Company Loves Misery

By Justine Wittich

Ethan Hathaway s life is tanking. After an unexplained fall, PBS art maven Summer Souder, drama queen, is billeted on Ethan for the duration of her recovery. Her assistant, Susan Fairchild, is an attractive buffer against the diva s tantrums. But when the director of the local arts center is murdered and drugs enter the scene, Ethan and Susan join forces to solve the mystery. Contemporary Romantic Suspense by Justine Wittich; originally published by Belgrave House

• Language: English
• Publisher: Belgrave House
• Release date: Oct 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781610847896

Book preview

MISERY

Justine Wittich

Guests are like fish. They begin to smell after three days.

Chapter One

Ethan Hathaway’s life had gone into the tank.

A series of thumps echoed thru the swinging door to the hall as the houseguest from hell, the queen of Art Appreciation TV, hopped behind her walker on one foot, each six inches of progress accompanied by a litany of complaints to her underlings and curses for the surgeon who forbade use of a wheelchair.

When Summer Souder had arrived, the invasion was to last only five days. Now, after a freak accident and surgery on her broken ankle, his future contained six weeks of unmitigated suffering.

Even though he knew the quest was fruitless, Ethan glanced around the state-of-the-art kitchen his aunt had bequeathed him in search of bamboo shoots. Driving them beneath his fingernails would doubtless improve his mood.

Ethan, we got to get rid of her, Essie, his housekeeper, said decisively from her post by the sink. Although scarcely over five feet tall, the hostility in her stiff posture gave her the presence of Shaquille O’Neal.

He rubbed the back of his neck and slouched further into his antique ladderback chair, his legs sprawled beneath the maple table centered in the rounded bay at the far corner of the kitchen. I’m not feeling creative today, Essie. The most diabolical idea I’ve had so far is to shut Cosmo in there with her tonight. That damn cat thinks the woman is prime catnip, and she’s terrified of him. Of course, I’ll probably lose a chunk out of my arm when I pick up the beast to put him in there.

Under the guidance of Essie’s right hand, a chef’s knife chopped scallions into uniform bits with the speed of light while she pondered his idea. She finished dicing the green stalks before saying, We might ought to hold that one back for a real emergency. She does purely hate that cat.

So do I. That hasn’t kept you from letting the monster consider this his home. He poked at the red mark on his wrist, the remainder of his last encounter with the huge orange tom. Damn it, who pays for the food he eats? For his vet bills?  It’s time Cosmo earned his keep.

Essie scraped the bits of green into a large bowl. We got to be sneakier than that. If we’re too obvious, that woman might put somethin’ ugly on her show about the Comfort Arts Center.

God forbid anyone should talk ugly about the arts center! The thought trailed through Ethan’s brain like a banner behind an airplane. The center’s existence was what had precipitated the downward spiral of his life. From the moment his Aunt Lulu had bequeathed him the cultural gathering place, more money than he could count, and the stone Victorian house he was sitting in, Murphy’s Law had been in attack mode. It didn’t help that the name — Comfort Arts Center — made him think of a high class brothel.

Yoohoo, Ethan!

The coy greeting, delivered in a voice that grated on his nerves, caroled through the door at the private entrance into the kitchen, reminding him that the arts  enter wasn’t his only problem. Its director, Kate Kingsley, was going to drive him to drink. 

I just knew I’d find you here. I wanted to pop in to say hello before I see what Ms. Souder wants. The screen door bounced in its frame behind her as she stepped inside. Her assistant, Ms. Fairchild, left a message that Summer wanted to see me right away. She waved the folder she’d carried under her arm. Her blonde Betty Boop haircut quivered around her head. In Ethan’s opinion, she should have bought a larger size dress, but then, he’d never understood the pleasing, part of pleasingly plump.

Casting what Ethan recognized as a proprietary look at the china and crystal behind the glass doors of the cherry cabinets, Kate walked to him and rested her hand on his nape. Her flowery perfume clung to his nostrils like a beekeeper’s veil. You just have to know I intend to do my very best to help Ms. Souder make this a prize-winning TV segment. Her fingers lingered past the limit of simple reassurance as she crooned, I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than take more responsibility off your shoulders. You work so hard, Ethan, and I know your aunt wanted me to take care of you.

