Текст книги "The Nightingale Before Christmas"

Автор книги: Donna Andrews

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He headed upstairs after Randall.

I looked at my watch. Almost time for me to leave, to meet Michael and the twins for an afternoon of caroling, Christmas shopping, and eventually dinner. But with so much going on, I couldn’t leave my post unguarded. I’d asked my cousin Rose Noire to fill in for me this afternoon. Where was she?

Probably out delivering more of the customized, organic herbal gift baskets that she sold by the hundreds over the holiday season. I was still getting used to the notion of my flakey, New-Age cousin as the owner of a thriving small business. I’d have felt guilty, asking her to take the time away from her work, if I hadn’t been sacrificing so much anvil time myself.

“Meg?” I looked up to see Martha standing nearby. “Any chance I could go up and take a few measurements in the master bedroom?”

“Technically that’s still Clay’s room,” I said.

“Understood. And if the committee decides to let him stay, I’ll just have wasted a few minutes of my time. No problem. But if they decide to kick him out, I want to be able to say that yes, I absolutely can get the room ready by opening day.”

I thought about it for a few moments. Mother and Eustace still had a lot to do in their rooms. Sarah would be fighting the clock to undo what Clay had done to her room. And I couldn’t see handing the master bedroom over to any of the others. If we kicked Clay out, Martha would be the logical person to take over the master bedroom.

“I feel responsible,” she said.

“For everything Clay has done?”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “But I am to blame for getting him into the decorating business in the first place. He used to work for me—briefly. Till he got too big for his britches and struck out on his own. Taking half my clients with him. The female half,” she added, with a bitter laugh. “A few of them started crawling back when they figured out they’d made a mistake, but by that time it was too late. My business was folding.”

No wonder Martha felt so miffed at Clay getting the room she’d wanted. If only I’d known from the start how much hostility there was between them.

“Take your measurements,” I said. “But be discreet.”

She smiled a small, tight, triumphant smile and turned to go upstairs.

“And if you’re thinking of searching his room for the missing packages, don’t bother,” I called up the stairs after her. “Already done that myself. Several times.”

She chuckled mirthlessly at that.

With my luck, Clay would come barging back in and catch her at it. I really wanted to be gone before that happened. Where was Rose Noire?

As if my thoughts had summoned her, the front door opened very slowly and Rose Noire peeked into the foyer. Her wild mane of hair frizzed out from beneath a purple knitted hat, and her expression was anxious.

“Meg?”

“There you are,” I said. “Just in time. Come in.”

“I can feel the negative energy trying to push me away when I try to cross the threshold.” She stepped inside, as if with an effort, and planted herself solidly, obviously expecting the negative forces to attack. “There’s something evil in this house.”

“Not at the moment. I chased him out for the rest of the day.” Rose Noire had taken an almost instant dislike to Clay, claiming he had a very negative aura. I didn’t share her faith in auras, mantras, energy work, and whatever other New Age concepts currently fascinated her. But I had to admit she was spot-on when it came to sniffing out a bad egg like Clay. “Close the door—you’re letting the cold air in.”

“Cold but clean air,” she said. But she closed the door as she said it. She was wearing a deep-purple dress instead of her typical pastels, and a lot more charms and amulets than usual hung from her neck and wrists. “It’s not just him,” she said. “There’s a lot of dark energy in this house. Is it okay if I do a cleansing while I’m here?”

“As long as you keep the decorators happy and busy and don’t let them break anything else, you can do anything you want.” I wasn’t sure I believed in Rose Noire’s smudging and herb sprinkling, but at worst it did no harm. And most of the time, it actually made me feel better. Anything that could improve the atmosphere here in the house was fine with me.

“By the way,” I said. “Clay isn’t allowed back until either Randall or I say so. If he tries to get in—”

“He shall not pass!” Rose Noire exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height and lifting her chin in defiance.

“We’ll be fine, dear.” Mother appeared in the archway. “If Clay comes back, Eustace and I can help Rose Noire handle him.”

“And I’ll be here to help, too.” Randall was coming down the stairway, with his phone to his ear. “I’m calling him now to lay down the law. Clay? When you get this, give me a call. We need to talk.”

