The Nightingale Before Christmas(7)

“Your vase? I’m afraid you must be mistaken.” Clay stepped between Mother and the vase and crossed his arms as if prepared to fight her for it. Which took a lot of nerve—I recognized the urn as one that, ever since I could remember, had stood on the mantel of the house I’d grown up in, down in Yorktown.

“I’m sure you saw it downstairs in my room yesterday,” Mother said. “Someone must have brought it up here by mistake. Silly, isn’t it? The color’s all wrong for your room.”

“You’re right, about the color,” Clay said. “I thought it might make an interesting contrast, but—well, not my best idea. I’ll be taking it back to my shop tomorrow.”

“You’re quite sure it’s yours to take?” Mother’s tone was deceptively gentle. Any sane person with a normal instinct for self-preservation would be leaping to hand her the vase.

An idea struck me.

“Well, if he’s positive it’s his vase, that’s that,” I said.

Mother frowned at me. Clay smirked with premature triumph. Jessica frowned and lowered her camera, as if resenting me for preventing another dramatic confrontation for her to photograph.

“But I’m curious, Clay,” I went on. “Who do you keep in yours?”

“Who do I what?”

“Mother keeps her great-aunt Sophy in hers.” I walked over, lifted the vase, and shook it. I was relieved to hear the familiar rattle of the cremains inside.

“You’re decorating your room with someone’s ashes?” Clay backed away from me as if afraid Great-Aunt Sophy might have died of something contagious.

“She was so fond of beautiful design,” Mother said. “I always like to bring her along if possible and make her a part of my projects. And the vase has always been one of my favorites. That’s why I recognized it so easily.”

“What a coincidence,” Clay said. He was visibly recovering from his initial shock. “My urn—”

Was the jerk about to invent his own great-aunt? I took the top off the urn and peeked inside.

“Yes, looks like Great-Aunt Sophy,” I said. “And look!”

I gritted my teeth, stuck my hand into the urn, and then pulled it out, brandishing a small object in triumph. “Her onyx ring!”

Jessica’s camera captured my dramatic revelation with a burst of whirs and clicks.

“Dear Sophy!” Mother had pulled out a handkerchief and was pretending to blink back tears. “How she loved her little trinkets.”

“Yes.” I brushed the ring off and handed it to Mother, who closed her fingers around it and clutched her hand sentimentally to her heart.

“So you see,” I said to Clay, “you must be mistaken. I’d recognize this urn out of a million.”

“I do hope yours turns up soon,” Mother added. “Bring it along, Meg.”

She sailed out of the room. I popped the top back on the urn and followed her. When I got out into the hall, I handed it to her.

“Onyx ring?” she murmured. “Looks more like a dime-store trinket to me.”

“It is,” I said. “I had it in my pocket—I brought it in to give to Eustace for his wise man costume in the living nativity scene.”

“Thank you, dear.” She beamed at me, and then began carefully descending the staircase with the urn in hand.

Eustace stepped out of the room.

“Your great-aunt’s ashes?” He shook his head and made a face.

“Actually, Sophy’s ashes got dumped in the York River years ago by a sneaky criminal,” I said. “But Mother liked the urn, so she reused it for the ashes of one of our favorite cats. I thought human cremains were more likely to put off Clay.”

Eustace chuckled at that.

“Oh, Mother has your wise man’s ring,” I said. “And don’t worry,” I added, seeing his grimace. “It was never actually in the urn—I palmed it.”

Violet slipped past Eustace into the hall and fled back to her own room with a flash of pink and ruffles. Jessica followed her out but stopped near me in the hall, camera ready. I glanced through the master bedroom door. Mateo and Tomás, who had been peering over the bed to watch our confrontation, smiled nervously and ducked back down to work on whatever they were doing.

“Sorry about that,” I said to Jessica. “Just give me a minute to wash my hands, and then I can show you some more of the rooms. Martha, mind if I use your bathroom?”

“Be my guest, doll.” Martha could be touchy, but clearly browbeating Clay had put me in her good graces for the time being.

“Is it always this … dramatic?” Jessica asked, as she followed me across the hall.