Текст книги "The Nightingale Before Christmas"

Автор книги: Donna Andrews

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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.

She sat down in what I suspected was her customary end of the sofa, surrounded by her TV remote, a half-completed crossword puzzle, and a tote bag full of knitting. I took the chair at right angles to it.

“Quite a lot of excitement thanks to you folks,” she remarked.

“Not the sort of excitement you want,” I said. “I’m sure it’s quite upsetting for everyone, having a murder in the neighborhood.”

“Well, it’s not as if he lived here, and from what I hear, he was a wrong ’un. Not that that’s any excuse for killing another human being, but in this life we reap what we sow, don’t we?”

I could get to like Emily.

“Chief Burke was over here yesterday, asking me if I’d seen or heard anything that night,” she went on. “But I go to bed early, and I take out my hearing aids, so I was of no use to him.”

“I was actually trying to find out some information about the Green family,” I said. “It only just occurred to me that some of the people who come to see the house might want to know about the family that used to live there, and so far I haven’t found anyone who knew them.”

“I knew them,” she said. “Not well, but probably as well as anyone who’s still living here. They moved in—let’s see. Twenty years ago this summer. Bob and Carol Green. In their thirties—seemed like a nice couple. They had a little boy when they moved in, and the little girl was born shortly afterward.”

“What were the children’s names?” I asked. Not that the children’s names seemed at all relevant, but I needed to keep up the pretense of working up a short history of the house.

“The boy was Zachary,” she said. “Nice when old-fashioned names come back in style, isn’t it? And the girl was Jessica.”

“Jessica? You’re sure?” I had to struggle to conceal my excitement at this bit of information.

“Quite sure,” she said. “I always liked the name. On account of Jessica Tandy. You remember her.”

“The original Blanche Dubois in A Streetcar Named Desire,” I said. “Of course.”

“Very good, dear,” she said. “Most people only remember her as the old crone in Driving Miss Daisy.”

“My husband’s in the drama department at the college,” I said.

“That explains it. Yes, the little Green girl was Jessica. Popular name—we had two or three other Jessicas about the same age. And at least one boy named Jesse. But I could keep Jessica Green straight because she was a redhead, and half the time her mother dressed her in bright green, to match her eyes.”

I couldn’t wait to tell Chief Burke that I’d probably identified the fugitive Jessica.

“When did they move away?” I asked.

“Six years ago—it’ll be seven in March,” she said. “And they didn’t just move away—there was quite a to-do! Bob Green did something in the stock market, and they always seemed quite well off. I half expected them to move into one of those starter castles over on the other side of town—you know the ones I mean?”

I nodded.

“They had three or four cars, and a boat, and they were always giving elegant, catered parties.” Emily went on. “They kept horses in the field behind the house. They even broke ground for a pool in the backyard. But then something happened, and the pool stayed a hole in the ground, and the horses left, and the fancy cars were replaced with more practical ones, and the caterers stopped coming. One day they were gone. I heard the bank foreclosed on the house. And I got the feeling a lot of people in the neighborhood weren’t too happy with Mr. Green. People who’d invested with him.”

“I guess the bank had the half-finished pool filled in,” I said.

“I expect the insurance company insisted,” Emily said. “And the stable was practically falling down, too, so they tore that down as well. Frankly, a lot of us in the neighborhood were glad to see your lot show up. We were starting to worry that the bank would just wait till the house fell apart so they could tear it down and sell the land for condos.”

“So there’s no one here who really resents the designers, then?” I asked.

“A few people aren’t keen on all the traffic that’s going to happen when the house opens,” she said. “But even they know that’s short term, and if fixing up the house and having people tromp through helps sell it, all the better. It’s bad for the neighborhood, having an abandoned house. An open invitation to squatters, or mischievous teens. Ask Chief Burke—we have a recurring problem with break-ins over there.”

“Recently?”

“Not since your people came,” she said. “But four or five times this fall.”

“That matches what I’ve heard,” I said. “Emily—do know know anything about all the secret compartments in the house?”

“Secret compartments?” She tilted her head as if not sure if I was serious.

“Randall Shiffley calls them hidey-holes. Secret compartments built into the walls or the floor. A lot of them. A couple of dozen, all through the house. He found them when they were repairing the house.”

“I never heard about any secret compartments,” she said. “Of course, I didn’t get invited over there much. I was never what you’d call socially prominent, and they were trying to be. But I think I’d have heard if anyone in the neighborhood had seen secret compartments. Maybe that’s what happened to all the money people are supposed to have lost with him.”

“I thought he lost it in the market,” I said.

“Maybe he only told his investors that,” she said. “Maybe instead of investing their money he converted it into Krugerrands, and hid them in the secret compartments until he was ready to run away.”

“Kruggerrands?”

“You know, those South African gold coins—very popular with these shady criminal types, I hear, if they’re planning to make a fast exit. Or diamonds. Although you’d think if they had any diamonds they’d have managed to finish the pool.”

“I’ll share that theory with Chief Burke, if you like.” I probably would. It wasn’t any crazier than some of the theories I’d come up with.

“Well, I should let you go,” she said, glancing at the clock. And then at her TV remote, so I deduced that something she wanted to watch was about to start.

“Thanks for the information,” I said. “We’ll have to figure out how much to say about the Greens in our tours.”

“Probably as little as possible,” Emily said. “People like that always come out of the woodwork and threaten to sue if you say the least thing against them.”

“If you’re interested in seeing what the designers have done to the house, drop by,” I said. “I’ll leave a ticket for you.”

“Thank you, dear.” Emily’s eyes gleamed with real enthusiasm. “I do love house and garden tours—nothing more fun than peeking in on how other people live.”

She ushered me out and waved a cheerful good-bye from the doorway.