“And there’s a reporter here somewhere,” I went on to Rose Noire. “Student. Long red hair. Name of Jessica.”

“Right here.” Jessica appeared on the stairway.

“This is Rose Noire,” I said. “She’s taking over for me. She can answer any questions you have. Feel free to roam around, but please remember that the designers have a tight deadline. Oh, Rose Noire—when Ivy gets back—”

“I’m back.” Ivy looked up from the rear of the foyer, where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, dabbing paint on the unfinished mural.

“Sorry, I didn’t see you come in.” No one ever did. Ivy was ethereally thin and painfully shy, and appeared to have mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. “This is Jessica. She’s a reporter from the student paper. She’s very impressed with your work, and would like take pictures of your paintings if you’re okay with that, and interview you if you have time.”

Ivy nodded uncertainly.

“But give her a chance to settle in and get a little work done right now,” I said to Jessica.

“Yes, let me fix you some tea,” Rose Noire said. “And show you Eustace’s kitchen.”

She led Jessica off before I could warn the reporter about Rose Noire’s teas, which were always organic and healthy but rarely delicious.

“Don’t talk to her unless you want to,” I said to Ivy. “Mother and Rose Noire can handle her if you don’t.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a quick smile.

The house was in good hands. I waved to everyone, stepped outside and took a deep breath.

Rose Noire was right. The air out here was cleaner. And it wasn’t just getting away from the construction smells of paint, glue, and sawdust. All the hostility between Clay and the other designers hung over the whole house like some kind of psychic air pollution. I had the feeling he’d be causing more trouble before the show house was over.

But not right now.

I stopped to take a few more breaths and study the sky. It was obviously cold, since all the snow already on the ground showed no signs of melting, and the dull gray sky suggested more snow was on its way, but maybe I was getting used to snow and cold. Instead of cold and gray, I decided the weather was bracing.

My enjoyment of the out-of-doors was interrupted by voices coming from somewhere to my left, on the other side of the tall snow-covered bushes that flanked the front porch.

“Just keep it,” said one woman’s voice, hot and angry.

“I don’t want it.” Sarah, who I’d thought was still in the study, inspecting the damage. And the other voice belonged to Kate Banks, one of Sarah’s partners in Byrne, Banks, and Bailey. I’d never actually met Bailey, whoever he or she was. “I don’t even want it around me.”

“And what if he tries something? Something worse than trying to ruin your room.”

“Pretty sure that was an accident.”

“After all he’s done to us before?” Kate went on. “You don’t think he’s mean enough—?”

“Oh, I think he’s mean enough,” Sarah said. “I just don’t think he’s smart enough. I think he was totally astonished when the water started gushing out of that wall, and only worried about what it was doing to his room.”

“You never should have taken this on,” Kate said. “You should have—”

“Maybe I should have listened to you,” Sarah said. “But I didn’t. We just have to get through this. I just have to get through this. Don’t worry about it.”

“I should give him a piece of my mind,” Kate said.

“Don’t give him the satisfaction. Don’t worry about me. I’ll handle it.”

Kate made an inarticulate noise and I saw her dashing across the lawn. I pretended to have just come out of the front door.

“Hey, Sarah,” I said. “Was that Kate I saw? She should come in and get a preview of the house.”

“I think she wants to wait and be surprised by the finished product.” She was smiling, but I could tell it was an effort. Her hand went up as if to torment her blue lock again, but she stopped it halfway with a glance at me.

I liked Sarah. She was in her early thirties, a little younger than me, and in the past few weeks we’d discovered any number of shared tastes and interests. We usually saw eye to eye about what went on in the house.

But I could tell that right now wasn’t the time to presume on our developing friendship by asking her about the argument she’d had with her partner.

“Well, I’m off,” I said. “Tomás and Mateo will be helping with the repairs, and Randall’s sending some more guys over. Call me if there’s anything you need.”

She nodded and went back into the house, looking preoccupied.

Nothing I could do now. I’d check on how she was doing after Tomás and Mateo and Randall’s crew had worked their magic.

Chapter 4

“There’s Mommy!”

“Mommy!”

