“If he—or she—is stupid enough to hang on to it,” I said. “If I were planning to shoot someone, I’d make sure to do it with a gun that couldn’t possibly be traced to me, and then I’d dispose of it afterward someplace where there was almost no chance anyone would ever find it. Like dumping it in the middle of a river. Or down a mineshaft.”

“How do you come up with stuff like that?” She looked at me as if she thought I might be speaking from vast criminal experience.

“My cousin’s a crime scene specialist,” I said. “And my father’s the medical examiner. Sometimes they talk shop.”

“Goodness.” She shuddered slightly. “Well, I’m going to get back to working on my rooms. Got to take my shot at winning the prize for the garden club.”

As she strolled downstairs, I reminded myself that at least, if Martha won, the garden club would benefit. Although come to think of it, so would Martha, since she’d recently staged a coup and taken over the presidency of the club, and was reputed to be running it like a personal fiefdom.

But that reminded me of something. I flipped to the page of my notebook where I’d listed which charities each designer had designated to benefit if they won the judging. And then I pulled out my phone and called Stanley Denton, Caerphilly’s resident private investigator.

“Can you check out a charity?” I said. “I mean, is that something you’ve got contacts or access to do?”

“I can try,” he said. “What’s the charity?”

“Designers of the Future,” I said. “Supposedly it gives out scholarships to needy but deserving art students.”

“Supposedly?” he asked. “You think it might not be on the up-and-up?”

“It’s the charity Clay Spottiswood designated to get the money if he won the best room contest,” I said. “And I suppose it could still get the money if his room wins—always possible he could get the sympathy vote.”

“I hope not,” Stanley said. “You got an address on that?”

“Seems to be local,” I said. “The address is 1224 Pruitt Avenue in Caerphilly.”

“That’s familiar address,” Stanley said. “Hang on a minute. Yeah, very familiar. That’s Clay Spottiswood’s home address. Home and business. I remember it from serving papers on him a couple of times.”

“That jerk,” I muttered.

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “It could be a small but legitimate charity that he’s running in his spare time.”

“Or it could be he was trying to pull a fast one. Randall has the paperwork Clay provided. That might give you a starting point.”

“I’m on it.”

I made a note in my notebook to bug Stanley if I didn’t hear from him for a few days. And then I glanced over the other items on my list. Calling the graphic designer to see when we’d get the program proofs. Writing another press release to go to the Richmond, D.C., Northern Virginia, Hampton Roads, and other regional papers. Finding out if we had enough shuttle buses to take people to and from the satellite parking. And a dozen other tasks. All the practical minutiae necessary to make the show house actually happen.

Just then, my phone rang. It was Michael.

“Meg? Are you ready?”

“For anything you have in mind, always,” I said. “But was there anything in particular I’m supposed to be ready for right now?”

“Santa Claus,” he said. “Remember, Mom asked if we would wait to see Santa until she could be there?”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “I forgot that was today. Are you still sure you want to do it? This late? They’ve already written their letters to Santa, remember? What if they come up with some enormous, important last-minute must-have thing that Santa can’t get by Christmas?”

“Then we’ll ask Santa to write them a letter explaining why their big present will be a little late,” he said. “We’ll manage. I’m more worried about a repeat of last year’s disaster. Was it Josh or Jamie who bit Santa?”

“Josh,” I said. “Jamie just ran away screaming and hid in the fake igloo.”

“I warned Mom about that,” Michael said. “But they are a year older. And Mom will be so disappointed if we cancel, so let’s do it. Your dad and I are about to load the boys in the car. We’ll be by for you and your mother in ten minutes.”

“I’ll tell Mother.”

I found her staring at a white board on which someone had painted a dozen stripes in various shades of red.

“What do you think, dear?” she asked. “I’m leaning toward the ‘Red Obsession.’ But ‘Ablaze’ is also nice. And ‘Positive Red’ is rather more Christmassy—but maybe too Christmassy? Or should we consider ‘Rave Red,’ or possibly ‘Habanero Chile’?”

“Time for Santa,” I said.

“I don’t think we have that one, dear,” Mother said. She frowned slightly at Mateo, who was holding the board, and presumably had been under orders to bring back samples of every possible red.

“It’s not a color, it’s a family event,” I said. “Michael and his mother and Dad are taking the boys to see Santa Claus. If you want to come and take cute pictures of your grandsons on Santa’s lap, be on the steps in five minutes.”

“Well, why didn’t you say so, dear? Mas tarde,” she added to Mateo. He smiled and whisked the board away. “I do hope we can avoid bloodshed this year,” she added as she followed me to the front door.

Chapter 11

The Twinmobile pulled up a few minutes later. Michael’s mother, who was quite spry for a grandmother, had crawled into the third row and was sitting between Josh and Jamie. From the exuberance of their greetings to me and Mother, I suspected Granny Waterston had been bribing them with candy and they were riding the resulting sugar high.

I took a seat in the middle row, and once we got underway, I turned around to start preparing the boys for what lay ahead.

“Did Daddy tell you where we’re going?” I asked.

“Santa!” they both exclaimed. There was a telltale whiff of chocolate and peppermint on their breaths.

“And we love Santa, don’t we?” Michael added from the front seat.

“Santa! Love Santa! Santa!”

“I seem to remember that last year someone was a little nervous when we met Santa.” Calling either boy’s reaction “a little nervous” was like calling a blizzard “a few scattered flakes.”

“Not me,” Josh said.

“Him,” Jamie countered, pointing.

“It’s okay to be nervous,” Michael said. “Santa’s a very important person. But if you feel nervous, just tell Mommy or Daddy or Grandma or Grandpa or Grammy.”

“We’ll be fine, won’t we?” Michael’s mother said.

I pretended not to notice as she slipped them each another bit of candy cane.

“So, Meg,” Dad said. “How’s the mood at the house? Is everyone upset by the—”

“James!” Mother exclaimed. “Little ears!”

“By the M-U-R-D-E-R,” Dad continued.

“Hard to say,” I said. “No one much misses Clay, but I think everyone will be on edge till they catch who did it. What’s that, Jamie?”

“M-U-R-D-E-R,” Jamie repeated.

We all looked back at him, startled.

Josh had printed the word in the condensation on his window.

“Muh … Muhr … Murd…” Josh muttered.

“Murder!” Jamie exclaimed.

“Grandpa, what’s murder?” Josh asked.

There was a brief silence.

“Adult communication suddenly becomes a lot more difficult,” Michael said.

“Grandpa,” Jamie began.

“Murder,” Michael’s mother spoke up. “Is when someone hurts someone else. It’s a very bad thing to do.”

She reached over and rubbed out the writing on the car window.

“Grammy, is murder an inappropriate word?” Josh asked.

“It’s a little inappropriate,” Michael’s mother said. “You don’t really need to use it.”

“So, it’s kind of like poopie or booger?” Jamie suggested. “And not a really bad word like—”

“Look! Is that a reindeer!” Michael exclaimed. I couldn’t see anything that even vaguely resembled a reindeer, but his remark served the double purpose of distracting the boys and almost drowning out the highly inappropriate word Jamie had brought forth to appall his grandparents.