Текст книги "The Nightingale Before Christmas"

Автор книги: Donna Andrews

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Chapter 5

“9-1-1; what’s your emergency?”

“Debbie Ann!” I found the familiar voice of the local dispatcher comforting. “I’m at the show house—there’s an intruder, and he fired a gun at me. I think he’s upstairs, and running for the back stairs.”

I rattled off the address.

“Are you in a safe place?”

Was I in a safe place? If there was only one intruder, yes. I heard the garage door opening, so evidently the intruder had gone down the back stairs and was leaving through the garage. He was fleeing.

But what if there was more than one?

“No idea,” I said. “I think so. I think he’s leaving.”

“Stay put,” she said. “And stay on the line.”

Easier said than done, at least the staying put part. I felt like a sitting duck. I crawled toward the front windows. The garage doors faced to the side of the house, so it wasn’t as if I could see someone leaving through them. But he had to make his way down the driveway. And when he got to the street—

A car motor started up outside. I couldn’t see anything. I suspected one of those cars covered with soft mounds of snow would be gone when I went back out. And that whoever was driving it was waiting till he got away from the house before turning on his lights.

I described all this to Debbie Ann and crawled back behind the armchair. As usual, the adrenaline that had carried me through the crisis was deserting me now that the immediate danger seemed to have driven off. My knees felt weak. The hand holding my cell phone was visibly shaking. And I decided I had to do something, if only to distract myself. After all, if someone wanted to get me, they’d had plenty of time by now. In the dead silence of the house, my side of my conversation with Debbie Ann had been clearly audible.

“I’m going to check upstairs,” I said.

“I said stay put!”

I didn’t bother to explain that I’d go crazy if I stayed put a minute longer. I got up from my refuge behind the armchair. I walked back to the hall as softly as I could and paused at the foot of the stairs, listening.

Another faint noise. Was it just an old board squeaking? Or something else?

I crept upstairs and paused at the landing. The intruder seemed to have come from the master bedroom. The sound seemed to have come from there.

“Meg … Meg…” the faint voice on my phone kept saying.

I stepped into the master bedroom doorway and turned my phone so the light of its screen shone into the room.

There was something on the bed. My phone didn’t give off enough light to see what it was.

I reached for the light switch and then stopped. The intruder had been in here, and might have left fingerprints.

I pulled my right glove out of my pocket and put it on before turning on the light switch.

Clay Spottiswood was lying in the middle of the enormous bed. His eyes were wide and staring, and blood had run down from a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

“We’re going to need an ambulance,” I said. “Clay Spottiswood’s been shot.”

Chapter 6

“What in the world were you doing here at this hour?”

I opened my eyes to find Chief Burke standing in the study doorway. I’d retreated downstairs, to one of Sarah’s comfy Art Deco armchairs, emerging only to let in Sammy Wendell, the deputy who arrived first. Several other deputies had followed, including my friend Aida Butler and Randall’s cousin Vern. Then my cousin Horace, who was not only a deputy but also the county’s crime scene technician. And Dad, who was now the local medical examiner. He’d insisted on checking me out briefly before trotting upstairs to examine Clay. I’d stayed in the study, out of their way, while they searched the house and did their forensic thing in the master bedroom.

The crime scene.

“Are you okay?” the chief asked.

“Just tired,” I said. “And a little shaken. What was I doing here? Checking on the place. Usually I’m the last to leave, or nearly so. But today I left early to take the boys Christmas shopping. And that took longer than expected, and it bothered me that I never got back to the house. I like to make sure the place is locked up. Check on what the designers are up to. Especially if we’ve had problems, as we did today, I hate going to bed without knowing that everything’s okay. And obviously it’s not.”

“What kind of problems did you have today?”

I brought him up to speed on what I knew about Clay’s last day on earth. The chief listened in silence, scribbling occasionally in his notebook. He pondered for a while after I finished speaking.

“Not a particularly likable man,” he said. “But—spattered paint, a misunderstanding about a vase, and some accidental water damage. Are you suggesting that any of these incidents could be related to his murder?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “None of them seem important enough to kill over. I know Mother wouldn’t kill him for stealing her vase—she’d just make sure anyone who might possibly want to hire him for a decorating job knew about it. I can’t imagine Princess Violet killing anyone over anything. She’s like Rose Noire—she escorts spiders out to the garage. Martha was positive we were going to kick him out and let her take over his room, and I’m pretty sure she’d want him alive to gloat over it. I can’t imagine any of them doing it.”

