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Overview
When Annabel Hinchby-Smythe accepts an offer to serve as interior decorator to computer mogul Arthur Arbuthnot, she can’t help noticing that no one in the house seems to genuinely like the tycoon—aside from his cat, Sally.
After Arthur’s sudden death—and the revelation that Sally is named sole inheritor in his will—Annabel’s new task will be finding out the truth about her client’s demise, and keeping the furry heiress safe from harm.
“Her portrayal of the kindhearted, martini-swigging Annabel is a winner.” —Booklist
Praise for Marian Babson
“Marian Babson’s name on a mystery is a guarantee of quality writing wrapped around an unusual crime.” —Houston Chronicle
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781504058599 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Open Road Media |
| Publication date: | 09/03/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 250 |
| Sales rank: | 551,412 |
| File size: | 3 MB |
About the Author
Marian Babson, born Ruth Stenstreem, is an American mystery writer. Her first published work was Cover-Up Story (1971), and she has written over forty-five mysteries. Babson served as secretary of the Crime Writers’ Association and was awarded the CWA Dagger in the Library in 1996.
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Perhaps, if it hadn't been for that morning's flurry of bills cascading through the letter box, she would never have got involved. She stared unbelievingly at the telephone bill, midway between despair and fury. Couldn't that idiot who had rented her cottage pick up the telephone even once without dialling the International Exchange? Just look at the size of that bill!
Annabel Hinchby-Smythe closed her eyes, tossed back the remains of her martini and took a deep breath and then a deeper one.
Oh, the creature was probably honest enough and would pay the bill eventually. Meanwhile, however, she had to pay it herself or risk having the phone cut off — and he would expect to find it in working order when he returned from his trip to Italy.
Annabel frowned and absently poured herself another martini. It was just unfortunate that money was so tight at the moment. It seemed as though every company in her slim portfolio of stockholdings had issued a profits warning and notice of decreased dividends. The stock market appeared to be going through another of its periodic crises.
Furthermore, her lucrative little sideline of supplying items to the gossip columns appeared to have dried up. Either everyone had started behaving themselves, which was improbable, or they were lying exceptionally low. Also, most of her generation had sown their wild oats, reaped their whirlwinds and were now quietly breeding polo ponies in Argentina, raising sheep in Australia or — in one notorious case — writing poetry in a cloistered monastery.
Annabel drummed her fingers on her glass, setting the clear liquid rippling. Obviously, she needed to widen her circle of friends and acquaintances.
So it was just as well that she had agreed to attend that party being given by some highly dubious social climbers tonight. It was also fortunate that the opportunity to sublet her cottage had arisen at the same time that dear Dinah, who was taking a three-month cruise in the Far East to recover from the stress of recent events, had offered her the Cosgreave pied-à-terre in Knightsbridge. Lady Cosgreave could be benevolent — in her own way — or perhaps she considered it further assurance against Annabel's changing her mind about selling that very interesting story to the newspapers. So far, Dinah had done a sterling job at covering up the scandal.
Not that Annabel would dream of doing any such thing — and Dinah should have had more faith in her — but it was useful to have a rent-free Central London base while she collected rent on the short-term let of her own cottage.
That helped — quite a bit. Now, if only she could unearth a few juicy items to sell to the gossip columns ... it had been so long since some of them had heard from her that they might be forgetting she existed — and that would never do.
The grandmother clock in the front hall chimed suddenly, startling her and reminding her that it was time to get changed for that cocktail party.
Initially, the party was disappointing. She had gleaned only one item she could sell on to a column and collected two leads to possibly developing stories she needed to keep an eye on. Nothing spectacular, though, nor even very interesting, just column-fillers for those dull days when nothing much was happening. On the other hand there seemed to be an awful lot of those days. She could not escape the feeling that the progeny of her own generation were a lot less enterprising, not to mention entertaining, than their parents and even grandparents had been.
It was borne in upon her gradually that a man on the fringe of her group was watching her intently and had been since she had been the centre of another group she had been regaling with a second — or perhaps even third-hand — anecdote about Sybil Colefax, the famous between-the-wars society hostess and interior designer. After the laughter had died down and the group broke up and re-formed, he had followed her to stand on the edge of her new group, watching and listening.
Absently, Annabel wondered if she had picked up a stalker and, if so, whether the information would be of any value — or interest — to one of the gossip columns.
As this group broke up, the man finally made eye contact with her and moved closer to speak to her.
"You're an interior designer, I gather," he said. "I heard you talking about it. I've been thinking about doing up my place lately, but I keep putting it off because I never quite knew who I ought to get to do it. I wonder if you'd be interested in taking on the job, er, assignment?"
"Ummmm ..." Annabel went through the pantomime of reluctance, although it was the best offer she'd had in months. "Actually, I am rather busy just now ..." She gave him an encouraging smile. How difficult could interior designing be? "But I might be able to squeeze in a preliminary consultation. Er, my rates are rather high, you realize?" She tilted her head so that her diamond earrings flashed at him.
"Of course." Gold glittered at his cuffs as he swept aside her demur. "They would be. Anyone who worked with Sybil Colefax ..."
