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.