The Nightingale Before Christmas (5 page)

“I guess that's why they're all so keyed up and snapping at each other,” Jessica said.

I winced, and hoped the image of designers snapping at each other didn't make it into her article. And I wondered, not for the first time, if it really had been a good idea making the County Board members the judges. Most of them were male, all were over fifty, and I suspected there wasn't a one in the bunch who could define “passementerie.” I doubted Vermillion's room would stand a chance with them. But would Clay's?

I glanced down at Mother's room. Which was definitely going to be a contender. She was supervising several helper bees who were decorating the two-story Christmas tree that filled one corner of the room.

Wait a minute. The helper bees seemed to be undecorating the tree.

“I think you've got that backwards,” I called down. “Shouldn't the ornaments be going onto the tree?”

“I'm rearranging things,” Mother said. “Having the tree here spoils the look of the fireplace. I'm going to put it there—in the archway to the dining room.”

Where it would completely block any possible view of what Our Lady of Chintz was doing to the dining room. I could understand why she was doing it. And it wasn't as if we needed the archway for traffic flow.

“Fine,” I said. “Carry on.”

“Meg?” Our Lady of Chintz appeared behind us. “May I talk to you for a moment?”

Perhaps she wasn't completely thrilled with Mother's plan to block off the archway between their rooms with tinsel and spruce.

“Señora?” Tomás was also waiting to talk with me. Or, more probably, pantomime with me, since his English was about as good as my Spanish.

“Meg?” Princess Violet was standing behind Tomás, clutching her purse with both hands and looking anxious.

“Look, you're busy,” Jessica said. “May I just wander around? Talk to the designers, take pictures?”

“Wander all you like,” I said. “Just don't bother the designers if they tell you they're busy, and always ask permission before taking pictures of their work. Some of them are fussy about work-in-progress shots.”

“Will do.” She turned and scampered down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief when she had disappeared without taking any pictures of Violet or Our Lady of Chintz. Who were looking particularly … themselves at the moment. Or maybe it was because they were standing side by side, both, even to my unfashionable eyes, seriously in need of a wardrobe makeover. Someone should tell Violet that at thirty-something she should leave the pastel prints, ruffles, and lace to her rooms and find a more sophisticated style. And while I was relieved that Our Lady of Chintz didn't dress with the same wild explosion of colors and prints that she stuffed into her room, I didn't think the shapeless brown and gray garments she wore were a good alternative.

Not my problem, I reminded myself, and put on my helpful face to see what they wanted from me.

Luckily, Our Lady of Chintz didn't object to the location of the Christmas tree, as long as she was allowed to decorate the bits visible in her room to match her design scheme. I gave her my blessing.

Tomás handed me a note from Eustace saying that effective immediately, Tomás and Mateo were on Randall's payroll, and unless I had any objection he'd have them get started repairing the wall Clay had destroyed.

“
Sí,
” I said to Tomás. “
Gracias
.”

He flashed me a quick smile and hurried back to the master bedroom.

Princess Violet had lost her key to the house. Again. I'd deduced as much when I saw her holding her frilly pink purse.

“I'm so sorry,” she said. “I could have sworn I left it on the dresser in my room.”

“Why don't you just keep it on your key ring?” I asked. I was already headed downstairs to the locked cabinet in the coat closet that served as my on-site desk. I'd learned to keep a few spare keys there.

“I have one on my key ring,” she said. “My main key ring. But I can't find that today. I'm using my spare key ring. And it's really a nuisance, because the car key I have on my spare key ring is a valet key that doesn't open my trunk and—”

“Here you are.” I handed her a key. “Twenty dollars deposit.”

She continued babbling about her key rings—apparently she had three or four, each containing a slightly different assortment of keys. I waited until she'd rummaged around in her purse and found two fives and a ten—none of them in her wallet. I wrote out a receipt, handed her the top copy, and put the money and the carbon in my locked cash box.

