The Nightingale Before Christmas (30 page)

“No,” I said. The thought of her slashing those three paintings was curiously disturbing.

“It's going to be tough on your mother,” she said. “When she comes over and sees you lying dead in the ruins of her room. I feel almost sorry for her, even though I know she had a hand in trying to cut me out of the house.”

She didn't sound sorry. And she was dead wrong. Mother had much preferred her to Clay. It was only thanks to Mother's intervention that she'd gotten the rooms she had. But she'd never believe it.

“Nothing I can do about that,” Martha went on, as she headed for the archway that led to the hall. She stopped, looked back, and smiled at the devastation around us. “Before you know it—”

Something large, shiny, and metallic emerged from the shadows of the hallway and hit the top of her head. She stiffened and then slumped to the floor.

Ivy was standing in the doorway, holding the heavy bronze umbrella stand. She set the umbrella stand down, then bent over to take both the ax and the gun from Martha. Then she walked over, sat down on the floor beside me, and started untying my passementerie bonds.

“Thank God you stopped her,” I said. “But where did you come from? I had no idea you were even here!”

“No one ever does,” she said, with a faint smile, as she pulled away the last strands of passementerie.

 

Chapter 25

Ivy had quite sensibly called 9-1-1 before tackling Martha. By the time the police arrived, I had checked both Jessica and Martha and relayed their condition over the phone to Debbie Ann. Jessica was unconscious but breathing normally and I didn't find much blood. Maybe her wound was only minor, and it had hit her hard because of her agitated or even drugged state. A problem for the medics, when they arrived. Martha's head wasn't bleeding, but then, head wounds don't always, and she could easily have a concussion or even a subdural hematoma. I hoped the ambulance arrived soon. I wouldn't mourn too much if Martha died, but I suspected that killing someone, even to save a life, would hit Ivy hard. Then again, maybe I was underestimating Ivy. If she really had been the timid soul we all thought she was, I'd be dead by now.

Ivy had found a roll of duct tape and trussed up their ankles. We decided maybe binding their wrists was overkill, since both of them were still unconscious, and it might interfere with whatever the EMTs would want to do. Though just to be safe, we also taped their ankles to heavy things—Jessica's to what remained of the Christmas tree and Martha's to the more-intact of the two sofas.

Martha came around enough to start yelling just as the first police officer, Aida Butler, strode in the door, gun in hand.

“You bitch!” Martha roared, clapping her hands to her head.

“Not a really smart thing to say to a lady armed with forty-five-caliber semiautomatic weapon,” Aida said.

“I think she means me,” Ivy said, with a shy smile.

“She tried to kill me!” Martha roared, and she followed it up with a string of expletives.

“Please be quiet, ma'am,” Aida said.

Martha continued her X-rated tirade.

“Ma'am,” Aida said, stepping into Martha's field of vision. “Please be quiet, or I will be forced to arrest you for obstructing a police officer—”

Instead of shutting up, Martha increased her volume, and then she grabbed the umbrella stand Ivy had used to hit her and threw it at Aida. I winced, and mentally kicked myself for not moving it out of Martha's reach. But who knew she'd regain consciousness so quickly? The umbrella stand hit Aida's shin and then dropped down on her toe.

“Aiiieee!” Aida screamed. And then “Rainbows! Rainbows! Rainbows!”

For some reason, this seemed to unnerve Martha, and she finally shut up.

Just in time.

“What's going on here?”

Chief Burke had arrived.

Things happened fast. More officers arrived—almost every officer on the force—and the paramedics along with them. Chief Burke hustled Ivy into the dining room and me into Sarah's study, so I got to watch through the French doors while first Jessica and then Martha were hauled off to the ambulance.

Should I call Michael? I didn't want to wake him if he'd dropped off to sleep. Or worry him by not calling if he was still waiting up. I pulled out my phone and texted him. “I'm OK. Coming home as soon as I can.”

