Paws for Alarm

Paws for Alarm

by Marian Babson
Paws for Alarm

Paws for Alarm

by Marian Babson

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Overview

Can this housecat prevent a homicide? An “inventive” mystery from the Agatha Award–winning author (Chicago Tribune).
 
The Harpers have traded their New England home for a cottage in the original England—just for the summer. Their cozy new house even comes complete with Esmond, a timid marmalade cat.
 
But the peaceful village starts to feel less welcoming when an attempt is made on Mr. Harper’s life. Now, amid secrets and suspicions, they must sniff out the truth—with a little help from Esmond.
 
Praise for Marian Babson
“What can a reviewer say about Marian Babson? If you haven’t read at least one of her books, you have definitely missed the boat. She is consistently witty.” —Mystery News
 

Product Details

ISBN-13: 9781504058629
Publisher: Open Road Media
Publication date: 09/03/2019
Sold by: Barnes & Noble
Format: eBook
Pages: 220
Sales rank: 251,551
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.
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

We had flown out from Logan Airport in the middle of a scorcher that showed no sign of abating. When it gets that hot so early in the summer, it usually means we're in for a blistering heat wave that can go on for weeks. What New England would be like in the August Dog Days didn't bear thinking about.

We landed at Heathrow and stepped out into a blissful, cool dampness; more mist than rain, really. I felt my drooping spirits begin to revive like a parched plant suddenly watered and moved to a shady spot.

'It's raining!' Arnold was prepared to make a production out of it. He threw back his shoulders as much as the suitcases he was carrying allowed and looked upwards into the mist. 'The same rain that fell on Disraeli, on Palmerston, on –'

'Not quite the same, dear.' If I didn't bring him down to earth occasionally, I had the uneasy feeling that he might float away someday – leaving us behind. Of course, there were also moments – like now – when I felt I'd like to help the process along by giving him a kick that would blast him through the fourth dimension and into his dear Queen Victoria's Court. 'It's been recycled a few hundred thousand times since then.'

'Never mind that,' Arnold persisted stubbornly. 'It's liquid history, drifting down on us, enveloping us –'

'I'm getting wet,' Donna said.

'So am I,' Donald chimed in. They both levelled accusing eyes on their father.

Young as the twins were, they somehow realized the perilous hold their father had on reality and the twentieth century; like me, they were afraid that he might slip away into that earlier era if we relaxed our vigilance. Especially now that he had the summer in which to roam through the century of his heart's delight, in the country where he not-so-secretly felt he should have been born.

'All right, all right,' Arnold sighed. He gave one final upward glance, calling upon something beyond our ken to witness how crudely his aspirations were treated; promising another, deeper, communion once he had got these dreadful incubi settled and off his mind. 'Where's the car park?'

'That's immaterial,' I said. 'We only get the house, don't you remember? The car was totalled in that accident.'

'I thought you made arrangements to have one hired and waiting for us.'

'Oh, no, dear, that was your responsibility. I arranged the house swap, organized the packing, gave our own house the most thorough cleaning it's ever known, handled the correspondence, got the children ready ... That was the one little detail you were supposed to take care of. Do you mean you didn't?'

The question was rhetorical. We walked on in silence. I'd suspected Arnold hadn't done a thing about the car hire, but I'd been too annoyed to remind him. Let him bury himself in his files, his reference books and his research – the time was coming when he would have to face the real world. And he was going to do it the hard way, without the supporting infrastructure of academia, without a secretary, without his clubs and cronies – and without any cooperation from me.

I hadn't wanted to come. I'd been stretching the truth when I said I'd arranged the house swap. I hadn't. Celia had.

'There's a sign for a bus going into London over there.' Donald pointed and I didn't bother to reprimand him.

'And a Tube station –' Donna pointed, too. 'Can we go by Tube, please, can we?'

'May we?' Arnold corrected absently, veering in the indicated direction.

I followed along, still brooding. I shouldn't be here at a time like this, a time when my cousin and best friend, Patrick, was on the verge of a breakdown and needed me. It could be argued that Arnold and the kids needed me, too, but sometimes I doubted it. I knew for a fact that Patrick needed all the affection and moral support he could gather about him right now. I had been prepared to give it to him.

That was why Celia had sent me away.

Oh, not overtly – she was too clever for that. She had begun by working on Arnold, telling him how valuable it would be if he could spend the summer in England researching primary sources. She got him to agree that as little as three months direct research would be of immense value to his work. Once planted, the seed sprouted beyond all recognition in just a few days. Only the mechanics – and the expense – held him back.

Then Celia revealed that her recently-widowed sister, Rosemary Blake, would like to come over to the States for a few months to escape unhappy memories and recover a bit from her bereavement. What could be easier – and more convenient – than a house swap?

'We'll be democratic about this –' Arnold halted at the entrance to the public transport system. 'Who wants to go by bus and who votes for the Tube?'

I looked away, abstaining from the vote. Celia had never been able to grasp the essential relationship between Patrick and me. She had always been jealous of me.

