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“That’s the understatement of the year,” I muttered. And I suspected Martha had enjoyed having a chance to get back at the Grangers for choosing Clay over her.
“And while he was down at the station,” the chief went on, “it appears he overheard several of my officers discussing their inability to locate Mrs. Granger for questioning. One of them suggested going over to the show house to ask someone with a co
“Based on what?”
“He was unable to articulate his reasons,” the chief said. “He’d ingested a considerable quantity of alcohol. He was well past the legal limit when we administered the Breathalyzer.”
“I should get back to the house,” I said. I followed the chief back into the living room. Which was empty of feuding Grangers; I could see Sammy escorting Felicia to his cruiser. Another cruiser was pulling away, presumably with another deputy escorting Jerry.
“Now that he’s safely locked up, I’m rather glad Mr. Granger showed up,” I said. “After all, it’s starting to look as if everyone in the house is alibied, and if none of the designers did it—”
Oops. Probably not the smartest thing in the world to let the chief know I’d been poking around behind his back. He was frowning.
“Sorry,” I said. “But we’re all there together all day. The designers talk to each other—and to me. Everyone who has an alibi is thrilled, and wants everyone to know all about it.”
“Mr. Granger is only a suspect at this point,” he said. “And the designers are not all completely alibied. Unless you know differently.”
That sounded like an invitation to share.
“Well,” I said. “Mother was with family, and Martha was serving as designated driver and chief nurse for Violet, who was soused, and the Quilt Ladies were at Caerphilly Assisted Living, and Eustace was with his AA sponsee—”
“Ah,” the chief said. “That explains why he said he’d have to get back to me with his alibi.”
“Oh, dear,” I said. “I hope I wasn’t supposed to keep that part a secret. Don’t tell him I spilled it. And he didn’t tell me the name. And Sarah was neutering cats—”
“Doing what?”
“Neutering cats. Feral cats. With Clarence.”
“I think I could have lived without that image,” he said, shaking his head. “She only told me she was working at the animal shelter.”
“Who does that leave? Oh. Ivy. I don’t know about Ivy.”
“Home alone with a migraine, which doesn’t prove much,” he said. “But it’s possible the snow will alibi her.”
“The snow?” I had a brief image of the chief with his pen poised over his notebook, attempting to interrogate a falling flake.
“One of her neighbors is an avid amateur photographer,” the chief said. “And particularly fond of snowy landscapes without a single footprint in them. Apparently, due to her headache, Ivy did not emerge to shovel until sometime in the afternoon, and the neighbor took a great many pictures of the virginal snow in her front and backyard. Horace is analyzing them, and thinks it likely that she’ll be alibied.”
“Oh, good,” I said. “And did Our Lady—did Linda talk to you about her alibi?”
“Also home alone,” he said.
“Home alone, but online,” I said. “You got my e-mail about that, right? Because while I don’t understand it myself, I gather if she really was online, it might be provable.”
“I’ve already spoken to our department’s computer forensic consultants,” he said.
“And Vermillion was with the Reverend Robyn, at the women’s shelter. The location of which I’m busily trying to forget.”
“I don’t actually know it myself,” the chief said. “I suppose they let you in on the secret because of your gender.”
“They didn’t let me in on the secret,” I said. “Vermillion has absolutely no idea how to be discreet and furtive. She might as well be driving around with a neon sign on her car saying ‘Please don’t follow me! I’m going someplace I don’t want anyone to know about.’”
“I’ll speak to the Reverend Smith,” the chief said, with a smile. “Offer to give her couriers some lessons on defensive driving. I used to be pretty good at it, back in my undercover days in Baltimore. I don’t think I’ve quite forgotten everything I used to know. And I feel I owe them something, after my department inadvertently alerted Mr. Granger to their existence.”
“That would be great,” I said. “But anyway, with so many of the designers alibied, it must be very satisfying to find some fresh, juicy suspects.”
“I’d rather just find the killer,” he said. “But yes, Mrs. Granger and her jealous husband bear looking into. As does the disgruntled client Stanley told me about, the one who was suing Mr. Spottiswood. Meanwhile, there’s another small matter you can help me with.”
“Glad to,” I said.
“That student reporter you mentioned—the one who was visiting the house the day Mr. Spottiswood was killed.”
“And was wandering around for quite a while, taking photos. Yes.”
“I wanted to follow up on your suggestion that I look at her photos. What was her name again?”
“Jessica,” I said. “Sorry—I can’t remember her last name. You can probably find her through the paper.”
“But you’re sure it was Jessica?”
“Yes—why?”
“I dropped by the student paper office today,” he said. “Only one person there holding down the fort, since the college is on Christmas break. But she didn’t remember anyone sending a reporter over to do a story on the show house. And they don’t have a Jessica on staff. She looked through all their files.”
He let me ponder that for a while.
“Maybe Jessica’s trying to wangle a spot on their staff by coming up with a good story,” I suggested at last. “Maybe she’s off writing up her exciting account of the show house where one of the designers was murdered. The paper’s on hiatus until classes start up again, so she’d have no reason to turn it in yet.”
“Maybe.” He didn’t sound as if he found the idea too plausible.
“Damn! I didn’t ask her for any credentials.” I was getting angry now. “I sent a press release over to the student paper, and a week later, someone shows up saying she’s here to write a story. I fell for it.”
“It’s a natural mistake.”
“She played me.”
“So let’s find her. Ask her what she was up to.”
“How?”
“I’ve called the student records office,” he said. “They have photos of all the students in their files. Go down there and they’ll show you all the Jessicas.”
“All the Jessicas? You think they’ll have a lot of them?”
“Did you know that between 1981 and 1997, Jessica was either the number one or number two most popular name in this country? And it hasn’t been out of the top two hundred since 1965.”
I closed my eyes and sighed.
“So yes, there are quite a lot of them. And if none of the Jessicas look familiar, they’re going to let you thumb through the whole student photo file. Women students, anyway.”
“If she’s there, I’ll find her,” I said.
“And meanwhile, in case she’s not there. I’m arranging to bring in a sketch artist,” he said. “So call me as soon as you identify her … or when you’ve looked through all the records.”
So much for having a productive day.
Chapter 19
I drove over to the campus and prowled around until I found a parking space reasonably close to the administration building. If classes had been in session, I might almost as well have walked from Clay’s house, but most of the students were gone now. And the administration building wasn’t all that close to any of the shops and restaurants being overrun by holiday tourists and locals alike.
The student records office was festively decorated with tinsel and evergreens and a small tree in the corner, but I detected no signs of Christmas spirit in the single glum staffer sitting behind the information counter.