The Nightingale Before Christmas(10)

I was still standing in the master bedroom, surveying the damage. Tomás and Mateo returned, followed by Eustace. The two workmen disappeared into the ruined bathroom.

“The muchachos can fix everything Clay ruined,” Eustace said. “But it’s going to take time. And that’s not something we have a whole lot of.”

Did he have to remind me? Today was Saturday, December 20. The show house’s main run would be from December 26 through January 5, but we’d given in to the historical society’s request to have a special preview day—with wine and cheese to justify higher prices—on December 24. And just to make sure all the rooms were ready for the sneak preview, we’d arranged for the judges for the best room contest to make their tour of inspection at 9:00 P.M. on December 23. So we had today, tomorrow, Monday, and most of Tuesday to get everything done. I hoped Clay hadn’t just ruined our chances of making our deadline.

Of course, our secret weapon was Randall Shiffley. As the town mayor, he had the strongest possible motive for making the show house successful. And as a leading member of the family that had a virtual monopoly on the building trades in Caerphilly County, he could draft an almost unlimited supply of skilled labor to get projects like this done.

“Randall’s sending over some workers,” I said aloud. “It would help if you and the guys can figure out what materials we’ll need and call him.”

“Will do.”

I was turning to go. I had the feeling I should make sure Sarah was okay.

“One more thing,” Eustace said. “Tomás and Mateo understood enough of what happened just now to figure out that Clay might not be coming back.”

“I’m leaving that up to the committee,” I said.

“Fair enough,” Eustace said. “But they’re a little worried, because he hasn’t paid them.”

“You mean for today?”

“At all.”

“But they’ve been working here for weeks.”

Eustace raised one eyebrow as if to say “what do you expect?”

“What a jerk,” I said. “I’ll mention it to Randall. Maybe the committee can work something out. Put pressure on him.”

“Or the committee could pay them and force Clay to reimburse them as a condition of being in the house.”

“And if he refuses?”

Eustace leaned back, put his hands on his hips, and made a slow, deliberate survey of the décor in Clay’s room. The enormous four-poster mahogany bed, with its black sheets and red curtains. The oversized matching bureau and dresser. The black leather recliner. He wrinkled his nose slightly, as if detecting a faint but foul odor.

“We’ve got his stuff,” he said. “Not to my taste, but it should be worth something.”

He had a point.

“I’ll mention it to Randall,” I said. “Right now I need to go down and check on Sarah.”

I found her standing in her room, looking shell-shocked. The red-and-gold oriental rug was gone, and Tomás was using handfuls of rags to dry off the floor. The brass ceiling fixture was sitting in one of the red-velvet chairs, and Mateo was atop a ladder doing something to the damaged section of ceiling.

“How are you holding up?” I asked Sarah.

“I’m lucky, I guess.” She didn’t sound as if she felt lucky. “They stopped the water before it ruined everything.”

The streak in her hair was bright blue today, and from the way she was anxiously twisting the strands around her finger, I was afraid she’d pull out all the blue before too long.

“Stop that,” I said, pretending to slap her hand gently. “Bald would not be a good look for you. Where’s the rug, anyway?”

“In the garage, with fans drying it out,” she said. “Is that okay?”

“It’s fine,” I said. “If you need a nicer space, you can always spread it out in the master bedroom. Clay’s not around to complain.”

“Is he out for good, or just for the day?” she asked.

“Up to the committee,” I said. “I know how I’d vote, and if they ask me I’ll tell them.”

She smiled a little at that.

“You’re sure it’s okay for Tomás and Mateo to work on my room?” she asked. “I know there must be a lot to do in Clay’s room.”

“Yours comes first,” I said. “And Randall’s sending reinforcements. If you need anything, just ask.”

“Just keep the reporter away for a while,” she said. “Neither I nor my room are ready for our close-ups.”

“Oh, my God,” I said. “The reporter. Where has she gone?”