Michael and our five-year-old twins, Josh and Jamie, were standing on the sidewalk in front of Caerphilly Assisted Living, waving frantically as I strode across the parking lot.

“Where are the rest of the carolers?” I asked.

“Inside, warming up.” Michael gave me a quick kiss. “The boys wanted to wait outside for you.”

“Mommy, it’s going to snow, isn’t it?” Jamie asked.

“Is not,” Josh said. “Can we sing ‘God Rest Ye Merry’?”

“‘We Three Kings,’” Jamie said.

“We can sing them both,” I said. “Let’s go inside and warm up.”

Inside we found Robyn Smith, the Episcopalian pastor, and Minerva Burke, leader of the New Life Baptist Choir, with an ecumenically diverse group of about thirty carolers, ranging in age from senior citizens to a few kids almost as young as the boys.

“That’s everyone,” Robyn said, handing us four small carol books. “Let’s go.”

She and Minerva led the way down the hall toward the building’s main lounge. Some seventy or eighty seniors were gathered in several rows of chairs, with a line of wheelchairs along the back. Everyone seemed delighted with our arrival—I wasn’t sure whether it was the prospect of our caroling or the joy of seeing half a dozen small children.

We did indeed sing both “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen” and “We Three Kings.” And also “Joy to the World,” “Silent Night,” “O Little Town of Bethlehem,” and several other old favorites. The boys knew all the words—or thought they did—and could at least approximate the tunes. It was a stroke of genius on Robyn and Minerva’s part to include the children. We grown-ups were providing most of the volume and almost all of the on-key notes, but the children were the main focus for our audience. I loved the fact that we were bringing a measure of holiday cheer to townspeople who weren’t able to get out and enjoy all of the events of the season.

We closed with “We Wish You a Merry Christmas,” and then Robyn introduced all the carolers and thanked the audience for allowing us to share the holiday season with them. Most of the grown-up carolers went to help the staff wheel the residents back into the sun room for the upcoming bingo game. The children gravitated toward the Christmas tree, and amused themselves with shaking and poking the wrapped presents heaped around it and checking for tags, in case Santa had delivered a few of their presents here by mistake.

I spotted a familiar face and went over to greet Alice, one of the two Quilt Ladies decorating the bonus room at the show house.

“Shirking your post at the house, I see,” she said, with a grin.

“Said the pot to the kettle,” I replied.

“Oh, we’re nearly finished,” she said. “I came over for the weekly quilting bee. Want to see what we’re up to?”

I followed her across the hall to a recreation room where half a dozen seniors were either gathered around a long table, arranging bits of fabric into patterns, or sitting at sewing machines stitching more bits of fabric together. Brightly colored quilts, ranging from crib size to queen size, hung on the walls or were draped, unfinished, over the tables and a couple of racks.

“We started the quilting program as art therapy for the residents,” she said. “But then we realized we could do a lot of good with the quilts. Sometimes we give them to poor people or sick people, and other times we auction them off for good causes. When the New Life Baptist Church had that problem last year with the skunks in the choir loft, we auctioned off a black-and-white quilt with a theme of skunks and musical notes. Made over five hundred dollars toward the renovations.”

“Lovely,” I said, meaning both the quilts and what they did with them.

“We call ourselves Quilters for Good,” she said. “It’s the charity we’ve designated in case our room wins the prize at the show house. Unless someone decides to disallow us.”

“Why would they?” I asked.

“We don’t have any kind of formal organization,” she said. “Clay Spottiswood seemed to think you wouldn’t be allowed to give it to us. He was saying—”

“Clay Spottiswood says a lot of things that nobody listens to,” I said. “Don’t worry about it. If you win the prize, we’ll find a way for Quilters for Good to get the money.”

“Thank you!” She seemed limp with relief.

I spent a few minutes praising the quilts—easy to figure out which quilters belonged to which quilt by seeing who beamed when I exclaimed over each one.

Then I headed back to collect Michael and the boys.

But halfway there I paused in the hall, pulled out my cell phone, and called Randall.

“What’s wrong?” Randall asked.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “I was just wondering about something. What charity has Clay designated in the unlikely event that his room wins the competition?”

“Designers of the Future. Provides scholarships for deserving low-income students who want to study art, architecture, or interior design.”

