by Meg London
“Emma? Emma, wake up.”
Emma woke to find Angel gently shaking her arm.
“You must be tired, girl.”
Emma yawned. “I am. We’ve been going nonstop since Sweet Nothings opened.”
“You need a spa day.” Angel led Emma to the washbasins at the back of the shop. She wrapped a strip of paper around Emma’s neck then swirled a plastic cape over her. “We’re going to start doing spa days next week—hot stone massage, mani, pedi, facial and a wash and blow-dry. You should book one for yourself.”
“It sounds heavenly,” Emma said as Angel ran warm water over her hair. “You must be doing well.”
Angel shrugged and snapped her gum. “Can’t complain. Customer service is what people want, I always say. And that’s what I give ’em. Not like the big chains where you’re no more than a number.” She poured some shampoo into her hand and began to scrub Emma’s head. “I know my customers. I know their names, their husband’s names, their kids’ names. Heck, more often than not I even know their pets’ names. You can’t tell me the operators at that swanky place over at the mall can say the same thing.”
Emma mumbled something. She was feeling sleepy again thanks to the warm water and Angel’s gentle massaging of her scalp. She was almost dozing off when she remembered her true mission.
Angel wrapped Emma’s head in a towel and led her over to her station. All sorts of cards and mementos were stuck in the frame of her mirror. Emma noticed some snapshots of two blond children—a boy and a girl. They weren’t Angel’s; she knew that. Perhaps they were a niece and nephew. There was a ticket to the Paris Fish Fry—billed as the biggest in the world—and a prayer card from someone’s funeral, though Emma couldn’t quite read the name on it.
“Just a trim today?” Angel swung Emma around to face the mirror.
Emma nodded. “How’s Tom?”
“Tom? Ancient history.” Angel pointed at the snapshot of a man in a baseball cap tucked into her mirror. “Tyler. Tyler Johnson. Tom never did understand what I was trying to do with the business. Tyler gets it, though.”
Emma smiled. “Nice-looking guy.”
“Smart, too.” Angel combed Emma’s hair forward and began snipping her bangs.
“Is Lotte Fanning possibly a client of yours?” Emma asked, as Angel pushed her head forward and began trimming the hair at the nape of her neck.
“Lotte Fanning? Oh, I imagine you mean Charlotte Fanning. At least that’s what she calls herself when she comes here. She’s so very la-di-da, it just about makes your teeth ache, but she’s a good tipper and always has a little something for the girls at Christmastime.”
“Someone told me that she really had it in for Jessica Scott, the girl who died at our trunk show. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it.”
“I saw a piece on it in the paper this morning. Said there was something wrong with the cupcakes?”
“Not the cupcakes, no. They were fine,” Emma said emphatically. “It was the flower on the cupcake. Bitsy uses edible flowers for decoration, and someone swapped one of those for a poisonous foxglove flower.”
“Oh my!” Angel stopped with her scissors in midair. “Who would ever do such a thing?”
“I have no idea,” Emma admitted. “But Charlotte Fanning was at the party, and someone said she didn’t at all like Jessica, the murdered woman.”
“Really?”
“Yes. The thing is, we can’t imagine why. We were hoping you might have some information.”
Angel shook her head emphatically. “Don’t tell me you’re up to your snooping again. Didn’t it almost get you killed last time?”
Emma hung her head sheepishly. “It’s just that people might blame Bitsy because of her cupcakes, and I can’t stand by and let that happen.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know much of anything about Mrs. Fanning.” Angel smoothed some product through Emma’s hair. “But Flora always did her nails. Perhaps she knows something.”
“Can I get an appointment with her?” Emma examined her nails and came to the conclusion that she needed a manicure.
“Check with Janellyn at the desk. Perhaps she can fit you in.”
Emma tried to relax through the rest of her appointment, but her entire focus was on Flora, and what she might know about Lotte Fanning. As soon as Angel finished blow-drying her hair, she hotfooted it to the reception desk.
Janellyn ran her finger down a long column of appointments while Emma held her breath. She could always come back, of course, but like a child, she wanted the answer right now.
