Laced with Poison

by Meg London

  “Can I get you some water?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “I’ll be fine in a minute.” Her coughing slowly subsided. “I think I’m going to have to give up smoking. We’re not allowed to light up at Sunny Days at all, not even in our own rooms, and it’s becoming a nuisance sneaking out to the parking lot.”

  “Good idea,” Arabella said.

  “I heard that woman they took to the hospital the other day is coming back soon. She’s still in a coma, but there’s nothing more the hospital can do for her.”

  “Is there any chance she’ll regain consciousness?” Arabella smoothed the front of her skirt.

  Sylvia shrugged. “Who knows. Miracles do happen.”

  Something thudded against the front door and was swiftly followed by a sharp knock.

  “Coming,” Sylvia yelled as she made her way to the door.

  Two large boxes and a burly UPS deliveryman in brown shorts stood on the doorstep.

  “Is this…” He glanced at his clipboard. “Sweet Nothings?”

  “Yes,” the three of them chorused at once.

  He held out the clipboard. “Delivery. Someone want to sign for me, please?”

  Sylvia grabbed the proffered pen and paper and scrawled her signature on the dotted line.

  “Where do you ladies want me to put these?” The deliveryman tapped the nearest box with his toe.

  “Over by the counter is fine,” Emma said, peering at the label on the nearest box.

  “What is it? Christmas?” Sylvia joked.

  “No. It’s the shape wear I ordered for our trunk show at Marjorie Porter’s.”

  “Let’s hope this one goes better than the last,” Sylvia grumbled.

  “Why?” Arabella raised her brows. “I thought we did rather well at the last one.”

  “Sure.” Sylvia shrugged. “As long as you consider someone dropping dead a success.”

  SATURDAY turned out to be very busy at Sweet Nothings. Four women drove over from Nashville, having heard about the shop from a friend. Arabella sold the tall brunette a pair of peach silk 1930s pajamas embellished with ecru lace for a handsome sum. The petite blonde snapped up a baby blue World War Two–era Carol Brent bed jacket for her daughter to wear in the hospital after her baby was born.

  Sylvia fitted the other two women for bras, and one of them also walked out with a shopping bag filled with an array of panties and camisoles from the Monique Berthole collection. When Emma saw the numbers adding up on the register, she began to feel hopeful that they might pull out of their financial hole sooner rather than later.

  A busy day means a tiring one, though, and Emma nearly crawled up the stairs to her apartment after flipping the open sign to closed, straightening the stock and turning out the lights.

  She was about to stretch out on the window seat with a glass of cold lemonade when she noticed that her plants needed watering. She was growing a selection of herbs on the windowsill—basil, chives, rosemary and some arugula to add to salads. The basil, in particular, was looking rather limp. She filled a pitcher with water and poured some in each of the pots.

  She was hungry, but when she looked in her refrigerator she was dismayed to see the sparse contents—a few containers of yogurt, a piece of cheese, some bread and a few spoonfuls of leftover tuna salad. She was reaching for her cell phone to order a pizza when it rang.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma?”

  It was Brian. “Yes?”

  “I’m so glad you’re home. I was afraid you might be…out.”

  Emma realized it was Saturday night. A night when many single women had a date.

  “I was hoping to be done early enough to take you to dinner, but after closing up the hardware store, I had to check on a renovation job. We’re on a tight deadline, so my crew is working six days a week. Have you eaten yet?”

  Emma felt her stomach grumble and thought of the contents of her refrigerator. “No, I haven’t.”

  “Do you like Chinese food? I could swing by the Golden Dragon and pick up a few things if you like.”

  “Sounds great.”

  “I really want to talk to you about Liz.”

  Emma jerked and nearly dropped the telephone. Had Liz said something to Brian about seeing her with Detective Walker? The situation was easily explained. Most likely it was something else. It sounded as if Brian was worried about his sister. Emma had started to worry, too.

  “I’ll see you in a few then.”