“Sounds worthwhile,” I said.

“And legit,” Randall said. “He gave us a copy of the paperwork for making it an approved 501(c)(3) tax-exempt organization.”

“The Quilt Ladies’ charity isn’t,” I said. “It’s just them and a bunch of seniors here at Caerphilly Assisted Living making quilts for good causes.”

“And doing a hell of a lot of good, especially this time of year,” he said. “I figured if they win, we can set up something through one of the churches to get them the funds. Not a church in town they haven’t helped.”

“Good. I was just wondering. Do you need me, or can I carry on with my plan of finishing my Christmas shopping this afternoon?”

“I’ll call if anything comes up that we need you for.”

And Randall did call a couple of times during the afternoon, but only with questions I could easily answer without returning to the house. Michael and I split the boys up, and I took Josh shopping to get presents for his daddy and brother, while Michael and Jamie shopped for presents for Josh and me.

I’d have been overjoyed to be doing almost anything that got me away from the show house, but strolling around Caerphilly with Josh was perfect. I wasn’t sure which I enjoyed more—seeing familiar holiday sights through his eyes, or having him point out Christmas details I hadn’t noticed. Had we forgotten last year to take the boys to see the giant mechanical Santa’s village in the front window of the Caerphilly Toy Town? No, we had a picture of the boys staring openmouthed as the red-and-green North Pole Express train chugged its way around and around. And yet Josh was as excited as if he’d never seen it before, and we spent a happy half hour watching it.

“Do you think Santa will bring Jamie and me toy trains?” he asked eventually.

“It was on your list, wasn’t it?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Then trust Santa,” I said. “I do.”

Of course it was easier for me, knowing that two fabulous electric train sets were already wrapped and hidden in the attic. It would be interesting to see if the boys ran separate but equal railroad lines or if they joined forces to create one sprawling monster set of tracks. I made a mental note to bring them back here for inspiration. And then I dragged a reluctant Josh away so we could finish shopping for his dad. Eventually, at the hardware store, we decided on a new Craftsman hammer for Michael.

After a couple of hours Josh and I met Jamie and Michael at the ice cream store. In spite of the weather, both boys were begging for ice cream, so we indulged them, while Michael and I enjoyed a more seasonal cup of hot chocolate. Then we swapped twins, so Jamie and I could shop for Michael while Josh and Michael found a present for me.

Jamie also liked the train set, but his favorite place to linger was the Caerphilly Bakery, which had recently installed a viewing window so the tourists could watch as the staff pulled a seemingly neverending supply of cookies and gingerbread men out of the ovens. We finally chose two gingerbread men—one for him and one for Josh—and made our way to Caerphilly Sporting Goods, where he decided that a baseball and a pair of bright red baseball socks would be the perfect Christmas present for Michael.

We ended up for dinner at Luigi’s, our favorite Italian restaurant, and Michael and I briefed each other while the boys went over to shake the wrapped boxes under Luigi’s Christmas tree. My shopping had gone well, but apparently Michael wasn’t having much luck helping the boys find something I’d like.

“I assume you’re still opposed to hamsters, guinea pigs, and gerbils,” he reported. “Persian cats and Siamese fighting fish were also discussed and vetoed. Josh and I spent quite a lot of time at the perfume counter, but in the end he decided that Rose Noire makes much better smells.”

“He’s probably right.”

“Josh still thinks maybe you’d enjoy an electric train set once you started playing with it,” he went on. “And he was disappointed that the diamond earrings he likes are a couple of thousand dollars over what he’s saved up in his piggy bank.”

“I do wish you could convince them just to make something,” I said. “I’m sure I’d be delighted with anything they made.”

“I know that,” he said. “But for some reason this year they are determined to buy you a present. If you can think of anything you’d like, let me know and I’ll try to talk them into it.”

“Will do,” I said, just as the boys scampered back to the table.

By the time we finished, the snow had started falling. But we weren’t about to let a little snow ruin our plans for the evening—going to see the world famous New Life Baptist Church’s gospel choir. Every year they did a Christmas concert at the church for the unfortunate townspeople who, not being Baptist, wouldn’t get to hear them sing at their Christmas services.