But what if one of them had?

“It’s not just these incidents,” I said. “They were just the latest in a series of things Clay did that upset everyone in the house. He was a poisonous influence. There was a cumulative effect.”

The chief nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

I remembered something else.

“Talk to Stanley,” I suggested. “Clay and one of his former clients were in a big legal battle. Stanley knows more about it. He was trying to find Clay yesterday to serve some papers on him. No idea if he succeeded.”

He nodded and scribbled.

“You look done in,” he said. “Go home.”

“Roger,” I said. “Will you be keeping us out of the house in the morning?”

He looked tired.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I realize that you are supposed to open in a couple of days, and a lot of people have spent a ton of money on this, and the historical society will be pretty badly hurt if anything cancels or delays the show—”

“But it’s a murder,” I finished for him. “You have stuff you’ve got to do.”

He nodded.

“I should let all the decorators know that they won’t be able to get in,” I said. “And tell Randall that the committee will need to decide what happens with Clay’s room.”

“Let me handle that,” he said. “I’ve already called Randall—he’s on his way. And let me tell the other decorators. It could be interesting to observe their reactions.”

“Because they’re all suspects,” I said.

“Yes. Can you give me their contact information?” He held out his notebook, open to a blank page.

I pulled out my own notebook and copied out the names and telephone numbers of the designers for him.

“I’ve got e-mails and home addresses if you want them,” I said.

“Tomorrow.” He closed his notebook and stood up. “You’ll be my first call when I’m ready to reopen the house. Sleep well.”

Fat chance.

I drove home. It was nearly two o’clock. My mellow Christmas mood had vanished. When I looked at the snow, instead of appreciating its beauty and being grateful that it was coming down at a pace the county snowplows could handle, I started to feel claustrophobic. I was relieved when I finally let myself into the house and breathed in the evergreen scent. And someone had been cooking. Gingerbread? Yes, and apple pie, too. Unless Rose Noire was experimenting with a new holiday potpourri. If so, it had my approval. She could call it Holiday Happy. Or Mistletoe Mellow. I could feel my spirits rising.

All the little LED fairy lights Mother had used to decorate the hall still twinkled merrily, so I didn’t have to turn on the overhead light. The tree and the poinsettias and all the other holiday frills were merely shapes in the darkness, but shapes that gleamed here and there when the light from the LEDs hit some bit of tinsel or glitter.

The boys wanted leave the fairy lights up all year. I had pointed out that we’d take them for granted if we had them all the time. But tonight I decided maybe the boys might have the right idea. Hard to take for granted anything that cheered me so, I thought, as I tiptoed up to bed.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. I know I got some sleep, because the boys woke me out of it at five.

“Mommy, there’s a foot of snow!” Jamie shrieked as he bounced onto our bed.

“Only six inches,” Josh said.

“I’m thinking eight or nine inches,” Michael said. “But who cares how many inches—the important thing is that it’s perfect for sledding!”

The boys cheered and began jumping up and down on our bed as if it were a trampoline. Michael observed my feeble attempts to share their enthusiasm.

“Anyone who wants to eat pancakes and then go sledding had better get dressed pronto,” he exclaimed.

The boys cheered again, bounced off the bed, and disappeared.

“I didn’t even wake up when you came in,” he said. “I gather you had something to deal with at the house.”

“Someone decided to get rid of Clay,” I said.

“The committee finally got enough nerve to kick him out?” Michael was throwing on jeans and an old sweater.

“No, they voted to keep him, for fear he’d sue,” I said. “And then he went back to the house, where someone shot him.”

“He’s dead?” Michael paused in the middle of pulling the sweater over his head.

“As the proverbial doornail,” I said. “Someone shot him right between the eyes.”

“Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

He hurried back over to the bed, sat down beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little short of sleep.”

“How late were you up last night?” he asked.

“Past two.”

“Then go back to sleep,” he said. “Rob and Rose Noire and I can keep the kids busy. And you’ll need sleep to deal with whatever happens when you’re able to go back to the house.”

Thank goodness for family. Even family who, like Rob and Rose Noire, seemed to have settled in as permanent residents in several of our extra rooms. And thank goodness that Caerphilly College was on winter break, and that Michael, as always, was eager to spend his vacation time with his sons.