Oh, God! He stood, not caring if he gave the impression of panic. You’re doing a great job with the center, Kate. Why don’t you go see what it is Ms. Souder wants? She’s been a little short-tempered since she got out of the hospital, and I don’t think she’d like to be kept waiting any longer than necessary.

The poor woman’s just upset because she can’t keep up her usual hectic pace. Ambitious, creative people become frustrated when they can’t operate at full speed. I’d have the same problem if I were in her situation. Kate fluttered her eyelashes at him.

With great effort, Ethan refrained from rolling his eyes. From what he’d seen during the six months he’d been forced to sit on the arts center board of directors, Kate did little more than open the doors in the morning, but she had an uncanny knowledge of when he was to arrive. Then she became like a fly at a picnic. He wasn’t a vain man, but he’d have to be comatose not to be aware that the perky blonde’s ambition was marriage. To him.

Visualizing such a catastrophe made him speak brusquely. Then go sympathize with her, Kate. She’s using Aunt Lulu’s old suite, just across the hall.

She patted his arm and looked up at him adoringly. Ethan, you’re such a good host to let her use the rooms you just redecorated for yourself. I hope she knows how lucky she is. Kate’s voice dropped to intimacy. I can’t wait to see the changes you’ve made.

A loud snort from the vicinity of the sink followed Kate’s exit through the swinging door. I ’spect she’s curious to see if the new color scheme flatters her hair dye. If it don’t, she’ll run out and have Esther down at the Beauty Box try out a new shade.

Now, Essie. He followed Kate through the door, wary of any changes to La Souder’s schedule. He’d discovered the hard way that his presence at her interviews with artists was something Summer had taken for granted ever since she’d arrived to tape a segment for her nationally syndicated program, Spotlight on American Art. The potter she was featuring was a semi-recluse his aunt had discovered the year before she died, and the artisan’s vases and other works were being touted as a revival of Ohio’s pottery heyday. Comparisons to the legacy of Rookwood, Roseville and Weller at the height of their collective glory had brought the TV personality’s spotlight to Comfort. 

The artist’s work might be stunning, but to Ethan’s way of thinking, John Thibault had the personality of a mushroom, and he wondered how on earth even an experienced interviewer like Summer would be able to turn him into an audience-grabber. Maybe she’d been struck by inspiration while under the influence of the anesthetic used to keep her in one place long enough for the surgeon to insert two plates and who knew how many screws in her ankle.

He was counting on Ms. Souder’s super-efficient assistant to smooth her path and keep the prima donna in line. Susan Fairchild intrigued him. She operated with such cool efficiency that even the air around her seemed to ask permission to move. Never a sign of irritation or confusion clouded her cool green eyes. Never a lock of her dark, chin-length hair swung out of place. Without a break in her stride, she smoothed her boss’s path like the tall, sleek prow of a Yankee clipper.

And for some reason, she turned Ethan on. If his subconscious would only heave up where she’d crossed his path before, he might do something about it. Inborn caution warned him not to rattle her cage until he figured out why she seemed familiar.

* * * *

Susan couldn’t believe how quickly Kate Kingsley had responded to a summons from the Wicked Witch of the West. But after working for Summer for two years, fairness made her admit how much power the woman wielded. The mere mention of her name in art circles made people salute. Mention on her show was tantamount to receiving an Oprah blessing for a new book. It followed that, to a local like the blonde in the doorway, a summons amounted to notice from royalty.

Oh, you poor dear! Kate crooned as she crossed the room.

Rudy Kershov, Summer’s cameraman, probably desperate for a cigarette, looked longingly at the door to the side porch. Susan had an urge to grab him by his sixties-style ponytail before he bolted.  Instead she clamped her hand around his forearm. You better not leave me alone with these two, she whispered urgently. I’ll send your next paycheck to Poughkeepsie.

Across the room, the pair in question cooed like teenagers – Kate drooling sympathy and Summer sopping it up like hot biscuits drowned in gravy, Kate exclaiming at the dozens of bouquets and flower arrangements, and Summer pridefully identifying those which had been sent by celebrities.

