“The holly should make it harder to lose,” he said.

“Or steal,” I added.

“Exactly. Some of the designers have them, and I’ll be there bright and early to distribute the rest. For the usual deposit, refundable upon return of key and holly.”

With that he saluted and strolled off into the crowd.

“Meg?” someone said behind me. “I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”

I turned to see Kate Banks, Sarah’s partner, standing behind me.

“How are you?” I said. “And sorry about what?”

“Because maybe if I hadn’t given Sarah my gun, you wouldn’t have had someone murdered in your show house.”

“Or maybe whoever killed him would have found some other weapon,” I said. “We don’t actually know that it was your gun. Why the gun, by the way?”

“I was scared of him,” Kate said. “I thought Sarah should be. Have you ever seen him lose it?”

I shook my head.

“Be glad you never will,” she said. “And the time he got mad at me—it was in a public place, at the Caerphilly Home and Garden Show, and I was still afraid he’d lose control and do something. And she was going to be in that house with him—maybe even alone with him. And he was an ex-con—did you know that?”

“I did,” I said. “But did you have reason to think he had it in for Sarah?”

“He was stealing clients,” she said. “Trying to, anyway. From us—from everyone. He pulled a real fast one on us. We did a proposal for a client, and the client wanted a bunch of changes. Somehow he got hold of our proposal and my notes for the changes the client wanted, and before you know it, we were down one client. ‘He understands me soooo well,’” she cooed, obviously in imitation of the client. “‘He knows what I want without my even having to tell him.’”

“Creep,” I said. “But I don’t see why that would make him mad at Sarah.”

“She outed him to the client.”

“Go Sarah!”

“And took a video with her iPhone of him making fun of the client and posted it on YouTube,” Kate said. “So yeah, I think it’s fair to assume he had it in for her. If she’d been the victim, I’d have said, look at Clay.”

“So who do you think killed him?” I asked. “Most of the designers in the house are alibied.”

“Not every designer who hated him is in the house,” she said. “There’s a few others in Caerphilly that he’s had run-ins with. And a few in Tappahannock. And lots and lots in Richmond. Ask Martha—she knew him back when he was there. Ask her.”

“I will,” I said. Actually, I made a mental note to make sure the chief knew about Clay and Martha’s pre-Caerphilly connection. Hunting down every designer in Virginia who might have a grudge against Clay was a job for the police.

“And don’t forget all the other people he ticked off,” she said. “Contractors, vendors, clients.”

Definitely a police job.

“Anyway—I wanted to apologize,” she said. “We’d better get our seats—they’re dimming the lights.”

I rejoined Dad and the boys and we trooped in to take our seats.

The boys seemed just as fascinated by the show as they had been the previous night. How lucky for us that they were still in that golden age when they idolized Michael and everything he did.

I would never admit as much to Michael, but I wasn’t paying attention to the script tonight, only letting his voice and the words flow over me like a well-loved and utterly familiar piece of music. I could laugh when the crowd laughed and look solemn when they did, on autopilot, while my thoughts kept turning back to the house. Tomorrow I had to get there early enough to let in anyone who still needed a key. Supervise the photographer. Pick up the programs from the printer. Make sure the volunteer ticket takers and docents knew when to show up on Wednesday.

I’d almost forgotten—the banker’s lamp. Probably a bad idea to pull out my notebook in the middle of the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Present, so I focused for a few moments on visualizing the banker’s lamp sitting on top of my dashboard, in the hope that if I got into my car without it, the naked dashboard would remind me. And then I imagined myself pulling the lamp’s gold chain to start the car. The idea made me smile, which would have looked odd in the middle of one of the show’s sadder moments, but luckily just then Michael, in the small voice he used for Tiny Tim, had just cried out “God bless us, every one!” and the whole audience was smiling.

The show was a success, as always, and as always Michael’s dressing room was filled with well-wishers. Michael’s mother, who wanted to get an early start on her cooking, drafted Rob to take her and the boys home.

“Did you bring the lamp?” I asked Michael, when I could tear him away from one of Mother’s cousins who wanted him to autograph her program.

“Of course,” he said.

“Then I’m going to leave you to your fans,” I said. “I can drop it by the house and probably still beat you home.”

I fetched the lamp from the Twinmobile, which was parked right behind the theater, and carried it the three blocks to where I’d put my car. I kept a sharp lookout, but this time there didn’t appear to be anyone following me. I was leaving earlier tonight, and I’d parked in a less isolated spot. I carefully stowed the lamp on the passenger-side floor and wedged it in with my purse before taking off for the house.

I passed stores that were closed or closing and restaurants whose last patrons were filing out into the cold, crisp air. When I’d first moved to Caerphilly, I found it annoying that the only things open all night were the gas station and the hospital. Now I found it soothing.

When I reached the show house, it was dark and a little spooky looking. I wasn’t thrilled to have to come back here by myself. But I was now convinced that Jessica had, indeed, taken Violet’s key. And thanks to the rekeying, that key—along with any others the designers might have lost or given away—was useless. Only Randall and I and the remaining designers had access now.

In fact, it was possible that some of the designers had gone home before Randall had given out the new keys, so the subset of people who could get in was even smaller and mostly well alibied.

Of course, Jessica had probably also stolen Sarah and Kate’s gun. And unlike the obsolete keys, that would be working just fine. So before parking in front of the house, I cruised past it so slowly my car almost stalled out, studying every pane of every window and every shadow on the lawn.

Nothing suspicious.

I parked my car right in front of the door. There were a few other cars up and down the street, but they looked like neighborhood cars.

I kept a close eye around me as I strode up the walk, and kept looking over my shoulder as I unlocked the door. I held the banker’s lamp handy, ready to bash anyone who tried to sneak up on me. Sarah wouldn’t be happy if I had to use it, but my life was at least slightly more important than her room.

The new key was a little stiff, but it worked. I was safely inside.

Safely inside a house that had already had one murder in it. I stood in the hallway for a few moments, listening.

Silence.

Then I walked quickly and quietly through the house and checked to make sure every door and window was closed and locked, and every closet empty. Fifteen windows and seven doors downstairs, counting the two garage doors. Thirteen windows upstairs. Nobody in the four upstairs closets, the five downstairs closets, or the basement.

Okay, now I could breathe more easily.

I went back down to the hall, where I’d left the banker’s lamp, and took it into Sarah’s study. I even plugged it in close to where I thought the old one had been. Of course, the minute Sarah walked in, she’d frown and arrange it to an ever-so-slightly different angle, following some logic understandable only to designers and inexplicable to mere mortals like me.

I turned the banker’s light on. I could see why Sarah had wanted it. The room was a symphony in red fabric, muted golden bronze, and brown wood. Even the books were mostly in tones of red, gold, and brown. The green shade of the banker’s lamp suddenly brought the room’s whole focus on the elegant cherry desk and the bronze desk accessories on top of it. All it needed was a vintage typewriter and you could imagine The Great Gatsby being written here, or maybe The Sound and the Fury. I wanted more than ever to browse through the books—the real, identifiable, imperfect yet ever-so-beautiful books—and then plop down for nice long wallow in one of the red velvet chairs.