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taste, I have to admit,” I said. “But apparently some people are very keen on her work.”
    Although the only person I’d ever heard of hiring her was an aging heavy metal drummer who’d bought a farm outside town and built a honking big mansion whose thirty or forty rooms were all decorated by Vermillion.
    â€œSorry,” Jessica said, shaking herself as if to throw off some residual effects of being in the Goth bedroom. “But that room just creeps me out.”
    â€œYou’re probably not alone,” I said. “I don’t think Vermillion’s room will be a front-runner for the prize.”
    â€œPrize? I thought you said the designers were donating all this.”
    â€œThey are,” I said. “Half the profits go to the Caerphilly Historical Society. And each decorator has designated a charity. On the twenty-third, the members of the County Board will go through the house and decide which room they like the best. The winning designer’s charity gets the other half of the proceeds.”
    â€œI guess that’s why they’re all so keyed up and snapping at each other,” Jessica said.
    I winced, and hoped the image of designers snapping at each other didn’t make it into her article. And I wondered, not for the first time, if it really had been a good idea making the County Board members the judges. Most of them were male, all were over fifty, and I suspected there wasn’t a one in the bunch who could define “passementerie.” I doubted Vermillion’s room would stand a chance with them. But would Clay’s?
    I glanced down at Mother’s room. Which was definitely going to be a contender. She was supervising several helper bees who were decorating the two-story Christmas tree that filled one corner of the room.
    Wait a minute. The helper bees seemed to be undecorating the tree.
    â€œI think you’ve got that backwards,” I called down. “Shouldn’t the ornaments be going onto the tree?”
    â€œI’m rearranging things,” Mother said. “Having the tree here spoils the look of the fireplace. I’m going to put it there—in the archway to the dining room.”
    Where it would completely block any possible view of what Our Lady of Chintz was doing to the dining room. I could understand why she was doing it. And it wasn’t as if we needed the archway for traffic flow.
    â€œFine,” I said. “Carry on.”
    â€œMeg?” Our Lady of Chintz appeared behind us. “May I talk to you for a moment?”
    Perhaps she wasn’t completely thrilled with Mother’s plan to block off the archway between their rooms with tinsel and spruce.
    â€œSeñora?” Tomás was also waiting to talk with me. Or, more probably, pantomime with me, since his English was about as good as my Spanish.
    â€œMeg?” Princess Violet was standing behind Tomás, clutching her purse with both hands and looking anxious.
    â€œLook, you’re busy,” Jessica said. “May I just wander around? Talk to the designers, take pictures?”
    â€œWander all you like,” I said. “Just don’t bother the designers if they tell you they’re busy, and always ask permission before taking pictures of their work. Some of them are fussy about work-in-progress shots.”
    â€œWill do.” She turned and scampered down the stairs. I breathed a sigh of relief when she had disappeared without taking any pictures of Violet or Our Lady of Chintz. Who were looking particularly … themselves at the moment. Or maybe it was because they were standing side by side, both, even to my unfashionable eyes, seriously in need of a wardrobe makeover. Someone should tell Violet that at thirty-something she should leave the pastel prints, ruffles, and lace to her rooms and find a more sophisticated style. And while I was relieved that Our Lady of Chintz didn’t dress with the same wild