Or maybe she’d cleared the field for the killer to work.
“Was she still here when you left?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “I kicked her out, and checked all the doors and windows before I locked up.”
I tried to imagine Ivy kicking out so much as a stray kitten and failed. Clearly she had hidden depths.
“She shouldn’t have been hanging around here at all after Rose Noire made her leave.” I pulled out my notebook and began making a note. “I’m going to complain to her editor.”
“Good idea,” Ivy said.
“Meanwhile, we seem to be the last ones here,” I said to Ivy. “And I’m about to leave. Should you be staying here alone?”
“Oh, nobody will notice I’m here,” she said.
“I’ll make sure all the doors and windows are locked,” I said.
I made the rounds, checking every room, every door, and every window. Everyone had gone, and everything was locked up tight. I had the nagging feeling I was supposed to be somewhere else, doing something in particular, but then I’d felt that way at the end of most days lately. Time to head home for some rest.
As I headed for my car, I realized I wasn’t sure if I should be pleased with my day or frustrated. On the positive side, I felt a lot more certain that none of the designers I was working with day-in and day-out had killed Clay. The only ones for whom I hadn’t heard a plausible alibi were Vermillion and Ivy, and neither of them had ever been at the top of my list of suspects anyway. As the day wore on and as I talked to each of the designers, I’d started feeling less tense. Less apt to start if someone walked up behind me.
On the other hand, if none of the designers had killed him, who had?
“The chief’s problem,” I muttered to myself as I got into my car. He’d be spending the coming days—or weeks—digging into Clay’s life. Interviewing disgruntled clients, angry exes, and rival decorators. Poking and prodding the decorators’ alibis to see if they held.
I had other things to worry about, I told myself as I set off for home.
Though I should probably tell him that Jessica had been hanging around only an hour or so from the time of the murder.
I was only a block from the show house when my phone rang. I glanced down—it was Michael. And I suddenly remembered what I was supposed to be doing—tonight was the first night of his one-man performance of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol.
I felt guilty. Last year, on the day of show, I’d spent the whole day pampering him and distracting him. And this year I’d left him to take care of the boys all day. Well, at least he’d had the distraction part.
I pulled over to the curb and answered the phone.
“I’m so sorry!” I said. “I’m on my way to take the boys off your hands and feed them and—
“Don’t hurry!” he said. “I figured after last night you needed a break, so I arranged for Mom and Rob to take the boys to the zoo. They’ll bring them along to the theater full of pizza. And probably smelling like camels, but who cares.”
As he was talking, I saw Vermillion drive by. Her black Subaru station wagon was festooned with moons and spiderwebs in silver paint, so it was pretty distinctive. I waved, but she didn’t see me.
“That’s great about the boys,” I said. “I’ll go home, clean up, and meet you all at the theater.”
“Fine,” he said. “Has the chief figured out who killed Clay yet?”
“Not that I’ve heard,” I said. “But I’ve figured out that most of my friends didn’t do it, in spite of pretty extreme provocation, so I’m feeling a lot more cheerful. I’ll fill you in later.”
I was about to pull away from the curb when I spotted Vermillion’s car again, pulling up to the stop sign on the side street ahead of me. Weird. To get there, she’d have had to turn off the main road and circle back. Had she left something back at the house?
No. Instead of turning to go back to the house, she continued through the intersection along the side street. I waited a few moments, then pulled back onto the road and made a left to follow her.
I wasn’t sure why I was doing it, but I followed Vermillion for the next ten minutes. She was making apparently random turns, zigzagging through subdivisions and circling some blocks two or three times. Was she looking for something? Or was she trying to make sure no one was following her? If that was what she was up to, she wasn’t very good at it. I’d have had no trouble following her, even if she’d been smart enough to ditch her highly distinctive car for something more nondescript. And she didn’t seem to have spotted me.
Eventually she reached the center of town and pulled into an alley that I knew was a dead end. I continued on past the alley and parked a little way down the street.
After a minute or two, her car backed out of the alley. I could see another person in the passenger seat. Then the passenger ducked down and Vermillion turned onto the street and continued on past me. I waited till she’d pulled a safe distance ahead and then took off after her again.
More perambulations through the byways of Caerphilly. I began wondering if I should give up following her. I was already running short on time if I wanted to get home and change for Michael’s show.
But just as I was about to call off the chase, she stopped in front of a house with a high fence around it. I stopped, too, and watched from a distance as a gate swung open. Vermillion drove inside, and the gate closed after her.
Okay, now what? I parked my car and watched for a few minutes. I should be heading home.
What the heck. I could go straight to the show in what I was wearing. Who dresses up with a foot of snow on the ground?
I got out of the car and strolled down the street, as slowly and nonchalantly as I could. The house was surrounded by an eight-foot-tall wooden fence. There were lights in some of the windows, but all of them were protected by curtains, shades, or blinds.
I continued on to the corner and then paused. I was on a quiet residential street lined with small but tidy bungalows. Even if I had all night to carry out surveillance, there wasn’t really anyplace to hide and keep an eye on the house into which Vermillion had gone.