This year was especially exciting because it was New Life’s first Christmas concert since my friend Minerva Burke had taken over as choir director. My friend Aida Butler was a nervous wreck, because her daughter Kayla was doing her first big solo, so I made her sit with us and distracted her by telling her all about the designers’ antics.

Aida was still in her uniform as a sheriff’s deputy. The boys were fascinated by the various objects hanging from her belt.

“Mommy, wouldn’t you like one of those?” Jamie asked, pointing to Aida’s police radio.

“No, that,” Josh said, pointing to Aida’s holster.

“They’re both very nice,” I said. “But I don’t think anyone but police officers are allowed to have police guns and police radios.”

The boys pondered this in silence for a few moments.

“Is it hard to become a police officer?” Jamie asked.

“You have to go to the police academy,” Aida said. “For six months. And I’m sure your mom is smart enough to do very well there, but I don’t think she wants to spend that much time away from her family.”

Jamie seemed satisfied with this answer, but all through the concert Josh continued to study Aida’s uniform and then look at me as if picturing me in one.

Nothing put me into a holiday mood more certainly than really good carol singing, and I was also looking forward to seeing how well the choir did with Minerva as its new leader. We all knew the choir had become happier since its former much-hated director had departed under a cloud. But would they sing as well?

I should never have doubted Minerva. Or Kayla.

“They’ve outdone themselves,” Mother exclaimed. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard them this good, and that’s saying something.”

As we were filing out—slowly, because everyone kept stopping in clumps to chatter about how lovely the choir sounded and how beautifully the church was decorated—I ran into Randall.

“So is Clay in or out?” I asked him.

“Don’t know yet,” he said. “The only time I could get the whole committee together was just after the concert. I’m heading to the meeting now. I’ll call you when I know.”

After the concert, I took the boys home and put them to bed and then wrapped presents while Michael went to the college theater for a quick tech rehearsal. Tomorrow was the first of two nights that he’d be doing his annual dramatic reading of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.

It should have been a peaceful evening. I lit a fire in the fireplace, and the smell of juniper and cedar filled the room. Rose Noire and my brother, Rob, joined me, and we all wrapped presents and wrote cards while listening to Christmas music.

Rob was trying to be secretive, doing his wrapping behind one of the sofas. But since every single present he brought out to place under the tree was a flat rectangle about five and a half by seven and a half inches, I deduced that we were all getting our own personal copies of whatever new computer game Mutant Wizards, his company, had developed for the holiday season.

But his attempts at discretion and secrecy, however unsuccessful, made him so happy that Rose Noire and I both stifled our giggles and tried to look properly mystified at each stack of presents he deposited under the tree.

Rose Noire was humming happily as she wrapped another batch of her expensive gift baskets. The fact that Rob and Rose Noire, two of the least practical and businesslike people on the planet, had achieved financial success by doing what they loved usually cheered me and made me believe there was hope for humanity.

But tonight I was restless. I couldn’t write a coherent note on a Christmas card. I mangled the paper whenever I tried to wrap a present. I kept thinking that I should have gone over to the house to make sure Randall’s workers had cleaned up all the damage.

Rob, who was happily singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on the radio, didn’t seem to notice my mood. Rose Noire did, though, and did her best to distract me from it.

“Are you sure you’re okay with me giving ant farms to the boys?” she asked. “Because if you’re not, there’s still time to get the organic crayons.”

“I think we’ll be fine with the ant farms,” I said. “As long as you can provide some kind of natural, environmentally safe ant repellant if they get out.”

“They’re vegan, wheat-free, sugar-free, preservative free—”

“The ants?” I asked.

“The crayons. And yes, I have a plan for when the ants get out.”

When they get out? I’d have preferred if. But still, worrying about a hypothetical ant invasion distracted me, at least briefly, from my larger worries. When the Mormon Tabernacle Choir began booming out “Joy to the World” we all three joined in.

A little after eleven, I finally got the long-awaited call from Randall.

“Show house committee just broke up.” He sounded exhausted.

“This late? Well, is Clay in or out?”

“In, dammit. Not because we really want him, and he can kiss next year’s house good-bye. But he’s known to be litigious.”