Randall Shiffley strolled in while I was completing this transaction.

“I'm soooo sorry,” Violet said, as she tucked the key into her purse. “I'll try to hang on to this one.”

She scurried back upstairs.

“Can you get a few more keys made?” I asked Randall.

“
More
keys? We must have enough keys floating around for half the town to have one.”

“I suspect we could find most of them if we searched Violet's house, her car, and her purse,” I said. “Let's just make sure the place is rekeyed as soon as the show house closes.”

“Already on my punch list.”

That was one of the things I liked about Randall. His punch list was the equivalent of my notebook, and I knew that anything on it was going to get done, and on time.

“The bank had a lot of problems with squatters and vandals before we started working here,” he went on, “so they're pretty hyper about security. Speaking of vandals, is Clay still here?”

“I chased him out.”

“Sorry, Stanley,” Randall called. “Not here.”

I turned to see Stanley Denton, Caerphilly's leading (and only) private investigator, standing in the foyer.

“I'll check on that damaged wall,” Randall said as he headed upstairs.

“Hey, Stanley,” I said. “What do you need Clay for?”

“Got some papers to serve on him.”

“I didn't know you did process serving,” I said.

“Not my favorite kind of work,” he said. “But it pays the bills.”

“What's Clay getting served for, or are you allowed to say?”

“No big secret,” he said. “Clay and one of his former clients are suing and countersuing and filing charges against each other like crazy. Almost a full-time job lately, serving papers on the two of them. She says he didn't finish her house and what he did was all wrong; he says she rejected work that was done according to her orders and hasn't paid him.”

“He's a jerk,” I said.

“Well, she's no prize either, but I have to admit, the whole downstairs of her house is a sorry mess.” He shrugged. “It's for the courts to decide. All I need to worry about is finding him for the latest set of papers. He wasn't at home last night, and his office hadn't seen him but said to come over here.”

“He left here maybe half an hour ago,” I said. “Not voluntarily. I'd offer to call him, but he might misinterpret it as me backing down from kicking him out. Maybe you could get Randall to call him.”

“Thanks,” he said. “I've got his number.”

“By the way,” I said. “Any chance you could get Randall to hire you to do a little detecting here at the show house?”

“Detecting what?”

“Someone's been stealing packages,” I said. “Stuff the decorators have ordered. None of the packages have been fabulously valuable, but there have been so many of them that it probably adds up to hundreds of dollars by now. And the whole thing's got some of the decorators at each other's throats.”

“Not that I'd mind investigating, but have the police done what they can?”

“Now that's a good question,” I said. “I keep telling the designers to make a police report about it, but who knows if any of them have done so. I'll talk to the chief tomorrow.”

“Good,” he said. “And I'll talk to Randall about hiring me to supplement their efforts.”

He headed upstairs after Randall.

I looked at my watch. Almost time for me to leave, to meet Michael and the twins for an afternoon of caroling, Christmas shopping, and eventually dinner. But with so much going on, I couldn't leave my post unguarded. I'd asked my cousin Rose Noire to fill in for me this afternoon. Where was she?

Probably out delivering more of the customized, organic herbal gift baskets that she sold by the hundreds over the holiday season. I was still getting used to the notion of my flakey, New-Age cousin as the owner of a thriving small business. I'd have felt guilty, asking her to take the time away from her work, if I hadn't been sacrificing so much anvil time myself.

“Meg?” I looked up to see Martha standing nearby. “Any chance I could go up and take a few measurements in the master bedroom?”

“Technically that's still Clay's room,” I said.

“Understood. And if the committee decides to let him stay, I'll just have wasted a few minutes of my time. No problem. But if they decide to kick him out, I want to be able to say that yes, I absolutely can get the room ready by opening day.”

