by Meg London
Emma was surprised when the woman smoothly typed Sylvia’s name into the PC on the desk. Emma realized it was vanity to assume that only the young knew how to use computers.
The woman smiled again. “She’s down that hallway toward the end. Number 204.”
Emma thanked her, and she and Arabella began the journey down the long hallway, trailing the scent of pizza behind them. Most of the doors had some sort of decoration on them—a seasonal wreath, bells or fake flowers. All in all, Emma thought the place was rather nice. They passed a room with Activities written on a plaque next to it. The scene outside the door reminded Emma of the time the Hells Angels rode into town and stopped at the bar on Route 69, although instead of a mass of Harleys parked at the curb, here it was a tangle of walkers, wheelchairs and motorized scooters.
They found Sylvia’s apartment easily enough, and Sylvia’s deep rumble greeted their knock immediately.
“Come on in.” Sylvia was wearing a rich burgundy caftan and had a paisley scarf tied around her hair. Her bright gold hoop earrings caught the light from the hallway and reflected it back.
“This is very nice.” Arabella stopped on the threshold and took in the small living room, neatly arranged with Sylvia’s things—her silver samovar taking pride of place on a round table covered with a brightly colored fringed cloth.
To Emma everything looked almost the same as it had in Sylvia’s old apartment over the Taffy Pull but without the sickeningly sweet smells of sugar and vanilla permeating the air.
“Eh, it’s not bad,” Sylvia admitted.
An older gentleman with an ebony-topped walking stick stuck his head through the open doorway. “Oh, you’ve got company. Pardon me.”
Sylvia patted her kerchief. “Don’t be silly, Earl. Come on in. These are a couple of friends of mine. Arabella”—she swept a hand in Arabella’s direction—“and her niece, Emma.”
“Pleasure to meet you, ladies.” He gave a sharp bow. “Don’t let me disturb your party. I’ll see you later tonight at cards?”
“Sure.” Sylvia waved good-bye and shut the door as Earl ambled away.
“Everyone seems quite friendly.”
“Bunch of nosey parkers you mean,” Sylvia grumbled, but Emma noticed the smile hovering around her lips. “You want a tour before we eat?”
“We’d love one, wouldn’t we, Emma?”
“There’s not a whole lot to see.” Sylvia grabbed her keys from the small desk by the door and tucked them in the pocket of her caftan. She led them out to the hallway. “This wing is all independent living. A lot of us still have cars, and we can all manage without any help.”
“Yes, but if you need it, it’s close at hand, I imagine,” Arabella said.
Sylvia nodded. “Now on the other wing you’ve got your assisted living types. We have a kitchen in our places, but they don’t. They take their meals in the main dining room. Some of them may need help bathing or dressing or have to have someone remind them to take their pills. Thank God I’m not there yet.”
“What’s in the main building? I noticed it must be four or five stories.” Arabella glanced through the open door of an apartment.
“That’s your nursing.” Sylvia led them around the corner toward the reception area. “The poor stiffs there need a lot more care than the rest of us. Frankly, I’d rather check out than end up there. Half of them don’t even know where they are.”
They were about to head back to Sylvia’s apartment when they heard shouts coming down the corridor.
“Thief! Stop! Thief!” A woman in a pair of mint green pants, a matching print top and white flats yelled at the top of her lungs. Her head of teased white hair quivered with indignation.
Sylvia turned to stare in her direction, and Emma took a step forward. Before anyone else could move, a woman in a pleated plaid skirt, cotton crew neck sweater and loafers came out of one of the rooms marked Office. Emma thought she looked familiar but couldn’t immediately place her.
The woman stared at Emma, Arabella and Sylvia for a moment, a horrified expression on her face, before turning her attention back to the resident in the mint green outfit.
“What’s wrong, Mrs. Decker. Has something happened?”
“Has something happened?” Mrs. Decker spit out furiously, her white frizz bobbing with each indignant shake of her head. “My brooch has been stolen! The one Arthur gave me for our fiftieth. It’s gold with diamonds and pearls. Arthur always knew what I liked.”
