Free The Nightingale Before Christmas by Donna Andrews

reached for the light switch and then stopped. The intruder had been in here, and might have left fingerprints.
    I pulled my right glove out of my pocket and put it on before turning on the light switch.
    Clay Spottiswood was lying in the middle of the enormous bed. His eyes were wide and staring, and blood had run down from a bullet hole in the middle of his forehead.
    â€œWe’re going to need an ambulance,” I said. “Clay Spottiswood’s been shot.”

 
    Chapter 6
    â€œWhat in the world were you doing here at this hour?”
    I opened my eyes to find Chief Burke standing in the study doorway. I’d retreated downstairs, to one of Sarah’s comfy Art Deco armchairs, emerging only to let in Sammy Wendell, the deputy who arrived first. Several other deputies had followed, including my friend Aida Butler and Randall’s cousin Vern. Then my cousin Horace, who was not only a deputy but also the county’s crime scene technician. And Dad, who was now the local medical examiner. He’d insisted on checking me out briefly before trotting upstairs to examine Clay. I’d stayed in the study, out of their way, while they searched the house and did their forensic thing in the master bedroom.
    The crime scene.
    â€œAre you okay?” the chief asked.
    â€œJust tired,” I said. “And a little shaken. What was I doing here? Checking on the place. Usually I’m the last to leave, or nearly so. But today I left early to take the boys Christmas shopping. And that took longer than expected, and it bothered me that I never got back to the house. I like to make sure the place is locked up. Check on what the designers are up to. Especially if we’ve had problems, as we did today, I hate going to bed without knowing that everything’s okay. And obviously it’s not.”
    â€œWhat kind of problems did you have today?”
    I brought him up to speed on what I knew about Clay’s last day on earth. The chief listened in silence, scribbling occasionally in his notebook. He pondered for a while after I finished speaking.
    â€œNot 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?”
    â€œI 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?
    â€œIt’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.
    â€œTalk 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.
    â€œYou look done in,” he said. “Go home.”
    â€œRoger,” I said. “Will you be keeping us out of the house in the morning?”
    He looked tired.
    â€œI 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