I turned and headed back for my car, again walking slowly.
This is ridiculous, I told myself. I should come back tomorrow, in daylight, and figure out the address of the house behind the fence. If there were numbers, I couldn’t see them in this light. And then I could look it up in the county records. Get Stanley to check it out. Maybe even tell Chief Burke about Vermillion’s furtive behavior. And then—
“Psst! Meg!”
I was past the gate now. I turned and looked back.
The gate was open about a foot, and Reverend Robyn Smith from Grace Episcopal was peering out.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I followed Vermillion,” I said.
Robyn closed her eyes, sighed, and then opened them again.
“Come in for a minute,” she said.
She swung the gate open. I stepped into the yard and waited while she closed and latched it. Then she led me into the house.
“It’s okay,” she called as she stepped inside. “I know her.”
She moved aside so I could see. The room was filled with women and children and sparsely furnished with what looked like castoffs. Three children were playing Parcheesi on the floor. Another knot of children were playing with toy cars. A girl of perhaps eleven or twelve sat on one of the faded sofas, playing with a baby. At the far end of the room, three women were setting out plates and silverware on two card tables, and another woman peered out from the kitchen.
“Welcome to the Caerphilly Battered Women’s Shelter,” Robyn said.
Chapter 13
“I didn’t know Caerphilly even had a women’s shelter,” I said.
“We like it that way,” Robyn said. “If you tell anyone where it is, you could be putting these women’s and children’s lives in jeopardy. They’re all taking refuge from dangerously abusive men.”
�
�It’s okay,” I said. “I haven’t the faintest idea where I am anyway.”
Robyn smiled at that, and a couple of the women giggled.
Vermillion, carrying a toddler, came over.
“Why were you following me?” she asked.
“I’m sorry—” I began.
“The safe house is supposed to be a secret,” she said. “I was supposed to pick up Eil—one of the residents—at her job and bring her back here without anyone following us, especially her horrible ex. And—”
“Then maybe you should take some lessons on how to lose a tail,” I said. “Starting with driving a less distinctive car.”
She blinked and took a step back as if I’d hit her.
“Now, now,” Robyn said.
“Vermillion, I’m sorry,” I said. “If I’d known where you were going, I wouldn’t have followed you. But remember, we’ve had a murder at the show house, and you’re one of the few people in the house whose whereabouts last night I know nothing about, and you were acting incredibly furtive.”
“Meg does have a point, Vermillion,” Robyn said.
Vermillion’s shoulders slumped.
“Yeah, okay,” she said. “I just get really nervous when I’m bringing someone to the house. And if it makes you feel any better, last night I was here at the shelter. All night.”
“Vermillion’s been staying here on night duty,” Robyn said. “And we had a new family move in last night. I arrived with them around ten thirty, and I didn’t leave until past one. She was helping, too. So I think she’s in the clear on the murder.”
“Excellent,” I said.
“If I knew anything, I’d tell you,” Vermillion said. “I loathed Clay and I wanted him out of the house, but still, it’s not right for someone to murder him.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and get dinner started?” Robyn said to the women at the table. “I just want to have a quiet word with Meg. Vermillion, can you help them?”
Vermillion lugged the child she was carrying into the kitchen. Robyn led me back out onto the porch.
“So how long has Caerphilly had a battered women’s shelter?” I asked.
“Only been operating six months,” she said.
“Keeping it secret for six months is a miracle in a small town like this.”
“And Vermillion is one of our best volunteers,” she said. “Although I’ve been worried about her lately.”
“Worried? Why?” I asked. Would it have something to do with Clay?
“She’s really good with the residents because she’s been through what they’re going through,” Robyn said. “Not here, but back home, wherever home was. She hasn’t told me much more than that. She was doing pretty well until the last few weeks. Lately she’s taken to sleeping here overnight most nights.”
“Did something happen to her here in Caerphilly?”
“No,” Robyn said. “I asked her. She said no—and I believe her—but she also said there was someone in the house she didn’t trust.”
“Clay Spottiswood,” I said.
“Yes.” Robyn nodded. “Not that she said as much, but it stands to reason.”
“Do you think he … threatened her in some way?”
“I think she’d have told me if he did,” Robyn said. “But I trust her judgment. Not her fashion sense, mind you. But her ability to spot someone capable of violence, absolutely.”
“Yesterday, when she arrived at the house, Rose Noire said she could feel the negative energy trying to keep her out,” I said. “And that there was something evil in the house.”
“Rose Noire is a good person,” Robyn said. “I trust her judgment, too. Do you think this man Clay was evil?”
The question surprised me.
“No,” I said, after thinking for a few moments. “Unpleasant, yes. Responsible for that negative energy, definitely. He was not a nice person. Maybe even a violent one. But evil? No. If there really was evil in the house, maybe it was that someone was already planning to kill him.”
“Yes.” Robyn nodded emphatically. “So be careful out there. There’s an evildoer still at large.”
Then her mood lightened.
“We’re having chili for dinner,” she said. “One of our current residents is a fabulous cook. Would you like to stay and share it?”