  Emma hung up the phone, tossed it on the sofa and dashed into the bathroom. She knew she could wash her face and redo some minimal makeup in under five minutes. Once again, she was glad she’d cut her hair short. A little product, a little scrunching, and it would look as fresh as ever.

  Fortunately the apartment was already reasonably tidy. Emma removed two glasses from the sink and transferred them to the dishwasher and added the newspaper to the recycle bin. By the time Brian arrived, she was sitting on the sofa flipping through a magazine trying to feel as calm and collected as she hoped she looked.

  Brian came in with a brown paper grocery bag in each arm. Delicious smells redolent of soy, garlic, ginger and other exotic ingredients emanated from within. He put the bags down on the table and pulled a bottle of white wine from one of them.

  “I got us a nice pinot grigio. At least the clerk in the store said it’s good. It’s already slightly chilled, but if you have a bucket and some ice, that would be good.”

  Emma was glad to have something to do. Brian seemed larger than ever in her tiny apartment, and they kept accidentally touching as they moved about the small space.

  Brian poured them each a glass of wine then pulled several white containers from the bags. “I’ve got beef with broccoli, General Tsao’s chicken and some shrimp fried rice. Hope that’s okay.”

  “Sounds delicious.” Emma put out plates, napkins and forks.

  “Do you want one of these?” Brian held up two paper-wrapped bundles of chopsticks.

  “Sure.”

  “I never could get the hang of them,” he said as he opened the containers and motioned for Emma to go ahead.

  She helped herself to a spoonful of each dish, then unwrapped the set of chopsticks Brian handed her.

  “You’re really good with those.” Brian watched as Emma lifted a piece of chicken to her mouth.

  Brian had unwrapped the other set and was trying to imitate the way Emma was holding them.

  “No, like this.” She leaned toward Brian and positioned his hand on the chopsticks. Touching him felt so good, and she hated to move her hand away.

  Brian tried levering a piece of broccoli toward his mouth, but he dropped it, and it slithered down his shirt, leaving a greasy stain.

  “I guess this is going to take some practice.” He rubbed at the spot on his shirt. “Someday I’d love to travel and see a bit more of the world and learn to do things like eat with chopsticks.” He picked up his fork.

  Emma had a sudden vision of her and Brian traveling to Hong Kong, India, Malaysia and other exotic places that Aunt Arabella had described to her. Much as she wanted to eventually settle down, it would be fun to see a bit of the world first.

  Brian reached for the fried rice and spooned more onto his plate. “I wanted to talk to you, because I’ve been really worried about Liz.”

  Emma raised her brows questioningly.

  “This whole situation is getting to her. I know she’s blaming herself for that woman’s death, which is absurd.”

  “It is absurd. Especially since we found the same plant growing in Deirdre Porter’s garden. It’s obvious someone simply switched the flowers.”

  “I know, but Liz refuses to believe that for some reason. I think the stress of her and Matt’s situation is getting to her. She’s been looking for more freelance work, but it’s hard when you have two little kids to take care of. Matt has a lead on a really good contract, but they won’t know for a few more weeks if he’s got it or not. I know Liz is terrified that they m
ight lose the house. They took out a second mortgage to finance all the renovations they did.”

  “Oh no. Surely it can’t be as bad as all that?”

  “Probably not. But when you get into one of those downward spirals, everything seems bleaker than it is.” Brian looked down at his hands as if he were studying them. “I had this idea, and I was wondering what you thought.” He hesitated briefly. “I could really use some help with the bookkeeping for my renovation business. Liz has always been good with numbers…Do you think she’d be offended if I offered her a part-time job? I can’t pay all that much, but it might help.”

  “I think that’s a great idea.”

  “You don’t think she’d view it as a handout? I thought of offering to loan them some money—I’ve managed to save a bit here and there—but knowing Liz she wouldn’t go for it.”

  “You’re right. I can’t imagine Liz accepting a loan. But a job is different.”

  “You really think so?”

  “Yes. I think you should do it.”

