The Nightingale Before Christmas (7 page)

Aida was still in her uniform as a sheriff's deputy. The boys were fascinated by the various objects hanging from her belt.

“Mommy, wouldn't you like one of those?” Jamie asked, pointing to Aida's police radio.

“No, that,” Josh said, pointing to Aida's holster.

“They're both very nice,” I said. “But I don't think anyone but police officers are allowed to have police guns and police radios.”

The boys pondered this in silence for a few moments.

“Is it hard to become a police officer?” Jamie asked.

“You have to go to the police academy,” Aida said. “For six months. And I'm sure your mom is smart enough to do very well there, but I don't think she wants to spend that much time away from her family.”

Jamie seemed satisfied with this answer, but all through the concert Josh continued to study Aida's uniform and then look at me as if picturing me in one.

Nothing put me into a holiday mood more certainly than really good carol singing, and I was also looking forward to seeing how well the choir did with Minerva as its new leader. We all knew the choir had become happier since its former much-hated director had departed under a cloud. But would they sing as well?

I should never have doubted Minerva. Or Kayla.

“They've outdone themselves,” Mother exclaimed. “I don't think I've ever heard them this good, and that's saying something.”

As we were filing out—slowly, because everyone kept stopping in clumps to chatter about how lovely the choir sounded and how beautifully the church was decorated—I ran into Randall.

“So is Clay in or out?” I asked him.

“Don't know yet,” he said. “The only time I could get the whole committee together was just after the concert. I'm heading to the meeting now. I'll call you when I know.”

After the concert, I took the boys home and put them to bed and then wrapped presents while Michael went to the college theater for a quick tech rehearsal. Tomorrow was the first of two nights that he'd be doing his annual dramatic reading of Dickens's
A Christmas Carol
.

It should have been a peaceful evening. I lit a fire in the fireplace, and the smell of juniper and cedar filled the room. Rose Noire and my brother, Rob, joined me, and we all wrapped presents and wrote cards while listening to Christmas music.

Rob was trying to be secretive, doing his wrapping behind one of the sofas. But since every single present he brought out to place under the tree was a flat rectangle about five and a half by seven and a half inches, I deduced that we were all getting our own personal copies of whatever new computer game Mutant Wizards, his company, had developed for the holiday season.

But his attempts at discretion and secrecy, however unsuccessful, made him so happy that Rose Noire and I both stifled our giggles and tried to look properly mystified at each stack of presents he deposited under the tree.

Rose Noire was humming happily as she wrapped another batch of her expensive gift baskets. The fact that Rob and Rose Noire, two of the least practical and businesslike people on the planet, had achieved financial success by doing what they loved usually cheered me and made me believe there was hope for humanity.

But tonight I was restless. I couldn't write a coherent note on a Christmas card. I mangled the paper whenever I tried to wrap a present. I kept thinking that I should have gone over to the house to make sure Randall's workers had cleaned up all the damage.

Rob, who was happily singing along with the Mormon Tabernacle Choir on the radio, didn't seem to notice my mood. Rose Noire did, though, and did her best to distract me from it.

“Are you sure you're okay with me giving ant farms to the boys?” she asked. “Because if you're not, there's still time to get the organic crayons.”

“I think we'll be fine with the ant farms,” I said. “As long as you can provide some kind of natural, environmentally safe ant repellant if they get out.”

“They're vegan, wheat-free, sugar-free, preservative free—”

“The ants?” I asked.

“The
crayons.
And yes, I have a plan for when the ants get out.”

When
they get out? I'd have preferred
if.
But still, worrying about a hypothetical ant invasion distracted me, at least briefly, from my larger worries. When the Mormon Tabernacle Choir began booming out “Joy to the World” we all three joined in.

A little after eleven, I finally got the long-awaited call from Randall.

“Show house committee just broke up.” He sounded exhausted.

“This late? Well, is Clay in or out?”