Finally, Janellyn looked up. “If all you want is a plain manicure, nothing fancy, no tips or acrylics, Flora should be able to fit you in.” She pointed toward a rack of nail polish. “Why don’t you pick out your color while I go see if she’s ready.”
Emma stared at the rows and rows of nail polish hues until they all blurred together. She finally grabbed a bottle off the shelf when she saw Janellyn gesturing to her.
Flora smiled at Emma and stuck her right hand in a dish of soapy water, all without saying anything.
“Nice day today, isn’t it?” Emma said to break the ice.
Flora nodded.
“Have you worked here long?”
“Yes.”
Emma barely restrained from rolling her eyes, although Flora probably wouldn’t have noticed since she was bent over Emma’s left hand and going at her nails with an emery board. Emma felt slightly chagrined. She had been neglecting her hands lately. Not like when she worked in New York and would skip lunch in order to be able to afford a manicure.
“Do you know Charlotte Fanning?” Emma asked but then continued without waiting for an answer. “Angel thought she was a client of yours. I saw her at a party the other day, and she was going on and on about what a wonderful manicurist she had.”
Flora looked up and slowly smiled. “That would be me.” A flush rose from the neck of her plain white blouse to the roots of her light brown hair.
Emma smiled back at her. “Mrs. Fanning was so complimentary about your work. Said she wouldn’t have anyone else.” Emma crossed her fingers behind her back.
“She always chooses debutante pink for her nails. Says it’s the only appropriate color for a lady.”
Emma glanced at the bottle of midnight blue polish she’d randomly grabbed off the shelf and cringed.
“I imagine you’re a wonderful confidante to Mrs. Fanning as well.” Emma threw the idea out much like a fisherman testing a new lure.
The expression on Flora’s face was one of confusion.
Emma was equally confused but then realized that Flora might have been stumped by the word confidante.
“I imagine Mrs. Fanning confided in you a lot…told you everything,” Emma added when Flora still looked confused.
Flora’s face cleared, and she shook her head. “Yes, she talked about her daughter all the time. Missy, her name is. Not sure if that’s short for something or not.”
“I imagine she’s very proud of her daughter.” Emma was digging, but she didn’t know what else to do.
“Oh yes. She graduated UT with all A’s. She was supposed to go work at that place for seniors, Sunny Days, but something happened. Mrs. Fanning was that upset about it.”
Flora fell silent, and Emma realized she had probably gleaned all the information she was going to. She stared at her newly painted midnight blue nails thoughtfully. If Jessica had stood in the way of this Missy getting the job she anticipated having at Sunny Days, would that have been enough to drive Lotte Fanning to murder?
ARABELLA arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning looking even more cheerful than usual. “Good morning,” she sang out as she unclipped Pierre’s leash and stowed it behind the counter. “Isn’t it positively gorgeous out?” She had her long silver hair piled on top of her head in an updo and was wearing a top Emma hadn’t seen before.
“New top?”
Arabella circled in front of Emma. “Like it?”
“Yes.” Emma admired the oversized white linen blouse with the embroidery on the front. “What’s the occasion?”
Arabella’s cheeks turned a becoming pink. “Francis is coming for dinner.”
“Aha,” Emma said.
“Maybe later you can run down to Sprinkles and get me some cupcakes, okay?” Arabella said.
“You’re not making your famous chess pie?”
Arabella shook her head. “As much as Francis loves it, I thought it was time for something different. Besides, I’m trying my hand at a bastilla—I had it several times when I was in Morocco. Of course I’m not going to make it with pigeon, which is traditional. A nice chicken from the Meat Mart will have to do. It’s a huge undertaking, so dessert will have to be store-bought.”
“What else goes into it?”
Arabella thought for a moment. “If I had to describe it, I would say it’s a sort of chicken pot pie but with a phyllo dough crust that is dusted with powdered sugar, cinnamon and ground almonds. It has all sorts of exotic ingredients like orange water, but I’ll have to do the best I can with what I can find.”
