“So it was all professional?” I asked. “Or am I imagining that the two of you also had a relationship?”
“The bastard,” she muttered. “Turns out I imagined the relationship. He was just using me.”
“So you killed him,” I said.
“That wasn’t actually the plan,” she said. “I was just going to frame him.”
“For what?”
“Possession of a firearm,” she said. “In Virginia, a convicted felon who’s caught with a gun can go to prison. I knew that from serving on a jury once. And when we were all trying to rescue Sarah’s furniture, I dragged out this little end table, and suddenly the drawer pops open and a gun falls out. I kicked it under the sofa, and then picked it up later, with my cleaning gloves on. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do with it, but I figured it would be good for something. And then I came up with the idea of leaving it in Clay’s room and calling the cops to report it.”
“So you took Violet out and got her plastered, so she’d tell everyone how sweet you were to take away her keys and let her stay in your guest room,” I said.
“Yeah.” She seemed to be enjoying the chance to brag about her cleverness. “I slipped her a Mickey to make sure she stayed out. I’m only six blocks from here, so I figured it would be a cinch to slip over here, plant the gun, and get back in before she noticed I was gone.”
“All that trouble for an alibi for planting the gun?” I asked.
“I figured he’d blame me for planting it,” she said. “He knew I had it in for him. So I wanted to make sure I could prove I hadn’t done it. Lucky for me, isn’t it? And bad luck for Clay, barging in when he did.”
“And you struggled, and the gun went off,” I said. “I’m sure you were devastated, but you were there to play a prank on him, not kill him. It was self-defense.” I tried to put a sympathetic, concerned expression on my face, as if I really did believe she was innocent. “Completely understandable. Anyone who knew Clay would call it justifiable homicide.”
“Nice try,” she said. “But I’m not buying it. Wish your little nut job had wrecked a few other rooms. Wonder if I have the time to—no, probably better not.”
“You won’t get away with it,” I said.
“I can sure try,” she said. “And you know what? I may not have time to wreck everyone else’s rooms, but I can hack Clay’s stupid paintings to shreds.”
“No,” I said. The thought of her slashing those three paintings was curiously disturbing.
“It’s going to be tough on your mother,” she said. “When she comes over and sees you lying dead in the ruins of her room. I feel almost sorry for her, even though I know she had a hand in trying to cut me out of the house.”
She didn’t sound sorry. And she was dead wrong. Mother had much preferred her to Clay. It was only thanks to Mother’s intervention that she’d gotten the rooms she had. But she’d never believe it.
“Nothing I can do about that,” Martha went on, as she headed for the archway that led to the hall. She stopped, looked back, and smiled at the devastation around us. “Before you know it—”
Something large, shiny, and metallic emerged from the shadows of the hallway and hit the top of her head. She stiffened and then slumped to the floor.
Ivy was standing in the doorway, holding the heavy bronze umbrella stand. She set the umbrella stand down, then bent over to take both the ax and the gun from Martha. Then she walked over, sat down on the floor beside me, and started untying my passementerie bonds.
“Thank God you stopped her,” I said. “But where did you come from? I had no idea you were even here!”
“No one ever does,” she said, with a faint smile, as she pulled away the last strands of passementerie.
Chapter 25
Ivy had quite sensibly called 9-1-1 before tackling Martha. By the time the police arrived, I had checked both Jessica and Martha and relayed their condition over the phone to Debbie Ann. Jessica was unconscious but breathing normally and I didn’t find much blood. Maybe her wound was only minor, and it had hit her hard because of her agitated or even drugged state. A problem for the medics, when they arrived. Martha’s head wasn’t bleeding, but then, head wounds don’t always, and she could easily have a concussion or even a subdural hematoma. I hoped the ambulance arrived soon. I wouldn’t mourn too much if Martha died, but I suspected that killing someone, even to save a life, would hit Ivy hard. Then again, maybe I was underestimating Ivy. If she really had been the timid soul we all thought she was, I’d be dead by now.