I turned over to go back to sleep. But I didn’t drop off right away, or I wouldn’t have heard Rose Noire’s soft voice.

“Meg? You awake?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What’s up?”

I sat up and turned to look at her. She was standing in the doorway wringing her hands.

“Michael said that someone shot Clay Spottiswood.”

“Yes,” I said.

“That poor man.” She shook her head. “He was such an unhappy, troubled soul. Such a waste.”

She was right, of course, but I found myself wondering if anyone else would feel much sadness over his demise.

“And did it happen in the house?” she asked.

“In the middle of his room. I’m sure by now the house is filled with all kinds of bad karma and negative energy. Maybe you can do some kind of cleansing before we all get back to work there.” Even though I only half believed in them, Rose Noire’s cleansings and blessings always raised my spirits.

“Of course.” She nodded absently. “But who did it? It wasn’t Vermillion, was it?”

“I have no idea who did it.” I sat up straighter, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. “Why would you think it would be Vermillion?”

“Your mother and Eustace and I were sort of keeping an eye out for her,” Rose Noire said. “Clay made her anxious. She was bothered by the way he was flirting with her.”

“Probably because Clay’s idea of flirting corresponded with most sane women’s idea of sexual harassment and sometimes actual assault,” I said. “Do you mean he kept it up after the tongue lashing I gave him the first week we were all there?”

“Not that I saw,” she said. “But of course I’m sure he’d have been very careful about doing it when you were around, or your mother or me.”

“And you didn’t trust him not to do it when she was all alone.”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “So we made sure she never was alone. She felt very safe when you were around, which was most of the time, and when you were gone, your mother and I kept an eye on her.”

“So as far as you know, he didn’t bother her again.”

“As far as we knew.”

I could see from her face that she was worried. Afraid that perhaps her watchdog mission hadn’t been as successful as she had thought.

On the surface, the idea of Rose Noire protecting Goth Girl seemed funny. Rose Noire had never met a New Age theory without embracing it, was an ardent vegetarian, dressed in romantic flowing dresses trimmed with ethereal wisps of gauze and lace, and felt guilty thinking bad thoughts about anyone. Goth Girl wore a lot of black leather pocked with spikes and studs, sported jewelry featuring skulls and snakes, and liked to imply that she knew quite a lot about vampires, necromancy, and abstruse poisons.

But Rose Noire, at five eight, was only two inches shorter than I was, in excellent condition from working in her organic herb garden, and fierce as a mother hen about anything smaller or weaker than she was. Goth Girl was reed-thin, nearly a head shorter than me, and I’d always suspected her bark was much worse than her bite. Yeah, Rose Noire would protect her. And besides, they were both part of the sisterhood who, like Cher and Madonna, were on a first-name-only basis with the rest of the world.

“He was shot,” I said. “That doesn’t seem in character for Vermillion. Unless we find out it was done with silver bullets, or maybe a special antique revolver with an onyx handle.”

Rose Noire smiled faintly at that.

“You really think she could have done it?” I asked.

“No.” She sounded uncertain. “But I think we should make sure the chief knows about the harassment. Because it would look suspicious if he found out the wrong way.”

“I’ll make sure he knows about all the harassment,” I said. “Vermillion wasn’t the only one.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved to have delegated her worries to me. “Get some sleep now.”

I tried. But I lay awake a long time, thinking about Vermillion. Would it really be out of character for her to shoot Clay? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she seemed like someone who’d been through a lot, but hadn’t necessarily emerged unscathed.

Could I see her as fearful, and anxious, and deciding to protect herself by carrying a gun in her coffin-shaped black leather purse? Unfortunately, yes.

What I couldn’t see nearly as easily was her showing up at the house at midnight. She always seemed very cheerful in the mornings, with the sunshine streaming through the faux stained glass she’d applied to all her room’s windows. And always seemed in a hurry to leave before sunset.

A Goth who was afraid of the dark?

Or maybe just one who knew better than to be out “in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.”

Now where had that quotation come from? Thanks to Michael’s annual one-man Christmas Carol shows, I was now incapable of getting through a December day without quoting Dickens at least half a dozen times, but I was pretty sure that line had nothing to do with Scrooge. Or did it?

I began silently reciting the text of the show to myself to make sure and fell asleep long before even the first of the three ghosts arrived.

Chapter 7

December 21

“Sherlock Holmes,” I exclaimed.