“It sounds more like a dessert than a main course.”
Arabella laughed. “Oh, I must tell you about the dinner party I attended in New York one time. I was invited by the Moroccan ambassador, and I was so naïve!” Arabella put both hands against her cheeks. “Dinner was served—a bastilla—and I was positive that the cook had made a terrible mistake and had served the dessert instead of the main course. Fortunately I didn’t say anything, because I soon learned that this pigeon pie, despite its powdered sugar and cinnamon, is dinner for many people from that part of the world.”
“I’d be glad to run and get some of Bitsy’s cupcakes for you and Francis. But promise to save me a piece of this…What did you call it?”
“Bastilla. I certainly will. I think you’ll like it.”
* * *
LATER that afternoon when there was a lull in customers, Emma grabbed her purse from behind the counter. “I’ll head over to Sprinkles now,” she called to Arabella who was sitting at the desk in the stockroom working on the invitations to the trunk show at Marjorie Porter’s. “What flavors do you want?” Arabella looked up. “You decide, dear. All Bitsy’s things are so delicious.”
The wind had picked up, and a tsunami of dust and leaves was blowing down Washington Street. Emma lowered her head and narrowed her eyes against the debris. She turned the corner onto Market Street and was grateful that the turn put the wind at her back. A splash of red in the Gallery caught Emma’s eye—a pile of pretty silk pillows mounded on a neutral-colored sofa. One of them would look great on Emma’s couch. She was about to go in, but then decided she didn’t want to leave Arabella alone too long in the shop. She could come back another day.
Emma pushed open the door to Sprinkles and was taken aback to find it empty. It must be a momentary lull, she thought. Usually people were three and four deep at the counter all day long. She glanced into the glass cabinet where cupcakes marched in unbroken rows. Emma was surprised to note that none of them had been embellished with Bitsy’s signature edible flowers.
The curtain to the back room swished open, and Bitsy emerged. Emma was shocked to see that her eyes were all red and swollen. She must have been crying.
“What’s wrong?” Emma said in alarm.
Bitsy sniffed and pulled a tissue from her sleeve. She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Emma, I don’t know what to do.” She glanced toward the display cases crammed with cupcakes of every flavor.
“What’s wrong?” Emma asked again.
Bitsy opened her mouth but all that came out was a sob.
Emma put her arms around her friend. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”
Bitsy gave a loud sniff that turned into a hiccup.
“Is it something to do with the shop?”
Bitsy nodded. “No one has been in all morning.”
“Maybe it’s an off day?” Emma tried to think of a reason why fewer people would be buying cupcakes on that particular Friday.
“No. You don’t understand. Not a single person has come in today. Not even one.”
“But why—”
“It’s because of that article in the Post-Intelligencer yesterday.” Bitsy finished with a sob quickly followed by another hiccup. “I’m ruined. I’ve put everything I have into this shop. I don’t know what I’ll do.”
“Now, now, it’s probably not as dire as all that,” Emma said, although her heart was sinking.
“I’ve stopped using the edible flowers on my cupcakes.” Bitsy gave a loud sniff and rubbed her nose with the tissue. “I feel terrible doing that to Liz, but I can’t take any chances. Then today, people suddenly stopped coming in. Normally by now I’d have sold most of my inventory.” She waved a hand toward the still full display cases.
“I wonder…”
“What?” Bitsy looked up, her large eyes filled with tears.
“I wonder if someone planted that story in the Post. There’s been nothing in the paper up till now.”
“That’s true.” Bitsy wiped her eyes and nose with the tissue, took a deep breath and straightened her blouse.
“The timing seems odd.” Emma wandered around Sprinkles staring, unseeingly, at the rows and rows of delicious cupcakes. She picked up the copy of the Post-Intelligencer that Bitsy had lying out on the counter. “First—nothing. Frankly, I can easily imagine Marjorie Porter forbidding the paper to run any stories on Jessica’s death. She wouldn’t want her daughter-in-law’s name in the paper.”