“And you think he’d sue if we really kicked him out.” I sighed. “You’re probably right. And I doubt if he’d win, but beating him would cost a lot of money.”

“Probably more than the show house will clear. So we’re counting on you. Just hold it together till the opening.”

“Will do. Have we fixed everything he did today?”

“It was going well when I had to leave. I didn’t have a chance to drop by after the concert—the committee’s been meeting ever since it ended.”

A two-hour meeting? To decide to do nothing at all? Not for the first time, I uttered a small, silent prayer of thanks that I had resisted Mother’s attempts to talk me into joining the committee.

“I think I should go down and check, then,” I said. “How are the roads?”

“Roads are fine, but why not wait until morning to check?”

“Because I won’t be able to sleep till I do,” I said. “I’ll call you if I spot any problems, and then if anyone complains, we can say we already know and already have a plan to deal with it.”

“E-mail me.” He was obviously stifling a yawn. “Because I hope to be asleep in about ten minutes.”

I decided that since Michael should arrive soon, I’d wait and get his opinion on the roads. Randall drove a truck and prided himself on being able to drive on anything the weather threw at us. Michael had a more normal view on snow. I tried to concentrate on my Christmas cards.

By the time Michael arrived it was nearly midnight. Rose Noire had said goodnight and gone upstairs an hour before, and Rob was yawning. I was still wide awake.

“How was the rehearsal?” I asked. “And how are the roads?”

“Fine and fine,” he said. “It’s a nice, light snow. Easy for the plows to keep up with. But you’re not going out again, are you?”

I had started putting on my coat.

“I want to check on the house,” I said, as I stuffed my phone in my pocket and pulled on a thick wool cap. “I told you about all the stuff Clay ruined. Some of it happened last night, when I went home before he did. I like to be the last one out of the house, and while I wouldn’t have given up this afternoon and evening with you and the boys for anything, now I’m anxious. And I want to see if Randall’s workmen have finished fixing everything. Make sure there are no new problems. As long as you don’t think the roads are unsafe.”

Michael shook his head, but he knew better than to argue with me when I was in what he called my “taking-charge mode.”

“Drive carefully,” he said, giving me a quick kiss.

The snow, though steady, was light, and all fifteen or so miles of the road from our house to town had been well and recently plowed—fringe benefits, I suspected, of the county crew knowing Michael and I were among Mayor Randall Shiffley’s closest friends. I found the drive curiously exhilarating. The Twinmobile, with its four-wheel drive, handled the road beautifully, and there wasn’t another car in sight. At first I saw only snowy fields and snowflakes drifting down outside, and heard only the faint swish of my tires and the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers. As I drew closer to town, I began to see houses and fences strung with Christmas lights. The growing layer of snow on the outdoor reindeer and Santas made them more obviously fake, but I liked the effect of the snow on the manger scenes and snowmen.

I pulled up in front of the show house and parked. The house was dark and mine was the only car in front of it, though there were a few nearby. I could see faint car-shaped indentations that suggested some of the designers had stayed until the snow had started, but the places where they’d parked were covered with at least an inch of snow by now. Good. The house was a lot more peaceful when the designers had all gone home for the day. Even the ones like Sarah and Eustace who had become friends.

I found myself humming “Silent Night” as I got out and locked my car. I liked the way the snow muffled all the sounds around me, and the way my footsteps looked crisp and clear in the smooth snow on the walk. Should I e-mail Randall to remind him to send one of his workmen to shovel the walks tomorrow? Later.

I opened the door, stepped in, and began stomping on the doormat to shake the snow off my boots. I was reaching for the light switch when—

Something tinkled and broke in the distance. Upstairs.

I glanced up. The house was dark, but had I seen a faint flicker of light out of the corner of my eye—like a flashlight being switched off?

I stood in the darkened hallway and waited.

Silence. I was just reaching for the light switch, when the hall light came on, half blinding me, and I heard two loud pops followed by the tinkling of something breaking nearby.

Gunshots?

I dashed into the study and dropped to the ground behind one of the armchairs. I pulled out my cell phone.

The hall light went out again, and I could hear racing footsteps upstairs. Racing away from me, thank goodness.

I dialed 9-1-1.