“Now that he’s safely locked up, I’m rather glad Mr. Granger showed up,” I said. “After all, it’s starting to look as if everyone in the house is alibied, and if none of the designers did it—”
Oops. Probably not the smartest thing in the world to let the chief know I’d been poking around behind his back. He was frowning.
“Sorry,” I said. “But we’re all there together all day. The designers talk to each other—and to me. Everyone who has an alibi is thrilled, and wants everyone to know all about it.”
“Mr. Granger is only a suspect at this point,” he said. “And the designers are not all completely alibied. Unless you know differently.”
That sounded like an invitation to share.
“Well,” I said. “Mother was with family, and Martha was serving as designated driver and chief nurse for Violet, who was soused, and the Quilt Ladies were at Caerphilly Assisted Living, and Eustace was with his AA sponsee—”
“Ah,” the chief said. “That explains why he said he’d have to get back to me with his alibi.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t supposed to keep that part a secret. Don’t tell him I spilled it. And he didn’t tell me the name. And Sarah was neutering cats—”
“Doing what?”
“Neutering cats. Feral cats. With Clarence.”
“I think I could have lived without that image,” he said, shaking his head. “She only told me she was working at the animal shelter.”
“Who does that leave? Oh. Ivy. I don’t know about Ivy.”
“Home alone with a migraine, which doesn’t prove much,” he said. “But it’s possible the snow will alibi her.”
“The snow?” I had a brief image of the chief with his pen poised over his notebook, attempting to interrogate a falling flake.
“One of her neighbors is an avid amateur photographer,” the chief said. “And particularly fond of snowy landscapes without a single footprint in them. Apparently, due to her headache, Ivy did not emerge to shovel until sometime in the afternoon, and the neighbor took a great many pictures of the virginal snow in her front and backyard. Horace is analyzing them, and thinks it likely that she’ll be alibied.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “And did Our Lady—did Linda talk to you about her alibi?”
“Also home alone,” he said.
“Home alone, but online,” I said. “You got my e-mail about that, right? Because while I don’t understand it myself, I gather if she really was online, it might be provable.”
“I’ve already spoken to our department’s computer forensic consultants,” he said.
“And Vermillion was with the Reverend Robyn, at the women’s shelter. The location of which I’m busily trying to forget.”
“I don’t actually know it myself,” the chief said. “I suppose they let you in on the secret because of your gender.”
“They didn’t let me in on the secret,” I said. “Vermillion has absolutely no idea how to be discreet and furtive. She might as well be driving around with a neon sign on her car saying ‘Please don’t follow me! I’m going someplace I don’t want anyone to know about.’”
“I’ll speak to the Reverend Smith,” the chief said, with a smile. “Offer to give her couriers some lessons on defensive driving. I used to be pretty good at it, back in my undercover days in Baltimore. I don’t think I’ve quite forgotten everything I used to know. And I feel I owe them something, after my department inadvertently alerted Mr. Granger to their existence.”
“That would be great,” I said. “But anyway, with so many of the designers alibied, it must be very satisfying to find some fresh, juicy suspects.”
“I’d rather just find the killer,” he said. “But yes, Mrs. Granger and her jealous husband bear looking into. As does the disgruntled client Stanley told me about, the one who was suing Mr. Spottiswood. Meanwhile, there’s another small matter you can help me with.”
“Glad to,” I said.
“That student reporter you mentioned—the one who was visiting the house the day Mr. Spottiswood was killed.”
“And was wandering around for quite a while, taking photos. Yes.”
“I wanted to follow up on your suggestion that I look at her photos. What was her name again?”
“Jessica,” I said. “Sorry—I can’t remember her last name. You can probably find her through the paper.”
“But you’re sure it was Jessica?”