“What’s that?” Randall said.

I appeared to be holding the phone. Evidently, Randall had called, and the phone’s ring had awakened me from a dream in which I’d identified the source of the quote about “the powers of evil” that I’d gone to sleep muttering. Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t remember which book, but I could always ask Dad, the mystery buff, who could quote countless pages of Conan Doyle from memory.

“Meg?” Randall again. “Something wrong?”

“Long story,” I said aloud. “Please tell me you’re calling to relay the news that the chief’s letting us back in the house again.” It was—good grief, nearly 10:00 A.M. Sunlight was pouring through the window, and I could hear giggles and shrieks of delight from the backyard.

“Not just yet,” he said. “Although I think the chief’s getting close. I’ve been hanging around here at the show house wearing my mayor’s hat and kibitzing, and I think they’re close to finishing up. No, I was calling to let you know that the committee decided not to give Clay’s room to another designer.”

“What are we going to do—exhibit the crime scene?” I asked. “Complete with bloodstains and an outline of the body and those little numbered cards they use to keep track of evidence in the crime-scene photos?”

“It’s a thought,” Randall said, with a chuckle. “Bet we’d sell tickets. No, we decided to complete his room as close as possible to the way he was doing it. Like a memorial. We thought we could get a couple of the other designers to supervise the workmen doing it. He left behind some sketches of his plan for the room—I found them in the dresser drawer. We can use those.”

“Nobody’s going to be thrilled with this solution,” I said. “Every other designer in the house thinks his style is hideous.”

“If they’re right, all the more chances for their rooms to win,” he said. “And won’t it be a little bit of consolation that they’ll never have to put up with him again?”

“Good point,” I said. “I’ll ask Mother, Eustace, and Martha. They’ve kind of got seniority. And I trust Mother and Eustace to be balanced about it. Martha will hate the whole thing, but she’d be furious if we didn’t ask her.”

“Sounds good to me and—hang on.… Yes, I’m talking to her now … Meg, the chief wants to know if you can come down to the house. He wants to go over a few things before he’s ready to release it.”

“On my way,” I said.

I threw on my clothes, ran down to the kitchen, and stuck my head out the back door. Michael, Rob, and the boys were making snowmen, snow dogs, and snow llamas in the backyard.

“Going back to the house,” I shouted.

Michael waved, and the boys followed his example.

I ran down the hallway to Michael’s office and photocopied a page from my notebook—the page on which I had the names, e-mails, addresses, and phone numbers. I remembered the chief would be wanting it. Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a yogurt and some granola bars to eat on the way, and then dashed out to my car. It was gloriously free of snow, and someone—probably the snow creature construction crew—had done a beautiful job of shoveling our driveway.

I’d heap praise on them later.

On my way to the house, I turned on the radio and hummed along with the carols. Carols—at least the old-fashioned kind—always helped me focus on the here and now instead of the long list of holiday tasks waiting in my notebook. The sun was shining, the snow made the Caerphilly countryside look like a Christmas card, and while I would rather be making snowmen with the boys, I knew they were happy and safe at home with Michael. And we had tonight’s Christmas Carol performance to look forward to.

I tried to enjoy my Christmas mood while it lasted, since I suspected that between Clay’s murder and having to deal with the stressed-out designers, the house would bring my spirits down soon enough.

There were a lot of cars parked in front of the show house. Several police cruisers. The chief’s sedan. Cousin Horace’s Prius—not surprising that he’d still be there, since his crime-scene investigation work could easily take hours. I was a little worried to see Dad’s minivan—was he still there in his official capacity as medical examiner? If he’d stayed on to kibitz, the chief’s patience might be wearing thin.

Most of the cars that had been parked up and down the street were still there, but someone had dusted off the back or front of each so they could check the license plates. Across the street from the house, one car had been completely cleared of snow, and I recognized Clay’s silver Acura.

The front walk was nearly shoveled, and Tomás was finishing off the last bit.

“Buenas dias, señora,” he said as I passed.

“Buenas dias,” I echoed. I hadn’t seen him quite so cheerful the whole time he’d been in the house. I wondered if the designers would be quite so honestly upbeat this morning, or if they’d all feel obliged to put on sober looks and struggle to find something nice to say about Clay.

