“It makes sense,” I said. “And I remember something—Jessica was very upset when she saw what Vermillion was doing. I thought she was creeped out by all the Goth stuff, but maybe that wasn’t it. She talked about it being a perfectly nice bedroom and Vermillion was turning it into something out of the Addams Family. What if she was upset because Vermillion had done such a drastic remodel to her childhood bedroom?”

“I don’t think you need to have grown up in the house to find Miss Vermillion’s décor peculiar,” the chief said. “But go on.”

“And she was there at the house when Violet lost her key again—Violet was always losing keys. What if Violet didn’t lose her key that day? If Jessica picked it up, she’d have a perfect way to get back into the house that night. And she was also there when we were all dragging stuff out of Sarah’s room. She helped. She could have picked up the hidden gun.”

The chief said nothing for rather a long time. I was sure he was about to weigh in and demolish my suspicions with some bit of evidence he hadn’t shared with the public. Or announce that one of the Grangers had already confessed.

“I was already eager to talk to the missing Jessica,” he said. “She has just risen to the top of my priority list. I’m going to see what’s taking that sketch artist so long. I’ll call you as soon as he gets here.”

“I’m going to have Randall arrange to have the house rekeyed,” I said. “The designers have been strewing keys around like confetti for weeks now. I’ll feel a lot better if we know that Jessica can’t just waltz in with her own key.”

“Good thinking,” he said. “And read the riot act to everyone in the house about locking up.”

“Will do.”

Randall was still in the living room with Mother, helping Tomás and Mateo with something.

“Mother, I hate to interrupt, but we have an urgent project. Randall, the chief thinks it’s a good idea for us to rekey all the locks here, in case whoever killed Clay has a key to the house.”

“Does he have some reason for thinking that’s likely?” Randall asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Long story. I’ll fill you in later. Just get those locks rekeyed as soon as you can.”

“I’m on it.”

I went back to the hall and looked for Ivy. She wasn’t downstairs in the foyer. Or in the upstairs hall. I was opening the broom closet and peeking in, to see if she might be hiding there. No. Maybe in the basement—

“Meg?”

I started, and turned to find Ivy behind me.

“Do you need something?”

“Yes,” I said. “You.”

She looked startled.

“Look, I know you’re very busy,” I said. “I hate to interrupt your work, but could you do a quick sketch for me? It’s really important.”

“Of course,” she said. “What do you want me to draw?”

“Remember Jessica, the young woman who was hanging around the house two days ago?”

“Interviewing us for the student paper,” she said. “Yes.”

“Could you do a good likeness of her?”

She nodded, and gestured for me to stand back so she could get into the closet. She took out a sketch pad, and a bunch of pencils, and went over to sit down on the hall stairs. She looked up at the ceiling, then closed her eyes and appeared to go inward for a few moments. Then she opened her eyes and began sketching.

I remembered Clay’s sketchbook, still hidden in my tote. Should I take that to the chief as well? But getting a sketch of Jessica into the chief’s hands seemed more important. When I delivered that, I’d mention the sketchbook.

“She was strange,” Ivy said, absently, without looking up from her sketchbook.

“Strange how?”

“She kept going around tapping on the walls. She smeared some of the paint on my crèche mural. I don’t like people touching my paintings.”

More fodder for my theories. I watched over Ivy’s shoulder as she sketched in the shape of a young woman’s face. At first it didn’t look much like anyone. Then it started to look a little like Jessica, and then a little more, and eventually, after she’d added more details and tweaked others, a startling likeness emerged.

“That’s it,” I said.

“Just let me add a little color,” she said, picking up her colored pencils. A few strokes with the red, orange, and brown pencils and Jessica’s copper-red hair shone out. A touch of green to the eyes and a few strokes of flesh color to the face and it was done.

“Perfect,” I said. “May I give it to the chief?”

“I’d be delighted if you did,” she said.

And then, as if she’d used up her day’s portion of human interaction, she smiled and fled upstairs.

I pulled out my phone, took a picture of her drawing, and e-mailed it to the chief. And then I called him.

“The sketch artist can’t be here till tomorrow,” he said. “I know it’s irritating—”

“Call him off,” I said. “And check your e-mail. I had Ivy do a sketch.”

“Ivy?”

“One of the designers. The one doing all the paintings in the foyer and the upstairs hall.”

“Hold on.”

I heard random noises for a while. And then—

“This is Jessica?”

“Exactly,” I said. “And the original sketch is even better.”

“Can you bring that in?” he asked. “It could be a while before I can get anyone over there. Meanwhile, I’ll get this photo out to my officers as a preliminary. We’ll save the region-wide alert for the real thing.”

“On my way.”

Chapter 22

I was putting on my coat when I heard a crash, followed by a wail of distress.

“Oh, no!” It was Sarah’s voice, coming from the study. I peeked in and saw her mourning over a green banker’s lamp whose glass shade was now smashed into about a million pieces. “Damn—my foot caught on the cord.”

“Oh, dear,” I said. “Is it going to be hard to get a replacement?”

“I could drive down to Richmond and get one,” she said. “But not by ten a.m. tomorrow morning.”

“But the house doesn’t open until—oh. The photographer.”

“It just won’t work without the lamp.”

I tried to think of a way to suggest that while the room might not precisely match the vision in her head and in her sketches, the readers of the Richmond Times-Dispatch would still find it enchanting. But I’d figured out by now that the designers didn’t find such suggestions the least bit comforting and that it was best to stick to practical assistance.

“We have a banker’s lamp,” I said. “In Michael’s office. We could lend it to you.”

Sarah looked dubious.

“There are banker’s lamps and banker’s lamps,” she said. “They’re not all the same.”

“Yes, there are vintage originals and hideously expensive reproductions and cheap knockoffs,” I said. “I think ours is a hideously expensive reproduction.”

“Well.” She sounded less dubious.

“Mother picked it out,” I said. “To go with our Arts and Crafts décor in the library and Michael’s office.”

“Oh, well, then it should be fine. When can I get it?”

I checked my watch.

“I have to take something to town right now,” I said. “I’ll swing by the house and get it. I might have time to bring it here before Michael’s show, and if not, I’ll drop it off on my way home. How late will you be here?”

“Not much longer,” she said. “Dinner with the boyfriend’s family. But text me when it’s here, and I’ll drop by on my way home from that.”

“Okay,” I said.

“And when you pick it up, could you just send me a photo of it?” she asked. “It’ll make me feel better, seeing it.”

“Can do,” I said. “Now I really have to run.”

Of course, since I was in a hurry, I found myself behind one of the horse-drawn carriages Randall had organized to drive parties of tourists around the town. After a quick surge of impatience, I reminded myself that they weren’t going all that much below the speed limit and focused on trying to see Caerphilly as the tourists were seeing it. Everyone, tourists and residents alike, waved as the carriages rolled past, with their hundreds of sleigh bells jingling and their red, green, and gold ribbons dancing in the breeze. And when two carriages passed, the drivers, well-bundled in their heavy Victorian greatcoats, stood and bowed to each other.