The Nightingale Before Christmas (25 page)

I was surprised that the sketches he'd done of me were pretty accurate and made me look reasonably good. Violet and Sarah came off pretty well, too. And he had a sketch of Martha that was downright flattering. Flattering and noticeably younger than she was.

One sketch stopped me cold—a sketch of Clay himself. He'd been a handsome man. Not my type—too brooding and saturnine. But handsome. Probably a real heartbreaker when he was in his twenties, back in his New York art world days. Funny that I couldn't remember noticing his good looks when I'd first met him, probably because he'd barged into the middle of a conversation I'd been having with Sarah, intent on bullying me into something or other, and after that it was all downhill. Looking at his sketch made me sad. It was accurate enough, but somehow not the least bit flattering. I hadn't liked Clay, but I felt sorry for the man who'd drawn himself with such mockery, self-loathing, and pitiless honesty.

I couldn't understand why anyone with Clay's talent would give up his art. And I couldn't decide who to be angrier with: Clay, for doing so, or the killer who'd removed any hope that he'd ever change his mind.

The sketch of Clay was the last one in the book. No, wait—I flipped past several blank pages and came across another one.

Martha. But not the flattering version that had appeared earlier in the sketchbook. This one was a nude that showed every blemish, bulge, and bit of sagging skin with cruel precision. And her face didn't have the pleasant, almost dreamy look of the first sketch but a look of utter fury, as if he'd imagined how she'd react if he showed her the sketch. Imagined, or maybe seen?

And the pose—wasn't it curiously similar to the one in the unfinished painting in the attic? I pulled out my phone to check. No, not just similar. Exactly the same pose. Only with fifteen or twenty years added—that, and a whole lot of anger.

“Meg?” Aida called. “You coming?”

“On my way.”

If this were my sketchbook, I'd have torn out that last drawing. No one deserved to see that kind of hateful picture of herself. But it wasn't mine, so I tucked the sketchbook into my tote. If anyone challenged me on it, I could say that I was keeping my options open in case one of the paintings proved too big for its space. My permission form from the brother did say as much artwork as I needed, not just paintings. And in the meantime I could glance through it and learn more about Clay. And of course, I could always take it to the chief if I thought any of the sketches had any relevance to the murder case.

Out in the foyer, Randall was standing with his arms crossed, staring at the paintings.

“Someone wasn't taking his Prozac.” He shook his head as if throwing off a baneful influence. “I brought some furniture pads to wrap them in.”

Randall and I hauled the paintings back to the show house, and he helped me hang them.

“Looks good,” Randall said. “Not that I like the paintings all that much, but they look better here in this room. The red walls sort of keep them from being such a downer.”

“They're still a downer.”

Martha was standing in the doorway, glaring at us. She stepped into the room and did a quick survey. Was I only imagining it or did she relax just a little when she'd seen all three paintings. Did she know about the unfinished painting that was probably of her?

“Why'd you pick these paintings, anyway?” she asked.

“I didn't exactly pick them,” I said. “These three were the only ones he had.” At least the only paintings that were complete, and framed. It wasn't such a big lie.

“Seriously?” Martha asked.

I nodded.

“Damn,” she said. “I wonder what happened to the rest of them. He was prolific, once upon a time.” She made “prolific” sound like a put-down.

“Maybe he sold them all,” I suggested.

“No.” She shook her head. “Not a lot of his work is out in the market. Whoever owns these will make a mint on them, now that he's dead.”

“His brother will be happy to hear that,” I said. “It seems he's inherited these.”

“There could be others out there,” Martha said. “The chief should look into that. Follow the money. See if someone, like his dealer, has a stash of them ready to put on the market.”

“I thought Clay murdered his dealer,” I said.

She looked startled at that. Was she surprised that I knew? Or just surprised at my bluntness?

“True,” she said. “No use trying to contact his original dealer. But he could have gotten another one.”

“Unless he gave up painting entirely,” I suggested.

