The Nightingale Before Christmas(22)

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.