“In, dammit. Not because we really want him, and he can kiss next year's house good-bye. But he's known to be litigious.”

“And you think he'd sue if we really kicked him out.” I sighed. “You're probably right. And I doubt if he'd win, but beating him would cost a lot of money.”

“Probably more than the show house will clear. So we're counting on you. Just hold it together till the opening.”

“Will do. Have we fixed everything he did today?”

“It was going well when I had to leave. I didn't have a chance to drop by after the concert—the committee's been meeting ever since it ended.”

A two-hour meeting? To decide to do nothing at all? Not for the first time, I uttered a small, silent prayer of thanks that I had resisted Mother's attempts to talk me into joining the committee.

“I think I should go down and check, then,” I said. “How are the roads?”

“Roads are fine, but why not wait until morning to check?”

“Because I won't be able to sleep till I do,” I said. “I'll call you if I spot any problems, and then if anyone complains, we can say we already know and already have a plan to deal with it.”

“E-mail me.” He was obviously stifling a yawn. “Because I hope to be asleep in about ten minutes.”

I decided that since Michael should arrive soon, I'd wait and get his opinion on the roads. Randall drove a truck and prided himself on being able to drive on anything the weather threw at us. Michael had a more normal view on snow. I tried to concentrate on my Christmas cards.

By the time Michael arrived it was nearly midnight. Rose Noire had said goodnight and gone upstairs an hour before, and Rob was yawning. I was still wide awake.

“How was the rehearsal?” I asked. “And how are the roads?”

“Fine and fine,” he said. “It's a nice, light snow. Easy for the plows to keep up with. But you're not going out again, are you?”

I had started putting on my coat.

“I want to check on the house,” I said, as I stuffed my phone in my pocket and pulled on a thick wool cap. “I told you about all the stuff Clay ruined. Some of it happened last night, when I went home before he did. I like to be the last one out of the house, and while I wouldn't have given up this afternoon and evening with you and the boys for anything, now I'm anxious. And I want to see if Randall's workmen have finished fixing everything. Make sure there are no new problems. As long as you don't think the roads are unsafe.”

Michael shook his head, but he knew better than to argue with me when I was in what he called my “taking-charge mode.”

“Drive carefully,” he said, giving me a quick kiss.

The snow, though steady, was light, and all fifteen or so miles of the road from our house to town had been well and recently plowed—fringe benefits, I suspected, of the county crew knowing Michael and I were among Mayor Randall Shiffley's closest friends. I found the drive curiously exhilarating. The Twinmobile, with its four-wheel drive, handled the road beautifully, and there wasn't another car in sight. At first I saw only snowy fields and snowflakes drifting down outside, and heard only the faint swish of my tires and the steady rhythm of the windshield wipers. As I drew closer to town, I began to see houses and fences strung with Christmas lights. The growing layer of snow on the outdoor reindeer and Santas made them more obviously fake, but I liked the effect of the snow on the manger scenes and snowmen.

I pulled up in front of the show house and parked. The house was dark and mine was the only car in front of it, though there were a few nearby. I could see faint car-shaped indentations that suggested some of the designers had stayed until the snow had started, but the places where they'd parked were covered with at least an inch of snow by now. Good. The house was a lot more peaceful when the designers had all gone home for the day. Even the ones like Sarah and Eustace who had become friends.

I found myself humming “Silent Night” as I got out and locked my car. I liked the way the snow muffled all the sounds around me, and the way my footsteps looked crisp and clear in the smooth snow on the walk. Should I e-mail Randall to remind him to send one of his workmen to shovel the walks tomorrow? Later.

I opened the door, stepped in, and began stomping on the doormat to shake the snow off my boots. I was reaching for the light switch when—

Something tinkled and broke in the distance. Upstairs.

I glanced up. The house was dark, but had I seen a faint flicker of light out of the corner of my eye—like a flashlight being switched off?

I stood in the darkened hallway and waited.