Shitfire! I don’t get paid enough to listen to this, Rudy protested.

"You get paid more than enough, and you know it. Besides, you just love when the credits roll and your name is listed as Director of Photography. Susan was an old hand at dealing with two or more queen bees at one time. After two years of working for Summer, she figured she could handle a tour pairing Assad and Martha Stewart with one hand tied behind her. Get over there and find out what kind of changes she’s making. Her request for that idiot from the center came out of the blue, and I need to know what kind of research I’ll have to do tonight to dig up background material for tomorrow’s filming."

Summer made a habit of leaving her out of the loop, then bringing her back in at the last minute. This always necessitated all-night work sessions so that Rudy could assemble the crew he needed. He’d arrived in town in the production van two weeks before she and Summer made their grand entrance, and spent the time scouting for cheap, trainable help. Summer was too cheap to spring for a permanent crew, and Susan had discovered early on that if she and Rudy stuck together and shared information, she got more sleep.

She watched Kate approach the taupe and white striped chaise where Summer had thrown herself as soon as she entered the room. The gushing blonde bent over her idol’s injured leg and foot, which was swathed in gauze and held rigid by a plastic brace, while she adjusted an ice pack beneath Summer’s ankle. All the while, the Comfort Arts Center director’s gaze darted around the room, pausing first on the hunter green walls and the scattering of black and white art photos and framed pen sketches. Susan was sure she saw the woman frown at the carved oak half tester bed, which was covered by a tailored spread of the same heavy striped linen as the chaise.

The windows on one side of the room and in the round tower corner were open and curtainless. White wooden blinds clattered gently in the May breeze, a breeze that didn’t quite disperse the funereal fragrance of the floral offerings. Susan surmised that the window treatments displeased Miss Kate nearly as much as the masculine cast to the decor, but just at that moment Summer demanded her attention, and the younger woman’s pout turned into a smile.

A slight noise from the doorway prompted Susan to turn, only to encounter the watchful gray gaze of their host. I came to see if you ladies need anything, Ethan said. An unruly strand of sandy hair waved at the crown of his head, as if he’d just been wakened from a nap.

Susan sighed inwardly. He’d probably been taking a nap. The little she’d seen of Ethan Hathaway had left her with the impression that the man was so lazy he was nearly comatose. He appeared to have one speed, a loose-limbed amble. At least his survival skills appeared to be in working order. Although he acceded to Summer’s demand that he relinquish the downstairs suite for her convenience, Hathaway had been quick to deny her next request, that carpeting be temporarily installed over the gleaming hardwood of the entire first floor of the house to eliminate the possibility of her walker slipping. Instead, he’d produced, as if by magic, rubber booties for the infernal device. The man was an enigma. Unfortunately, he was an attractive enigma, which meant he was a distraction she didn’t need.

She considered his request. You don’t happen to have a magic wand I could pass over Summer’s ankle and heal it overnight, do you?

He propped his lean frame against the end of the oak bookshelf that lined the wall beside the door, one eyebrow raised and a corner of his generous mouth curved in a grin. If I had one, don’t you think I’d have already waved it?

Susan answered his quizzical look with an embarrassed smile. "You’d probably have given it a wiggle the day we arrived. I’m afraid I’ve been so wrapped up in the problems Summer’s accident has caused me that I haven’t given a thought to the inconvenience this is for you. We must have interrupted dozens of projects." Whoops. Gotta watch that sarcasm. But what did a man who’d inherited all that money do with his time? Since they’d arrived, he’d been at their beck and call, and she’d seen no evidence of any kind of profession.

Ethan shrugged lazily. I don’t have anything scheduled until the end of May.

Probably a picnic at the beach. Susan squelched the uncharitable thought and turned her head, drawn by Summer’s voice enthusing, An incredible discovery . . . The rest was lost to her. How nice for you, she said absently. Her mind had to remain focused on the present, not on wondering what occupation would only demand a man’s attention every few months. Her thoughts returned to her job and Summer’s new schedule, reviewing the artisans they’d met the day before that stupid picnic given by the heritage association.

