A Fatal Slip (Sweet Nothings)

by London, Meg

Emma left the room with a one last backward glance at Brian. His face was pale, and there were hollows under his eyes, but he was going to be okay. Her spirits rose like a kite in a strong breeze.

  She found her way down the hall, into the elevator and back out to the parking lot where she’d left her car.

  Emma thought about calling Arabella first, but decided not to bother. Her aunt knew she was coming to get Bette after visiting the hospital. She stopped at Kroger’s and picked up croissants, some strawberry preserves and a bouquet of flowers that caught her eye. They reminded her of spring—and the fact that it would arrive sooner or later—and she hoped they would cheer Arabella up.

  Priscilla opened the door when Emma arrived.

  “Emma, darling.” She was already perfectly made up and coiffed and was wearing tan cords and a black V-neck sweater. She took the grocery bag from Emma and peeked inside. “What have you brought?”

  “Some croissants, preserves and some flowers for Aunt Arabella.”

  “Aren’t you sweet! We’ve got coffee going in the kitchen if you’d like a cup.”

  “I’ll take some tea, if you don’t mind.”

  Emma followed her mother out to the kitchen. Francis was seated at the head of the table, the Paris Post-Intelligencer spread out around him, a cup of coffee at his elbow. Arabella was at the stove frying some bacon.

  “I’ve brought some croissants and strawberry preserves,” Emma announced.

  “Wonderful, dear. I’ve got some bacon going, and I can rustle up some eggs if anyone is interested.” Arabella wiped her hands on her apron. “But do tell us how Brian is doing. Has there been any improvement?”

  Emma gave a broad smile. “He’s conscious according to Liz, although he was sleeping while I was there. But it looks like everything will be okay eventually.” She sank down onto one of Arabella’s kitchen chairs. Her knees had suddenly become weak.

  “Darling, you don’t look very good.” Priscilla put a hand on Emma’s shoulder. “Maybe you should put your head down.”

  “I’m not going to faint, Mother, don’t worry.”

  “It’s the shock,” Arabella said as she lifted the crispy pieces of bacon from the pan and placed them on a paper towel–lined plate. “We need to get some food into you.”

  Emma allowed herself to be fussed over, although she felt slightly guilty since her intention had been to check on Arabella, not the other way around. After a well-buttered croissant, a healthy helping of bacon and a cup of green tea, she felt much better.

  Arabella finally joined them at the table, cup of coffee in hand. She made a disgusted noise. “That Detective Walker was around again. He stopped by Sweet Nothings yesterday.”

  “What?” Emma said.

  Arabella nodded and looked around the table. “He keeps asking me the same question—where did I go during the fireworks the night Hugo was killed. I already told him the last time he asked. I was tired and needed a rest. I went out to the lobby, found a comfortable chair and sat down for a bit with my feet up.” She looked around the table again. “No crime in that, is there?”

  Emma and Francis looked at each other. The last time Arabella had talked to Walker, she’d told him that she’d spent that particular period of time in the ladies’ room powdering her nose. Why the sudden change of story?

  Francis gathered together the newspaper, grabbed his cup of coffee and prepared to retreat to the small room that Arabella had turned into a study. On his way out of the kitchen, he tapped Emma on the shoulder. “If I could talk to you for a minute?” His dark brows rose up, creating a V above his coal black eyes.

  Emma swept up the last of her croissant crumbs and brushed them into the palm of her hand. She dropped them in the sink before following Francis down the hall.

  Francis dropped into the leather swivel chair behind the desk that Arabella had said had been in the family for several generations. She even claimed there was a mark on the left side where a bullet shot during the Civil War had pierced the window and nicked the desk.

  The chair groaned as Francis leaned back in it, steepling his fingers under his chin and squaring his jaw. “It’s your aunt,” he said finally.

  Emma leaned forward slightly.