Bitsy gave a short laugh. “That’s for sure. The only time a true Southern gentlewoman is supposed to have her name in the paper is when she’s born, when she’s married and when she dies.”
Emma nodded. “So Marjorie kills any mention of the trunk show and how Jessica died at Deirdre’s.”
“But why would they print something now?”
“What if Marjorie changed her mind and gave them the go-ahead?”
“Why on earth would she do that?”
“Maybe Deirdre’s cleaning lady told Deirdre about our visit to the Porter garden. And maybe that ticked Deirdre off enough to mention it to Mama Porter. Mama Porter decided we had to be made to pay so she called the paper.”
Bitsy was slowly nodding. “I think you could be right.”
“Everyone reads the story in the Post.” Emma picked up the paper and scanned the article. She pointed to one of the paragraphs with her index finger. “It says right here, ‘The foxglove flower that killed Jessica Scott was believed to have come from one of the cupcakes provided by Sprinkles on Market Street.’”
Bitsy slumped against one of the display cases. “I’m ruined.”
Words of sympathy rose to Emma’s lips but were stilled by a sudden thought. What if Sweet Nothings was next? What was to stop Marjorie from taking some action against them? Bitsy hadn’t been the only one sneaking into Deirdre’s garden—Emma and Liz had been there, too.
* * *
EMMA was looking forward to hearing about Arabella’s evening with Francis. She was also looking forward to sampling a piece of Arabella’s bastilla. She hoped that Francis was appropriately appreciative of all the work Arabella had gone to.
Arabella’s expression was less than rosy when she arrived at Sweet Nothings on Saturday morning.
“What’s the matter?” Emma asked as soon as Arabella had fixed herself a cup of coffee.
“Nothing’s the matter. What makes you think something is the matter?” Arabella said rather more sharply than usual.
Emma’s stomach clenched. Had Arabella found out about the extra money she’d spent on the lingerie from Monique Berthole? It didn’t seem likely. Besides, Arabella was the sort to tackle things head-on. It was one of the traits Emma treasured about her.
Emma watched as Arabella absentmindedly stirred three spoons of sugar into her coffee.
“Something’s wrong. I know it.”
Arabella took a sip of her cof
fee and grimaced. “Good heavens, what on earth did I put in here?”
“A lot of sugar.”
“You can say that again.” Arabella put the cup down decisively.
“I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”
Arabella frowned and rubbed a hand across her forehead. “It’s rather silly, to be honest with you. It’s not as if I didn’t know that Francis was a police officer.”
“This has something to do with his job?”
Arabella nodded. “He’s been put on a new assignment. He swears it isn’t dangerous, but I don’t believe him for a minute. Why can’t he retire and enjoy life on his pension? He’s old enough. There’s no need for him to be risking life and limb at his age. Leave that for the younger men.”
“But isn’t that part of what you like about him?”
Arabella looked sheepish. “I suppose you’re right. That sense of danger is…”
“Sexy?”
“I prefer the word alluring.”
Emma filled a mug with water and put it in the microwave. “How dangerous is this assignment of his?”
“He insists it’s nothing, but it sounds quite perilous to me. It seems he’s going to be working undercover. Apparently there has been a string of bank robberies around Henry County. Not the usual bumbling sort of affair where the thieves make off with less than a thousand dollars’ worth of marked bills. These thieves are emptying safe-deposit boxes.”
“What is Francis going to do?” Emma retrieved a tea bag from the counter over the small sink and dunked it into her mug.
“He’s going to pretend to be the night watchman at one of the banks they expect the thieves to target next.” Arabella’s face clouded over.
“What’s wrong?”
“During the last two robberies, the night watchman was shot. One of them died,” Arabella added in a very small voice.
Emma tried to hide her dismay. This venture of Francis’s did sound very dangerous indeed.
“I wonder how Bitsy is today. I do hope yesterday was a fluke and that business picks up for her today,” Arabella said, adroitly changing the subject.
Just then the door banged open and Sylvia entered. She stopped on the threshold for a prolonged fit of coughing.
