by Meg London
Brian made a big show of looking at his watch. “I’m so sorry, John, but we have to bolt. We’re…”
“Catching a movie,” Emma said smoothly.
“Oh, what are you going to see?” John looked disappointed.
“The…the…” Brian stumbled.
“That new foreign flick. I’m afraid I can’t pronounce the title.”
“Well, you two have a good time.”
Brian began to signal for the waiter, but John stopped him.
“This is on me.” He stood up. “It’s been a real pleasure meeting you, Emma.” He shook her hand.
Lara got up as well, but instead of shaking Emma’s and Brian’s hands, she kissed them both on the cheek, European style.
“Thanks so much,” Brian called over his shoulder as they made their way through the tables toward the front door.
Brian grabbed Emma’s hand as they headed toward Liz’s station wagon.
“Sorry about that.” He stopped and turned Emma to face him. “I was looking forward to an evening alone with you, but I didn’t want to turn John down.”
“Don’t worry about it.” Emma linked her arm through his. “I understand.”
“Since we didn’t get dessert, how about some ice cream?”
“Sounds good to me.”
Brian opened the passenger door for Emma.
He was getting behind the wheel when his cell phone rang.
“I’m so sorry,” he said, digging in his jacket pocket. “I was sure I’d turned this beastly thing off.” He pulled out the phone and glanced at the number. His features froze.
Emma couldn’t miss the look on his face. “You’d better answer it.”
Brian hesitated, and she insisted. “Please, go ahead.”
Brian pushed the button and placed the phone against his ear. “Hello?”
As is so often the case with cell phones, Emma was able to hear every word.
“Brian? It’s Amy,” the voice echoing from the cell said.
“Amy?”
Emma tried to analyze the tone of Brian’s voice. Hopeful? Happy? Excited? Or just plain curious?
“I wanted to tell you,” Amy continued, “that Tony and I have called off the wedding. We’ve broken up.” There was a pause. “I need to see you.”
An entire rainbow of emotions passed over Brian’s face as Emma watched. “I can’t talk now. I’ll call you later.” He flicked the phone off and turned toward Emma.
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
“I don’t know.”
BRIAN was quiet as they drove to get their ice cream. He pulled into the parking lot of the Dairy Queen and maneuvered into a space. There were a number of other cars in the lot with music blaring from their partially open windows.
“What will you have?” Brian asked as they approached the counter.
“A small vanilla cone.” Emma really wanted sprinkles, but that seemed too unsophisticated after their meal at L’Etoile.
“I think we’re a little overdressed,” Brian said as he tugged at his tie to loosen it.
“That’s for sure.”
They took their cones back to the car and ate by the glow of the sodium lights.
“What do you think I should do about Amy?” Brian finally said.
“Amy?” Emma wasn’t sure what to tell him.
“I don’t really want to see her ever again. People talk about closure, but I’m not sure what that means.”
“Well…” Emma was thinking fast. “Sometimes it’s helpful to talk to the person and sort of…square things up.” She thought about her ex-boyfriend Guy. There’d been no chance for closure with him—he’d been murdered before there was any opportunity for that.
“That makes sense.” Brian sat still, his cone momentarily forgotten. “But I’m still not sure I want to see her again.” He jerked as a dribble of cold ice cream slid down his hand.
“You don’t have to decide right away.”
“That’s true. It isn’t as if I don’t already have a lot on my mind. I’m still awfully worried about Liz. Not only the money issue, but this whole business of that woman dying from the poisonous flower. She had a call from her old advisor at UT saying the police had been around asking questions about her and this Jessica Scott. Liz hardly knew her.”
“Liz and I have uncovered another suspect.” Emma told Brian about Lotte Fanning and the dent in her front bumper. “If Lotte can’t come up with a plausible reason for it, I’m going to the police.”
Brian was already shaking his head. “No. I don’t want you talking to her. What if she is the murderer? What’s going to stop her from killing you, too? Leave it up to the police. Please.”
Detective Walker crossed Emma’s mind, but she pushed the thought away.
“Promise me you’ll stay far away from Lotte Fanning.”
“Okay.” Emma crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Promise?” Brian said again.
“Yes,” Emma said with slightly more conviction.
“You’ve got some ice cream right by the side of your mouth.” Brian’s voice grew husky. He wiped gently at the spot with his index finger.
Emma closed her eyes as Brian’s face got nearer and his lips found hers.
