"Fortunately we had very little contact with him," the designer said. "We worked with Mrs. Hawkinfield, but after she was hospitalized we ran into trouble with J.J. He refused to pay a rather sizable bill for what his wife had ordered, saying she was incompetent and we had taken advantage of her disturbed condition. That's the kind of person he was." Sabrina tapped her fingers irritably on the arm of the chair. "Were you able to collect?"
"Not until we took him to court, and—believe me!—it took a lot of nerve to sue a man as powerful as Hawkinfield. It infuriated him to lose the case, of course, and he relieved his spite by writing a scathing editorial about the moral turpitude (whatever that means) of artists in general and interior designers in particular. I don't think anyone really liked the man—except the woman who writes the 'Potato Peelings' column. He was not only opinionated but ruthless, and he had a completely wrong-headed attitude toward women. A man of his intelligence, living at this moment in history, should have known better." She tossed her head and flung her hair back gracefully, using both well-manicured hands in an appealing gesture. "We all knew he was psychologically abusive to his wife and daughter. He worshipped his sons, and after they were killed, he sent the girl away to boarding school—away from her mother, away from her friends, away from these mountains—everything she loved."
Qwilleran liked designers. They circulated; they knew everyone; they were in touch. He asked, "Why did she leave the mountain painting and take everything else of value?"
"She thought mountains would be too regional to sell in her shop. It's in Maryland, and she gets a sophisticated clientele from Washington and Virginia."
"What kind of shop does she have?"
"It's called Not New But Nice. Sort of an upscale, good-taste jumble shop."
"Clever name."
"Thank you," Sabrina said, patting her bangs. "It was my idea."
"Do you keep in touch with her?"
"Only to help her appraise things now and then. All J.J. left her was this house and contents, and she's trying to get all she can out of it. I suppose you can't blame her, but she's really turning out to be a greedy little monster." There was more finger-tapping on the chair arm. "She expects me to do appraisals gratis, and she's asking more than a million for this—this white elephant. I imagine she's charging you an arm and a leg for rent."
"I still have one of each left," Qwilleran replied. "What happened to the rest of J.J.'s assets?"
"They went into a trust for the care of his wife. You know, Qwill, you could buy this place for a lot less than she's asking. Why don't you make an offer and open a B-and-B? I could do wonders with it, inside and out." Sabrina construed his scowl. "Then how about a chic nursing home?" she suggested with a mischievous smile. "Or an illegal gambling casino? . . . No? . . . Well, I must get back to the valley. These mountain retreats lull one into a false sense of something or other. Thanks for the wine. I needed it. Where did I leave my shoulder bag?"
"On a chair in the foyer," he said. "May I take you to lunch at the golf club some day?"
"I know a better place. I'll take you to dinner," she countered.
As they left the living room, the designer stopped in the archway to view her handiwork. "We need one more splash of color over there between the windows," she said. "A couple of floor pillows perhaps."
Qwilleran had entered the foyer in time to see two furry bodies leaping from a chair. Sabrina's handbag was slouched on the chair seat, and it was unzipped. He then realized that the Siamese had been too quiet for the last half hour and too suspiciously absent. There was no way of guessing what larceny they might have committed.
"Thank you, Sabrina, for what you've accomplished this afternoon," he said. "And you make it look so easy! You're a real pro."
"You're entirely welcome. My bill will be in the mail," she laughed as she shouldered her handbag and zipped the closure.
He walked with her down the twenty-five steps, and when he returned to the house he said, "Okay, you scoundrels! What have you done? If you've stolen anything, she'll be back here with Sheriff Wilbank."
Koko, sitting on the stairs halfway up, crossed his eyes and scratched his ear. Yum Yum huddled nonchalantly on the flat top of the newel post while Qwilleran searched the foyer. He found nothing that might have come from a woman's handbag. Shrugging, he went out to check Bee-chum's progress with the gazebo. The carpenter had gone for the day, but the structure was taking shape—not the shape Qwilleran had requested, but it looked good. When he returned to the house he encountered a disturbing scene.
Koko was on the living room floor in a paroxysm of writhing, shaking, doubling in half, falling down, contorting his body.
Qwilleran approached him with alarm. Had he been poisoned by the plants? Was this a convulsion? "Koko! Take it easy, boy! What's wrong?"
