Free The Nightingale Before Christmas by Donna Andrews Page A

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    â€œBut it’s a murder,” I finished for him. “You have stuff you’ve got to do.”
    He nodded.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œLet 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.”
    â€œBecause they’re all suspects,” I said.
    â€œYes. 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.
    â€œI’ve got e-mails and home addresses if you want them,” I said.
    â€œTomorrow.” 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.
    â€œMommy, there’s a foot of snow!” Jamie shrieked as he bounced onto our bed.
    â€œ Only six inches,” Josh said.
    â€œI’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.
    â€œAnyone 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.
    â€œI didn’t even wake up when you came in,” he said. “I gather you had something to deal with at the house.”
    â€œSomeone decided to get rid of Clay,” I said.
    â€œThe committee finally got enough nerve to kick him out?” Michael was throwing on jeans and an old sweater.
    â€œNo, they voted to keep him, for fear he’d sue,” I said. “And then he went back to the house, where someone shot him.”
    â€œHe’s dead?” Michael paused in the middle of pulling the sweater over his head.
    â€œAs the proverbial doornail,” I said. “Someone shot him right between the eyes.”
    â€œOh, my God! Are you all right?”
    He hurried back over to the bed, sat down beside me, and put his arm around my shoulder.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said. “Just a little short of sleep.”
    â€œHow late were you up last night?” he asked.
    â€œPast