The Nightingale Before Christmas

“What’s up?” I asked.

“You tell me,” the chief said. “Horace?”

Horace stood up and pointed to a stack of four boxes. I squatted down and looked at them. They were all addressed to Mother at the show house address.

“These are Mother’s,” I exclaimed. “What are they doing here?”

“A good question,” the chief said. “You can think of no legitimate reason for them to be in Mr. Spottiswood’s possession?”

“All four of these packages are ones Mother thought were lost in transit,” I said. “Three of them she had to have shipped again. She’s been bugging me for two days to find this one.”

I held up a small, flat parcel from The Braid Emporium.

The chief turned to Horace.

“And what did the UPS tell us about these packages?”

Horace looked down at his notebook.

“These two were drop shipped,” he said, touching two of Mother’s parcels. “No signature required. These two were signed for.”

“Who signed for them?” I demanded.

“This one was a W. Faulkner,” Horace said. “The Braid Emporium one went to a C. Dickens.”

“We also have signatures from T. Capote, F. S. Fitzgerald, and D. Hammett,” the chief added. “The manager of our local UPS facility will be having a word with the driver responsible.”

“That jerk,” I said. “Clay, I mean. Ever since the designers started working in the house, we’ve had problems with packages taking longer than expected, or getting lost entirely. I assumed someone had figured out that a lot of expensive stuff was being left at a house where no one lived, and was pilfering packages. So a week ago I told everyone that I’d rather they ship stuff to their own offices, but if they had to ship to the house they had to require a signature. We still had a few problems with packages, but not nearly as many.”

“That makes sense,” the chief said. “Most of these packages would have been delivered between ten days and three weeks ago.”

I glanced through the other packages. They came from fabric and trim companies, glass and china vendors, antique stores—all the kinds of vendors the decorators would have used.

“That jerk,” I said. “He’s been sabotaging everyone.”

“That makes you angry,” the chief observed.

“Damn right it does,” I said.

“I imagine the designers themselves would be even angrier,” he said.

“Angry enough to kill him? Is that what you’re asking?”

The chief raised one eyebrow and waited.

“How should I know?” I said. “Maybe. I can’t see killing someone over a bit of braid, or a few yards of fabric. But if one of them realized Clay was deliberately sabotaging them, and had been for weeks? Can I see someone losing it and lashing out in anger? Yes. Don’t ask me who, though.” I waved at the stack of packages. “He’s got at least one from everyone.”

“If Mr. Spottiswood had been stabbed or bludgeoned by something that could readily be found at the crime scene, I could more easily accept the theory that someone lashed out in anger.” The chief leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers. “But he was shot. Someone had to bring a gun to the scene. Which looks more like premeditation. Unless, of course, Mr. Spottiswood had the bad luck to enrage someone who happened to be carrying a firearm. Were you aware that any of the decorators were armed?”

“If any of them were, it’s news to me,” I said. “Apart from the gun Sarah’s partner Kate tried to get her to take. I assume you heard about that.”

The chief nodded.

“Given the amount of arguing, backbiting, and general nastiness going on in the house, if I’d known any of them were packing, I’d have ordered them to leave their guns at home, on pain of expulsion from the house. Remind me to suggest to Randall that we make that a rule for next year. No guns at the show house. New rule number two.”

“What’s new rule number one?” the chief asked. “No murders at the show house?”

“No packages sent to the show house,” I said. “The amount of bickering and backbiting those stolen packages have caused … Incidentally, I’d already pla

“Two of them did,” he said. “Mrs. Martha Blaine and Mrs. Linda Du

The other Martha and Our Lady of Chintz.

“But I didn’t have enough officers to stake out the house, as Mrs. Blaine suggested,” the chief went on. “And as I pointed out, a stakeout wouldn’t do much good if, as they suggested, the thefts were an inside job.”

“Did they suspect Clay?” I asked.

“Mrs. Blaine, rather presciently, did,” the chief said. “Mrs. Du

“Tomás and Mateo?” I said. “I don’t believe it. And do you really think two guys who speak little or no English would forge William Faulkner’s and Charles Dickens’s signatures on the UPS forms?”

“We were aware of that implausibility,” the chief said. “We thought it was neighborhood juvenile delinquents.”

“Very erudite delinquents,” I said.

“The same ones who had been vandalizing the house this fall,” Horace added.

“Vandalizing it how?”

“On several occasions, neighbors called us to report that there was activity in the house,” the chief said. “We found wallboard ripped away from the walls, floorboards pulled up. As if someone was trying to destroy the house from the inside out. We were keeping our eyes on several neighborhood juveniles with troubled histories. So you can imagine how pleased the bank was when Randall Shiffley approached them offering to fix up the house if it could be used for the show house. Apparently your mother thought she had a house lined up, but it fell through at the last minute.”

“She was pla

“I see.” The chief was trying to hide a smile and failing. “Would that have anything to do with your taking the job as coordinator?”

“Everything to do with it,” I said. “I said I would do anything else she wanted, but if any decorators invaded our house, we’d set Spike on them.”

“Very sensible,” he said. “Some of the things they’re doing to that house are mighty peculiar. Like gluing moss to the ceiling.”

“Moss?” I repeated. “To the ceiling? Which room?”

“The one that looks like Dracula’s lair,” Horace said. “She’s got Spanish moss hanging all around the edge of the room, and from the chandelier, and—”

“Good grief,” I said. “Well, as long as she either takes it down when the house closes or reimburses us for doing it. But getting back to—”

“Where is he?” a woman was shouting in the main part of the house. “Where’s Clay? I need to see him.”

Chapter 18

The woman’s words grew louder, and I could hear Sammy trying to calm her down and hold her back. With no success. She burst into the garage and looked around, puzzled at seeing us there. She was petite, buxom, redheaded, and probably attractive when she wasn’t hysterical. She focused on me and her face contorted with rage.

“Who the hell are you and what are you doing here?” she shrieked, and launched herself at me, fingernails poised to attack. Horace and Sammy both grabbed her and held her back, taking damage in the process.

“Madam!” the chief roared.

The woman stopped struggling and fixed her gaze on him.