The Nightingale Before Christmas(82)

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I’m going to leave you to your fans,” I said. “I can drop it by the house and probably still beat you home.”

I fetched the lamp from the Twinmobile, which was parked right behind the theater, and carried it the three blocks to where I’d put my car. I kept a sharp lookout, but this time there didn’t appear to be anyone following me. I was leaving earlier tonight, and I’d parked in a less isolated spot. I carefully stowed the lamp on the passenger-side floor and wedged it in with my purse before taking off for the house.

I passed stores that were closed or closing and restaurants whose last patrons were filing out into the cold, crisp air. When I’d first moved to Caerphilly, I found it annoying that the only things open all night were the gas station and the hospital. Now I found it soothing.

When I reached the show house, it was dark and a little spooky looking. I wasn’t thrilled to have to come back here by myself. But I was now convinced that Jessica had, indeed, taken Violet’s key. And thanks to the rekeying, that key—along with any others the designers might have lost or given away—was useless. Only Randall and I and the remaining designers had access now.

In fact, it was possible that some of the designers had gone home before Randall had given out the new keys, so the subset of people who could get in was even smaller and mostly well alibied.

Of course, Jessica had probably also stolen Sarah and Kate’s gun. And unlike the obsolete keys, that would be working just fine. So before parking in front of the house, I cruised past it so slowly my car almost stalled out, studying every pane of every window and every shadow on the lawn.

Nothing suspicious.

I parked my car right in front of the door. There were a few other cars up and down the street, but they looked like neighborhood cars.

I kept a close eye around me as I strode up the walk, and kept looking over my shoulder as I unlocked the door. I held the banker’s lamp handy, ready to bash anyone who tried to sneak up on me. Sarah wouldn’t be happy if I had to use it, but my life was at least slightly more important than her room.

The new key was a little stiff, but it worked. I was safely inside.

Safely inside a house that had already had one murder in it. I stood in the hallway for a few moments, listening.

Silence.

Then I walked quickly and quietly through the house and checked to make sure every door and window was closed and locked, and every closet empty. Fifteen windows and seven doors downstairs, counting the two garage doors. Thirteen windows upstairs. Nobody in the four upstairs closets, the five downstairs closets, or the basement.

Okay, now I could breathe more easily.

I went back down to the hall, where I’d left the banker’s lamp, and took it into Sarah’s study. I even plugged it in close to where I thought the old one had been. Of course, the minute Sarah walked in, she’d frown and arrange it to an ever-so-slightly different angle, following some logic understandable only to designers and inexplicable to mere mortals like me.

I turned the banker’s light on. I could see why Sarah had wanted it. The room was a symphony in red fabric, muted golden bronze, and brown wood. Even the books were mostly in tones of red, gold, and brown. The green shade of the banker’s lamp suddenly brought the room’s whole focus on the elegant cherry desk and the bronze desk accessories on top of it. All it needed was a vintage typewriter and you could imagine The Great Gatsby being written here, or maybe The Sound and the Fury. I wanted more than ever to browse through the books—the real, identifiable, imperfect yet ever-so-beautiful books—and then plop down for nice long wallow in one of the red velvet chairs.

Maybe later. After the house had opened.

I took a picture of the lamp and e-mailed that to Sarah. Then I turned it off and went to check the rest of the house.

Mother’s room was breathtaking. I stood in the middle of the floor and surveyed it. The tall tree, trimmed with so many sparkling ornaments that you had to take it on faith that there was green underneath. The rich red-and-gold brocade covers of the chairs and the sofa. The four red velvet Christmas stockings hanging from brass hangers on the mantel. The lovely contrast between the walls—painted in “Red Obsession,” which didn’t look nearly as overwhelming as I thought it would be—and the woodwork—painted in an off-white, whose name I had forgotten, and picked out with little touches of gold. The rich red draperies with their red-and-gold cords. The subtle colors and intricate designs of the elegantly faded red oriental rug. The cool contrasting touch of the blue-and-white porcelain. Yes, Mother had outdone herself. If there was any justice, she had a good shot at the prize.