“Not much longer,” she said. “Dinner with the boyfriend’s family. But text me when it’s here, and I’ll drop by on my way home from that.”
“Okay,” I said.
“And when you pick it up, could you just send me a photo of it?” she asked. “It’ll make me feel better, seeing it.”
“Can do,” I said. “Now I really have to run.”
Of course, since I was in a hurry, I found myself behind one of the horse-drawn carriages Randall had organized to drive parties of tourists around the town. After a quick surge of impatience, I reminded myself that they weren’t going all that much below the speed limit and focused on trying to see Caerphilly as the tourists were seeing it. Everyone, tourists and residents alike, waved as the carriages rolled past, with their hundreds of sleigh bells jingling and their red, green, and gold ribbons dancing in the breeze. And when two carriages passed, the drivers, well-bundled in their heavy Victorian greatcoats, stood and bowed to each other.
The boys would love this, I thought. Michael and I should take them. Maybe on Christmas eve, after the house was open.
Just then I noticed that one of the carriages was filled with people in Victorian costume. What was up with that, anyway? I’d thought the whole idea of the carriages was to charge the tourists a modest fee for the ride, not for parties of our costumed reenactors to ride around waving at the crowds.
But when I got a closer look, I realized that these weren’t our costumed reenactors. They were tourists, dressed up in Victorian costume. Randall would be delighted to hear that people were joining in the fun, rather than simply watching it.
In fact, when I scanned the crowds lining the streets, I realized there were a lot more costumed people than there had been at the beginning of the season, and a lot of them were buying roasted chestnuts, drinking cider and cocoa, peering into shop windows, and hauling overflowing shopping bags, just like their more modernly dressed fellow tourists. Yes, Christmas in Caerphilly was booming.
I was smiling when I strolled into the police station, partly from the holiday cheer on the way over and partly because what I was bringing the chief was as good as a Christmas present.
As I anticipated, the chief was delighted to get the sketch.
“Not someone I’ve ever seen around town,” he said, after studying it for a few moments. “You think it’s a good likeness?”
“An awesome likeness.”
“Sammy,” he called. “Let’s get this into the scanner and out over the wires.”
“Have you found out anything about the family who used to live in the show house?” I asked.
“We have,” the chief said. “Apparently Mr. Green was doing something risky and possibly illegal with mortgage-backed securities, and lost not only all of his money but a great deal of money belonging to a lot of other people. And the house sat empty for so long because a lot of his creditors were busy suing each other over who had first claim to it.”
“And the Bank of Caerphilly ultimately prevailed?” I said. “Yay for the home team.”
“Yes,” the chief said. “By that time the house was in poor condition, so Randall’s offer to fix it up so it could be used for the show house was a godsend to them. But none of this has brought us any closer to locating Ms. Green, and so far we’ve found no connection between her family and our victim, either in his Clay Smith days or as Claiborne Spottiswood.”
“I bet he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “So what happened to the rest of the Greens? The parents and the brother?”
“Mr. Green was convicted of several dozen counts of fraud and has been in a federal prison for the last five years,” the chief said. “Mrs. Green died of cancer four years ago. And young Zachary was convicted of vehicular manslaughter three years ago and is currently incarcerated in Red Onion State Prison.”
“Red Onion?” I echoed. “Isn’t that—”
“The Commonwealth of Virginia’s highest security prison, yes,” the chief said. “And usually you have to do something rather nastier than vehicular manslaughter to earn a place there, but apparently young Master Zachary has not been a model prisoner.”
“Then where has Jessica been?” I asked. “Living with relatives? In foster care?”
“Still working on that.” He sounded frustrated. “It’s only been a couple of hours, you know. But I think we can safely say that she did not have a happy, normal childhood.”
“Chief?” Sammy had returned and looked eager to talk to the chief.