The Nightingale Before Christmas (27 page)

“Oh, no!” It was Sarah's voice, coming from the study. I peeked in and saw her mourning over a green banker's lamp whose glass shade was now smashed into about a million pieces. “Damn—my foot caught on the cord.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Is it going to be hard to get a replacement?”

“I could drive down to Richmond and get one,” she said. “But not by ten a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“But the house doesn't open until—oh. The photographer.”

“It just won't work without the lamp.”

I tried to think of a way to suggest that while the room might not precisely match the vision in her head and in her sketches, the readers of the
Richmond Times-Dispatch
would still find it enchanting. But I'd figured out by now that the designers didn't find such suggestions the least bit comforting and that it was best to stick to practical assistance.

“We have a banker's lamp,” I said. “In Michael's office. We could lend it to you.”

Sarah looked dubious.

“There are banker's lamps and banker's lamps,” she said. “They're not all the same.”

“Yes, there are vintage originals and hideously expensive reproductions and cheap knockoffs,” I said. “I think ours is a hideously expensive reproduction.”

“Well.” She sounded less dubious.

“Mother picked it out,” I said. “To go with our Arts and Crafts décor in the library and Michael's office.”

“Oh, well, then it should be fine. When can I get it?”

I checked my watch.

“I have to take something to town right now,” I said. “I'll swing by the house and get it. I might have time to bring it here before Michael's show, and if not, I'll drop it off on my way home. How late will you be here?”

“Not much longer,” she said. “Dinner with the boyfriend's family. But text me when it's here, and I'll drop by on my way home from that.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And when you pick it up, could you just send me a photo of it?” she asked. “It'll make me feel better, seeing it.”

“Can do,” I said. “Now I really have to run.”

Of course, since I was in a hurry, I found myself behind one of the horse-drawn carriages Randall had organized to drive parties of tourists around the town. After a quick surge of impatience, I reminded myself that they weren't going all that much below the speed limit and focused on trying to see Caerphilly as the tourists were seeing it. Everyone, tourists and residents alike, waved as the carriages rolled past, with their hundreds of sleigh bells jingling and their red, green, and gold ribbons dancing in the breeze. And when two carriages passed, the drivers, well-bundled in their heavy Victorian greatcoats, stood and bowed to each other.

The boys would love this, I thought. Michael and I should take them. Maybe on Christmas eve, after the house was open.

Just then I noticed that one of the carriages was filled with people in Victorian costume. What was up with that, anyway? I'd thought the whole idea of the carriages was to charge the tourists a modest fee for the ride, not for parties of our costumed reenactors to ride around waving at the crowds.

But when I got a closer look, I realized that these weren't our costumed reenactors. They were tourists, dressed up in Victorian costume. Randall would be delighted to hear that people were joining in the fun, rather than simply watching it.

In fact, when I scanned the crowds lining the streets, I realized there were a lot more costumed people than there had been at the beginning of the season, and a lot of them were buying roasted chestnuts, drinking cider and cocoa, peering into shop windows, and hauling overflowing shopping bags, just like their more modernly dressed fellow tourists. Yes, Christmas in Caerphilly was booming.

I was smiling when I strolled into the police station, partly from the holiday cheer on the way over and partly because what I was bringing the chief was as good as a Christmas present.

As I anticipated, the chief was delighted to get the sketch.

“Not someone I've ever seen around town,” he said, after studying it for a few moments. “You think it's a good likeness?”

“An awesome likeness.”

“Sammy,” he called. “Let's get this into the scanner and out over the wires.”

“Have you found out anything about the family who used to live in the show house?” I asked.

“We have,” the chief said. “Apparently Mr. Green was doing something risky and possibly illegal with mortgage-backed securities, and lost not only all of his money but a great deal of money belonging to a lot of other people. And the house sat empty for so long because a lot of his creditors were busy suing each other over who had first claim to it.”

“And the Bank of Caerphilly ultimately prevailed?” I said. “Yay for the home team.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “By that time the house was in poor condition, so Randall's offer to fix it up so it could be used for the show house was a godsend to them. But none of this has brought us any closer to locating Ms. Green, and so far we've found no connection between her family and our victim, either in his Clay Smith days or as Claiborne Spottiswood.”

“I bet he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “So what happened to the rest of the Greens? The parents and the brother?”

“Mr. Green was convicted of several dozen counts of fraud and has been in a federal prison for the last five years,” the chief said. “Mrs. Green died of cancer four years ago. And young Zachary was convicted of vehicular manslaughter three years ago and is currently incarcerated in Red Onion State Prison.”

“Red Onion?” I echoed. “Isn't that—”

“The Commonwealth of Virginia's highest security prison, yes,” the chief said. “And usually you have to do something rather nastier than vehicular manslaughter to earn a place there, but apparently young Master Zachary has not been a model prisoner.”

“Then where has Jessica been?” I asked. “Living with relatives? In foster care?”

“Still working on that.” He sounded frustrated. “It's only been a couple of hours, you know. But I think we can safely say that she did not have a happy, normal childhood.”

“Chief?” Sammy had returned and looked eager to talk to the chief.

“I'll get out from underfoot,” I said.

As I was walking out to my car, Michael called.

“I'm at the house,” he said. “Taking off in a few minutes—anything you want me to bring with me?”

“Yes!” I said. “The green banker's lamp from your office.”

A short silence.

“Okay,” he said. “I assume someone at the show house needs to borrow a banker's lamp. I was thinking more along the lines of a change of clothes. The boys are off sledding with Rob and your father, who are going to bring them directly to the theater for tonight's show, so I'm packing up presentable clothes for them—if you're not going to have time to get back here—”

“Perfect,” I said. “The red velvet dress—nice and Christmassy, but not long enough that the hem will drag in the snow.”

