Not the most likely pair of new best friends, but perhaps working in adjacent rooms under the pressure of our deadline—and with the odious Clay nearby—had worked some kind of magic. And it would be interesting if their newfound alliance survived the end of the show house. But it was nice, for the time being, to see Violet opening up and Martha behaving kindly rather than waspishly.

I heard the toilet flush in Martha’s bathroom. The door to the first part of the bathroom, with the sink and tub in it was open, but the door to the toilet compartment was closed. I waited until after I heard water running in the second sink, in its own compartment on the far side of the toilet, to knock on the door.

“Out in a minute.”

It was Alice, one of the two Quilt Ladies.

“I was just coming to see how you two were doing this morning,” I said.

“Pretty well, considering,” she answered, as I followed her into the bonus room beyond. “Last night was a tough night.”

“You’re telling me,” I said.

“I don’t just mean here,” she said. “Mrs. Stavropoulos broke her hip. Dr. Stavropoulos’s mother,” she added, seeing my puzzled look. “She lives at Caerphilly Assisted Living.”

“It didn’t happen when we were over there caroling?” I asked. I was always deathly afraid that the boys would start running and knock over one of the frailer seniors.

“No, around midnight, while I was on duty. I’m the night shift receptionist, you know, five nights a week.”

Actually, I hadn’t known, but I nodded as if I did.

“It’s really the perfect job for us,” she said. “Until we can afford to do this full time. For me, actually—Vicky’s retired, of course. But she comes over most nights when I’m on duty, and we sit together behind the desk and quilt all night. Or work on our room designs. Management doesn’t mind—as long as I’m there to answer the phone and buzz people in, they don’t care what I do. And sometimes, like last night, it’s a real blessing to have the two of us there.”

“What happened last night,” I asked. “With Mrs. Stavropoulos?”

“Got up to go to the bathroom and fell,” Alice said. “Luckily, she could still reach the emergency cord. I called 9-1-1 and Vicky went up to sit with her and keep her spirits up until the ambulance got there. And a few of the residents heard the ambulance, and we had to reassure them and walk them back to their rooms. And old Mr. Jackson took it into his head again that General Sherman’s army was coming to burn the town, and Vicky calmed him down by filling the water buckets and keeping watch out his window till he fell asleep. I had to stay at the desk all this time—I was trying to reach Dr. Stavropoulos to let him know—so having her there was a lifesaver.”

“When did all this happen?” I asked.

“Around eleven thirty,” she said. “And I don’t think we got everyone calmed down and back in their rooms until well after one a.m. Not much progress on our quilting last night! But Mrs. Stavropoulos is going to be all right, so all’s well that ends well.”

“Where is Vicky?” I asked. “Sleeping in after all that excitement?”

“I wish. That both of us could sleep in. No, she’s downstairs, talking to the chief. My turn next. You poor thing! Here I’m rattling on about our night—and did I hear that you found poor Clay’s body right here in the house?”

“I did,” I said. “And I’ll be happy to tell you all about it after you talk to the chief. I just came over to see how you two were doing. Find out if this morning’s delay has you in a panic.”

“Oh, we’re fine,” she said. “We’d be fine if the house opened tomorrow. Mind you, there’s a few more things we want to do if we have the time. And we might do a little fine tuning of what’s here. For example, do you think we should swap the tumbling blocks with the Irish chain? Or leave them were they are?”

From her gestures, I deduced that we were talking about quilts, not actual blocks and chains.

“I’m not sure I know which one is which,” I said. “And if I had any design sense whatsoever, Mother would long ago have co-opted me to work in her room. But for my money, that quilt is the most awesome one you’ve got.” I pointed to a quilt that looked like a bunch of three-dimensional squares done in black, purple, and turquoise. “So if you put it where it was the first thing visitors saw when they walked into the room, they would be seriously impressed.”

“That’s the tumbling blocks,” she said. “And yes, we were thinking we should make it more prominent. Don’t tell me you have no design sense. Can you help me with this?”

We’d done this before, so I knew the drill. We each grabbed one end of the long pole from which my favorite quilt was hanging and lifted it down from the pegs that held it up. We laid it down carefully on the worktable while we picked up the other quilt—presumably the Irish chain—and moved it into the place where the tumbling blocks had been.

“Definitely an improvement,” Alice said, as we lifted the tumbling blocks quilt into place, right inside the door where the visitors would enter after touring Martha’s bathroom. We stood back for a few moments and admired the effect.

There were a dozen large quilts hung around the room—some modern, some traditional, all different and all beautiful. Along one wall they’d put a shelf with dozens of bolts of fabric, arranged in order from blue on one end through green, yellow, orange, red, and purple at the far end, like a bright rainbow. And they hadn’t forgotten to work in the Christmas theme. One of the quilts was a special Christmas quilt in reds and greens, using fabrics with patterns of holly and presents. Another was in blue and silver with stars and snowflakes—both beautiful, though neither outshone the tumbling blocks quilt I so admired. The small Christmas tree in the corner was decorated with a garland of metallic fabric and ornaments quilted from red and green satin.

“Even the late Mr. Spottiswood allowed as how that quilt wasn’t too bad,” Alice said as she carefully tucked a few sprigs of evergreen at either end of the pole, being careful not to let them touch the fabric. “I confess, I feel sorry for the poor man, but I won’t miss him.”

“Sorry for him?”

“You have to be pretty unhappy to be that mean, don’t you?”

I nodded.

“Well, anyway,” she said. “Things will be a bit more pleasant around here with him gone, won’t they?”

“Yes, we might actually see a bit of Christmas cheer around here.”

“True,” she said. “I think Clay’s idea of Christmas decorating was to put a bit of mistletoe in the doorway so he could bother all the pretty ladies. But actually by around here I meant here in Caerphilly. The design world’s a small town, you know. Having Clay barge in has shaken things up a bit. And not in a good way.”

“Who was the most hurt by his arrival?” I asked.

“Sarah and Martha,” Alice said, with surprising promptness. “Your mother and Eustace have a much more traditional sensibility. So do Linda and Violet, though they’re not in the same league. Violet’s barely making a living, and poor Linda’s lucky her late husband left her comfortably off.”

Linda, I remembered, was Our Lady of Chintz’s real name.

“And he didn’t much hurt Vicky and me, either. If you want a quilting room, or a room designed with plenty of quilts, we’re the best. But we don’t do anything outside of our niche. And I suppose our vampire girl has her own niche. Not a big call for decorating with bats and coffins, is there? I understand she makes the better part of her income selling Goth crafts on Etsy.”

I nodded as if I’d already known this.

“But Sarah and Martha are both working in similar areas,” she said. “More modern styles. A clean, open minimalist look. Strong colors. I think when he arrived here a few years ago, he took quite a bite out of both their businesses,” she went on. “They’ve been bouncing back—people are starting to see Clay for the one-trick pony he is. Oh, it’s quite a handsome pony, but it’s always the same, and frankly, a little too much Clay and too little client. He’s not a bad designer if you like what he likes, but if you don’t, too bad—that’s what you get anyway.”