I thought about it for a few moments. Mother and Eustace still had a lot to do in their rooms. Sarah would be fighting the clock to undo what Clay had done to her room. And I couldn't see handing the master bedroom over to any of the others. If we kicked Clay out, Martha would be the logical person to take over the master bedroom.

“I feel responsible,” she said.

“For everything Clay has done?”

“Well, not exactly,” she said. “But I am to blame for getting him into the decorating business in the first place. He used to work for me—
briefly
. Till he got too big for his britches and struck out on his own. Taking half my clients with him. The female half,” she added, with a bitter laugh. “A few of them started crawling back when they figured out they'd made a mistake, but by that time it was too late. My business was folding.”

No wonder Martha felt so miffed at Clay getting the room she'd wanted. If only I'd known from the start how much hostility there was between them.

“Take your measurements,” I said. “But be discreet.”

She smiled a small, tight, triumphant smile and turned to go upstairs.

“And if you're thinking of searching his room for the missing packages, don't bother,” I called up the stairs after her. “Already done that myself. Several times.”

She chuckled mirthlessly at that.

With my luck, Clay would come barging back in and catch her at it. I really wanted to be gone before that happened. Where was Rose Noire?

As if my thoughts had summoned her, the front door opened very slowly and Rose Noire peeked into the foyer. Her wild mane of hair frizzed out from beneath a purple knitted hat, and her expression was anxious.

“Meg?”

“There you are,” I said. “Just in time. Come in.”

“I can feel the negative energy trying to push me away when I try to cross the threshold.” She stepped inside, as if with an effort, and planted herself solidly, obviously expecting the negative forces to attack. “There's something evil in this house.”

“Not at the moment. I chased him out for the rest of the day.” Rose Noire had taken an almost instant dislike to Clay, claiming he had a very negative aura. I didn't share her faith in auras, mantras, energy work, and whatever other New Age concepts currently fascinated her. But I had to admit she was spot-on when it came to sniffing out a bad egg like Clay. “Close the door—you're letting the cold air in.”

“Cold but clean air,” she said. But she closed the door as she said it. She was wearing a deep-purple dress instead of her typical pastels, and a lot more charms and amulets than usual hung from her neck and wrists. “It's not just him,” she said. “There's a lot of dark energy in this house. Is it okay if I do a cleansing while I'm here?”

“As long as you keep the decorators happy and busy and don't let them break anything else, you can do anything you want.” I wasn't sure I believed in Rose Noire's smudging and herb sprinkling, but at worst it did no harm. And most of the time, it actually made me feel better. Anything that could improve the atmosphere here in the house was fine with me.

“By the way,” I said. “Clay isn't allowed back until either Randall or I say so. If he tries to get in—”

“He shall not pass!” Rose Noire exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height and lifting her chin in defiance.

“We'll be fine, dear.” Mother appeared in the archway. “If Clay comes back, Eustace and I can help Rose Noire handle him.”

“And I'll be here to help, too.” Randall was coming down the stairway, with his phone to his ear. “I'm calling him now to lay down the law. Clay? When you get this, give me a call. We need to talk.”

“And there's a reporter here somewhere,” I went on to Rose Noire. “Student. Long red hair. Name of Jessica.”

“Right here.” Jessica appeared on the stairway.

“This is Rose Noire,” I said. “She's taking over for me. She can answer any questions you have. Feel free to roam around, but please remember that the designers have a tight deadline. Oh, Rose Noire—when Ivy gets back—”

“I'm back.” Ivy looked up from the rear of the foyer, where she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, dabbing paint on the unfinished mural.

“Sorry, I didn't see you come in.” No one ever did. Ivy was ethereally thin and painfully shy, and appeared to have mastered the art of fading into the woodwork. “This is Jessica. She's a reporter from the student paper. She's very impressed with your work, and would like take pictures of your paintings
if
you're okay with that, and interview you
if
you have time.”

Ivy nodded uncertainly.

“But give her a chance to settle in and get a little work done right now,” I said to Jessica.