"Mmmm." How old did he think she was? His attitude was cheering, however. Numbers obviously meant little to him, whether in terms of money or years. She mentally doubled the amount she had thought of quoting; if he blanched, it could always be lowered.
He simply nodded, however, and handed her his card, then hesitated expectantly.
"Oh, I'm afraid I don't have my card with me," Annabel said haughtily. "This is a social occasion, after all." She raised an eyebrow in faint reproof. (It was all coming back to her — those few occasions when she had seen interior designers in action in the homes of her friends: the customer is always wrong.) "I wasn't expecting to do any business here."
"Of course, of course ... I'm sorry." He was immediately cowed, contrite and apologetic — all the hallmarks of the perfect client.
"It is possible," she forgave him graciously, "that I might be able to fit you in between two other clients. One is off to Bermuda for six months, so there's no desperate urgency about her country house ..."
"I'd be most grateful if you could," he said humbly, "I'm sure you know how it is. One drifts along for ages thinking vaguely 'I must do something about this place.' Then, suddenly, the opportunity presents itself and you can't wait to get it done."
"So many clients feel that way." The Opportunity smiled graciously, working herself deeper into the part with every passing moment, while calculating rapidly. She could get to the library first thing in the morning and take out a selection of books on interior design, bone up on them over lunch and get the patter — not that he was likely to know the difference.
"You'll want to inspect the flat. Let me —" He retrieved his card and scribbled something on the back of it. "This will get you in if I'm not there." He hesitated. "I'm afraid it's rather ghastly. I didn't realize how bad it was until Sally moved in — not that she's critical, she's too polite for that. But it's amazing the way you can tell what she's thinking."
"Women are more sensitive to their surroundings," Annabel agreed.
"All females are, I suppose." He looked faintly surprised. "I never thought of it that way before. Er ... how soon do you think you might ...?"
"Perhaps I might find time to take a quick look tomorrow afternoon — lateish, of course, before I meet friends for dinner."
As soon as she got back to Lady Cosgreave's flat, she reached for the telephone and dialled one of her sources. There was no point in doing all this homework without making sure that it was going to be worth the effort.
"Arthur Arbuthnot?" Xanthippe's Diary responded enthusiastically. "The rumour is that Croesus is his middle name. You mean you've got something on him?"
"No," Annabel admitted regretfully, noting that it sounded as though it would be very worth her while to keep her eyes open while she went about her new business. "I, um, was thinking of entering a business arrangement with him and, since I'd never heard of the man, I thought I'd do a bit of checking. Make sure he's solvent ... and honest ... and all that."
"No worries on the first score. Otherwise, I suppose he's as honest as any billionaire — if that's saying much. He's a bit of a dark horse, our Arthur. Nothing much known about him, dull as ditchwater. So dull" — the voice brightened — "that there well could be something going on below the surface. You're sure you're not on to something?"
"Not really ..." Annabel had a sudden doubt. Hadn't Arthur Arbuthnot said something about how shabby the place looked when seen through the eyes of the lady who had moved in? What lady? "Anyway," she added tantalizingly, "it's far too early to say."
"Remember," Xanthippe purred, "we'd pay very well."
"If I find anything, you'll be the first to know," Annabel promised.
CHAPTER 2The address was close to Regent's Park. Not, unfortunately, one of the lovely Nash Terraces, but one of the great Victorian mansion blocks set farther back from the park. Behind the wrought-iron-gate-protected glass-fronted door, the dark oak-panelled lobby was not exactly welcoming.
The man sitting behind the reception desk was even less so. He glared at her with such open hostility that she had to make an effort not to step back.
"I'm here to see Mr. Arbuthnot," Annabel said crisply, holding her ground. "I'm excepted."
"Name?" It was a surly drawl. He knew who she was.
"Annabel Hinchby-Smythe." There was no point in antagonizing him, he might be useful in the future, however unlikely it might seem. She gave him a perfunctory smile.
"Top floor," he admitted grudgingly. "Lift over there."
As he pushed himself away from the desk to indicate the location of the lift, Annabel realized that he was in a wheelchair. One leg ended just above the knee. He could not be more than twenty-six.
So it was nothing personal then. He just hated the world. She couldn't blame him for that. Everyone did at some point in their lives. It was obvious that he had better reason than most.
The moment she was ushered into the dark gloomy hallway, Annabel knew that she was on to a winner. Anything anyone did to this dump would be an improvement.
Antlered skulls lined both sides of the long narrow corridor — which would not be so narrow if all those antlers were not branching out into the overhead space like perverted trees. Just clearing them out would work wonders and then a lick of paint and perhaps a few pictures would transform the hallway into a more cheerful place.
There was a new lightness in Annabel's step as she followed the tall thin woman, who had not yet spoken a word to her, around the corner into a further long corridor, as gloomy and antler-ridden as the first.
The woman disappeared abruptly through a doorway on one side, without a backward glance and giving no indication as to whether or not Annabel was expected to keep following. Annabel began to get the feeling that she was not exactly welcome here.