I headed back to the house with an interesting new theory. And I knew the minute I walked back into the house, I’d get caught up in the madness. So I stopped by my car, leaned against the bumper, and called the chief.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“Something right, I hope,” I said. “I have an idea who Jessica, the fake reporter, really is.”

“I’m listening.”

And listening rather irritably, by the sound of it.

“You know the people who used to own the house before the bank foreclosed on it? The Greens?”

A small pause.

“I know of them,” he said. “I never met them, and I understand they’re no longer living in town. Haven’t been here for six years. Do you think they had something to do with the murder?”

“I talked to a little old lady across the street. Emily Warren.”

“The one-woman neighborhood watch,” he said. “I know Mrs. Warren.”

“She didn’t know the Greens that well,” I said. “But did remember that they had a daughter born shortly after they moved in. A redheaded daughter named Jessica. She remembered the name particularly because of Jessica Tandy.”

“Jessica Tan—oh. Driving Miss Daisy. One of Morgan Freeman’s finer roles. The fact that that he didn’t win an Academy Award for that role—but I digress. So you think the Jessica who pretended to be a student reporter was Jessica Green?”

“It makes sense,” I said. “And I remember something—Jessica was very upset when she saw what Vermillion was doing. I thought she was creeped out by all the Goth stuff, but maybe that wasn’t it. She talked about it being a perfectly nice bedroom and Vermillion was turning it into something out of the Addams Family. What if she was upset because Vermillion had done such a drastic remodel to her childhood bedroom?”

“I don’t think you need to have grown up in the house to find Miss Vermillion’s décor peculiar,” the chief said. “But go on.”

“And she was there at the house when Violet lost her key again—Violet was always losing keys. What if Violet didn’t lose her key that day? If Jessica picked it up, she’d have a perfect way to get back into the house that night. And she was also there when we were all dragging stuff out of Sarah’s room. She helped. She could have picked up the hidden gun.”

The chief said nothing for rather a long time. I was sure he was about to weigh in and demolish my suspicions with some bit of evidence he hadn’t shared with the public. Or announce that one of the Grangers had already confessed.

“I was already eager to talk to the missing Jessica,” he said. “She has just risen to the top of my priority list. I’m going to see what’s taking that sketch artist so long. I’ll call you as soon as he gets here.”

“I’m going to have Randall arrange to have the house rekeyed,” I said. “The designers have been strewing keys around like confetti for weeks now. I’ll feel a lot better if we know that Jessica can’t just waltz in with her own key.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “And read the riot act to everyone in the house about locking up.”

“Will do.”

Randall was still in the living room with Mother, helping Tomás and Mateo with something.

“Mother, I hate to interrupt, but we have an urgent project. Randall, the chief thinks it’s a good idea for us to rekey all the locks here, in case whoever killed Clay has a key to the house.”

“Does he have some reason for thinking that’s likely?” Randall asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Long story. I’ll fill you in later. Just get those locks rekeyed as soon as you can.”

“I’m on it.”

I went back to the hall and looked for Ivy. She wasn’t downstairs in the foyer. Or in the upstairs hall. I was opening the broom closet and peeking in, to see if she might be hiding there. No. Maybe in the basement—

“Meg?”

I started, and turned to find Ivy behind me.

“Do you need something?”

“Yes,” I said. “You.”

She looked startled.

“Look, I know you’re very busy,” I said. “I hate to interrupt your work, but could you do a quick sketch for me? It’s really important.”

“Of course,” she said. “What do you want me to draw?”

“Remember Jessica, the young woman who was hanging around the house two days ago?”

“Interviewing us for the student paper,” she said. “Yes.”

“Could you do a good likeness of her?”

She nodded, and gestured for me to stand back so she could get into the closet. She took out a sketch pad, and a bunch of pencils, and went over to sit down on the hall stairs. She looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes and appeared to go inward for a few moments. Then she opened her eyes and began sketching.

I remembered Clay’s sketchbook, still hidden in my tote. Should I take that to the chief as well? But getting a sketch of Jessica into the chief’s hands seemed more important. When I delivered that, I’d mention the sketchbook.

“She was strange,” Ivy said, absently, without looking up from her sketchbook.

“Strange how?”

“She kept going around tapping on the walls. She smeared some of the paint on my crèche mural. I don’t like people touching my paintings.”

More fodder for my theories. I watched over Ivy’s shoulder as she sketched in the shape of a young woman’s face. At first it didn’t look much like anyone. Then it started to look a little like Jessica, and then a little more, and eventually, after she’d added more details and tweaked others, a startling likeness emerged.

“That’s it,” I said.

“Just let me add a little color,” she said, picking up her colored pencils. A few strokes with the red, orange, and brown pencils and Jessica’s copper-red hair shone out. A touch of green to the eyes and a few strokes of flesh color to the face and it was done.

“Perfect,” I said. “May I give it to the chief?”

“I’d be delighted if you did,” she said.

And then, as if she’d used up her day’s portion of human interaction, she smiled and fled upstairs.

I pulled out my phone, took a picture of her drawing, and e-mailed it to the chief. And then I called him.

“The sketch artist can’t be here till tomorrow,” he said. “I know it’s irritating—”

“Call him off,” I said. “And check your e-mail. I had Ivy do a sketch.”

“Ivy?”

“One of the designers. The one doing all the paintings in the foyer and the upstairs hall.”

“Hold on.”

I heard random noises for a while. And then—

“This is Jessica?”

“Exactly,” I said. “And the original sketch is even better.”

“Can you bring that in?” he asked. “It could be a while before I can get anyone over there. Meanwhile, I’ll get this photo out to my officers as a preliminary. We’ll save the region-wide alert for the real thing.”

“On my way.”

Chapter 22

I was putting on my coat when I heard a crash, followed by a wail of distress.

“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.

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.