The Nightingale Before Christmas

The boys would love this, I thought. Michael and I should take them. Maybe on Christmas eve, after the house was open.

Just then I noticed that one of the carriages was filled with people in Victorian costume. What was up with that, anyway? I’d thought the whole idea of the carriages was to charge the tourists a modest fee for the ride, not for parties of our costumed reenactors to ride around waving at the crowds.

But when I got a closer look, I realized that these weren’t our costumed reenactors. They were tourists, dressed up in Victorian costume. Randall would be delighted to hear that people were joining in the fun, rather than simply watching it.

In fact, when I sca

I was smiling when I strolled into the police station, partly from the holiday cheer on the way over and partly because what I was bringing the chief was as good as a Christmas present.

As I anticipated, the chief was delighted to get the sketch.

“Not someone I’ve ever seen around town,” he said, after studying it for a few moments. “You think it’s a good likeness?”

“An awesome likeness.”

“Sammy,” he called. “Let’s get this into the sca

“Have you found out anything about the family who used to live in the show house?” I asked.

“We have,” the chief said. “Apparently Mr. Green was doing something risky and possibly illegal with mortgage-backed securities, and lost not only all of his money but a great deal of money belonging to a lot of other people. And the house sat empty for so long because a lot of his creditors were busy suing each other over who had first claim to it.”

“And the Bank of Caerphilly ultimately prevailed?” I said. “Yay for the home team.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “By that time the house was in poor condition, so Randall’s offer to fix it up so it could be used for the show house was a godsend to them. But none of this has brought us any closer to locating Ms. Green, and so far we’ve found no co

“I bet he was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time,” I said. “So what happened to the rest of the Greens? The parents and the brother?”

“Mr. Green was convicted of several dozen counts of fraud and has been in a federal prison for the last five years,” the chief said. “Mrs. Green died of cancer four years ago. And young Zachary was convicted of vehicular manslaughter three years ago and is currently incarcerated in Red Onion State Prison.”

“Red Onion?” I echoed. “Isn’t that—”

“The Commonwealth of Virginia’s highest security prison, yes,” the chief said. “And usually you have to do something rather nastier than vehicular manslaughter to earn a place there, but apparently young Master Zachary has not been a model prisoner.”

“Then where has Jessica been?” I asked. “Living with relatives? In foster care?”

“Still working on that.” He sounded frustrated. “It’s only been a couple of hours, you know. But I think we can safely say that she did not have a happy, normal childhood.”

“Chief?” Sammy had returned and looked eager to talk to the chief.

“I’ll get out from underfoot,” I said.

As I was walking out to my car, Michael called.

“I’m at the house,” he said. “Taking off in a few minutes—anything you want me to bring with me?”

“Yes!” I said. “The green banker’s lamp from your office.”

A short silence.

“Okay,” he said. “I assume someone at the show house needs to borrow a banker’s lamp. I was thinking more along the lines of a change of clothes. The boys are off sledding with Rob and your father, who are going to bring them directly to the theater for tonight’s show, so I’m packing up presentable clothes for them—if you’re not going to have time to get back here—”

“Perfect,” I said. “The red velvet dress—nice and Christmassy, but not long enough that the hem will drag in the snow.”

“Your wish is my command,” he said. “And I will also pack suitable footwear and jewelry. See you at the theater.”

I paused for a moment to feel thankful for having a husband who was not only capable of selecting suitable shoes and accessories but arguably had better taste than I did. And now I actually had a few minutes of breathing space. I decided to call Dad and see how the sledding was going.

“What’s wrong?” he said, by way of a greeting.

“Nothing’s wrong,” I said. “Can’t a girl call her dad to ask how he’s doing and whether his grandchildren are enjoying the sledding?”

“They’re having a blast,” he said. “Hang on. Josh! Jamie! Let’s send Mommy a picture. Come here! Smile!”

“Hi, Mommy!” Jamie called.

“Mommy, I sledded all the way all by myself!” Josh called.

My phone pinged to a

“Come sledding, Mommy,” Jamie said.

“Next time,” I said.

And I meant it. As I chatted with Dad, and then with each of the boys, I vowed that I wouldn’t even go near the show house next year.

“Mommy,” Josh asked. “Do you like Nerf guns?”

“Not really,” I said. “I’m not that fond of any kind of gun, not even Nerf guns.”

“Oh.” Evidently I’d squashed another present idea. He sounded so disappointed that I was almost tempted to take back my answer, but I reminded myself what would happen if we let Nerf guns into the house, and stood firm.

“I’ll see you at the theater,” I said finally.

My car seemed depressingly quiet after we hung up.

So I started the engine and headed over to the theater. There would be lights and people to talk to. People who didn’t know passementerie from pizza and didn’t care.

On the way over to the theater, it occurred to me that if I could find someone with a laptop and a co

By the time I found a parking space and rushed to the theater, Michael had arrived, and Dad with the boys, and I spent most of the time until the show started getting them and myself into presentable clothes.

I could log in and check Boomer’s info when I got home. After all, it was begi

Dad and I took the boys out to the theater lobby, so they could watch all the people handing in their tickets to see their daddy’s play. Josh had run into his nursery school teacher and was telling her his version of the entire plot of A Christmas Carol. Jamie had encountered a school friend who’d broken his arm while sledding and was now sporting a bright red cast. Fortunately, Dad recognized the early warning signs of cast envy, and was trying to nip it in the bud by interrogating the friend about how painful his broken arm had been and loudly sympathizing with him over all the exciting things he couldn’t do until he got his cast off.

“Mission accomplished.” I turned to see Randall standing behind me, holding out what looked like a small branch of plastic holly, complete with red berries. Upon closer inspection, I realized there was a bright red key attached.

“A nice, festive touch,” I said as I took the key.