without it, the naked dashboard would remind me. And then I imagined myself pulling the lamp's gold chain to start the car. The idea made me smile, which would have looked odd in the middle of one of the show's sadder moments, but luckily just then Michael, in the small voice he used for Tiny Tim, had just cried out “God bless us, every one!” and the whole audience was smiling.

The show was a success, as always, and as always Michael's dressing room was filled with well-wishers. Michael's mother, who wanted to get an early start on her cooking, drafted Rob to take her and the boys home.

“Did you bring the lamp?” I asked Michael, when I could tear him away from one of Mother's cousins who wanted him to autograph her program.

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I'm going to leave you to your fans,” I said. “I can drop it by the house and probably still beat you home.”

I fetched the lamp from the Twinmobile, which was parked right behind the theater, and carried it the three blocks to where I'd put my car. I kept a sharp lookout, but this time there didn't appear to be anyone following me. I was leaving earlier tonight, and I'd parked in a less isolated spot. I carefully stowed the lamp on the passenger-side floor and wedged it in with my purse before taking off for the house.

I passed stores that were closed or closing and restaurants whose last patrons were filing out into the cold, crisp air. When I'd first moved to Caerphilly, I found it annoying that the only things open all night were the gas station and the hospital. Now I found it soothing.

When I reached the show house, it was dark and a little spooky looking. I wasn't thrilled to have to come back here by myself. But I was now convinced that Jessica had, indeed, taken Violet's key. And thanks to the rekeying, that key—along with any others the designers might have lost or given away—was useless. Only Randall and I and the remaining designers had access now.

In fact, it was possible that some of the designers had gone home before Randall had given out the new keys, so the subset of people who could get in was even smaller and mostly well alibied.

Of course, Jessica had probably also stolen Sarah and Kate's gun. And unlike the obsolete keys, that would be working just fine. So before parking in front of the house, I cruised past it so slowly my car almost stalled out, studying every pane of every window and every shadow on the lawn.

Nothing suspicious.

I parked my car right in front of the door. There were a few other cars up and down the street, but they looked like neighborhood cars.

I kept a close eye around me as I strode up the walk, and kept looking over my shoulder as I unlocked the door. I held the banker's lamp handy, ready to bash anyone who tried to sneak up on me. Sarah wouldn't be happy if I had to use it, but my life was at least slightly more important than her room.

The new key was a little stiff, but it worked. I was safely inside.

Safely inside a house that had already had one murder in it. I stood in the hallway for a few moments, listening.

Silence.

Then I walked quickly and quietly through the house and checked to make sure every door and window was closed and locked, and every closet empty. Fifteen windows and seven doors downstairs, counting the two garage doors. Thirteen windows upstairs. Nobody in the four upstairs closets, the five downstairs closets, or the basement.

Okay, now I could breathe more easily.

I went back down to the hall, where I'd left the banker's lamp, and took it into Sarah's study. I even plugged it in close to where I thought the old one had been. Of course, the minute Sarah walked in, she'd frown and arrange it to an ever-so-slightly different angle, following some logic understandable only to designers and inexplicable to mere mortals like me.

I turned the banker's light on. I could see why Sarah had wanted it. The room was a symphony in red fabric, muted golden bronze, and brown wood. Even the books were mostly in tones of red, gold, and brown. The green shade of the banker's lamp suddenly brought the room's whole focus on the elegant cherry desk and the bronze desk accessories on top of it. All it needed was a vintage typewriter and you could imagine
The Great Gatsby
being written here, or maybe
The Sound and the Fury
. I wanted more than ever to browse through the books—the real, identifiable, imperfect yet ever-so-beautiful books—and then plop down for nice long wallow in one of the red velvet chairs.

Maybe later. After the house had opened.

I took a picture of the lamp and e-mailed that to Sarah. Then I turned it off and went to check the rest of the house.

Mother's room was breathtaking. I stood in the middle of the floor and surveyed it. The tall tree, trimmed with so many sparkling ornaments that you had to take it on faith that there was green underneath. The rich red-and-gold brocade covers of the chairs and the sofa. The four red velvet Christmas stockings hanging from brass hangers on the mantel. The lovely contrast between the walls—painted in “Red Obsession,” which didn't look nearly as overwhelming as I thought it would be—and the woodwork—painted in an off-white, whose name I had forgotten, and picked out with little touches of gold. The rich red draperies with their red-and-gold cords. The subtle colors and intricate designs of the elegantly faded red oriental rug. The cool contrasting touch of the blue-and-white porcelain. Yes, Mother had outdone herself. If there was any justice, she had a good shot at the prize.

I stopped long enough to take a few shots of the room. In fact, while I was at it, I took several dozen. In the morning, the
Times-Dispatch
photographer would probably get plenty of pictures—and better pictures. But I'd been in the habit of taking pictures every afternoon or evening, after the designers had finished for the day. I thought perhaps I'd do an album later. Or maybe an exhibit at the county museum. If we put my photos together with the ones Randall had taken of the repair work, we could show the whole history of the house, from wreck to palace. So I made sure to capture Mother's completed room from all angles.

Eustace's breakfast room was painted in off-whites and faded pinks that either matched or blended nicely with the woodwork in Mother's room. In spite of the room's name, the round, glass-topped table wasn't set for breakfast—a ruby-red punch bowl occupied the center, surrounded by ruby-red punch glasses, green-and-white Christmas napkins with a holly design, gold-plated flatware, a colorful fruit cake in a tall cut-glass cake stand, and several antique or vintage Christmas-themed cookie tins. I could imagine the guests attending a party in Mother's room and then stepping into this elegant little nook to refill their punch cups or grab something to nibble.