  “Walker seems to think she has the strongest motive in Hugh’s death. Even though her motive is decades old.” Francis snorted in disgust. He fiddled with a letter opener on the desk. “Unfortunately, this isn’t my case so my hands are tied.” He clenched and unclenched his fists. “It doesn’t help that Arabella is giving him conflicting stories about where she went during the fireworks. First she told him she went to the ladies’ room to freshen up, then the next time he asks, she’s saying she was out in the lobby sitting with her feet up.” Francis looked down at his clasped hands. “I don’t understand it. It almost as if . . . as if she doesn’t actually remember what she did.” He looked up at Emma, his face etched with distress.

  Emma felt her stomach plummet to her knees. Arabella had always been so . . . sharp. She remembered every family member’s birthday, never missed an appointment and called all their regular customers by name. Was it possible she was losing her memory?

  Emma shuddered. It wasn’t possible. Not Arabella. It was stress or fatigue or depression. There couldn’t possibly be anything more wrong with her than that. A vacation or some vitamins, and she’d be as good as new.

  “What should we do?” Emma asked.

  Francis looked even more distressed. He studied his hands as if they held the answer. “I don’t know.” He looked up at Emma. “Maybe if you can just . . . keep an eye on her? Don’t let her work too hard.” He shrugged. “Although I know that’s nearly impossible. She’s put her heart and soul into that store.”

  “I’ll try.” Emma nodded her head enthusiastically. “I definitely will. Do you think we ought to call Dr. Baker? He’s known Arabella for forty years. Maybe he’d know what’s wrong?”

  Francis cleared his throat. “I don’t want to alarm your aunt. Maybe it’s best if we wait and see how things pan out. As long as you can keep an eye on her during the day.”

  Emma nodded vigorously. “Of course. No problem. I was beginning to think that perhaps we might need to hire some . . . younger help.”

  “That’s an idea.” Francis leaned back in his chair. “But I wouldn’t bring it up right now. I don’t want Arabella to think . . .” He cleared his throat. “Let’s just keep an eye on her.”

  “Absolutely. Perhaps Eloise Montgomery can fill in some more and Arabella can have a break. Eloise won’t seem as much of a threat as someone younger might.”

  “She still won’t like it.” Francis smiled. “But perhaps if we go about it subtly, she won’t notice we’re trying to make things easier on her.”

  Emma laughed. “It’s pretty hard to fool Arabella, but I suppose we can try.”

  “Yes, I imagine that’s the best we can do.”

  • • •

  EMMA was a little late getting down to Sweet Nothings on Monday morning. Bette had thought it quite a fun game to make Emma chase her whenever Emma got close enough to clip on the puppy’s leash. Emma tried to be serious as she ordered Bette to stay, but it was impossible to keep from laughing, let alone maintain a straight face, when Bette tilted her head in that cute way she had or when she wagged her tail so hard her entire body shook.

  Finally Bette got tired of the game and let Emma fasten the leash, but by then Emma’s hair was in such disarray from trying to get Bette out from under the bed or from behind the clothes hanging in the closet, that she had to retreat to the bathroom briefly to run a comb through it and repair the damage.

  Emma smelled coffee as soon as she opened the door to the shop—Arabella had obviously already arrived. She was busy removing a gown from one of the mannequins.

  “I think this one needs a change. She’s been wearing the Olga long enough.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I don’t know.” Arabella stood in front of the cupboards.
She clicked through the hangers. “How about this one?” She pulled out a gown and held it toward Emma.

  “That’s beautiful. I don’t think I’ve seen that one before.”

  “I’d almost forgotten about it myself,” Arabella said, fingering the delicate fabric. “The colors of robes and nightgowns got rather wild starting in the 1950s. I guess everyone had had their fill of peach, pink and pale blue.” Arabella placed the hot-pink and violet gown on the counter. It had spaghetti straps, a ruffled bodice, pink and violet panels in the full skirt and a satin ribbon crisscrossing the waist. Arabella glanced at the label. “Vanity Fair. Excellent condition.”

  Emma helped her aunt slip the gown over the mannequin’s head. She fluffed out the skirt and stood back to admire the effect. “It won’t be long before this sells.”

  Arabella looked up suddenly. “What were you and Francis whispering about in the study yesterday? I peeked in, and you both looked so serious.”

