The Nightingale Before Christmas(6)

“Claiborne Spottiswood!” I yelled. “Get out here before—”

“Where’s that package I asked you for?” The hammering stopped, and Clay reappeared from the master bath, evidently attempting to deflect me with a counterattack.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” In fact, I didn’t even believe he was missing a package. More likely he was pretending to have lost one. He’d probably overheard some of the designers speculating that he was behind the disappearances. “You’ve splashed red paint all over Ivy’s hallway, Violet’s rug, and Martha’s bathroom.”

“How do you know it’s my paint?” he said. “There are eleven other decorators in this house—”

“But only one of them is using this particular shade of red.” I held the hand towel up against the wall. The blood-red stains on it matched the walls perfectly. “All paintbrushes are supposed to be cleaned downstairs in the garage. And if you couldn’t be bothered with going downstairs, why not mess up your own bathroom?”

“Wasn’t me,” Clay said. “I’ll speak to my painters.”

“You can’t blame Tomás and Mateo,” Martha said. “I was still here last night when they left. And my bathroom was fine then. You were here, doing some touch-up painting.”

Clay scowled at her. He was probably considered tall, dark, and handsome by those who’d only seen him in a good mood, but it had been a while since I’d been able to see past his personality. And when he scowled, his thick black eyebrows and neatly trimmed goatee made him look almost diabolical.

Jessica was staring around the room in openmouthed surprise, even forgetting to use her camera.

“Martha’s right,” I said. “The bathroom was fine when I left last night, and the only ones here were her, Clay, and Eustace.”

I felt a pang of guilt—usually I was the last one to leave the house, and made sure everything was locked up and in good condition. But the closer we got to opening day, the longer the designers seemed to work, and I had a family to think of and Christmas preparations of my own. I wouldn’t have left workmen unsupervised, but I thought—silly me—that the designers could be trusted.

“Martha, Violet, and Ivy will be giving me invoices this afternoon for the time and materials required to repair the damage to their rooms,” I said aloud. “Clay, I’ll expect reimbursement from you by tomorrow morning, or you’re out of the show house.”

I heard a gasp from behind me. I glanced over to see Mother, Violet, and Eustace standing in the doorway, peering over the reporter’s shoulders. Violet was the one who had gasped. She was looking shocked, wrapping her fluffy pink embroidered cardigan around her as if to protect herself from my wrath. Mother and Eustace were beaming with delight.

“Oh, so you’re going to have a show house with no master suite?” Clay leaned against one of the garish red walls and folded his arms. He made a dramatic picture, and Jessica obligingly captured it with her camera.

“I imagine several of the other designers would be happy to pitch in and help out,” I replied.

“I’ve already got a design for the space,” Martha volunteered.

“And I’d be happy to help out,” Mother said.

“Same here,” Eustace added.

“If you think you can use my stuff—” Clay began.

“Of course, not, Claiborne,” Mother said. “I’m sure Randall Shiffley can get a crew over here anytime to haul all your materials back to your shop.”

She gave him what Clay probably thought was a sweet smile if he didn’t know Mother very well. Eustace’s expression was a lot more noncommittal, and Martha looked like a leopard about to pounce. The clicking from Jessica’s camera had started up again, so I assumed she was enjoying the scene. Of course, the photos she was getting right now weren’t very flattering. Perhaps I should start planning a way to mug her for her camera and delete any photos I didn’t want to see on the front page of the student paper.

“I’m losing money on this gig as it is,” Clay grumbled.

I decided to accept this as a capitulation.

“Then be careful how—and where—you clean your equipment from now on,” I said. “Okay, everybody. Back to work.”

“Yes, dear,” Mother said. “Oh, Claiborne—as long as I’m here, I’ll take my vase back.”

She smiled and pointed to a Chinese urn sitting on top of the chest of drawers. Its elegant shape and cool blue-and-white color were completely at odds with the red-and-black color scheme and aggressively modern furniture that filled the rest of the room.