I could see from her face that she was worried. Afraid that perhaps her watchdog mission hadn’t been as successful as she had thought.

On the surface, the idea of Rose Noire protecting Goth Girl seemed funny. Rose Noire had never met a New Age theory without embracing it, was an ardent vegetarian, dressed in romantic flowing dresses trimmed with ethereal wisps of gauze and lace, and felt guilty thinking bad thoughts about anyone. Goth Girl wore a lot of black leather pocked with spikes and studs, sported jewelry featuring skulls and snakes, and liked to imply that she knew quite a lot about vampires, necromancy, and abstruse poisons.

But Rose Noire, at five eight, was only two inches shorter than I was, in excellent condition from working in her organic herb garden, and fierce as a mother hen about anything smaller or weaker than she was. Goth Girl was reed-thin, nearly a head shorter than me, and I’d always suspected her bark was much worse than her bite. Yeah, Rose Noire would protect her. And besides, they were both part of the sisterhood who, like Cher and Madonna, were on a first-name-only basis with the rest of the world.

“He was shot,” I said. “That doesn’t seem in character for Vermillion. Unless we find out it was done with silver bullets, or maybe a special antique revolver with an onyx handle.”

Rose Noire smiled faintly at that.

“You really think she could have done it?” I asked.

“No.” She sounded uncertain. “But I think we should make sure the chief knows about the harassment. Because it would look suspicious if he found out the wrong way.”

“I’ll make sure he knows about all the harassment,” I said. “Vermillion wasn’t the only one.”

“Thanks.” She looked relieved to have delegated her worries to me. “Get some sleep now.”

I tried. But I lay awake a long time, thinking about Vermillion. Would it really be out of character for her to shoot Clay? The more I thought about it, the more I realized that she seemed like someone who’d been through a lot, but hadn’t necessarily emerged unscathed.

Could I see her as fearful, and anxious, and deciding to protect herself by carrying a gun in her coffin-shaped black leather purse? Unfortunately, yes.

What I couldn’t see nearly as easily was her showing up at the house at midnight. She always seemed very cheerful in the mornings, with the sunshine streaming through the faux stained glass she’d applied to all her room’s windows. And always seemed in a hurry to leave before sunset.

A Goth who was afraid of the dark?

Or maybe just one who knew better than to be out “in those dark hours when the powers of evil are exalted.”

Now where had that quotation come from? Thanks to Michael’s annual one-man Christmas Carol shows, I was now incapable of getting through a December day without quoting Dickens at least half a dozen times, but I was pretty sure that line had nothing to do with Scrooge. Or did it?

I began silently reciting the text of the show to myself to make sure and fell asleep long before even the first of the three ghosts arrived.

Chapter 7

December 21

“Sherlock Holmes,” I exclaimed.

“What’s that?” Randall said.

I appeared to be holding the phone. Evidently, Randall had called, and the phone’s ring had awakened me from a dream in which I’d identified the source of the quote about “the powers of evil” that I’d gone to sleep muttering. Sherlock Holmes. I didn’t remember which book, but I could always ask Dad, the mystery buff, who could quote countless pages of Conan Doyle from memory.

“Meg?” Randall again. “Something wrong?”

“Long story,” I said aloud. “Please tell me you’re calling to relay the news that the chief’s letting us back in the house again.” It was—good grief, nearly 10:00 A.M. Sunlight was pouring through the window, and I could hear giggles and shrieks of delight from the backyard.

“Not just yet,” he said. “Although I think the chief’s getting close. I’ve been hanging around here at the show house wearing my mayor’s hat and kibitzing, and I think they’re close to finishing up. No, I was calling to let you know that the committee decided not to give Clay’s room to another designer.”

“What are we going to do—exhibit the crime scene?” I asked. “Complete with bloodstains and an outline of the body and those little numbered cards they use to keep track of evidence in the crime-scene photos?”

“It’s a thought,” Randall said, with a chuckle. “Bet we’d sell tickets. No, we decided to complete his room as close as possible to the way he was doing it. Like a memorial. We thought we could get a couple of the other designers to supervise the workmen doing it. He left behind some sketches of his plan for the room—I found them in the dresser drawer. We can use those.”

“Nobody’s going to be thrilled with this solution,” I said. “Every other designer in the house thinks his style is hideous.”

“If they’re right, all the more chances for their rooms to win,” he said. “And won’t it be a little bit of consolation that they’ll never have to put up with him again?”

“Good point,” I said. “I’ll ask Mother, Eustace, and Martha. They’ve kind of got seniority. And I trust Mother and Eustace to be balanced about it. Martha will hate the whole thing, but she’d be furious if we didn’t ask her.”

“Sounds good to me and—hang on.… Yes, I’m talking to her now … Meg, the chief wants to know if you can come down to the house. He wants to go over a few things before he’s ready to release it.”

“On my way,” I said.

I threw on my clothes, ran down to the kitchen, and stuck my head out the back door. Michael, Rob, and the boys were making snowmen, snow dogs, and snow llamas in the backyard.

“Going back to the house,” I shouted.

Michael waved, and the boys followed his example.

I ran down the hallway to Michael’s office and photocopied a page from my notebook—the page on which I had the names, e-mails, addresses, and phone numbers. I remembered the chief would be wanting it. Back in the kitchen, I grabbed a yogurt and some granola bars to eat on the way, and then dashed out to my car. It was gloriously free of snow, and someone—probably the snow creature construction crew—had done a beautiful job of shoveling our driveway.

I’d heap praise on them later.

On my way to the house, I turned on the radio and hummed along with the carols. Carols—at least the old-fashioned kind—always helped me focus on the here and now instead of the long list of holiday tasks waiting in my notebook. The sun was shining, the snow made the Caerphilly countryside look like a Christmas card, and while I would rather be making snowmen with the boys, I knew they were happy and safe at home with Michael. And we had tonight’s Christmas Carol performance to look forward to.

I tried to enjoy my Christmas mood while it lasted, since I suspected that between Clay’s murder and having to deal with the stressed-out designers, the house would bring my spirits down soon enough.

There were a lot of cars parked in front of the show house. Several police cruisers. The chief’s sedan. Cousin Horace’s Prius—not surprising that he’d still be there, since his crime-scene investigation work could easily take hours. I was a little worried to see Dad’s minivan—was he still there in his official capacity as medical examiner? If he’d stayed on to kibitz, the chief’s patience might be wearing thin.

Most of the cars that had been parked up and down the street were still there, but someone had dusted off the back or front of each so they could check the license plates. Across the street from the house, one car had been completely cleared of snow, and I recognized Clay’s silver Acura.

The front walk was nearly shoveled, and Tomás was finishing off the last bit.

“Buenas dias, señora,” he said as I passed.