As she strolled downstairs, I reminded myself that at least, if Martha won, the garden club would benefit. Although come to think of it, so would Martha, since she’d recently staged a coup and taken over the presidency of the club, and was reputed to be running it like a personal fiefdom.
But that reminded me of something. I flipped to the page of my notebook where I’d listed which charities each designer had designated to benefit if they won the judging. And then I pulled out my phone and called Stanley Denton, Caerphilly’s resident private investigator.
“Can you check out a charity?” I said. “I mean, is that something you’ve got contacts or access to do?”
“I can try,” he said. “What’s the charity?”
“Designers of the Future,” I said. “Supposedly it gives out scholarships to needy but deserving art students.”
“Supposedly?” he asked. “You think it might not be on the up-and-up?”
“It’s the charity Clay Spottiswood designated to get the money if he won the best room contest,” I said. “And I suppose it could still get the money if his room wins—always possible he could get the sympathy vote.”
“I hope not,” Stanley said. “You got an address on that?”
“Seems to be local,” I said. “The address is 1224 Pruitt Avenue in Caerphilly.”
“That’s familiar address,” Stanley said. “Hang on a minute. Yeah, very familiar. That’s Clay Spottiswood’s home address. Home and business. I remember it from serving papers on him a couple of times.”
“That jerk,” I muttered.
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” he said. “It could be a small but legitimate charity that he’s running in his spare time.”
“Or it could be he was trying to pull a fast one. Randall has the paperwork Clay provided. That might give you a starting point.”
“I’m on it.”
I made a note in my notebook to bug Stanley if I didn’t hear from him for a few days. And then I glanced over the other items on my list. Calling the graphic designer to see when we’d get the program proofs. Writing another press release to go to the Richmond, D.C., Northern Virginia, Hampton Roads, and other regional papers. Finding out if we had enough shuttle buses to take people to and from the satellite parking. And a dozen other tasks. All the practical minutiae necessary to make the show house actually happen.
Just then, my phone rang. It was Michael.
“Meg? Are you ready?”
“For anything you have in mind, always,” I said. “But was there anything in particular I’m supposed to be ready for right now?”
“Santa Claus,” he said. “Remember, Mom asked if we would wait to see Santa until she could be there?”
“Oh, my God,” I said. “I forgot that was today. Are you still sure you want to do it? This late? They’ve already written their letters to Santa, remember? What if they come up with some enormous, important last-minute must-have thing that Santa can’t get by Christmas?”
“Then we’ll ask Santa to write them a letter explaining why their big present will be a little late,” he said. “We’ll manage. I’m more worried about a repeat of last year’s disaster. Was it Josh or Jamie who bit Santa?”
“Josh,” I said. “Jamie just ran away screaming and hid in the fake igloo.”
“I warned Mom about that,” Michael said. “But they are a year older. And Mom will be so disappointed if we cancel, so let’s do it. Your dad and I are about to load the boys in the car. We’ll be by for you and your mother in ten minutes.”
“I’ll tell Mother.”
I found her staring at a white board on which someone had painted a dozen stripes in various shades of red.
“What do you think, dear?” she asked. “I’m leaning toward the ‘Red Obsession.’ But ‘Ablaze’ is also nice. And ‘Positive Red’ is rather more Christmassy—but maybe too Christmassy? Or should we consider ‘Rave Red,’ or possibly ‘Habanero Chile’?”
“Time for Santa,” I said.
“I don’t think we have that one, dear,” Mother said. She frowned slightly at Mateo, who was holding the board, and presumably had been under orders to bring back samples of every possible red.
“It’s not a color, it’s a family event,” I said. “Michael and his mother and Dad are taking the boys to see Santa Claus. If you want to come and take cute pictures of your grandsons on Santa’s lap, be on the steps in five minutes.”