  “There’s another benefit to bringing Liz on board, you know. It’ll free up some of the time I’ve been spending tracking expenses and balancing the books. I’ll be able to take you on proper dates.” He swept a hand toward the empty Chinese food containers. “I mean, this is fun, but I really want us to be able to spend more time together.” He looked down again. “Assuming you want to, that is.”

  Emma hoped the grin she could feel spreading across her face would be answer enough.

  Brian pushed his plate away and reached into the bag from Golden Dragon. “Let’s not forget our fortune cookies.”

  He handed one to Emma.

  She cracked it open and pulled out the slip of paper inside. “What does yours say?” She looked at Brian.

  “You first.”

  “Mine says, Everything will now go your way.”

  “Wow, wouldn’t that be nice.”

  “What about yours?”

  Brian squinted at the tiny piece of paper. “You must work long and hard to achieve your goals.” He sighed. “That’s certainly true.”

  Emma began to gather the empty containers, and Brian carried their dishes over to the sink. He rinsed while Emma stacked them in the dishwasher.

  They finished the dishes, and Brian brought their wine to the sofa. He sat down, his long legs stretching halfway to the kitchen in the tiny living room.

  He looked at Emma. “I feel a lot better now having talked to you. I’m going to call Liz first thing in the morning.” He put out a hand and smoothed a curl of hair away from Emma’s eye with his finger. “I’m really glad you came back to Paris, you know.”

  Emma felt heat suffuse not just her face, but her whole body. She didn’t blink; she didn’t even dare breathe.

  Brian leaned closer and suddenly he was kissing her—a long, passionate, satisfying kiss that made Emma forget everything but the moment.

  * * *

  THE shape wear trunk show at Marjorie Porter’s was scheduled for Tuesday evening. It was the garden club’s regular night to meet for tea at Marjorie’s house. Marjorie had called everyone to let them know they were in for a special treat. Emma was praying for a good number of sales.

  Promptly at five o’clock, Emma hung the closed sign on Sweet Nothings’ door and began to load the trunk of her car, Arabella’s Mini and Sylvia’s Cadillac with boxes.

  “Think we got it all?” Sylvia asked as she eased behind the wheel of her ancient vehicle.

  “I think so.” Emma consulted her clipboard. “I’ve checked everything off.”

  “We’re good to go then.” Sylvia started her car and tooted the horn as she pulled out of the parking lot.

  Emma and Arabella followed her to the extremely exclusive area where Marjorie Porter lived. The Porters had purchased an enormous piece of land, and an architect from Memphis had created an exclusive design for their ten thousand square foot brick house. There were two pools—one indoors, one out—a tennis court, a putting green and enough lawn to accommodate a polo match.

  The Sweet Nothings convoy pulled into the circular drive and stopped at the massive front door.

  “Well, don’t let’s just stand here,” Sylvia said when they all exited their cars. “Someone go ring the bell.”

  Emma strode up the slate path and pushed the ornate, wrought-iron doorbell.

  A minute later the door was flung open, and Marjorie stood there openmouthed. “What are you doing here?”

  “We’re…We’re here for the trunk show?” Emma stuttered, ending the sentence on an up note so that it turned out sounding like a question.

  “Good heavens!” Marjorie shrieked. “You need to go around to the back door immediately.” She pointed around toward the side of the house. “This entrance is for guests only.”

  “Sheesh,” Sylvia grumbled. “The servants’ entrance, no less! I never would have thought.”

  “It’s probably easier for us to unload if we go around back,” Arabella said soothingly. “I’m sure Marjorie didn’t mean anything by it. Did you see all that white carpeting? She’s probably afraid of dirt.”

  Sylvia continued to mumble, but she got back into her Caddy and followed the drive around toward the back of the house, Arabella and Emma right behind her. They pulled into an area the size of a small parking lot and popped open their trunks.

  Sylvia and Arabella weren’t much use when it came to carrying boxes, so Emma struggled with them as best she could. A woman in a maid’s uniform held the door open for her. It led to what Emma thought was generally termed a mudroom, although there wasn’t a single speck of dirt or mud to be seen. She dropped the first load of boxes and went out to the car for the rest.

  “Let me help with something, please,” Arabella begged.

