The Nightingale Before Christmas by Donna Andrews

we’d known someone was going to knock Clay off,” I said. “We could all have arranged to be with someone who could alibi us.”
    â€œI was with someone, but I’m not sure it’s going to do me any good,” Eustace said. “I’m sponsoring someone. He’s almost made six months.”
    â€œThat’s great,” I said.
    â€œBut holidays are a bad time for him. For most of us. I was with him, helping him through a bad night, from about nine thirty till well past two in the morning. But I can’t give the chief his name unless he’s okay with it. And if he’s not…”
    He shook his head.
    â€œMaybe it won’t be a problem,” I said. “Even if he says no, you probably won’t be the only person in the house without an alibi.”
    â€œNo,” he said, looking slightly more cheerful. “Not even the only person without an alibi who hated Clay’s guts. I do hope your mother’s alibied.”
    â€œProbably alibied ten times over,” I said. “Michael’s giving his one-man show of Dickens’s A Christmas Carol tonight, so we have tons of family and friends coming into town to see it. If I know Mother, she was up till midnight visiting.”
    Deputy Sammy appeared in the doorway from the living room.
    â€œMr. Goodwin? The chief’s ready for you now.”
    Eustace stood up and squared his shoulders.
    â€œWish me luck,” he said, and sailed out.
    I followed him and Sammy out into the living room. Mother was standing in the center of the room, gazing at the tree. Apparently she’d recruited Tomás and Mateo to work on the redecoration. They’d placed two stepladders next to the tree and were scampering down to grab ornaments and then back up to put them on the tree with Mother directing them in sign language and scraps of broken Spanish.
    I glanced over at the French doors. Eustace was talking, gesticulating dramatically. I had a feeling he’d be there for quite a while.
    Randall and my cousin Horace were standing at the top of the stairs. I ran up to join them.

 
    Chapter 8
    â€œHey, Meg,” Horace said. “The chief says it’s okay for you guys to have the room back.”
    â€œGreat,” I said. “How bad is it?”
    Randall stepped aside so I could see.
    The master bed frame stood, stripped of its hangings, its bed linens, and even its mattress.
    â€œWe took all the bedding down to the lab,” Horace said, following my look. “And there was almost no blood on the walls.”
    I didn’t see any blood on them. But it looked as if someone had gone after the walls, the floors, and the furniture with an ax. And there was fingerprint powder all over everything—the furniture, the carpet, and the walls up to a height of six or seven feet.
    â€œSoon as your mother’s finished with Tomás and Mateo, I’m to turn them loose in here,” Randall said. “First thing’s to scrub off all that powder. Then we can patch and repaint.”
    â€œAnd clean or replace the carpet,” I suggested.
    â€œRoger.” He was scribbling on his list. “Couple of my guys are headed down here with some new drywall, and the hardware store’s mixing up a big batch of that god-awful red paint. We’ll get it back as fast as we can to where it was when Clay left yesterday, so start talking to whoever you think you can get to finish it off.”
    â€œWe’ll also need a new mattress,” I said. “King-sized.”
    â€œAnd I assume we should be replacing the black sheets.”
    â€œPart of the design,” I said.
    â€œSee you later,” Horace said. “Got to get back to the lab.”
    â€œOh, my!”
    I looked over to see Violet standing in the doorway. She was holding something—a rolled-up rug, by the look of it—and staring at the room.
    â€œWhat’s left of the crime scene,” Randall