“Are you sure you didn’t misplace it?” the woman, whom Emma finally recognized as Jessica Scott’s secretary, who had been at their trunk show, responded soothingly.
“I most certainly did not.” Mrs. Decker’s delicate coif swayed mightily. She turned around and pointed a finger at Sylvia. “You!”
Sylvia pointed to her own chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you! Nothing ever went missing before you got here. And now my brooch is gone, Mrs. Henry has lost that new radio thingie her grandson bought her, and Mr. Mason’s Korean War medals have disappeared.”
“I’M so sorry,” Jessica’s secretary said as soon as she got Mrs. Decker calmed down and back to her own room. She smiled at Emma and Arabella. “I’m Crystal Davis. We met at Deirdre’s party. Jessica Scott is…was…my cousin.” She gave a delicate sniff and wiped a hand across her eyes.
“We’re very sorry for your loss,” Arabella said. She dug in her purse, produced a clean, hand-embroidered handkerchief and held it toward Crystal.
Crystal shook her head. “I’m fine. Thank you.”
Arabella looked at her doubtfully. “Are you going to allow that woman”—she pointed in the direction Mrs. Decker had taken—“to make accusations like that?”
“Oh, she doesn’t mean anything by it. She’s getting a little dotty, I’m afraid.” Crystal made a circular motion with her finger by her temple as she said this.
“Still! What about Sylvia’s reputation?”
“And to think I was almost starting to like it here,” Sylvia said.
Crystal glanced this way and that, like a cornered rat. Finally, she excused herself and scurried back toward the safety of her office.
“Useless!” They heard someone snort behind them.
They turned around to see a very tall, imperious-looking woman with a dark gray chignon headed toward them. She was wearing silver flats, black slacks and an oversized, tailored white shirt with the collar turned up. She was the most elegant-looking older woman Emma had seen other than her aunt.
She pointed a red-tipped finger in the direction of Crystal’s closed office door. “That woman is totally useless.” With an effort she changed her frown to a smile and held out her hand. “Eloise Montgomery.”
They made introductions all around. Eloise turned to Sylvia.
“I’m so sorry that happened. Mrs. Decker is not, contrary to what that sniveling idiot Crystal said, dotty in the least. She’s a nasty piece of work, that’s what she is. Every time someone new moves in, she comes up with some slanderous rumor to spread.”
“You would think Crystal would be onto her by now,” Arabella said.
Eloise shuddered. “Not that girl. If brains were leather, she wouldn’t have enough to saddle a June bug.”
“I supposed being Jessica’s cousin…” Arabella said, and Emma had to hide a grin when she saw the sly look on Arabella’s face.
Eloise swallowed the bait smoothly. “I don’t know why Jessica kept her on. Treated her downright poorly, too. Always yelling at her, telling her to hurry, making her run errands. Once she even insisted poor Crystal polish her shoes. I can’t imagine why Crystal put up with it.”
“Maybe she couldn’t get anything else,” Emma suggested.
“Rumor has it,” Eloise lowered her voice, “that she’s embezzling from Sunny Days, and that’s why she stays. Frankly, I don’t think she’d have the brains to pull it off unless she’s the best actress to come along since the Barrymores.” She glanced at her watch and smiled. “I must be of
f. Lovely to meet you. Sylvia, I hope I’ll see you at cards tonight?”
“Sure. Why not.”
Emma was glad to see that Sylvia’s expression had lightened slightly.
“Our pizza must be getting cold,” Arabella said.
“Let’s go back to my place.” Sylvia turned toward the hall. “I’ve got some vodka on ice, and we can pop the pies in the oven to warm them.”
They followed Sylvia down the hall and back to her apartment.
“You know what I’m wondering?” Arabella said after they’d been settled on the sofa and Sylvia had poured out tiny glasses of iced Stolichnaya. “I’m wondering if Crystal didn’t have a good reason for killing Jessica. Polishing her shoes, indeed! I would have felt like killing her, too.”
“I know.” Emma took a cautious sip of vodka. “Talk about nerve!”