The twins had a brisk argument. Donald favoured the bus, Donna the Tube. Arnold heard someone say that the Tube was faster and that decided it. He wanted to get everything over as quickly as possible and disappear into his musty old manuscripts.

'Where do we want to go?' Arnold asked, squinting at the Tube map. I ignored the question and he got into the line for the ticket office.

'Ideal,' Celia had said. 'It would be ideal.' Her sister had a house – well, a semidetached – within easy striking distance of London and all its research libraries and museums, and we had a house by the lake in New Hampshire, very near Celia's. Why didn't we just do a house swap, as so many were doing these days? Arnold could do his research in England and Celia's newly-widowed sister could be near her for this difficult summer. 'You even –' Celia had said it as though presenting an instance of Divine Intention – 'both have cats. So you'd feel at home and you wouldn't have to worry about who was going to look after the cat!'

I took this with a grain of salt – in Errol's case, it was every cat for himself – but Arnold lapped it up. He'd been more than halfway convinced ever since Celia had first broached the subject. A summer in England – rent – free – who could ask for anything more?

I could, but my wishes weren't considered.

'Come on –' Arnold waved tickets at me. 'This way!'

We plunged into the maelstrom of red-eyed, wearied travellers heading for the trains. They were shouting to each other in a dozen different languages, most of which I had never heard before. Suitcases bumped into the back of my legs, nearly knocking me off my feet. As I staggered, I was buffeted by back-packs and got more elbows in my ribs pushing me out of the way than helping hands extended to steady me. Donna got a clout on the head from a carelessly-handled duffel bag and began to cry.

'Arnold,' I said, 'couldn't we at least have taken a taxi?'

'Too late,' he shouted back cheerfully. 'We've got the tickets now. Not much further,' he encouraged Donna. 'Just ahead, see?'

We gained the station platform and were able to set down our suitcases, forming ourselves into a defensive group. We must have looked like an Old West wagon train drawn into a circle against the attacking Redskins.

There was a roar in the distance, a rush of high wind down the tunnel and the train charged into the station. A door opened right in front of us and we just had time to pick up our cases before we were caught in the forward surge.

'Where are all those orderly queues we used to hear about?' I gasped as we fell into seats and fought to keep our luggage clear of some swarthy men who seemed to want to kick it to the far end of the car.

'We'll probably find them farther into the country,' Arnold said encouragingly. 'Once we get away from all these foreigners.'

We were foreigners, too. I knew the thought had never occurred to Arnold. In his own mind, hobnobbing with the phantoms of his historical period, he was probably the equal, if not the superior, of anyone in England short of the Royal Family – and I wouldn't be too sure about them. When Arnold's imagination got going ...

Celia had played on it like a lute. It would be so different from arriving in a country and staying at a hotel; we would walk into a fully-equipped home; walk into a circle of friends and neighbours who would welcome us for Rosemary's sake; we would live like the English themselves. How much nicer than taking our chances in any squalid rented accommodation. The best part was that it would be free, and we could use all those extra savings to travel around and see the country – perhaps even some of the Continent.

When I demurred, I was a spoilsport. Even the twins had succumbed to the spell Celia had woven. Worst of all, I couldn't come out with the truth: they would refuse to believe it.

Celia was doing all this to get rid of me. Oh, she was happy enough to do Arnold a good turn but, basically, she was doing it to get me out of the country – far, far away, for a nice indefinite period. Probably she hoped we'd never come back; at least, that I wouldn't.

She had never been able to understand that Patrick and I were best friends, as well as cousins – but nothing more. She was consumed by the kind of jealousy that fuelled old Greek legends. Whenever she watched us together, even chaperoned by our respective progeny, she suspected the worst. She hid it fairly well from the others, but there was always the barb beneath the surface when she spoke to me. It was totally unfair, but I could never convince her of the innocence of our relationship. Perhaps part of her problem was that she was from another country and her childhood memories took another frame of reference. Whenever Patrick and I referred to our shared childhood and common memories, she broke out in a seething rash.

Just let me catch Patrick's eye and say, 'Who knows what evil lurks in the heart of a man?' and Patrick lift his arm to eye level, raising an imaginary cloak of invisibility and reply, 'The Shadow knows ... heh ... heh' and Celia would go up in flames. It got so bad I didn't dare even remark, 'Gee willikins, Daddy Warbucks!' or use any other catch phrases from the childhood wealth that social historians had now solemnized as Popular Culture.

I tried to tell myself that Celia was just insecure, but every now and again I was swamped by a rage to match her own – nobody needed to be that insecure! She was cutting Patrick and me off from our past, driving us apart. She wanted to be the one and only female in his life. It was just as well she'd produced a son, rather than a daughter who wouldn't have stood a chance either.

Now that Patrick was ill, it was even worse. They were calling it Executive Burn-out, which was as good a name as any for the old-fashioned nervous breakdown threatening because his business was teetering on the edge of failure due to the recession. Apart from financial support, he needed moral support, reassurance, friends around him; I could have been a stabilizing presence, but Celia had succeeded in getting rid of me. She wanted to be Patrick's main support and now she was.

