The Nightingale Before Christmas(25)

“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.”