  Emma felt her face get hot. She’d never been particularly good at lying. “Oh . . . um . . . we were just discussing the case.”

  Arabella gave Emma a look that very clearly said she didn’t believe her.

  “I do wish Francis would stop fussing about it. I told him, and I told Detective Walker, that I went out to the coat-check room. I’d left my lipstick in my coat pocket, and I needed a touch-up.”

  Emma stood stock still, the skirt of the Vanity Fair negligee clenched in her hand.

  “What’s wrong, dear?” Arabella looked at her. “If you keep hold of the material like that you’re going to wrinkle it.”

  Emma swallowed hard. “Arabella.” She turned toward her aunt, and she knew she had tears in her eyes.

  “You must tell me what’s wrong.” Arabella’s face was scrunched with concern. “Brian is okay, isn’t he? You said so. You said the operation was a success. “It’s not Brian I’m worried about, Aunt Arabella. It’s you.”

  “Me?” Arabella fiddled with the spill of ruffles on her pale blue blouse. “What on earth for?”

  Emma took a deep breath. “The first time Detective Walker asked you where you went during the fireworks at the party, you said you’d gone to the ladies’ room.” Emma fussed with the skirt on the mannequin and bent to straighten the hem. She didn’t want to look at Arabella.

  “The next time he asked, you said you’d gone out to the lobby to put your feet up and rest.” Emma stood up and looked her aunt in the face. “And just now you told me you went to the coat check.”

  Arabella’s hand’s fluttered around her face. “Surely you don’t think that I’m lying and I . . . I had something to do with Hugo’s death.”

  “Of course not.” Emma put her arm around her aunt. “But don’t you see how it looks to Detective Walker? You keep changing your story. You need to tell him where you really went. Then we can get all of this sorted out.”

  Arabella’s face crumpled and she put her hand over her mouth. “That’s the problem, dear.”

  “What is?” Emma asked as gently as possible.

  “I don’t remember where I went.”

  “You don’t remember?”

  Arabella shook her head. “No.

  “It was a busy evening,” Emma said consolingly. “With so much going on. And on top of the shock of seeing Hugh again after all these years. I’m not surprised—”

  “It’s not just that. I’m forgetting other things, too. Priscilla noticed.” Arabella looked at Emma, her blue eyes wide. “What if I’m losing my memory? What am I going to do?”

  “I’m sure it’s not that,” Emma said trying to convince Arabella as much as herself. She, too, had noticed Arabella becoming more forgetful—little things that she had put down to stress. “I think the first order of business is to see Dr. Baker.”

  Arabella gave a brave smile and wiped a hand across her eyes. “You’re right, dear. I probably need a good checkup. It’s most likely just stress. Probably nothing at all to be concerned about.”

  “That’s right,” Emma said consolingly.

  Neither of them sounded convinced.

  Chapter 14

  EMMA wasn’t sure if Liz would be there when she got to the Grangers’, but her station wagon was parked in the driveway as usual.

  “You look terribly glum,” Liz said when Emma stuck her head into the office to say hello. “I hope you’re not worrying about Brian. The doctor was quite positive that everything is going to be fine.”

  “It’s not Brian. It’s Aunt Arabella.” Emma leaned against the wall and watched as Liz adjusted the lens on her camera. “She’s afraid her memory is going. I think it’s just stress, but unfortunately, she’s told Detective Walker three different stories about where she was during the fireworks when Hugh was killed.”

  Liz now looked as concerned as Emma felt. “The stress must be getting to your aunt. We have to figure out who did murder Hugh and put an end to all this,” Liz said in a near whisper. “Personally, I’d like to know where Mariel was when Granger was killed. That dark-haired fellow was here again today—the one we saw her sneaking around with on the terrace the other night. I was pulling into the driveway when I noticed him walking across the field toward the barn, where she was checking on her horse.”

  “It seems strange to me that he never comes into the house.”

