Her imitation of Mother’s gently regretful tone was spot-on. I burst out laughing.
“And if she doesn’t give up her obsession?” I asked.
“Then she will continue to be her very interesting self.”
I watched Ivy paint for a few moments. It was curiously restful, watching the mural slowly come to life under her brush.
She glanced over her shoulder at me, and I suddenly remembered that she didn’t always like onlookers.
“I can leave if I’m bothering you,” I said.
“You don’t bother me.” She turned back to her painting. “Not like that reporter.”
“Jessica? The one from the student newspaper?”
“That’s the one.” She nodded, and took a step back to study what she’d been working on. “She was driving me crazy last night.”
“Last night?”
“Between eight and ten o’clock,” she said. “She got on everyone’s nerves after a couple of hours, so Rose Noire kicked her out—ever so politely. But someone must have let her back in and then gone off without making sure she was gone. She was driving me crazy—asking questions, darting around the house, tapping on things, coming up behind and startling me. But maybe it’s lucky for me she came. I’d been planning to work as long as it took to finish ‘The Nightingale,’ but after just an hour with her underfoot I had such a headache that I went home early. Maybe Jessica saved me from encountering the killer.”
Or maybe she’d cleared the field for the killer to work.
“Was she still here when you left?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I kicked her out, and checked all the doors and windows before I locked up.”
I tried to imagine Ivy kicking out so much as a stray kitten and failed. Clearly she had hidden depths.
“She shouldn’t have been hanging around here at all after Rose Noire made her leave.” I pulled out my notebook and began making a note. “I’m going to complain to her editor.”
“Good idea,” Ivy said.
“Meanwhile, we seem to be the last ones here,” I said to Ivy. “And I’m about to leave. Should you be staying here alone?”
“Oh, nobody will notice I’m here,” she said.
“I’ll make sure all the doors and windows are locked,” I said.
I made the rounds, checking every room, every door, and every window. Everyone had gone, and everything was locked up tight. I had the nagging feeling I was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something in particular, but then I’d felt that way at the end of most days lately. Time to head home for some rest.
As I headed for my car, I realized I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased with my day or frustrated. On the positive side, I felt a lot more certain that none of the designers I was working with day-in and day-out had killed Clay. The only ones for whom I hadn’t heard a plausible alibi were Vermillion and Ivy, and neither of them had ever been at the top of my list of suspects anyway. As the day wore on and as I talked to each of the designers, I’d started feeling less tense. Less apt to start if someone walked up behind me.
On the other hand, if none of the designers had killed him, who had?
“The chief’s problem,” I muttered to myself as I got into my car. He’d be spending the coming days—or weeks—digging into Clay’s life. Interviewing disgruntled clients, angry exes, and rival decorators. Poking and prodding the decorators’ alibis to see if they held.
I had other things to worry about, I told myself as I set off for home.
Though I should probably tell him that Jessica had been hanging around only an hour or so from the time of the murder.
I was only a block from the show house when my phone rang. I glanced down—it was Michael. And I suddenly remembered what I was supposed to be doing—tonight was the first night of his one-man performance of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
I felt guilty. Last year, on the day of show, I’d spent the whole day pampering him and distracting him. And this year I’d left him to take care of the boys all day. Well, at least he’d had the distraction part.
I pulled over to the curb and answered the phone.
“I’m so sorry!” I said. “I’m on my way to take the boys off your hands and feed them and—
“Don’t hurry!” he said. “I figured after last night you needed a break, so I arranged for Mom and Rob to take the boys to the zoo. They’ll bring them along to the theater full of pizza. And probably smelling like camels, but who cares.”
As he was talking, I saw Vermillion drive by. Her black Subaru station wagon was festooned with moons and spiderwebs in silver paint, so it was pretty distinctive. I waved, but she didn’t see me.