“Not a particularly likable man,” he said. “But—spattered paint, a misunderstanding about a vase, and some accidental water damage. Are you suggesting that any of these incidents could be related to his murder?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “None of them seem important enough to kill over. I know Mother wouldn’t kill him for stealing her vase—she’d just make sure anyone who might possibly want to hire him for a decorating job knew about it. I can’t imagine Princess Violet killing anyone over anything. She’s like Rose Noire—she escorts spiders out to the garage. Martha was positive we were going to kick him out and let her take over his room, and I’m pretty sure she’d want him alive to gloat over it. I can’t imagine any of them doing it.”

But what if one of them had?

“It’s not just these incidents,” I said. “They were just the latest in a series of things Clay did that upset everyone in the house. He was a poisonous influence. There was a cumulative effect.”

The chief nodded, but didn’t look convinced.

I remembered something else.

“Talk to Stanley,” I suggested. “Clay and one of his former clients were in a big legal battle. Stanley knows more about it. He was trying to find Clay yesterday to serve some papers on him. No idea if he succeeded.”

He nodded and scribbled.

“You look done in,” he said. “Go home.”

“Roger,” I said. “Will you be keeping us out of the house in the morning?”

He looked tired.

“I don’t know yet,” he said. “I realize that you are supposed to open in a couple of days, and a lot of people have spent a ton of money on this, and the historical society will be pretty badly hurt if anything cancels or delays the show—”

“But it’s a murder,” I finished for him. “You have stuff you’ve got to do.”

He nodded.

“I should let all the decorators know that they won’t be able to get in,” I said. “And tell Randall that the committee will need to decide what happens with Clay’s room.”

“Let me handle that,” he said. “I’ve already called Randall—he’s on his way. And let me tell the other decorators. It could be interesting to observe their reactions.”

“Because they’re all suspects,” I said.

“Yes. Can you give me their contact information?” He held out his notebook, open to a blank page.

I pulled out my own notebook and copied out the names and telephone numbers of the designers for him.

“I’ve got e-mails and home addresses if you want them,” I said.

“Tomorrow.” He closed his notebook and stood up. “You’ll be my first call when I’m ready to reopen the house. Sleep well.”

Fat chance.

I drove home. It was nearly two o’clock. My mellow Christmas mood had vanished. When I looked at the snow, instead of appreciating its beauty and being grateful that it was coming down at a pace the county snowplows could handle, I started to feel claustrophobic. I was relieved when I finally let myself into the house and breathed in the evergreen scent. And someone had been cooking. Gingerbread? Yes, and apple pie, too. Unless Rose Noire was experimenting with a new holiday potpourri. If so, it had my approval. She could call it Holiday Happy. Or Mistletoe Mellow. I could feel my spirits rising.

All the little LED fairy lights Mother had used to decorate the hall still twinkled merrily, so I didn’t have to turn on the overhead light. The tree and the poinsettias and all the other holiday frills were merely shapes in the darkness, but shapes that gleamed here and there when the light from the LEDs hit some bit of tinsel or glitter.

The boys wanted leave the fairy lights up all year. I had pointed out that we’d take them for granted if we had them all the time. But tonight I decided maybe the boys might have the right idea. Hard to take for granted anything that cheered me so, I thought, as I tiptoed up to bed.

I didn’t get much sleep that night. I know I got some sleep, because the boys woke me out of it at five.

“Mommy, there’s a foot of snow!” Jamie shrieked as he bounced onto our bed.

“Only six inches,” Josh said.

“I’m thinking eight or nine inches,” Michael said. “But who cares how many inches—the important thing is that it’s perfect for sledding!”

The boys cheered and began jumping up and down on our bed as if it were a trampoline. Michael observed my feeble attempts to share their enthusiasm.

“Anyone who wants to eat pancakes and then go sledding had better get dressed pronto,” he exclaimed.

The boys cheered again, bounced off the bed, and disappeared.

“I didn’t even wake up when you came in,” he said. “I gather you had something to deal with at the house.”

“Someone decided to get rid of Clay,” I said.

“The committee finally got enough nerve to kick him out?” Michael was throwing on jeans and an old sweater.

“No, they voted to keep him, for fear he’d sue,” I said. “And then he went back to the house, where someone shot him.”

“He’s dead?” Michael paused in the middle of pulling the sweater over his head.

“As the proverbial doornail,” I said. “Someone shot him right between the eyes.”

“Oh, my God! Are you all right?”

He hurried back over to the bed, sat down beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just a little short of sleep.”

“How late were you up last night?” he asked.

“Past two.”

“Then go back to sleep,” he said. “Rob and Rose Noire and I can keep the kids busy. And you’ll need sleep to deal with whatever happens when you’re able to go back to the house.”

Thank goodness for family. Even family who, like Rob and Rose Noire, seemed to have settled in as permanent residents in several of our extra rooms. And thank goodness that Caerphilly College was on winter break, and that Michael, as always, was eager to spend his vacation time with his sons.

I turned over to go back to sleep. But I didn’t drop off right away, or I wouldn’t have heard Rose Noire’s soft voice.

“Meg? You awake?”

“Yeah,” I said. “What’s up?”

I sat up and turned to look at her. She was standing in the doorway wringing her hands.

“Michael said that someone shot Clay Spottiswood.”

“Yes,” I said.

“That poor man.” She shook her head. “He was such an unhappy, troubled soul. Such a waste.”

She was right, of course, but I found myself wondering if anyone else would feel much sadness over his demise.

“And did it happen in the house?” she asked.

“In the middle of his room. I’m sure by now the house is filled with all kinds of bad karma and negative energy. Maybe you can do some kind of cleansing before we all get back to work there.” Even though I only half believed in them, Rose Noire’s cleansings and blessings always raised my spirits.

“Of course.” She nodded absently. “But who did it? It wasn’t Vermillion, was it?”

“I have no idea who did it.” I sat up straighter, suddenly feeling a lot more awake. “Why would you think it would be Vermillion?”

“Your mother and Eustace and I were sort of keeping an eye out for her,” Rose Noire said. “Clay made her anxious. She was bothered by the way he was flirting with her.”

“Probably because Clay’s idea of flirting corresponded with most sane women’s idea of sexual harassment and sometimes actual assault,” I said. “Do you mean he kept it up after the tongue lashing I gave him the first week we were all there?”

“Not that I saw,” she said. “But of course I’m sure he’d have been very careful about doing it when you were around, or your mother or me.”

“And you didn’t trust him not to do it when she was all alone.”

“No.” She shook her head vigorously. “So we made sure she never was alone. She felt very safe when you were around, which was most of the time, and when you were gone, your mother and I kept an eye on her.”

“So as far as you know, he didn’t bother her again.”

“As far as we knew.”