I couldn’t help thinking of the scene in A Christmas Carol in which the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come shows Ebenezer Scrooge exactly how little his death would mean to any human soul. Instead of three spirits bent on his reformation, Clay had encountered a single vengeful one. No chance at reformation for him.

In this somewhat pensive mood, I entered the house. I found Dad, the chief, and Randall standing in the hallway.

“Meg—good!” the chief exclaimed. “I was hoping you’d get here soon. I want to hear again exactly what happened when you got here last night.”

My stomach churned, making me regret the yogurt, just for a moment. I’d been staying pretty calm by shoving last night’s events out of my mind—focusing narrowly on what we needed to get done in the show house. It had been working fine. But now the chief needed me to go back to last night.

He ushered me into Sarah’s study. I took one of the armchairs, the chief took the other, and Randall and Dad perched on metal folding chairs that had been brought in from somewhere. Clearly the chief was using the study as his on-site headquarters. I hoped to clear him—and the battered metal chairs—out before Sarah returned.

“So tell us everything that happened,” he said. “Start from when you were approaching the house.”

I took a few of the deep, calming yoga breaths Rose Noire was always ordering me to take, and then I told him everything. The snow-covered cars. Stepping into the dark hallway. Hearing the faint noise upstairs. Dodging the bullets. Seeing—well, hearing—the intruder drive away.

He didn’t interrupt me once, which was rare for him. When I finished, I felt curiously better, as if I’d gotten something nasty out of my system. He waited a few minutes before asking anything.

“Her 911 call came at twelve eighteen,” he said finally.

“That fits,” Dad said.

“Meg, how many shots did you hear again?”

“Two,” I said. “Close together.”

“You’re sure,” he said. “No chance it was more?”

“Positive.”

“And you didn’t hear any shots as you approached the house?”

I shook my head.

“That fits, too,” Dad said.

“Fits what?” I asked.

“It appears that Mr. Spottiswood was shot shortly after eleven,” the chief said.

“The wound would have been almost instantly fatal,” Dad added.

“And then the killer stayed around to vandalize the house for approximately an hour,” the chief said. “Not leaving until you interrupted him or her at around twelve fifteen.”

“Vandalize the house?” I shot upright and looked around frantically. “How bad is it?”

“Calm down,” Randall said. He was gesturing with both hands for me to sit down, so I sat. “Most of it’s in the master bedroom, which is going to need some cleanup anyway. The boys and I can knock it all out in an hour or two. I already sent Mateo for supplies.”

“So,” the chief went on. “Let’s assume Dr. Langslow’s estimates are correct—and I have no reason to think they’re not,” he added, nodding and smiling at Dad. “You did not interrupt the murder, but you did interrupt whatever the killer was doing after the murder. And it’s possible that Mr. Spottiswood wasn’t deliberately targeted—merely unfortunate enough to interrupt an armed intruder.”

“That would be ironic,” I said. “The guy everyone hates gets knocked off just after one of his worst rampages since we started working here, and it turns out to be a coincidence? Something that could have happened to any one of us if we’d been unlucky enough to come here at the wrong time?”

Something that could have happened to me if Michael’s rehearsal had ended an hour earlier and I’d shown up to do my inspection at eleven instead of midnight. I shoved that away with all the other things I didn’t really want to think about, until later, when the killer was behind bars.

“That’s one theory,” the chief said. “I’m not discounting the possibility that someone with a strong motive to kill Mr. Spottiswood lay in wait and staged the damage to make it look as if an intruder had been here.”

“Makes sense to me, because the damage was so random and illogical,” Randall said. “Drawers pulled out as if they were looking for something. Chunks of wall hacked out as if all they wanted to do was cause maximum chaos. Curtains and bed linens slashed. Stupid, mean stuff. But almost entirely in that one room.”

“Maybe that was all they had time to do before I arrived,” I said.

The others nodded.

“There’s also the question of how the intruder gained entry,” the chief said. “No sign of a break-in, and I understand it’s only the designers who have keys.”

“The designers, and a couple of the show house committee members, and anyone clever enough to pick up one of the dozen or so keys various designers have managed to lose over the last several weeks.” I could tell my irritation was showing, so I took a couple of deep breaths before going on. “Violet alone has lost at least seven keys.”

“That would be Miss Madsen, in the … frilly bedroom upstairs,” the chief said.

“And one of the reasons I came back to check on the house is that half the time, even when they’ve got keys, they don’t use them,” I went on. “I seem to be the only one who ever bothers to go around and see that all the doors and windows are locked at the end of the day.”

