“Darlin’, we’re decorators,” Eustace said. “We all have egos and pinking shears, and tempers usually get a little short this close to an opening. It’ll all turn out okay. Don’t worry.”
Was he reassuring Jessica or me? He smiled, lifted one forefinger to his temple in ironic salute, and went back downstairs.
“He’s not far off,” I said.
Jessica followed me through the Princess Room, where Violet was making little squeaking noises of dismay while rolling up the paint-stained petit-point rug. Jessica stopped to take a few shots of the damage.
In the bathroom, I washed my hands with a generous dollop of Martha’s imported geranium-scented liquid soap and dried them on the least stained of her white towels. Martha was muttering to herself as she stuffed the ruined towels and accessories into a black plastic garbage bag.
“First the packages and now this,” she said. “He’ll do anything to sabotage the rest of us. You need to keep an eye on him.”
“We don’t know that he’s the one taking the packages,” I said. “But yes, I’m keeping an eye on him.” And on all of them. Clay wasn’t the only one whose competitive instincts were working overtime.
I tried for a moment to think of something I could say to cheer her up. Then, when Jessica appeared at my shoulder and began snapping pictures, I gave up the notion as impossible.
“Come on,” I said to Jessica, and I led her back out into the hall.
“Everyone seems to come to you with their problems,” she said. “So this on-site coordinator gig—you’re like the boss or something?”
“Or something,” I said. “I’m the one responsible for making sure everything turns out okay. Settling any disputes. Enforcing the committee’s guidelines—for example, that the designers are not allowed by make any structural changes to the house without prior approval. And if—”
“Oh, my God!”
I recognized Sarah Byrne’s voice, coming from downstairs in the study, and turned to sprint down the stairs to see what new disaster had struck.
Chapter 3
I ran into the study and found Sarah frantically trying to push one of the beautiful red-velvet armchairs out from under a stream of water that was coming through the ceiling.
“Help!” she shrieked. “That bastard’s trying to flood me out!”
Jessica and I leaped to the rescue. The three of us managed to shove one of the chairs out into the hall. As we were turning to go back in for the second chair, Eustace appeared in the hallway. Instead of helping, he galloped up the stairway, shouting in rapid-fire Spanish along the way. Tomás and Mateo appeared at the top of the stairs. More machine-gun Spanish. Tomás disappeared back into the master bedroom. Mateo raced down the stairs after Eustace. The two of them dashed into the study and quickly rescued the second chair. Meanwhile, Martha, Violet, and even Mother showed up and helped carry out all the other smaller—and, I hoped, less valuable—objects.
The water slowed and then stopped. Tomás called out something in Spanish from upstairs. Mateo answered.
By this time we’d hauled everything out of the room that wasn’t nailed down. Sarah sat down in the hall, with her head between her hands, curled in an almost fetal position.
“My beautiful room,” she muttered. “My beautiful room. It’s ruined.”
Mother and Martha stood on either side of her, patting her on the back. Usually it was Mother or Eustace to whom the younger designers like Sarah and Violet turned for moral support. Was Martha just trying to look good in front of the reporter? Or was she feeling a sense of kinship with Sarah because Clay was responsible for both of their woes?
Tomás had come downstairs, and he and Mateo and Eustace were discussing something in Spanish. Much pointing toward the ceiling. Now that the water had stopped, I could see, to my relief, that there was only a little damage visible, right around the ceiling light fixture. Still, there wouldn’t be any damage at all if Clay hadn’t done whatever he’d done.
Speaking of Clay, what had he done? I hurried up the stairs and into the master suite. Clay was standing there, sopping wet and toweling himself off with some ratty paint-smeared rags.
“I need a towel,” he said.
“What the hell were you doing?” I asked.
“Removing the wall between the bathroom and the closet,” he said. “I wanted to open up the space.”
I stepped into the bathroom. The wall was half demolished, and I could see the broken end of a pipe. There were puddles all over, with chunks of wallboard soaking in them, and a sledgehammer leaning against the wall.