The Nightingale Before Christmas(86)

Maybe Jessica’s parents had. But even if they had, what were the odds they’d left behind tons of cash when they moved away? However abrupt their departure might have seemed to eleven- or twelve-year-old Jessica, her parents would have had time to clean our their hiding places.

And did she really think the left-behind treasure would still be there after the house had been empty for six years, despoiled by vandals and squatters, and completely rebuilt by Randall and his workmen?

Yes, apparently she did. She was working on another wall now, alternately hacking out chunks and stopping to sift through the rubble she’d created. And she was getting more and more jittery and agitated. Was she on something? Or suffering from some kind of mental illness? Either way, I needed to get untied and away from her, because she seemed to be spiraling down into some kind of frenzy.

She’d started muttering to herself. I caught a few words.

“… be a lot easier if these damned creeps hadn’t come in and messed up everything…”

She seemed to have forgotten I was there. Which was a good thing. But what if she glanced over, saw me, and remembered that I was one of the creeps who’d messed up everything?

Just then I spotted movement in the archway separating the living room from the breakfast room. Someone was standing there in the shadows.

I glanced over at Jessica, and then back at the figure. I shook my head, and then jerked it toward Jessica.

The figure took a step forward. It was Martha.

I couldn’t remember when I’d been so glad to see a friendly face.





Chapter 24

I could see Martha peering out of the archway at Jessica. I tried to shake my head, ever-so-slightly, to suggest that stepping into the room was a really bad idea.

After watching Jessica for a moment or so, she glanced down at me, nodded, and withdrew back into the kitchen.

Make sure you’re far enough away so she doesn’t hear you when you call 9-1-1, I wanted to tell her. And get some kind of a weapon! But she’s dangerous, so stay back and don’t try anything—unless, of course, you see her about to shoot me or dismember me, in which case you should do something quick!

Martha was a cool customer, I reminded myself. She could handle this.

At least I hoped she could.

“Where is it?” Jessica again. “It’s got to be here. It’s got to!”

She seemed to be losing it. More of it than she’d already lost. She began flailing out wildly with the ax, shrieking inarticulately. She shattered the mirror above the fireplace. Knocked the legs out from under a delicate secretary desk. Chopped a couple of nasty holes in the carpet. Bounced around between the sofas and armchairs, shredding up the brocade cushions. I flinched when she came near me, but she sailed past and began trying to dismember the Christmas tree. Between her shrieks, the hatchet blows, and the smashing sounds as hundreds of ornaments fell to the floor and shattered to bits I could barely hear myself think.

Martha, bless her heart, began stealing into the room under cover of the tree surgery. She was heading for the table with the gun.

She had it.

I breathed a sigh of relief and gave my poor bruised fingers a rest—I’d made progress on unraveling the passementerie, but not enough. Not a problem, though—Martha could hold Jessica at bay until the police arrived. Or, if Jessica was so hysterical that she tried to attack her in spite of the gun—well, I suspected Martha had enough nerve to use it.

She lifted the gun in her right hand and steadied it with her left. She’d either used a gun before or had paid attention when watching TV and movie cops use them. Go Martha!

Then she fired, twice.

Jessica collapsed on the floor and fell silent.

I was stunned into silence myself for a few moments.

Martha walked over to take a closer look at Jessica.

“Did you have to shoot her?” I asked.

“She’s not dead,” Martha said.

“That’s a relief,” I said. “Can you come over and untie me?”

“Which means I’ll just have to shoot her again,” Martha said. “After bashing your head in with her ax, of course. It’ll look as if you shot her just as she was hitting you with the ax. I’ll let the chief of police decide who he wants to blame Clay’s murder on.”

I started working again on unraveling the passementerie.

“You killed Clay,” I said. “Why?”

Not that I didn’t have a pretty good idea why, between their professional rivalry and their shattered romantic relationship. But it seemed a good idea to keep her talking.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, you know why,” she snapped. “You’ve heard how he took me in. Let me set him up in the design business and then turned on me and took all my clients. I lost my business and had to go to work as a furniture store design consultant. Took me two years to save enough to start up again here in Caerphilly—it would have taken a lot longer to get started again in Richmond. And a year later, he moves here and thinks he can do it all again. No way. I told him—back off, leave my clients alone. But did he listen?”