Since all the other doors along the hallway were firmly closed, Annabel followed her reluctant guide into a small office where a large mahogany desk was placed in front of a window, so that its occupant could face the hallway. If the door remained open — and, somehow, Annabel got the feeling that it was never quite closed — everyone coming and going could be noted.
"I don't know why Mr. Arbuthnot has bothered you," the Broomstick-in-a-skirt said pettishly. "There is nothing wrong with this flat the way it is. Is there, Wystan?"
For the first time, Annabel realized that someone else was in the room. He stood with his back to the window, his face in the shadows, and yet Annabel knew that he was looking at her. She stiffened as his gaze struck her like a jet of ice water and flowed down her body from face to feet. She felt that he was assessing her age, sex appeal and ... possible childbearing capacity.
"Now, now, nothing to worry about, Dora," he said soothingly. "The place could do with a bit of brightening up."
She had obviously been judged and found wanting, negligible or, worse, perfectly safe. Annabel's face froze. This Wystan might not know it, but he had come perilously close to making an enemy. And she wasn't that fond of the Broomstick, either.
"If Mr. Arbuthnot really feels the need to have something done," the woman said coldly, "we can get the painters in. Although I don't see why we should." She looked at the dingy grey-green walls with complacency. "Everything is fine just the way it is."
The woman was a dark silhouette against the light of the window, dominating the room. Behind her, shadows swooped and fluttered as a pigeon landed on the windowsill.
"Get out!" She whirled and struck the windowpane a savage blow, sending the pigeon streaking off in terror. "Flying vermin!" she muttered. "Too much vermin around here already."
"My appointment is with Mr. Arbuthnot." Annabel used her highest cut-crystal tones; for emphasis, she moved her hand so that her diamonds sparkled in the light. "Perhaps you would be ... good enough ... to let him know that I have arrived."
"I'll take her in." Wystan, whoever he was, moved forward hastily, perhaps even nervously, as the Broomstick whirled to face back into the room, radiating fury and annoyance.
"Come along." Wystan stepped between them. "I know Arthur is looking forward to your visit, er, consultation." He grasped Annabel's elbow tentatively and led her from the office.
"You mustn't mind Dora," he murmured as soon as they were safely out of earshot. "She's worked here so long she almost thinks the place belongs to her. Old retainer and all that, you know how it is."
"Too tiresome." Annabel forced an understanding smile to mask her dislike. Wystan was obviously the sort who perched on the fence, swaying first to one side and then to the other, depending on who seemed to be winning at the time. She had met that type before. Often, in fact.
"Means no harm," he vouched improbably. The Broomstick would do all the harm she could — and delight in it, in the unlikely event that delight came within the scope of her vocabulary, not to mention her emotional range.
Wystan gave a perfunctory tap on the door at the end of the hallway and swung it open. "Your decorator is here, Arthur," he announced.
This was a room she would not dare touch — nor would she be required to. Computer terminals hummed in every corner, flickering screens threw up and discarded images faster than the eye could focus on them, a constant procession of figures marched across other screens, a low-level susurration of irregular signals — probably a code, but quantum leaps beyond Morse — throbbed somewhere in the depths of all the high-tech apparatus.
The Heart of Empire, Annabel thought irreverently, but a business empire, overbearing, multinational and whispering of wealth beyond avarice. The diffident little Mr. Arbuthnot was obviously far far more important than she had ever imagined. No wonder Xanthippe was so interested.
"Oh, splendid, splendid." Arthur Arbuthnot rose and advanced, hand outstretched to greet her, but with the weight of empire still riding on his shoulders. "I'm sorry. I intended to meet you at the door but" — he waved his hand about with an apologetic grimace — "one gets so caught up in the daily grind that one loses track of time."
"Quite all right," Annabel cooed forgivingly, but she was not deceived. For a moment, before he began to speak, his face had been a cold robotic mask, as much a part of the machines as though he had been plugged into one of the electric outlets himself. Loss of humanity might be the price of being an emperor in the brave new electronic world.
"No, no, I should have ..." Even now he could not quite make the transition to the human, flesh-and-blood world; he was much more comfortable interacting with machines. He never made the wrong move there.
"No problem at all, Arthur," Wystan said soothingly. "Dora and I were there to let her in. No harm done. Not as though" — the soothing tone tilted over into one less comforting — "you'd pressed the wrong button on one of your computers and wiped out the Hang Seng Index."
"Thank you, Uncle Wystan." Arthur's voice was carefully neutral, but it was clear that he was displeased. There were some things one did not joke about. "I appreciate your looking after my guest for me.
"Be careful! Don't let her in!" the Broomstick shrieked suddenly from across the hall.
Annabel stiffened again. This was carrying antipathy too far. The woman must be mad. "I'm perfectly able to see that you won't want this room touched," she said coldly.
"Hah!" Arthur Arbuthnot made a sudden dive at her ankles and she barely repressed a scream. Were they all mad? And why hadn't she left a note telling someone where she was going? It could be days before she was missed and then no one would know where to begin looking for the body.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Company of Cats"
by .
Copyright © 1999 Marian Babson.
Excerpted by permission of OPEN ROAD INTEGRATED MEDIA.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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