Arabella put her empty glass down on the coffee table. Her cheeks were tinged with pink and her eyes were bright. “Sylvia, maybe you can do a little snooping?”
“Sure.”
“And I had an idea while I was walking down the hall.” Emma turned toward Arabella. “There was a sign up asking for volunteers to help with activities, game night and other things. I could sign up, and it would give me an excuse to talk to both the staff and the residents.”
“That’s a wonderful idea! Let’s get you signed up right away.”
“Pizza first,” Sylvia called from the kitchen, where she was pulling the pies from the oven. “Who knows what you’ll uncover around this place. Maybe you’ll even find Mrs. Decker’s missing brooch.”
* * *
EVERYONE was on tenterhooks for the rest of the week wondering what the police might find next. Emma jumped every time the door to Sweet Nothings opened, and she could tell Arabella felt the same way.
Finally the week went by, and it was Saturday. Emma woke early, yawned, stretched and slipped into the window seat that looked down over Washington Street. She lifted the edge of the curtain and peered out. The skies were blue with huge, puffy clouds floating past. The perfect day for a wedding.
Emma felt butterflies stir in her stomach at the thought. She would be spending the whole afternoon and evening with Brian. Who knew what might happen?
Emma and Liz had hoped to take a shopping trip to Memphis, but Ben came down with strep throat, and Liz couldn’t leave him. Besides, the police had asked her not to leave town for the near future.
Fortunately, Emma’s closet was well stocked from her days as a fashion stylist in New York City. She stuck her head into its depths and began sliding garments along the rack. After five minutes, she had four possibles strewn on the bed.
She tried on each of the dresses in turn and settled on a pale pink sheath with a pearl embellished neckline. She’d bought it to go to another wedding held at the Hamptons country house of a big fashion executive at Donna Karan. It hadn’t been the most memorable evening. One of the groomsmen got drunk and followed her around all night until she finally hailed a taxi to take her to the train station before the wedding cake had even been served. She hoped this wedding would prove to be more fun.
Emma was too nervous to eat much for breakfast or lunch. Instead, she had a long soak in the tub and took her time getting dressed. She slipped the pink sheath over her head and examined herself in the mirror. The outfit needed…something.
She dove into her closet and poked around on the shelf, finally unearthing the item she was after—a broad-brimmed straw hat with a pink ribbon. She slipped it on. Perfect!
Emma was ready when Brian knocked on her door. He appeared even taller and broader shouldered standing in her tiny apartment. She was momentarily tongue-tied again, like the adolescent she was when she first developed a crush on her best friend’s older brother. But then he smiled, and she found herself relaxing.
“I have to apologize.” Brian tugged at the blue and white striped tie he was wearing. “I’d hoped to borrow Liz’s station wagon for the day, but it’s in the shop for a tune-up. I’m afraid we’re stuck with my pickup truck, but”—he held up a hand—“I’ve cleaned it inside and out so you don’t have to worry.”
“That’s fine.” Emma answered his smile with one of her own.
* * *
GRACE Episcopal Church was built in 1896, making it the oldest church building in Paris. It was notable for its stained glass windows by Tiffany and its welcoming bright red door.
Brian parked the truck, helped Emma down from the passenger seat, and, with a hand on her elbow, led her around to the front of the church. A handful of people had gathered on the steps waiting to enter. Emma counted three hats among the four female heads, in shades of pastel such as pale pink and creamsicle orange.
“Hey, Brian!” A young man in khakis and a navy blue blazer stepped away from the crowd. He waved a hand in their direction.
“That’s Tyson,” Brian said, steering Emma in the young man’s direction. “We were in the same fraternity at UT.”
Emma suddenly realized how little she really knew about Brian.
Brian and Tyson clasped hands and shook heartily. Both had wide grins.
“I didn’t know you were going to be here,” Tyson said, glancing at Emma with an inquiring look on his face.
“I’m sorry.” Brian grinned sheepishly. “Emma, this is Tyson. Tyson, this is Emma Taylor. She’s Liz’s best friend,” he added awkwardly.