I lay back in the red-velvet armchair and worked on the deep breathing Rose Noire was always telling me I should do more of whenever I felt stressed. I really wanted to be somewhere else—anywhere else, thinking about anything other than crazy Jessica and murderous Martha. I'd have found it very comforting to pull out my notebook and start making lists, but I'd long ago figured out that most people looked at me oddly if they saw me busily making lists in the middle of a stressful situation—like almost being murdered. But still, it would be some comfort to work on a mental list of tasks I'd need to do to get the show house moving. Like calling to postpone the photographer. And finding out from the chief when we could have the house back. And coming up with a plan for Mother's room.

Mother's room.

I watched as Horace came in. He stood few minutes in the archway to the living room, obviously in shock, before plunging into the room to start his forensic work.

Part of me wanted to start dealing with Mother's room, and part of me just wanted to go home, check on the boys, curl up in bed beside Michael, and sleep for the next twelve hours.

I was not looking forward to being interviewed by the chief.

“Don't worry.” It was Aida, coming through the front door. “She's fine.”

“I want to see for myself.” Michael followed Aida in.

I ran out into the hall and threw myself at him.

“Are you okay?” he whispered.

“I'm fine,” I said. “And I am definitely not doing the show house next year. If there even is a show house after this. Where are the boys?”

“Home with Mom,” he said. “They'll be fine and—oh, my God. Your mother's room. It's a disaster.”

“We need to find Dad, and make sure he's here when she sees it,” I said.

Michael nodded.

The chief stepped into the room.

“Meg, I know you're pretty tired,” he said. “But if I could just ask you a few questions…”

“I'll tell you all about it,” I said.

It took a while, of course. And the whole while I was talking to him I could see people coming and going. Aida. Sammy. All the other town law enforcement officers. Randall. All of them, when they saw the great room for the first time, stopped dead in their tracks and stared for a few moments before shaking their heads.

“I think that should do it,” the chief said finally, standing up.

Seeing that we were finishing, Randall Shiffley opened one French door and stepped in.

“Good news from the hospital,” he said. “Both nut jobs will live to stand trial.”

“That's good,” the chief said.

“What now?” I asked.

“Now?” The chief looked startled. “Go home and get some sleep.”

“I need to start doing something about that room as soon as you release it,” I said.

“Meg,” Michael began.

“I can't let Mother see it like that,” I said. “Chief, promise me you won't let Mother in until we clean it up a little bit.”

“As soon as the chief releases it, I'll be here with my crew,” Randall said. “I'll bring in as many cousins as it takes, and she won't see it like this.”

“I'll send a deputy over to your parents' at first light, to break the news to her,” the chief said. “And I won't let your mother into the crime scene until you're back to help her cope. But for now, you need to get some rest.”

“I won't sleep a wink,” I muttered to Michael as we walked out to the Twinmobile.

“Just close your eyes and rest then,” he said.

I slept so soundly he almost couldn't wake me up when we got home.

And woke up well before dawn, already worrying.

 

Chapter 26

December 23

“It's not even seven,” Michael mumbled as he watched me pull on my clothes.

“I have to get over there before Mother sees her room.” I raced downstairs and into the kitchen to grab something to eat.

Michael followed me.

“And I need to figure out how to fix it,” I said over my shoulder as I stuck a cup of water with a tea bag in it into the microwave.

“You've got Randall and his workmen,” he said. “They can fix most of the damage.”

“They can fix the walls and the woodwork.” I rummaged through the fridge for a yogurt. “But I'm pretty sure they can't sew or do upholstery.”

“You go over to the show house and help your mother through the shock of seeing the room,” he said. “I think I can find you a few people to do a bit of sewing. Leave it to me.”

“Thanks,” I said. And then the microwave dinged, so I snagged my tea and the yogurt and dashed out the door.

