The Nightingale Before Christmas(5)

But not right now, with Jessica drinking in every word and occasionally snapping off a few shots with the little camera, whose whirring and clicking was starting to get on my nerves.

“You can’t let Clay keep ruining our work like this,” Martha said. “Unless you want a half-finished, paint-spattered mess on opening day.”

“Agreed,” I said. “I’ll go inspect the damage, and then I’ll talk to him.”

I strode out into the foyer and started up the stairs, walking as calmly and deliberately as I could. Martha and Jessica followed. Upstairs, to my relief, the hammering had stopped.

At the top of the stairs, to my right, I could see the open double doors to the master suite. When I was a few steps from the top, Clay Spottiswood stuck his head out.

“Where’s my package?” he asked. “I’m expecting a package.”

“Not happy with all the packages you’ve stolen from the rest of us?” Martha snapped.

“Stop blaming me for the packages,” Clay said. “I’ve lost packages just like the rest of you.”

He had—or at least claimed he had—and he’d probably spent more time complaining to me than all the rest of the designers put together.

I ignored both Martha and Clay and turned left. I could see spots of blood-red paint on the tarp covering the hall floor. And a few spots on the walls, where Ivy, the trompe l’oeil artist, was painting an elaborate mural of the Twelve Days of Christmas.

Had this, rather than paint fumes, stress, and eyestrain, caused the headache Ivy had gone home with?

I heard the whirring and clicking of Jessica’s camera. Well, okay. Document the damage.

I entered Violet’s room, which she was decorating in what Mother called “Early Disney Princess.” Her room was so over-the-top that Mother and I sometimes called her “Princess Violet,” though the name was a bit incongruous for a small and rather mousy-looking woman of around thirty. Everything in her room was in pink, white, and lavender. White-painted furniture. Wallpaper with pink and lavender floral garlands on a white background. Matching fabric on the twin bed and the half canopy over it. Pink and lavender decorations on the white-painted built-in bookshelves. A cluster of pink, white, and lavender stuffed animals and pillows on the bed.

The drops of red paint stood out like a trail of blood on the pink, white, and lavender petit-point rug.

I carefully avoided stepping on the drops, in case they were still wet, and entered the bathroom.

A good thing I knew it was only red paint. The room looked like a crime scene from a slasher movie, with not just drops but splashes, sprays, and even a few puddles of red. They stood out dramatically against the white-on-white spa look Martha had chosen for her design. The tile could probably be scrubbed clean and the walls repainted, but many of the towels and accessories would have to be replaced.

Behind me, in the Princess Room, I heard a shriek. I winced. Apparently Violet had come back and discovered the damage. I stuck my head back into the room and saw the hem of her frilly ruffled dress disappearing through the doorway to the hall. The wailing faded into the distance, and I suspected she had fled downstairs to seek comfort from Mother.

I grabbed one of the hand towels, its soft white terry cloth surface smeared with red. Then I turned, almost bumping into Martha and the reporter. Martha smiled, no doubt because she was pleased with the frown on my face. Jessica was clicking away with her camera.

I strode through the Princess Room and the hall and stopped in the double doorway of the master bedroom suite. The hammering had started up again and seemed to be coming from somewhere nearby—either the master bath or the huge walk-in closet.

“Clay!” I shouted.

Two heads popped up in the far corner of the room. Clay’s workmen, Tomás and Mateo. Neither of them spoke more than a few words of English. They looked alarmed.

“Que nada,” I said, giving them as much of a smile as I could manage. I thought que nada meant something like “it’s nothing to worry about.” They didn’t look reassured. I wished my Spanish was good enough to say, “Don’t worry, I’m not mad at you, I’m mad at your pig of a boss, and by the way, I could find you better jobs in about five minutes if you’d like to stop working for him.”

Clay didn’t answer. Tomás and Mateo went back to whatever they were doing behind the giant four-poster bed. Whirring and clicking noises at my elbow warned me that Jessica was here.

If one of the other designers had been causing a problem, I’d have postponed dealing with it until after Jessica left. But Clay had already used up his last chance and then some.