Randall ambled over to my car.

“Good,” he said. “I was just debating whether to call you. Chief’s going to release the house any minute now. And if it’s okay with you, we’ll start hauling off the trash and repairing the damage as soon as he does. Of course, all we can do is get the room back to where it was when your Mother started it. Decorating’s not something we can do.”

“We’re working on some plans,” I said. At least Michael was.

The front door opened. Chief Burke stepped out.

“All yours,” he said.

Things started happening. Tomás and Mateo and the Shiffleys swarmed into the house. I followed, a little more slowly.

“Okay, boys,” Randall said. “First thing we do is haul all this trash out. Meg, you want to take charge of rescuing stuff that can be reused?”

They were just getting started when one of the Shiffleys came running in.

“Meg? Your parents are here.”

Mother followed close on his heels. She burst into the hallway, and when she saw me, she rushed over and gave me a fierce hug.

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “And as long as you’re okay, everything else will be fine.”

“Good,” I said. “Because I’m afraid we’re going to have a bit of work to do in your room.”

“My room?” She turned and took a few steps toward the archway. We all froze. She didn’t react for several long moments, and then she burst into tears.

“My room,” she keened. “My beautiful room.”

I must have heard every designer in the show house say the same thing at some time over the last few days, but never with so much cause.

Jessica had knocked over the giant Christmas tree. At least three quarters of the delicate glass ornaments had been broken, either in the fall or when she hacked the tree into dozens of pieces. Giant gouges marred the walls, where there were still walls—in some places Jessica had ripped away great stretches of wallboard. She had knocked over and broken lamps, end tables, and vases. She’d attacked chairs and sofas so fiercely that every one of them was missing at least one leg and cotton stuffing spilled out through gaping slashes in the upholstery. She’d smashed the mirror over the fireplace and several panes of glass. She’d even hacked great holes and tears in the beautiful oriental carpet.

“It’s ruined,” Mother said.

“We can fix it,” I said.

“Not by tomorrow morning,” Mother said. “It’s taken me weeks.”

“Darlin’ you need to sit down.” Eustace gently took Mother’s arm and began steering her into the kitchen. “You come in here and have a cup of tea. Your family’s going to fix your room up for you.”

He was looking straight at me.

Why me? Didn’t getting tied up and almost murdered entitle me to a little time off?

“It’s beyond fixing,” Mother moaned.

“No it’s not,” I said.

Mother stopped in the doorway and looked back at me. And suddenly I had the answer to “why me?” Because I might not be the only person who could get Mother’s room fixed, but I was the only person she’d trust to do it. And also because every year I agonized over what to get her for Christmas, and always watched her face when she unwrapped her present, worrying that she was merely a consummate actress when she beamed and told me “I love it.” If I could pull this off, I wouldn’t have the slightest doubt when she proclaimed this “the best Christmas ever.”

“We’ll fix it,” I said. “The best we can. We can’t put it back the way it was. But we’ll make it beautiful.”

She smiled wanly and followed Eustace into the kitchen. I heard him fussing over her like a mother hen with a wayward chick.

“So, what do we do?” Dad asked.

He was also looking at me.

They all were.

Thank goodness Michael strode in just then. Rose Noire, Sarah, and Vermillion were on his heels.

“Okay, folks,” I said. “We’ve got till ten a.m. tomorrow.”

“And a lot of help is on the way,” Michael added.

“Okay,” I said. “Here goes. Unbroken stuff into the study—if that’s okay with you, Sarah? There can’t be that much.”

She nodded.

“Broken stuff that might be repairable to the garage. All the other trash goes into the Dumpster. Someone find a box and collect the Christmas ornaments that aren’t broken. More instructions later, but for now, let’s clean up this room. Dad, hang on—I have a special mission for you.”

“What is it?” He looked a little more cheerful, as I suspected he would at the thought of a special mission.

“There’s a photographer coming at ten. Keep your eyes peeled; he might show up early. Your mission is to keep him from coming in. Send him back to Richmond if possible. Lie to him and tell him the show house has been relocated to the zoo if you like. Just keep him away from here until I tell you it’s okay.”

“You’ve got it!”

Sarah and Vermillion approached me.

“My room’s in good shape,” Sarah said. “I can help.”

“Me, too,” Vermillion said.

“Thanks,” I said. “It would be nice if someone with some kind of decorating skill was involved in this.”

The three of us retired to the kitchen to confer with Mother and Eustace while an ever-increasing crew of worker bees dismantled the damaged décor in the great room.

“We don’t have the time to buy new furniture and have it delivered,” Mother said. “Maybe we should do a theme room. Christmas in the bowling alley.”

“Forget new furniture,” I said. “What furniture can you think of in your house or ours that would work?”

“Now that’s an idea,” she said. “The chairs in your father’s study might do in a pinch.”

“What about those ratty sofas in the Trinity parish hall?” I said. “The ones you said have good bones and should be recovered? Let’s call Robyn and see if we can borrow them and do it.”

“Remember that pair of end tables I outbid you for at that estate sale last year?” Eustace said. “I could be persuaded to lend them.”

I left them to it and went off to see how the cleanup was coming. And how Michael was coming on his phone calls.

By nine-thirty, the room was an empty shell. Tomás and Mateo were starting to replace the broken windowpanes. One crew of Shiffleys was going around the room installing new drywall while another crew followed behind, painting it in “Red Obsession.”

“Meg, that photographer’s here,” Rose Noire stuck her head in the kitchen to say. “But don’t worry—your dad seems to be coping.”

“Coping how?” I asked.

“Well, last time I looked, he was taking the guy’s blood pressure, and looking worried.”

I strolled out to check on things.

“Oh, good,” Dad said, seeing me. “Meg, this is Mr. Timmerman from the Richmond Times-Dispatch. I know you’re expecting him to take some pictures, but I’m taking him down to the hospital. Don’t worry,” he said, turning back to Mr. Timmerman. “The heartburn could just be heartburn, and the shoulder pain could just be from hauling that heavy camera bag about. But even the possibility of a cardiac problem should be taken seriously. Let’s just make sure, shall we? My car’s over there. Just leave your equipment here; I’ll bring you back when we’re finished.”

“Thanks,” Timmerman said. He trudged back to his car and popped the trunk to put a suitcase-sized equipment bag in it.

“Dad,” I said in an undertone. “I don’t want to you commit malpractice for the show house.”

“It’s not for the show house, it’s for your mother,” he said. “And I’m not making up his symptoms. I was going to try that ‘relocating to the zoo’ idea, but then I saw him popping antiacids and rubbing his shoulder—that’s how a cardiac problem presents sometimes. And his blood pressure’s through the roof. I’d be astonished if a full cardiac workup doesn’t show some symptoms, and I can keep him under observation as long as you need me to.”

With that, he scampered off to his car, where Mr. Timmerman was waiting, looking a bit impatient.