“I would love to,” I said. “But I’m going to miss the start of Michael’s show if I don’t rush over to the theater right now. Rain check?”
“Absolutely,” she said. “And you do realize now that you’ve found your way here to the safe house, we’ll figure out a way to make use of you.”
“I’ll count on it.”
I tried to follow my own advice as I walked back to the car, matter-of-factly, no tiptoeing or looking furtively over my shoulder. But I still found myself breathing a sigh of relief that I saw only a few perfectly innocent-looking vehicles and pedestrians as I wound my way out of the quiet neighborhood.
And I realized, with a start, that the safe house was only about ten blocks from the show house. Vermillion could have walked here in ten minutes. We must have spent at least two or three times that driving around town. Of course, she hadn’t just been coming here, she’d been picking up the resident who needed a safe way of getting home. Still—if Vermillion had been alone for as little as half an hour …
I’d have to trust Robyn on that. Robyn, and the chief’s good instincts.
Of course, if Vermillion really had been afraid of Clay, knowing that he had been so close by could partly explain her growing uneasiness at the house.
I was getting close to the theater, and needed to focus all my attention on finding a parking space nearby. Or at least in the same time zone.
I raced in just in time to claim the seat my family had been saving for me on the far end of the front row. Not the best seat in the house, as Dad kept telling me apologetically, but I didn’t mind. I’d heard Michael do his one-man show more than a couple of times now—part of the entertainment, for me, was to watch how the audience reacted to him. And I could do that more easily from the side of the theater.
And, of course, I also wanted to watch Josh and Jamie’s reactions—they’d seen the show last year, of course, but now they were a year older, and considered themselves veteran theatergoers, thanks to our season tickets to the Caerphilly Children’s Theater.
At last the house lights dimmed. A single spotlight lit the podium, and the sound crew played a few bars of a group of carolers singing “Good King Wenceslas.” Then the music faded as if the carolers were strolling away, and Michael stepped onstage, to be greeted with thunderous applause.
He bowed, and waited till the applause had died down—and both twins had been induced to sit down instead of standing on their seats—before opening.
“A Christmas Carol, by Charles Dickens,” he read out. “Stave one: Marley’s Ghost.”
I sat back to enjoy the show. But after a few paragraphs, Dickens’s words suddenly drew me out of the story and back into thinking about the events of the last two days.
“Nobody ever stopped him in the street to say, with gladsome looks, ‘My dear Scrooge, how are you? When will you come to see me?’” Michael proclaimed. “No beggars implored him to bestow a trifle, no children asked him what it was o’clock, no man or woman ever once in all his life inquired the way to such and such a place, of Scrooge.”
He could be talking of Clay. Clay wasn’t evil, any more than Scrooge was. Unpleasant, both of them, to be sure. Uncivil, rude, selfish, misguided—I could think of any number of uncomplimentary words that would apply to both.
But not evil. And Scrooge hadn’t started off bad. At some point, for some reason, he’d taken the wrong path. But he’d reformed. Been redeemed.
Clay never would be.
As Michael recounted Scrooge’s journey with the Ghost of Christmas Past, I tried to imagine what would happen if the same ghost had visited Clay.
And I drew a complete blank.
What if Clay’s murder
er wasn’t anyone in the show house, but someone from his past?
The past I knew nothing about.
“None of my business,” I murmured, causing Mother, who was next to me, to turn and raise one eyebrow inquiringly.
I smiled and shook my head.
I needed to focus on Michael’s performance. But my mind continued to wander until my eyes, also wandering, lit on Rob, near the other end of our row of family members.
Of course. Rob. There had to be information online about Clay, and Rob was the one to help me with it. He might know next to nothing about computers himself, but as the CEO of Mutant Wizards, his highly successful computer game development company, he had access to all sorts of highly skilled techies. As soon as the show was over, I’d ask him to lend me one. Someone really good at online research, who could find me every detail of Clay Spottiswood’s past.
With that decided, I was able to turn my attention to the show.
And not a minute too soon. I realized that while Jamie was sitting completely still, attention riveted to his father’s every word and every gesture, Josh was displaying his devotion in a rather different way.
He was imitating Michael. When Michael rubbed his chin thoughtfully to indicate Scrooge’s puzzlement, Josh rubbed his chin. When Michael threw out his hands to express Scrooge’s delight at seeing his old master Fezziwig, Josh threw out his hands. And when Michael, describing the dancing at Fezziwig’s Christmas party, leaped into the air and clicked his heels together, Josh bobbed out of his seat.
People were starting to notice. In fact, they weren’t just starting to notice, they were staring and giggling. And Dad, on one side of him, and Michael’s mother, on the other, weren’t doing a thing.
“Josh!” I hissed. He was several seats down and didn’t hear me at first. “Josh!”
He turned in the middle of pretending to play the fiddle and looked at me.
“Not now,” I said.
He frowned.
“It’s Daddy’s turn to do the play,” I said. “You can do it when we get home.”
He slumped back into his seat.
“Okay,” he said, in a small voice.
A voice I shouldn’t have been able to hear.
The Nightingale Before Christmas Page 12