If Summer hadn’t been so consumed by the idea of basking in the admiration of a coven of local history enthusiasts, she wouldn’t have been tempted to explore the ruin of the first house built in Comfort, Ohio. Then she wouldn’t have slipped on the gentle slope that led to the primitive spring house behind the building. And she wouldn’t have broken her ankle.

Something about that fall didn’t compute for Susan, but she was reserving her questions for a time when she and Summer were alone. Which might be never, at the rate things were progressing.

 Ethan remained silent, apparently fascinated by the patterns cast on the hardwood floor by the midday sunlight slanting between the wide-slatted blinds. Was he going to sleep?

I’ll take care of it immediately, Ms. Souder. Kate’s voice interrupted Susan’s thoughts and brought Ethan’s head up. The expression on his face could only be described as wary.

He edged slowly toward the door, but Kate was too quick for him. His expression, as she drew alongside and wrapped her fingers around his arm just below the rolled up cuff of his striped chambray shirt sleeve, conveyed panic. "Oh, Ethan, this is so exciting. Ms. Souder’s show is going to put the Comfort Arts Center on the map!  I told you the new addition would be a good investment." She bounced on her toes like a cheerleader, and a bell hidden somewhere in the glittering charms of her ankle bracelet chimed.

The woman twinkled at him like a candidate for Miss Congeniality. Susan had never been a follower of beauty pageants, but she was willing to bet the farm that Kate had at one time been Miss Crab Apple, or Miss Buttermilk Pancake, or whatever the flavor of the summer was in this rural community. Miss Kate was also obviously making sure Susan knew that Ethan was taken. Well, she was welcome to him.

I’m off. See you later. The little finger wave Kate threw her way as she flitted through the door made Susan’s stomach churn..

Susan, don’t just stand there doing nothing. Summer, the perfect model of a wounded queen, gestured imperiously from the chaise. I’m changing Rudy’s schedule for tomorrow. He’ll need a new production sheet, and you’ll have to prepare an in depth history of hand-weaving for me to study. This will be a masterstroke.

From the smirk on his face, Susan realized Ethan Hathaway heard the word she muttered as she reached for her laptop. Just give me a name, Summer. I take it you’ve scuttled the potter?

For just a moment, Summer looked guilty, then she said, Of course not. A little three minute feature somewhere in the first half of the show should be more than enough to keep him happy.

Here we go again! Not for the first time, Susan wondered if her boss suffered from attention deficit disorder. In the past two years, she had spent more time than she cared to remember placating artists and craftspeople to whom Summer had promised wholehearted promotion – until she became enamored of someone else. Because of the power she wielded, and because Susan soothed ruffled egos so efficiently, the TV star had thus far escaped negative publicity, but Susan wondered how much longer she could continue to spread the best butter. In any event, she planned to head for less stressful, if not greener, pastures soon. Her savings account was nearly large enough.

Summer waved Rudy away. Go sit on the veranda or whatever it’s called. Susan will have everything you need in no time at all. She turned back to Susan, adding, I want all you can get on that weaver we looked at the day before I fell. She’s apparently one of those Nature Girls and doesn’t have a phone, so Kate’s going to ask her to call me as soon as she arrives at the center. We’ll be starting early tomorrow, so you’d better be down here at seven to help me take my bath.  Oh, and you’ll need to press my red skirt and jacket.  I think I can get away with that outfit for the camera if I remain seated. She pushed her aggressively champagne-blonde hair back from her forehead. And before you get started, bring me a glass of lemonade.

Susan’s free hand doubled into a tight fist against her side.

I’ll fetch it for you, Ms. Souder. Then Ms. Fairchild can get right to work.

Ethan’s offer took Susan by surprise. Does he know what he’s getting into? Once Summer determined that someone was a potential dogsbody, she worked him or her to death.

How very kind of you Mr. Hathaway! Perhaps you could find just the teensiest sprig of mint to put in it? You’re such a dear.

Ethan left the room, and Summer snarled, I’m going to go crazy spending the next six weeks in this dreary little backwater. She leaned forward. Bring me another pillow, Susan, and while you’re at it, close the windows and turn on the damned air conditioning. What’s his name does have air conditioning in this pretentious pile of stone, doesn’t he?

