The Nightingale Before Christmas by Donna Andrews Page B

her,” I said.
    â€œSome people shouldn’t be allowed out on their own.”
    â€œAnd your good deed is rewarded.”
    â€œRewarded?” Martha raised one eyebrow in a puzzled expression.
    â€œAt the very time when Clay was being murdered here in the house, the two of you were sharing girlish confidences over your wine.”
    â€œActually, I was probably holding her head while she worshiped the porcelain goddess,” Martha said. “No head for alcohol, that girl. And I feel a little guilty—we must have spent half the evening trading stories about nasty things Clay had done, and planning silly little pranks to play on him. If I’d known he was about to get killed…” She shook her head.
    â€œBut you didn’t,” I said. “And being dead doesn’t make him a saint.”
    â€œI guess we’ll have to go to the funeral,” she said. “And look solemn. And make sure he’s really gone.”
    Violet opened the door and scurried out into the room.
    â€œThanks, Martha,” she chirped.
    â€œLet’s go see if Eustace has any coffee,” Martha said. “Might settle your stomach.”
    As they went down the stairs, I could hear Violet chattering with determined cheerfulness about ruching, whatever that was. And Martha answering that proper thread tension was the key.
    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.
    â€œOut in a minute.”
    It was Alice, one of the two Quilt Ladies.
    â€œI was just coming to see how you two were doing this morning,” I said.
    â€œPretty well, considering,” she answered, as I followed her into the bonus room beyond. “Last night was a tough night.”
    â€œYou’re telling me,” I said.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œIt 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.
    â€œNo, 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œWhat happened last night,” I asked. “With Mrs. Stavropoulos?”
    â€œGot 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