Poor Patrick. Celia herself had always struck me as a nervous breakdown looking for a place to happen. She was too tall, too thin, quivering with nerves like an overbred horse. She would not be a soothing influence at a time like this.

I had tried to like her. I liked her well enough. We would never be bosom buddies, but we might have been slightly better friends if she hadn't distrusted me so.

Now she had banished me to the strange territory she had come from. In nightmares just before our departure, I had dreamed of myself surrounded by thousands of Celia clones, all quivering with nerves, neighing disapproval and hating me.

I wasn't looking forward to several months in their company.

The train lurched to a halt and shut off power, the carriage shivered violently, then went still. All around us backpackers sprang into action, leaping from their seats and struggling to reshoulder their burdens.

'Come on.' Arnold got to his feet. 'This is our stop.'

Once again we battled our way on to an almost perpendicular escalator, grimly clutching luggage and children. Strange advertising messages on small upright posters kept the twins busy reading all the way to the surface. I was glad someone was amused; I was getting a headache.

We negotiated a passageway, then a couple of flights of stairs and emerged into a grubby run-down area that looked more like a combat zone than a glamorous introduction to one of the world's most historic and cultural cities.

'Arnold, are you sure we're in the right place?'

'Of course I am.' He took a better grip on the suitcases and looked around dubiously.

'There's a penny arcade!' Donald shouted rapturously. 'Can we go in? Just for a minute? Can we go in?'

'NO!' His father and I thundered in chorus, unanimous for once. The place looked like some murky depth of an unsavoury ocean – and as for the denizens swimming around just behind the dark plate glass windows ... well!

'Arnold, what are we doing here? I mean, why did you get tickets to this place? I've never heard of it and –' I broke off as a girl with a shaven head, except for two long thin braids, drifted past us and entered the penny arcade.

'Somebody told me it was a good place to –' Arnold's voice faded as the vision walked past him and his head turned automatically to follow her progress. 'I mean –' He cleared his throat and got a fresh grip on himself as well as the cases. 'They said there were cheap hotels here and –'

This time two boys with orange, green and purple hair radiating in spikes from their scalps came along. They were too busy holding hands to notice us, but we sure noticed them.

'Wow!' Donald said. 'Did you see that hair?'

'Don't stare,' I said automatically. 'Arnold, do you know where we're going? I'm sure these aren't the directions Celia gave us.'

'We'll go there later,' Arnold said firmly. 'Maybe tomorrow. I thought, today, we could stay at a hotel in the city and you and the kids could get acclimatized while I found the London Library and asked about joining. Come on –' He turned in the direction of a leafy square just off the main drag – and I was beginning to suspect that drag was the right word.

'Arnold, I'd rather go straight to the house and start getting acclimatized there.' We followed him uncertainly. He was nowhere near as confident as he was pretending to be.

The square was bordered with small hotels. It was also lined with females, either standing alone or in clusters of two or three. They watched us with speculative eyes as we walked along, innocently reading out the names of hotels to each other.

My first reaction was a rather relieved thought that I was not going to be surrounded by Celia-clones in this country, after all. None of these women looked like Celia. This was rapidly followed by an unnerving second thought: they looked like ...

'Arnold –' I said. 'Arnold, we're not staying here!'

'I guess maybe it's not such a good idea,' he agreed uneasily. 'Maybe we ought to try another part of town –'

'Maybe we ought to go straight to Waterloo Station and take the train to St Anselm, the way we're supposed to!'

'Well ...' With a deep sigh, Arnold turned slowly and began leading us back to King's Cross Station. 'There's a subway line to Waterloo –'

'No, Arnold.' I put my foot down. 'This time we're taking a taxi.'

CHAPTER 2

'Is this the place?' Donald asked incredulously.

This is it.' Surreptitiously, I checked the address again, just to be sure. The house lurking behind the tall holly hedge was smaller than it had appeared in the photographs Celia had shown us and, although we had known it was semi-detached, somehow the other half of the house seemed to impinge more.

'It's teensy,' Donna said. 'Our house is a lot bigger.'

'All houses are different.' Arnold was impatient. He had paused at the station to collect a timetable. Already, in his mind, he was halfway to the London Library, the Reading Room of the British Museum, the Library in the Houses of Parliament. It was a great trial to him that he had to see his family settled before he was off about his precious research. It was martyrdom that the process was taking so long that he could not possibly get back to London before all the libraries closed for the day.

'We didn't exchange on a room-for-room basis,' he explained. 'We exchanged for the privilege of residing as natives in another country; of moving into an existing circle of friends and being treated as one of them; of –'

'Enough –' I cut him short. 'Let's go inside and view the damage.'

You had to hand it to Celia. When she sold a sucker on an idea, they stayed sold.

(Continues…)


Excerpted from "Paws for Alarm"
by .
Copyright © 1984 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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From the Publisher

"Inventive in its muted, muffled presentation of terror, which throbs like a heartbeat throughout the novel's core."— Chicago Tribune

"A spiffy mystery."— Ocala Star-Banner

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