Was that all she was to Brian? Liz’s best friend? The look Tyson gave Emma let her know that he certainly found her attractive. She stood a little straighter. She would just have to get Brian to see her in the same light.
A few moments later, they filed into the stark white church and found a seat. The organ wheezed to life and the music swelled to fill the nave. The bride entered, a vision in white organdy, on the arm of an older gentleman in a dark suit. Emma watched the ceremony through a veil of tears that blurred the plum-colored bridesmaid dresses to a misty swirl. She glanced up at Brian. His gaze was on the couple at the altar, but there was a preoccupied look on his face.
Finally, the newly married bride and groom sprinted back down the aisle, hand in hand, to the strains of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” The congregation rose to its feet and slowly made its way out the doors, down the front stairs and through the reception line that had formed around the couple.
Emma’s head swirled from all the new names and faces. Brian looked at her and grinned.
“I could sure do with a big glass of Tennessee Tea right about now.”
“That makes two of us.”
The air was pleasantly cool, but the setting sun was aiming its rays at the small group gathered on the lawn, and Emma let her wrap slip from her shoulders as she and Brian made their way back through the milling crowd toward Brian’s truck.
In less than fifteen minutes, they were pulling into the parking lot of the Beauchamp Hotel and Spa, or “the Beau” as it had become known locally. It was a low-lying modern building with large windows all around. Beside the entrance, varicolored striped ornamental grasses swayed in the breeze.
The lobby was as soothing as Emma had remembered from her last visit to the Beau—painted a restful pale green with light wood floors, Oriental rugs and a reception desk that was part waterfall. She and Brian followed signs down a lushly carpeted corridor to the Grand Ballroom.
The room had expansive windows that looked out over beautifully manicured lawns and gardens and an enormous crystal chandelier that was suspended from the cathedral ceiling. It would have been impressive under any circumstances, but today it had been turned into a fantasyland of trees outlined in twinkling lights, flickering candles and luscious bouquets of flowers.
Soon the newly married couple had been introduced, the first course served and plenty of bubbly champagne poured. The band started to play a song that had been popular when Emma and Brian were in high school. Brian looked at her and raised one eyebrow. “Want to dance?”
“Sure.” Emma hadn’t been dancing in ages, and she felt her sp
irits lift to the beat of the music.
Brian was a smooth dancer but without being a show-off. Emma was sorry when the song ended and segued into a slow number that had been playing on the radio recently. She was surprised when Brian held his hand out.
“Want to give this one a try?”
Emma gladly accepted and slid into his arms. Up close, she could smell a hint of his aftershave and the scent of his freshly starched shirt. It was intoxicating. Brian tightened his arm and pulled her closer, and a sigh escaped Emma’s lips. It felt so right. She let her head drop against his shoulder as they swayed in time to the music. The song ended, and Brian didn’t let go. The next song was also a slow one, and Emma relished the extra few minutes wrapped in Brian’s arms.
But eventually the song ended, and they drew apart. As they made their way back to their table, the band leader announced that the bride would be throwing her bouquet. Emma froze. Should she go up with all the other single women? What would Brian think? On the other hand, it might seem churlish of her to stay in her seat.
She was hesitating when a crowd of women surged past her. It was easier to join the throng heading toward the front of the ballroom. Emma made sure to position herself in the back. She didn’t want there to be any chance she would catch the bouquet. The mere thought made her face go hot.
With an appropriate amount of fanfare, and a burst of festive music from the band, the bride launched her flowers high into the air. Emma watched, panicked, as the bouquet scaled the heads of the crowd and headed straight toward her. Her first instinct was to duck, but she wasn’t fast enough. She put up a hand to ward off the floral missile but ended up catching it instead.
“Well done,” Brian said when Emma returned to their table. He pointed toward the flowers. “Doesn’t that mean you’ll be the next one to get married?”
Emma felt her face burn. She quickly put the bouquet under the table by her feet. “Just a silly old superstition.” She laughed to show Brian just how silly she thought it was. The heat in her face lingered, and she fanned herself with her hand. “Is it hot in here?”
