Maybe later. After the house had opened.

I took a picture of the lamp and e-mailed that to Sarah. Then I turned it off and went to check the rest of the house.

Mother’s room was breathtaking. I stood in the middle of the floor and surveyed it. The tall tree, trimmed with so many sparkling ornaments that you had to take it on faith that there was green underneath. The rich red-and-gold brocade covers of the chairs and the sofa. The four red velvet Christmas stockings hanging from brass hangers on the mantel. The lovely contrast between the walls—painted in “Red Obsession,” which didn’t look nearly as overwhelming as I thought it would be—and the woodwork—painted in an off-white, whose name I had forgotten, and picked out with little touches of gold. The rich red draperies with their red-and-gold cords. The subtle colors and intricate designs of the elegantly faded red oriental rug. The cool contrasting touch of the blue-and-white porcelain. Yes, Mother had outdone herself. If there was any justice, she had a good shot at the prize.

I stopped long enough to take a few shots of the room. In fact, while I was at it, I took several dozen. In the morning, the Times-Dispatch photographer would probably get plenty of pictures—and better pictures. But I’d been in the habit of taking pictures every afternoon or evening, after the designers had finished for the day. I thought perhaps I’d do an album later. Or maybe an exhibit at the county museum. If we put my photos together with the ones Randall had taken of the repair work, we could show the whole history of the house, from wreck to palace. So I made sure to capture Mother’s completed room from all angles.

Eustace’s breakfast room was painted in off-whites and faded pinks that either matched or blended nicely with the woodwork in Mother’s room. In spite of the room’s name, the round, glass-topped table wasn’t set for breakfast—a ruby-red punch bowl occupied the center, surrounded by ruby-red punch glasses, green-and-white Christmas napkins with a holly design, gold-plated flatware, a colorful fruit cake in a tall cut-glass cake stand, and several antique or vintage Christmas-themed cookie tins. I could imagine the guests attending a party in Mother’s room and then stepping into this elegant little nook to refill their punch cups or grab something to nibble.

Was the fruitcake fake or edible? I lifted the top and poked it. Real, and therefore presumably as edible as any other fruitcake. Not that I wanted to try.

The kitchen itself, also done in carefully blended off-whites, was utterly impractical yet absolutely beautiful. Each cabinet contained half a dozen perfectly arranged bits of glass or china or pottery, mostly in soft shades of blue and turquoise. I only hoped all the people who fell in love with the look stopped to inventory the contents of their cabinets before investing in glass fronts. And as a nod to the Christmas theme, he’d placed a tray on the counter containing a large bowl of walnuts and an antique nutcracker. Although clearly the walnuts weren’t really meant to be eaten, since they’d all been painted gold.

I took a token peek into Martha’s laundry room. It was clean, and sparkling white—evidently she and Eustace had agreed to disagree on the white/off-white issue. She’d hung pretty prints on the walls, pretty curtains at the window, pretty towels on the folding rack. But it was still just a laundry room. And not Christmassy at all—but then, who ever decorates a laundry room for Christmas?

Well, who apart from Mother?

Something startled me—a noise outside, like something being knocked over. It seemed to be coming from the back of the house—maybe on the terrace? I tiptoed across the hall and peered out through the glass panes in the terrace door. A little faint light spilled out through the dining room windows. Someone had shoveled the snow off the terrace. Maybe not such a good idea. It looked remarkably empty. Maybe we should put something out there. Or—

A movement startled me, and then a fat raccoon waddled across the terrace, raised his masked head to stare at me, and disappeared into the yard.

I had been holding my breath. I started breathing again, and continued my tour. I flicked the light on in the dining room.

Which was certainly … festive. I realized that Linda was probably aiming for the kind of luxuriant yet tasteful excess that Mother was so good at achieving. But Linda only managed the excess. She’d found at least a dozen different Christmas-themed chintz prints and used them to make angels, stars, wreaths, and garlands that now festooned the already busy walls.

Well, at least it was Christmassy.

I flicked the light off again, and realized that the room looked a lot better in the dim ambient light from the hallway. Maybe if I convinced Linda to use only candles, the room would show better.

I smiled again when I stepped out into the hall. Ivy had added a few bits of furniture—a chair here, a small side table there, just enough to justify the title of “designer” rather than “painter.” But even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t matter. Her murals were going to be the hit of the show house. They were ornate, intricate, and curiously reminiscent of early-twentieth-century children’s book illustrations, like those by Kay Nielsen, Arthur Rackham, or Edmund Dulac. Was it disloyal of me to like them just a little bit more than even Mother’s room?

“The Little Match Girl” and “Good King Wenceslas” flanked the front door—it rather looked as if the charitable monarch was about to rescue the shivering waif. On the long wall across from the stairs “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” merged seamlessly into the harbor of Copenhagen, where the Little Mermaid peeked above the waves to welcome the arriving fleet. At the back of the hall, “The Friendly Beasts” and “The Ugly Duckling” flanked the French doors to the terrace. “The Three Kings” marched up the wall beside the stairway.

“The Twelve Days of Christmas” took over the wall opposite the stairs in the upstairs hallway. On the other long wall, the Snow Queen in her elegant sleigh appeared to be heading for the manger, where a host of shepherds and animals surrounded a pensive Baby Jesus. “The Snow Queen” wasn’t quite finished, but we could steer the photographer away from that. Perhaps toward my favorite, “The Nightingale,” which filled the entire wall leading to Vermillion’s room and appeared through the opening so it was also visible from Mother’s room below.

And in addition to the large murals, smaller illustrations danced over every other square inch that could be painted. Was that “Thumbelina” standing to the left of the back window? “The Steadfast Tin Soldier” on the other side? “The Little Drummer Boy” performing near the basement door? “The Red Shoes” dancing above the sill of Clay’s room?

Clay’s room. I wanted to continue my tour of inspection to see what Vermillion, Violet, and the Quilt Ladies had done. But I doubted any of the decorators had spared a thought for the master bedroom. And even if the photographer really was coming to shoot the whole house, I suspected the room that was also a crime scene was a must-see on his list.

I stepped inside and looked around.

Not bad. Not bad at all. The glossy black furniture showed every speck of dust, so I grabbed a wad of tissue from the bathroom, dampened it, and gave all the wood surfaces a quick dusting. We’d have to make that a daily chore. I plumped the fat black pillows on the bed and made sure the curtains hung evenly.

The room was curiously quiet—the soft black curtains and the thick red rug absorbed so much sound that the outside world felt curiously far away. I’d have hated sleeping in it, but I had to admit that if you liked the style, the room would probably be a soothing retreat.

One of Clay’s paintings was not quite level. I was trying to straighten it when I heard a voice behind me.