There weren't quite as many police vehicles at the house when I got there. Only two patrol cars and the chief's blue sedan. That was a good sign, wasn't it? I also spotted three trucks from the Shiffley Construction Company parked in front and a Dumpster in the driveway. A dozen tall, lanky Shiffleys in boots, jeans, and heavy jackets leaned against the trucks with carryout coffee cups in their hands or stood in twos and threes on the sidewalk. Two shorter forms, heavily bundled, were barely recognizable as Tomás and Mateo. Eustace stood by them, blowing on his hands.

Randall ambled over to my car.

“Good,” he said. “I was just debating whether to call you. Chief's going to release the house any minute now. And if it's okay with you, we'll start hauling off the trash and repairing the damage as soon as he does. Of course, all we can do is get the room back to where it was when your Mother started it. Decorating's not something we can do.”

“We're working on some plans,” I said. At least Michael was.

The front door opened. Chief Burke stepped out.

“All yours,” he said.

Things started happening. Tomás and Mateo and the Shiffleys swarmed into the house. I followed, a little more slowly.

“Okay, boys,” Randall said. “First thing we do is haul all this trash out. Meg, you want to take charge of rescuing stuff that can be reused?”

They were just getting started when one of the Shiffleys came running in.

“Meg? Your parents are here.”

Mother followed close on his heels. She burst into the hallway, and when she saw me, she rushed over and gave me a fierce hug.

“I'm okay,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “And as long as you're okay, everything else will be fine.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I'm afraid we're going to have a bit of work to do in your room.”

“My room?” She turned and took a few steps toward the archway. We all froze. She didn't react for several long moments, and then she burst into tears.

“My room,” she keened. “My beautiful room.”

I must have heard every designer in the show house say the same thing at some time over the last few days, but never with so much cause.

Jessica had knocked over the giant Christmas tree. At least three quarters of the delicate glass ornaments had been broken, either in the fall or when she hacked the tree into dozens of pieces. Giant gouges marred the walls, where there were still walls—in some places Jessica had ripped away great stretches of wallboard. She had knocked over and broken lamps, end tables, and vases. She'd attacked chairs and sofas so fiercely that every one of them was missing at least one leg and cotton stuffing spilled out through gaping slashes in the upholstery. She'd smashed the mirror over the fireplace and several panes of glass. She'd even hacked great holes and tears in the beautiful oriental carpet.

“It's ruined,” Mother said.

“We can fix it,” I said.

“Not by tomorrow morning,” Mother said. “It's taken me weeks.”

“Darlin' you need to sit down.” Eustace gently took Mother's arm and began steering her into the kitchen. “You come in here and have a cup of tea. Your family's going to fix your room up for you.”

He was looking straight at me.

Why me? Didn't getting tied up and almost murdered entitle me to a little time off?

“It's beyond fixing,” Mother moaned.

“No it's not,” I said.

Mother stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. And suddenly I had the answer to “why me?” Because I might not be the only person who could get Mother's room fixed, but I was the only person she'd trust to do it. And also because every year I agonized over what to get her for Christmas, and always watched her face when she unwrapped her present, worrying that she was merely a consummate actress when she beamed and told me “I love it.” If I could pull this off, I wouldn't have the slightest doubt when she proclaimed this “the best Christmas ever.”

“We'll fix it,” I said. “The best we can. We can't put it back the way it was. But we'll make it beautiful.”

She smiled wanly and followed Eustace into the kitchen. I heard him fussing over her like a mother hen with a wayward chick.

“So, what do we do?” Dad asked.

He was also looking at me.

They all were.

Thank goodness Michael strode in just then. Rose Noire, Sarah, and Vermillion were on his heels.

“Okay, folks,” I said. “We've got till ten a.m. tomorrow.”

“And a lot of help is on the way,” Michael added.

“Okay,” I said. “Here goes. Unbroken stuff into the study—if that's okay with you, Sarah? There can't be that much.”

She nodded.

“Broken stuff that might be repairable to the garage. All the other trash goes into the Dumpster. Someone find a box and collect the Christmas ornaments that aren't broken. More instructions later, but for now, let's clean up this room. Dad, hang on—I have a special mission for you.”