“Your wish is my command,” he said. “And I will also pack suitable footwear and jewelry. See you at the theater.”

I paused for a moment to feel thankful for having a husband who was not only capable of selecting suitable shoes and accessories but arguably had better taste than I did. And now I actually had a few minutes of breathing space. I decided to call Dad and see how the sledding was going.

“What's wrong?” he said, by way of a greeting.

“Nothing's wrong,” I said. “Can't a girl call her dad to ask how he's doing and whether his grandchildren are enjoying the sledding?”

“They're having a blast,” he said. “Hang on. Josh! Jamie! Let's send Mommy a picture. Come here! Smile!”

“Hi, Mommy!” Jamie called.

“Mommy, I sledded all the way all by myself!” Josh called.

My phone pinged to announce an arriving text, and I toggled over to look at the photo. The boys were smiling with delight. I could see the gap in Jamie's mouth where he'd lost his first baby tooth, while Josh's smile remained, to his consternation, unbroken.

“Come sledding, Mommy,” Jamie said.

“Next time,” I said.

And I meant it. As I chatted with Dad, and then with each of the boys, I vowed that I wouldn't even go near the show house next year.

“Mommy,” Josh asked. “Do you like Nerf guns?”

“Not really,” I said. “I'm not that fond of any kind of gun, not even Nerf guns.”

“Oh.” Evidently I'd squashed another present idea. He sounded so disappointed that I was almost tempted to take back my answer, but I reminded myself what would happen if we let Nerf guns into the house, and stood firm.

“I'll see you at the theater,” I said finally.

My car seemed depressingly quiet after we hung up.

So I started the engine and headed over to the theater. There would be lights and people to talk to. People who didn't know passementerie from pizza and didn't care.

On the way over to the theater, it occurred to me that if I could find someone with a laptop and a connection to the college's wireless network, I could log into my e-mail and check out some of the information Boomer had sent. Not that I'd have much time.

By the time I found a parking space and rushed to the theater, Michael had arrived, and Dad with the boys, and I spent most of the time until the show started getting them and myself into presentable clothes.

I could log in and check Boomer's info when I got home. After all, it was beginning to look as if Clay's murder had more to do with the house's past than his own. But just in case any of Boomer's information was relevant, I took out my phone and forwarded his e-mail to the chief.

Dad and I took the boys out to the theater lobby, so they could watch all the people handing in their tickets to see their daddy's play. Josh had run into his nursery school teacher and was telling her his version of the entire plot of
A Christmas Carol
. Jamie had encountered a school friend who'd broken his arm while sledding and was now sporting a bright red cast. Fortunately, Dad recognized the early warning signs of cast envy, and was trying to nip it in the bud by interrogating the friend about how painful his broken arm had been and loudly sympathizing with him over all the exciting things he couldn't do until he got his cast off.

“Mission accomplished.” I turned to see Randall standing behind me, holding out what looked like a small branch of plastic holly, complete with red berries. Upon closer inspection, I realized there was a bright red key attached.

“A nice, festive touch,” I said as I took the key.

“The holly should make it harder to lose,” he said.

“Or steal,” I added.

“Exactly. Some of the designers have them, and I'll be there bright and early to distribute the rest. For the usual deposit, refundable upon return of key and holly.”

With that he saluted and strolled off into the crowd.

“Meg?” someone said behind me. “I just wanted to say I'm sorry.”

I turned to see Kate Banks, Sarah's partner, standing behind me.

“How are you?” I said. “And sorry about what?”

“Because maybe if I hadn't given Sarah my gun, you wouldn't have had someone murdered in your show house.”

“Or maybe whoever killed him would have found some other weapon,” I said. “We don't actually know that it was your gun. Why the gun, by the way?”

“I was scared of him,” Kate said. “I thought Sarah should be. Have you ever seen him lose it?”

I shook my head.

“Be glad you never will,” she said. “And the time he got mad at me—it was in a public place, at the Caerphilly Home and Garden Show, and I was still afraid he'd lose control and do something. And she was going to be in that house with him—maybe even alone with him. And he was an ex-con—did you know that?”

“I did,” I said. “But did you have reason to think he had it in for Sarah?”

“He was stealing clients,” she said. “Trying to, anyway. From us—from everyone. He pulled a real fast one on us. We did a proposal for a client, and the client wanted a bunch of changes. Somehow he got hold of our proposal and my notes for the changes the client wanted, and before you know it, we were down one client. ‘He understands me soooo well,'” she cooed, obviously in imitation of the client. “‘He knows what I want without my even having to tell him.'”

“Creep,” I said. “But I don't see why that would make him mad at Sarah.”

“She outed him to the client.”

“Go Sarah!”

“And took a video with her iPhone of him making fun of the client and posted it on YouTube,” Kate said. “So yeah, I think it's fair to assume he had it in for her. If she'd been the victim, I'd have said, look at Clay.”

“So who do you think killed him?” I asked. “Most of the designers in the house are alibied.”

“Not every designer who hated him is in the house,” she said. “There's a few others in Caerphilly that he's had run-ins with. And a few in Tappahannock. And lots and lots in Richmond. Ask Martha—she knew him back when he was there. Ask her.”

“I will,” I said. Actually, I made a mental note to make sure the chief knew about Clay and Martha's pre-Caerphilly connection. Hunting down every designer in Virginia who might have a grudge against Clay was a job for the police.

“And don't forget all the other people he ticked off,” she said. “Contractors, vendors, clients.”

Definitely a police job.

“Anyway—I wanted to apologize,” she said. “We'd better get our seats—they're dimming the lights.”

I rejoined Dad and the boys and we trooped in to take our seats.

The boys seemed just as fascinated by the show as they had been the previous night. How lucky for us that they were still in that golden age when they idolized Michael and everything he did.