“Maybe he did.” She was staring at the cityscape now. “What a waste. All that talent gone.”

She didn't look as if she were sad over the waste. She looked as if she couldn't decide whether to feel envious of the talent or triumphant that its owner was dead.

“He was very talented,” I said.

“Yeah,” Martha said. “Always thought he was a cut above everyone else because he was an artist. And look at him now. He's dead, and the used-car salesman gets his precious paintings.”

She said it with such venom that I was speechless.

“Well, life goes on,” she said after a few moments. “And my rooms aren't going to finish themselves.”

She left.

“If you ask me,” Randall said, “she's lucky her alibi checks out.”

“You're sure it does?” I asked.

“The chief seems pretty focused on the Grangers right now,” Randall said. “And he's checking out the possibility that the killer was someone blackmailing Clay over his prison history.”

“That doesn't make sense,” I said.

“Does to me,” Randall said. “I'm not sure how all those rich clients of Clay's would feel if they found out they were hiring an ex-con. And a convicted murderer, no less.”

“Yeah, but why would the blackmailer kill Clay?” I asked. “Clay killing the blackmailer, maybe. But why would the blackmailer kill the goose that's laying golden eggs?”

“Clay had a temper,” Randall said. “Maybe they quarreled, and the blackmailer killed him in self-defense.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Anyway, not our problem. I hereby declare this room finished. And in the nick of time.”

“Today's not the nick of time,” he said. “That would be tomorrow morning, when the photographer rings the doorbell.”

He picked up his tools and tarps and headed for the door.

“I bet you'll be glad to work on something other than this house,” I said, as I followed him downstairs.

“Will I ever,” he said. “But that's water under the bridge. If we can just keep from having any fresh disasters, maybe we can make us some money for the historical society.”

I noticed he tapped lightly on the woodwork as he said it.

“Assuming anyone wants to come to a show house where someone was murdered,” I said.

“Oh, they'll come all right,” he said. “It's the notoriety. Like having our shindig in Lizzie Borden's old house.”

“Lizzie Borden's a lot more famous than whoever killed Clay will ever be.”

“Yeah, but we've got recent and local on our side,” he said. “No, I'm not worried about people coming to the show house. Now, the bank's a little worried about who's going to buy the house. It's one thing to visit a famous murder scene and another to live in it.”

“Fortunately, not our problem,” I said.

“Fortunately,” he agreed. “I expect someone will buy it sooner or later, given the housing shortage here in town. And I have to say, it's been an interesting house to work on.”

“With all these different personalities, you mean?”

“And interesting in and of itself,” he said. “Didn't I ever tell you about all the hidey-holes we found?”

“Hidey-holes?”

“Secret compartments all over the house. Like in the back of one of the kitchen cabinets there was a false panel you could slide up to find a little hollowed out place between the studs. And in the master bath, if you took the drawers out of the vanity you'd find a door to another hiding place under the eaves. And in the front bedroom, the one that now looks like Dracula's castle, one on either side of the window seat. Someone had fun with it, making secret compartments every place where most houses would have little pockets of dead air and lost space. And there were a couple of places you could lift up floorboards to find secret compartments. All told, a couple dozen hidey-holes.”

“What was in them?”

“Nothing,” he said. “We'd get excited every time we found one. Me and the boys spent hours, poking and prodding to find every single secret hidey-hole. But not a single one of them had anything inside but dust.”

“Not by the time you got to them,” I said slowly. “But what if there was something in them at one time?”

“I'm sure there was, sometime or other,” he said. “I was thinking most likely a drug dealer built them to hide his stash.”

“Or a miser who didn't trust banks,” I suggested. “Or a woman who wanted to keep her jewelry with her instead of putting it in a bank vault. Or maybe just someone who thought they were cool and would amuse the kids by hiding toys and candy in them.”