  “Not if they’re having an affair. He’s probably keeping his distance until everything is settled.” Liz stretched her arms overhead. “I could do with some hot coffee. How about you?” She shivered. “It’s awfully chilly in here today. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired.”

  “I’ll grab some tea before I get started.”

  The hall was silent, and the foyer was empty. Mail was stacked neatly on the foyer table alongside a vase of fresh flowers. Emma made another mental note to clean off the table in her own entryway. She paused for a moment to enjoy the scent of the flowers as she and Liz went by on their way to the kitchen.

  Molly was in the kitchen, vigorously wiping down the counter with a sponge. She was putting some real elbow grease into it, as Emma’s grandmother would have said. She nodded at Emma and Liz. “Good afternoon to you.”

  Emma grabbed a mug, filled it with water and put it in the microwave.

  Molly put down her sponge and leaned closer to the kitchen window. She pointed outside. “I think I see a robin. Sure sign that spring is around the corner.”

  “That would be great. I’ve had enough of winter.” Emma joined Molly at the window and looked out. She didn’t notice any birds, but she did spy the man they’d seen with Mariel the other night, picking his way across the rutted and frozen field. The wind blew his dark hair around his face, and he held the collar of his coat closed with one hand.

  “Who is that?” Emma pointed toward the fellow, trying to sound completely guileless. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”

  Molly took the bait. She stood on tiptoe and looked out the window again. “Oh, that’s Dr. Sampson. He’s been treating Mrs. Granger ever since she fell from her horse last year. Apparently the pain still hasn’t gone away. Something with her back.” Molly put a hand to her own back.

  “He certainly seems very attentive,” Emma said.

  Molly laughed. “Very attentive, indeed.” She turned to face Emma, and the look and the wink she gave her said it all.

  • • •

  EMMA and Liz took their drinks back to the office where Liz was working.

  “What do you think she was trying to tell us?” Liz asked, taking a tentative sip of her hot coffee.

  Emma snorted. “I’m pretty sure her message was that Dr. Sampson is a lot more than just Mariel Granger’s doctor.”

  “It would certainly give her a motive for wanting to be rid of her husband to pave the way for Lover Boy.” Liz blew on her coffee. “Of course, she’s not the only one with a motive. The daughter, Joy, had a good reason to hate her father—her mother is killed, she’s left crippled, and the only person left in her world, her father, rejects her.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.” Liz wiped away a tear that was dribbling down her cheek. She clenched her fists. “Makes me feel like killing him myself, and I never even knew him.”

  “I know. Joy was one of the people whose contact information the police were missing, according to Francis’s sources in the department. Along with Mariel’s, and Jackson’s, of course.”

  “Jackson seems to have the least reason for wanting his father dead. He does inherit the business, and now he can run it the way he wants, but I can’t see that moving him to . . . murder. Can you?”

  Liz looked at Emma, and Emma shook her head. “No, not really. It’s terribly . . . extreme.”

  Emma chewed on a nail. “What about his partner, Tom Roberts?”

  “Tom?” Liz tilted her head to the side, considering. “Other than that I think he’s kind of creepy and has a beautiful wife, I don’t see him in the role.” She was quiet for a moment. “I wish there was a way to find out if Mariel left the party before the fireworks started. Maybe she went to meet this Dr. Granger somewhere and that’s why she won’t admit it?”

  “It seems awfully risky considering the party was for her husband, and she was the hostess.” Emma had a sudden idea. “What kind of car does she drive?”

  “I’ve seen her running around in a red Porsche Boxster. Why?”

  “If she planned on leaving the party for some reason—to meet her lover or to get away after she’d murdered her husband—she probably took her own car to the Beau. They had valet parking that night. And I doubt a lot of people pulled up in a Porsche Boxster, especially a red one. Maybe one of the valets will remember when he brought the car back around for her.” Emma stood up. “Do you think you’d have time to run over there after work? Arabella is going to watch Bette for me, and I’ll still have time to stop by to visit Brian.”

  Liz’s face broke into a grin. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone. I’ll give Matt a call and see if he can throw some hamburgers on the grill and get the kids started on their homework.”