The Nightingale Before Christmas(92)

“More garlands!” I shouted. “More tinsel! More snow! More stars! More holly! More angels! More wise men!”

The children fell to work.

In the middle of all this, Dad called to update me on the photographer.

“The good news is that he wasn’t actually having a heart attack,” Dad said. “The bad news is that he’s a heart attack waiting to happen. He’s a lucky man. I’m in the process of turning him over to a cardiologist here at VCU—”

“VCU?” I echoed. “You’re down in Richmond?”

“Yes, and I should be heading back in an hour or two.”

“Does the Times-Dispatch know he’s not up here taking pictures?” I asked.

“Oh, yes,” Dad said. “But I don’t know if they’re going to send anyone to take his place.”

Probably just as well, I decided. We still had a lot to do.

The only halfway Christmassy fabric we’d found for making the slipcovers and curtains was a dull burgundy. It went nicely with the “Red Obsession” walls but it wasn’t exactly an exciting choice. When we set the first slipcovered chair in the middle of the room, everyone stood back and studied the effect.

“Color’s perfect with the walls,” Sarah said.

“Nice slipcovering job,” Randall said.

“But it needs a little something,” Mother, Eustace, and Sarah said in unison.

“Yes, it does.” Ivy appeared out of nowhere, as usual. “A little decoration. May I?”

Mother nodded. Ivy was holding several brushes and pots of paint. She quickly painted a little running decoration like a stylized vine along the back of the chair in gold paint with touches of green and black. It wasn’t as intricately detailed as her own murals, but it was still magical.

“I like it,” Mother said.

So as each table or chair emerged from the impromptu upholstery workshop, Ivy added in the vine. Tomás watched her for a few minutes, then said a few words to Mateo. The two of them grabbed pots of paint and tiny brushes and began working on the walls, adding in the same stylized vine here and there to the red-painted walls.

“Hiring those two just might turn out one of my smartest decisions ever,” Randall said in a tone of great satisfaction. “And this place is shaping up.”

“I thought we’d be working all night,” I said. “But with all the help we’ve got, I think we’re pretty close to done.”

The curtains were finished and hung, the slipcovers completed and decorated by Ivy, Tomás, and Mateo. In fact, we’d finished every bit of sewing we could think of, so Mother hugged Mrs. Tran and each of her seamstresses, and they headed home to Yorktown. We ran out of ornament-making supplies about the time we ran out of room on the tree, so we thanked all the children, and their parents took them home. The students had one last hearty meal and headed back for the dorms, armed with generous doggy bags. The Baptist and Episcopal ladies stayed long enough to make sure every room in which our volunteers had worked was spotless. Most of Randall’s workmen left. The Quilt Ladies thanked Randall for the tarps and began restoring their room to order.

Chief Burke stopped by to pick up his wife, and while Minerva was saying her good-byes to the rest of the Baptist and Episcopal ladies, he filled me in on what had been happening down at the police station.

“We’re holding Martha Blaine for murdering Clay and attempting to murder you,” he said.

“What about her so-called alibi?” I asked.

“Miss Violet is no longer quite so certain that Ms. Blaine was with her every minute of that night,” he said. “And we’ll be testing for the drug used to knock her out. Horace tells me that since it’s been less than seventy-two hours, there’s a chance the drug could still be in her system. Of course, disproving her alibi may not be quite as critical as it might have been. Ms. Blaine has been quite communicative since her arrest.”

“Her lawyer will be displeased with her.”

“Yes,” the chief said. “Of course, what she’d already said to you when she was planning to kill you had already limited her lawyer’s options to self-defense or insanity. And speaking of insanity, we’re doing what we can to see that Jessica Green will be making her pilgrimage through the mental health system rather than the Department of Corrections.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“Yes.” He frowned and shook his head. “I don’t think that poor girl has had many breaks in her life. Let’s hope they can do something for her.”

We fell silent for a few moments.

“And what about the Grangers?” I asked.