  Emma shook her head. “Almost done. Why don’t you go inside and see where Marjorie wants us to set up.”

  Emma hustled the last few boxes into the house and stood for a moment to catch her breath. The mudroom led to a restaurant-sized kitchen complete with restaurant-grade appliances. No expense had been spared—from granite on the countertops to Brazilian wood on the floors. The funny thing was, Emma had the sneaking suspicion that Marjorie never set foot in the room unless she was after a midnight snack.

  Finally they got everything unloaded. Emma had decided against mannequins. Shape wear didn’t look very pretty—it was the effect it created when you were dressed that counted.

  Emma, Arabella and Sylvia edged into the living room where a few women were already talking, punch glasses in hand. The doorbell rang repeatedly, and more and more guests arrived until the room was full. Emma recognized Charlotte Fanning and wondered how she might approach her? Deirdre was there as well, of course, and several of the women Emma remembered from their trunk show at Deirdre’s house.

  Emma had never had any ambition to be on the stage, and she was quite nervous about getting up in front of the crowd. But she’d done her homework and knew her stuff. The women were definitely very interested, and the whole presentation went quite smoothly.

  Emma was packing up some of the merchandise when a young woman came up to her. She had blond hair, carefully coiffed, blue eyes expertly ringed with liner and lush lips painted pink.

  “This has been wonderful,” she said to Emma in honeyed tones. “I’m getting a pair of those capris for myself. I bought a pair of skinny jeans for the fall, and I need something to smooth everything out.”

  Emma looked her up and down and failed to find a single inch that needed smoothing, but she wasn’t about to turn down a sale.

  The girl stuck out her hand. “I’m Missy Fanning, by the way.”

  Emma shook Missy’s perfectly manicured hand and introduced herself. Here she was being presented with the perfect opportunity to learn more about Lotte Fanning, her daughter and their connection to Jessica Scott and possibly her murder, and her mind was going blank. She nearly broke a sweat racking her brain for a way to introduce Jessica into the conversation.
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  “Your friend,” Missy pointed at Sylvia, “lives at Sunny Days, doesn’t she?”

  Emma nodded.

  Missy pursed her plump pink lips into a perfect pout. “I should have had that administrator’s job there.” Her lips turned farther downward. “I had the best credentials, but that woman, the one who was killed?”

  Emma nodded silently, not wanting to stem the flow of information. “She’s the niece of the chairman of the board. Isn’t that what they call nepotism?”

  “Ah…yes…I think so,” Emma stammered.

  “My mother was absolutely furious when she found out. She does know someone on the board, but I guess the chairman trumps all. But…” She examined her blush pink nails closely. “Now that that woman is dead, I’m a shoo-in for the job. As a matter of fact, I have an interview next week.”

  Emma looked at Missy. Did she not realize that she had handed her mother the perfect motive for murder?

  Before Emma could think any more about it, Marjorie was announcing dessert and coffee in her loud, overbearing tones, and everyone began the exodus toward the dining room.

  The room was enormous, and Marjorie smugly announced that the dining table, the size of a football field to Emma’s eyes, had been custom-made for the space. The chandelier hanging above it would not have looked out of place at Lincoln Center and boasted hundreds of sparkling crystals.

  The table was spread with a delectable array of sweets from miniature pies that Emma recognized as coming from Let Us Cater to You to fancy French pastries Marjorie must have ordered from Nashville or Memphis. An enormous silver tea set dominated one end of the table and an equally large silver coffee urn the other.

  “Please help yourselves,” Marjorie ordered everyone. “And don’t be afraid. There are no cupcakes from that place that managed to poison poor Jessica Scott.”

  Emma stifled a gasp. Had that announcement really been necessary? Poor Bitsy. Would Sprinkles ever recover?

  Chatter broke out as everyone grabbed plates and helped themselves to refreshments. Emma noticed a pale young woman with limp, curly red hair hovering around the food. She was wearing a pale pink uniform and had an apron around her waist. She’d been at Deirdre’s as well, helping in the kitchen.