Was the fruitcake fake or edible? I lifted the top and poked it. Real, and therefore presumably as edible as any other fruitcake. Not that I wanted to try.

The kitchen itself, also done in carefully blended off-whites, was utterly impractical yet absolutely beautiful. Each cabinet contained half a dozen perfectly arranged bits of glass or china or pottery, mostly in soft shades of blue and turquoise. I only hoped all the people who fell in love with the look stopped to inventory the contents of their cabinets before investing in glass fronts. And as a nod to the Christmas theme, he'd placed a tray on the counter containing a large bowl of walnuts and an antique nutcracker. Although clearly the walnuts weren't really meant to be eaten, since they'd all been painted gold.

I took a token peek into Martha's laundry room. It was clean, and sparkling white—evidently she and Eustace had agreed to disagree on the white/off-white issue. She'd hung pretty prints on the walls, pretty curtains at the window, pretty towels on the folding rack. But it was still just a laundry room. And not Christmassy at all—but then, who ever decorates a laundry room for Christmas?

Well, who apart from Mother?

Something startled me—a noise outside, like something being knocked over. It seemed to be coming from the back of the house—maybe on the terrace? I tiptoed across the hall and peered out through the glass panes in the terrace door. A little faint light spilled out through the dining room windows. Someone had shoveled the snow off the terrace. Maybe not such a good idea. It looked remarkably empty. Maybe we should put something out there. Or—

A movement startled me, and then a fat raccoon waddled across the terrace, raised his masked head to stare at me, and disappeared into the yard.

I had been holding my breath. I started breathing again, and continued my tour. I flicked the light on in the dining room.

Which was certainly … festive. I realized that Linda was probably aiming for the kind of luxuriant yet tasteful excess that Mother was so good at achieving. But Linda only managed the excess. She'd found at least a dozen different Christmas-themed chintz prints and used them to make angels, stars, wreaths, and garlands that now festooned the already busy walls.

Well, at least it was Christmassy.

I flicked the light off again, and realized that the room looked a lot better in the dim ambient light from the hallway. Maybe if I convinced Linda to use only candles, the room would show better.

I smiled again when I stepped out into the hall. Ivy had added a few bits of furniture—a chair here, a small side table there, just enough to justify the title of “designer” rather than “painter.” But even if she hadn't, it wouldn't matter. Her murals were going to be the hit of the show house. They were ornate, intricate, and curiously reminiscent of early-twentieth-century children's book illustrations, like those by Kay Nielsen, Arthur Rackham, or Edmund Dulac. Was it disloyal of me to like them just a little bit more than even Mother's room?

“The Little Match Girl” and “Good King Wenceslas” flanked the front door—it rather looked as if the charitable monarch was about to rescue the shivering waif. On the long wall across from the stairs “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” merged seamlessly into the harbor of Copenhagen, where the Little Mermaid peeked above the waves to welcome the arriving fleet. At the back of the hall, “The Friendly Beasts” and “The Ugly Duckling” flanked the French doors to the terrace. “The Three Kings” marched up the wall beside the stairway.

“The Twelve Days of Christmas” took over the wall opposite the stairs in the upstairs hallway. On the other long wall, the Snow Queen in her elegant sleigh appeared to be heading for the manger, where a host of shepherds and animals surrounded a pensive Baby Jesus. “The Snow Queen” wasn't quite finished, but we could steer the photographer away from that. Perhaps toward my favorite, “The Nightingale,” which filled the entire wall leading to Vermillion's room and appeared through the opening so it was also visible from Mother's room below.

And in addition to the large murals, smaller illustrations danced over every other square inch that could be painted. Was that “Thumbelina” standing to the left of the back window? “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” on the other side? “The Little Drummer Boy” performing near the basement door? “The Red Shoes” dancing above the sill of Clay's room?

Clay's room. I wanted to continue my tour of inspection to see what Vermillion, Violet, and the Quilt Ladies had done. But I doubted any of the decorators had spared a thought for the master bedroom. And even if the photographer really was coming to shoot the whole house, I suspected the room that was also a crime scene was a must-see on his list.

I stepped inside and looked around.

Not bad. Not bad at all. The glossy black furniture showed every speck of dust, so I grabbed a wad of tissue from the bathroom, dampened it, and gave all the wood surfaces a quick dusting. We'd have to make that a daily chore. I plumped the fat black pillows on the bed and made sure the curtains hung evenly.

The room was curiously quiet—the soft black curtains and the thick red rug absorbed so much sound that the outside world felt curiously far away. I'd have hated sleeping in it, but I had to admit that if you liked the style, the room would probably be a soothing retreat.

One of Clay's paintings was not quite level. I was trying to straighten it when I heard a voice behind me.

“Wow, you guys really cleaned this place up.”

I whirled around and saw Jessica standing in the doorway.

She was holding a gun.

 

Chapter 23

“Yes,” I said. “We cleaned it up. You'd hardly know a murder happened here.”

Jessica looked ill-kempt and scruffy, as if she'd been sleeping in the clothes she was wearing and not remembering to comb her hair. And I wondered if she was on something. The hand holding the gun was shaking slightly. And was it just because of the dim light, or were her pupils unnaturally dilated?

“How did you get in here, anyway?” I asked. “We changed the locks.”

“Climbed a tree to get onto the roof,” she said. “And broke a window in my room. My old room. The one that creepy witch has painted all black and red.”

She must have done it after my tour of inspection, perhaps while I'd been busy taking photos. And maybe the noise I'd heard was her, not the raccoon on the deck.