Silence. I was just reaching for the light switch, when the hall light came on, half blinding me, and I heard two loud pops followed by the tinkling of something breaking nearby.

Gunshots?

I dashed into the study and dropped to the ground behind one of the armchairs. I pulled out my cell phone.

The hall light went out again, and I could hear racing footsteps upstairs. Racing away from me, thank goodness.

I dialed 9-1-1.

 

Chapter 5

“9-1-1; what's your emergency?”

“Debbie Ann!” I found the familiar voice of the local dispatcher comforting. “I'm at the show house—there's an intruder, and he fired a gun at me. I think he's upstairs, and running for the back stairs.”

I rattled off the address.

“Are you in a safe place?”

Was I in a safe place? If there was only one intruder, yes. I heard the garage door opening, so evidently the intruder had gone down the back stairs and was leaving through the garage. He was fleeing.

But what if there was more than one?

“No idea,” I said. “I think so. I think he's leaving.”

“Stay put,” she said. “And stay on the line.”

Easier said than done, at least the staying put part. I felt like a sitting duck. I crawled toward the front windows. The garage doors faced to the side of the house, so it wasn't as if I could see someone leaving through them. But he had to make his way down the driveway. And when he got to the street—

A car motor started up outside. I couldn't see anything. I suspected one of those cars covered with soft mounds of snow would be gone when I went back out. And that whoever was driving it was waiting till he got away from the house before turning on his lights.

I described all this to Debbie Ann and crawled back behind the armchair. As usual, the adrenaline that had carried me through the crisis was deserting me now that the immediate danger seemed to have driven off. My knees felt weak. The hand holding my cell phone was visibly shaking. And I decided I had to do something, if only to distract myself. After all, if someone wanted to get me, they'd had plenty of time by now. In the dead silence of the house, my side of my conversation with Debbie Ann had been clearly audible.

“I'm going to check upstairs,” I said.

“I said stay put!”

I didn't bother to explain that I'd go crazy if I stayed put a minute longer. I got up from my refuge behind the armchair. I walked back to the hall as softly as I could and paused at the foot of the stairs, listening.

Another faint noise. Was it just an old board squeaking? Or something else?

I crept upstairs and paused at the landing. The intruder seemed to have come from the master bedroom. The sound seemed to have come from there.

“Meg … Meg…” the faint voice on my phone kept saying.

I stepped into the master bedroom doorway and turned my phone so the light of its screen shone into the room.

There was something on the bed. My phone didn't give off enough light to see what it was.

I reached for the light switch and then stopped. The intruder had been in here, and might have left fingerprints.

I pulled my right glove out of my pocket and put it on before turning on the light switch.

Clay Spottiswood was lying in the middle of the enormous bed. His eyes were wide and staring, and blood had run down from a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.

“We're going to need an ambulance,” I said. “Clay Spottiswood's been shot.”

 

Chapter 6

“What in the world were you doing here at this hour?”

I opened my eyes to find Chief Burke standing in the study doorway. I'd retreated downstairs, to one of Sarah's comfy Art Deco armchairs, emerging only to let in Sammy Wendell, the deputy who arrived first. Several other deputies had followed, including my friend Aida Butler and Randall's cousin Vern. Then my cousin Horace, who was not only a deputy but also the county's crime scene technician. And Dad, who was now the local medical examiner. He'd insisted on checking me out briefly before trotting upstairs to examine Clay. I'd stayed in the study, out of their way, while they searched the house and did their forensic thing in the master bedroom.

The crime scene.

“Are you okay?” the chief asked.

“Just tired,” I said. “And a little shaken. What was I doing here? Checking on the place. Usually I'm the last to leave, or nearly so. But today I left early to take the boys Christmas shopping. And that took longer than expected, and it bothered me that I never got back to the house. I like to make sure the place is locked up. Check on what the designers are up to. Especially if we've had problems, as we did today, I hate going to bed without knowing that everything's okay. And obviously it's not.”