“That's an idea,” he said, chuckling. “Make it sound all romantic. Maybe the bank will have an easier time selling the house if people think there's gold and jewels hidden away inside it.”

“Maybe that's the reason for all the vandalism that happened in the house this fall,” I said. “Maybe it wasn't really vandalism—maybe someone suspected there might be secret compartments and broke into the house to look for them.”

“Well, they did find a couple of the compartments,” he said. “Looked like an accident to me, though. And a lot of the damage wasn't to anything that could possibly have a secret compartment in it. Just pure meanness.”

“Maybe that's what you were meant to think,” I said. “If I didn't want anyone to know I was breaking down a wall to find a secret compartment in it, maybe I'd just do a lot of random damage all around.”

Randall looked thoughtful.

“They were pretty persistent,” he said. “Kept trying to break in even after Chief Burke put on extra patrols in the area. I suggested putting in a security system—the bank wasn't too crazy about the expense, but I think they'd have gone for it eventually. Then the idea of the show house came up, and I figured whoever was doing it was scared off by all the activity—first me and my workmen, and then all the decorators.”

“Who used to live in the house?” I asked.

“Nobody,” he said. “Like I said, it's been vacant—”

“For six years, yes,” I said. “But before that?”

“Family named Green,” he said. “Not from around here, and they moved away after the bank took their house. Why?”

“What if one of the Greens is trying to find something they left here?” I asked. “In one of those hidey-holes?”

“Something that's still here after six years?”

“What if Clay wasn't killed because anyone had a grudge against him but because he was unlucky enough to be here when the prowler broke in?”

He thought about it for a few moments.

“No crazier than some of the other stuff I've seen lately. Tell the chief, and maybe he can track down the Greens.”

“Randall?” It was Mother. “Could I borrow you for just a moment?”

“Later,” he said to me as he followed Mother.

I went upstairs and looked around the master bedroom. I brushed a few specks of dust off the glossy black dresser and plumped the pillows on the bed. I was starting to feel a little bit proprietary about the room.

What would I do if I walked in and found someone hacking at its walls with an ax? I liked to think I'd retreat to safety and call 9-1-1. But Clay had a hot temper.

“We need to find out more about the Greens,” I murmured.

 

Chapter 21

I was sure the chief could easily track down the Greens if he wanted to. But he might be too busy interrogating the Grangers right now. Which was fine if either Felicia or Jerry turned out to be the killer, but I wasn't sure I believed that. Or maybe he was looking for whoever had been blackmailing Clay, but I wasn't sure I believed that either—at least not as a motive for the murder.

It occurred to me that while it would be up to the chief to track them down, I might be able to find out a little bit about the Greens. All I needed to do was find a neighbor who'd been living here six years ago.

I stepped outside, went down the front walk to the edge of the street, and looked up and down.

Which house to try first?

I started with the house directly across the street. It would have the best view of the former Green house. There weren't any cars in the driveway, but some people do keep their garages tidy enough to have room for cars. But after several minutes of knocking and waiting, with no answer, I gave up and strolled back to the sidewalk to try again.

The house to the left of the one I'd just tried hadn't even had its front walk or driveway plowed, so I marked that off my mental list. But the one to the right had a shoveled walk and driveway. It was smaller and older than most of the houses in the neighborhood. I decided to try it.

I was delighted when the door opened to reveal an alert old lady wearing a purple velour top and matching leggings.

“Good morning,” I said. “I'm Meg Langslow, the organizer for the show house the historical society is putting on across the way.”

She cocked her head slightly, as if curious, but took my offered hand.

“Emily Warren,” she said. “What can I do for you?”

“Mrs. Warren, did you know the people who used to live in the show house?”

“Emily,” she said. “And yes, I did. In the neighborhood, we still call it the Green house. Would you like to come in?”

I followed her into a neat living room. The furniture was faded and well-worn, but both the television and the exercise bike in front of it were shiny and new, and from the size of her framed photo collection she must have had at least a dozen assorted grandchildren.