Someone's killing Abagail Farnsworth's dogs, so she hires a struggling private detective to find out who is responsible.
J. R. Murphy
Back in the living room, Alex looked around in the dimness. Thick drapes covered the windows, and most of the woodwork was mahogany, the floors dark, aged cherry.
There were two couches facing each other, between which was a large glass-covered coffee table. Originally the room was probably used after guests were greeted, and were ushered here to talk, smoke, dance and play games. Alex's eyes envisioned the stuffed-shirt gentlemen talking and waving their cigars, and the lavishly dressed women flittering around the room, chatting and laughing, all in the flickering lights of the gas lamps.