The Nightingale Before Christmas(24)

“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.