Gritting her teeth, Susan brought a cushion from the couch that sat at right angles to the chaise and tucked it at the base of Summer’s spine. This house is gorgeous, Summer. And Mr. Hathaway and everyone in Comfort have bent over backward to make sure your visit here is pleasant. Dammit, none of them made you break your ankle.

Up close, the lines fanning from the corners of Summer’s eyes and the facial creases she’d had injected with Botox three months earlier were no secret. Strain had brought them all to the surface, and Summer looked every day of fifty-five, even though she publicly admitted to forty-five. Eyes moving nervously, she avoided meeting Susan’s direct gaze. I never blamed anyone here for that.

Suspicion waggled its way out of Susan’s subconscious. "Not anyone here. Summer, have you been lying about what happened?"

Of course not. What gave you a half-assed idea like that?

You won’t look me in the eye. Susan planted her hands on her hips and stared squarely at her boss. What happened on that path? Was someone else there? Did someone push you? Susan retraced the events leading up to the accident in her mind. When Summer didn’t answer her, she demanded. Who was it?

Summer drew herself up and looked straight at Susan, as if defying her to raise the question again. My fall was an accident, pure and simple. Anyone who says differently can expect a lawsuit. And you keep your suspicions to yourself. Remember, I hired you when no one else would. And I can fire you in a heartbeat.

* * * *

Sweat from the chilled glass trickled over Ethan’s fingers and fell, making dark spots on his khaki slacks as he stood with his hand on the door knob. Gratitude for the instinct that made him pause before entering nearly overwhelmed him. His miserable week had just become more interesting with the discovery that the houseguest from hell held some sort of  threat over her assistant’s head. If he stayed very still, he might find out something that meant Susan Fairchild wasn’t perfect after all. Discovering flaws in the corporate structure was his specialty, and from what he’d seen so far, Ms. Fairchild was every CEO’s fantasy — terrifyingly efficient, while at the same time very easy on the eyes. She was almost too good to be true.

A game between the Bengals and the Browns wouldn’t have drawn him away from his listening post.

That particular threat’s worn thin, Summer. Play straight and stop treating me like your personal maid, or color me gone, luggage, laptop and all, before you can blink your eyes.

Don’t be ridiculous. Where would you go?

It might surprise you to know that in spite of the brutal hours I work for you, I have a few friends here and there. I even have a father.

Yes, but none of them can give you the kind of job that makes you happy, Summer said with a sneer in her voice.

Who said this job made me happy? During my time with you I’ve made some excellent contacts. I don’t deny you’ve paid me an excellent salary, but I certainly don’t have to stay here and play nursemaid. Either you come clean with me about the accident, and ask Mr. Hathaway to help you find a local who’ll step and fetch while you’re incapacitated, or I’m out the door.

Ethan heard a snap he assumed was the sound of Susan’s laptop closing. The silence that followed was broken by the click of her heels on the hardwood floor approaching the door — the very door whose knob, twisted just enough to maintain a crack between the edge and the jamb, he held in his hand.

All right. Frustration and anger thickened the husky voice that held public television audiences spellbound while dispensing drivel about art and its place in their lives. Frankie was chasing me.

Susan’s horrified response came from just the other side of the panel. Frankie? As in Frankie the folk art shop owner Frankie? What was he doing in Comfort? I thought you’d convinced him you weren’t interested. And why didn’t he call for help after you fell? He loves you so much he left you lying there in the brush?

He didn’t mean for me to fall. I was wearing those damned red slides, and the leaves were wet. He was probably afraid I’d press charges. Maybe now he’ll believe I wasn’t just playing hard to get.

Ethan discerned a note of pride in Summer’s voice. How old was this Frankie? Ethan would have thought Summer past the age of flirtation, but then what did he know? It had been entirely too long since he’d had anything but a passing relationship with a woman. Life, as in the death of Aunt Lulu, had intervened.

Summer, he could come back! You’re helpless, and Frankie might not be as harmless as you think. Damn it, you’re not going to put me in the middle of this. I think you should tell the police what really happened.

"That’s not