“This in spite of our attempts to make sure all the designers were aware that there was a history of vandalism here at the house,” Randall said. “Not surprising, given how long it’s been vacant.”

“Only surprising it took several years for the vandals to find it,” the chief said. “Getting back to the murder—do you know if any of the other decorators particularly disliked Mr. Spottiswood?”

I thought about it for about two seconds.

“Particularly disliked—no. Though I can’t think of anyone who actually liked him. At least half of them resented him because they thought they should have been given the master bedroom. And he was harassing most of the women. Probably not Mother,” I added to Dad, who was frowning thunderously. “Or he wouldn’t have survived till last night. But pretty much everybody else.”

“Did he harass you?” the chief asked, scowling.

“Until he figured out what a bad idea it was.”

Randall made a snorting noise that I suspected was suppressed laughter.

“Define harassment,” the chief said.

“Patting me on the rear,” I said. “Finding it necessary to squeeze past me when I was standing in a narrow space. Stuff like that.”

“And this was typical of his behavior toward the women in the house?”

“As far as I know, yes,” I said. “He was a pig. And it’s possible he was more offensive toward the women who weren’t as comfortable confronting him. Rose Noire thinks Vermillion had some kind of run-in with him, so she and Mother made sure never to leave her alone. And I wonder about Violet, or even Sarah.”

The chief nodded.

“You were going to give me the full contact information for all the designers,” he asked.

I pulled out my notebook and handed him the photocopy I’d made.

“While I’m here—” I began.

“Meg!” It was Mother. “Are you really all right?”

She put her hand to my forehead, as if expecting the shock of encountering a murderer to have given me a dangerous fever.

“I’m fine,” I said.

“James, you were supposed to call me once you’d seen her.” Mother turned to Dad with a look of deep disappointment on her face.

“I was caught up in the case,” Dad said. “Trying to find whoever took a shot at Meg.”

Mother looked somewhat mollified.

“And do you have any idea how soon we can get back to work?” she asked, turning to the chief.

“I’m going to hold the master bedroom a few more hours,” the chief said. “But there’s no reason not to release the rest of the house. If you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you a few questions, and when I’m done, I can let you get back to your work.”

“That would be fine,” Mother said.

“Here, take my chair.” I stood up and stepped aside. “Chief, may I do a tour of inspection?”

“Just stay out of the master suite till I give the word,” he said. “I’ll be interviewing all the designers this morning. Try to avoid discussing the case with any of them until after I’ve had my chance. Sammy!”

The deputy raced into the study.

“Start calling the designers.” The chief held out his copy of my contact list. “Start with Mr. Goodwin.”

“Right, chief!” Sammy dashed out again.

Randall, Dad, and I followed, and the chief closed the French doors that separated the study from the foyer.

“Meg, if you’re sure you’re all right…” Dad began.

“Nothing wrong with me that a real night’s sleep won’t fix,” I said.

“Then I’m going to head down to the hospital,” he said. “I don’t want to miss the autopsy.”

He dashed out.

“I’ve already got a punch list of things we need to fix,” Randall said. “Most of them in the master bedroom, so I’ll have to wait till Horace finishes his forensic work. In here, nothing much. Couple broken crystals in the chandelier, and a bullet hole over there.”

He point to one wall.

“That’s a bullet hole?” I exclaimed. The hole was more fist– than bullet-sized.

“Okay, the hole where Horace dug out the bullet. Looked to me like a .22, which is also what I bet they’ll be taking out of Clay. I saw the wound. Luckily the bullet that hit the chandelier just ricocheted and landed down the hall. Anyway, we can patch the hole pretty quick, though I’m afraid Miss Ivy will need to redo that part of her mural.”

Poor Ivy. She had already been worrying about how to finish all the walls. And she was making it harder for herself by having pretty much nothing but wall. At the moment, the only pieces of furniture in any of her spaces were a small nondescript cabinet in the back of the foyer and a large bronze Art Nouveau umbrella stand beside the front door. I had a feeling she was only using the cabinet to store her paints in and would whisk it away before the house opened. The umbrella stand was probably staying, because she clearly enjoyed seeing her painting of “The Little Match Girl” peeping out from behind it. Maybe I should suggest altering her design to cover the unpainted stretches with a big piece of furniture or a tapestry.