"You call it a huntboard? That's appropriate. My cat is always hunting for something underneath it."
"You didn't tell me you have a cat."
"I have two Siamese, and they're up there on the stairs, watching your every move."
"I hope they're not destructive," the designer said, and she called up to them, "If you scratch it, kids, you've bought it!"
"Yow!" Koko retorted.
"He's a sassy brat, isn't he?" said Sabrina. "Now let's go to work on the living room. We'll create a more intimate setting by stopping the eye with folding screens as room dividers."
Qwilleran watched her work with manifest enjoyment as she whirled around the room, her pleated skirt swirling about her knees and her silky mop of hair swirling around her shoulders. With crisp authority she directed Jimmie in placing screens, grouping chairs, skirting tables, setting up lamps, throwing throw rugs, tossing toss pillows, and hanging wall hangings. She herself arranged brass candlesticks, ceramic bowls, carved boxes, and stacks of design magazines. When she had finished, the room looked inhabited by a person of taste, although not necessarily Qwilleran's taste. Nevertheless, he was grateful for the metamorphosis.
Then the florist arrived with indoor trees and large potted plants.
"Do I have to water these things?" Qwilleran inquired.
"No, sir," said the florist. "For rental plants we send a visiting nurse once a week to test the soil for moisture."
As the room was transformed, Koko's curiosity overcame his misgivings, and he watched from the archway. Yum Yum held back, poised for flight.
Qwilleran said to Sabrina, "Would you stay for a glass of chardonnay?"
"I'd love to," she said without hesitation. "Jimmie can go back downtown with the florist . . . Jimmie, tell Mr. Poole where I am, and if my four o'clock client comes in, tell her I'm running late. Give her an old magazine to read." To Qwilleran she explained, "She's my doctor's wife, and revenge is sweet."
Sabrina with her chardonnay and Qwilleran with his apple juice sat in the portion of the living room that was now pleasantly secluded by screens and plants. It was made comfortable with chatty new furniture groupings and made lively with red and gold accents.
"My compliments to the designer," he said, raising his glass. "I hope the screens are sturdy; the cats are sometimes airborne when they're in a good mood."
"You'll find them quite stable," she assured him. "They were custom-made to do heavy duty in the studio. What are you building in the woods?"
"A screened gazebo, so the cats can take an airing if it ever dries up. No one told me it rains so much in the mountains. Also, no one told me that Hawkinfield had been murdered."
"Didn't you know?" Sabrina asked. "What's more, you have a painting done by the murderer." She waved a hand toward the foyer.
"Forest Beechum? Is that his work?" Qwilleran said in surprise. "That fellow really knows how to paint mountains!"
"He did several mountain studies for my clients. Too bad he got himself in such bad trouble." "Were you satisfied with the verdict?" "Frankly, I didn't follow the trial, butfrom what I hearthere's no doubt that he was guilty." Her wine glass was empty.
"Will you have a touch?" Qwilleran asked, tilting the wine bottle. "How did you get along with Hawkinfield as a client?"
"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, andbelieve 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 manexcept 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 schoolaway from her mother, away from her friends, away from these mountainseverything 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 thisthis 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 shapenot the shape Qwilleran had requested, but it looked good. When he returned to the house he encountered a disturbing scene.