* * *
EMMA woke up early on Sunday morning. She pulled back the curtains and peered out. Rain created rivulets down Washington Street, puddling in the gutters and lashing the shop windows. Emma let the curtain fall back into place. A good day to stay in bed.
But she was concerned about Arabella. She reached for her phone but then decided that instead she would pick up some croissants or whatever she could find at Kroger’s, and go over to Arabella’s for breakfast. Maybe it would be good to invite Sylvia, too. She and Arabella had become quite good friends, and Sylvia somehow always managed to bring everyone back down to earth. Emma grabbed her cell.
Sylvia answered almost immediately, and they arranged to meet at Arabella’s in half an hour.
Emma pulled on a pair of yoga pants, a T-shirt and a zip-up sweatshirt. Once again she was glad she’d cut her hair short and needed to do little more than pull a comb through it. A dash of lipstick, and she was ready to go out the door.
The parking lot at Kroger’s was fairly full, and there were quite a few people gathered around the bakery section. Emma snared some chocolate croissants and headed toward the cashiers.
Five minutes later she was knocking on Arabella’s front door. The paperboy had thrown the Post onto the porch, but not quite far enough. When Emma picked it up, she noticed the edges were damp and curling.
Arabella opened the door moments later, and it was obvious she hadn’t slept well…if at all. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles, and her usually well coiffed long, gray hair was pulled back willy-nilly into a slapdash ponytail.
“Oh, it is good to see you,” she said as she hugged Emma. “I’ve spent a terrible night, imaging all sorts of horrors.”
“Is there any news?” Emma asked as she followed Arabella into the kitchen. A pot of coffee was already sitting on the warmer. She tossed the newspaper onto the kitchen table.
“Tea?” Arabella opened a cupboard and pulled out a box of green tea bags.
“Thanks.” Emma got a plate from the cupboard and arranged the croissants on it.
Arabella brought a mug of tea to the table and handed it to Emma. She was about to sit down when the front bell rang.
“Sylvia,” Emma said in answer to Arabella’s quizzical look. “I’ll get it.”
Sylvia was wearing a tightly belted black trench coat with the collar turned up and a broad-brimmed black fedora. Emma thought she looked a little like Boris from Bullwinkle.
“It’s raining cats and dogs out there.” Sylvia closed her umbrella and shook it vigorously. “Should I leave this out here?”
“No need. Arabella has an umbrella stand inside.”
Sylvia stowed her umbrella and raincoat, and they headed back to the kitchen, where Emma
got down another mug and poured Sylvia some coffee.
“Black.” Sylvia held up a hand as Emma stood poised with sugar and milk.
“So.” Sylvia took a big slurp of coffee. “Any news?”
“I talked to someone at the TBI last night.” Arabella broke a tiny piece off her croissant and rolled it back and forth between her thumb and index finger. “They’ve heard from Francis. At least he’s still alive.” She swiped a tear from her cheek.
“Is the bank negotiating?” Sylvia broke her croissant in half and took a big bite.
“Yes. They said they’ve got a whole team on it.” Arabella dropped the tiny bit of croissant back onto her plate. “I don’t see why he can’t retire. At his age—going undercover. Imagine!”
“Men.” Sylvia dunked a bit of croissant into her coffee. “They’re stubborn.”
“You can say that again.”
Arabella gave a tiny smile, which made Emma feel slightly better.
“Did I tell you?” Sylvia paused and wiped a smidge of chocolate from her lip. “That poor old dear who was taken to the hospital—”
“The one the police think someone tried to smother?”
“Yeah. That’s the one. She’s back at Sunny Days. I saw the ambulance pull in last night. And the state surveyors have been crawling all over the place. Poor Missy is being run off her feet. Somehow I think she imagined she’d be spending her time filing her nails like Jessica did.”
“It’s beginning to look as if Lotte Fanning might have killed to get her daughter that job.”
“What?” Sylvia choked on her coffee.
Emma brought her up to date about the dent in Lotte’s car and the fact that she’d been having an affair with Jim Calhoun before Jessica snagged him.
“Sounds like she’s our woman.”
Emma caught a glimpse of the front page of the Post she’d brought in earlier. She spun the paper around to face her.
“Look at this.” She pointed at one of the headlines. “It looks like the police are continuing their investigation.” She read the first few lines of the article. “It says that they haven’t found any garages locally that did bodywork on any cars that might have been involved in the hit-and-run that killed Gladys, so they’ve expanded their search outside the area to Memphis and Nashville.”
“You’ve got to tell Detective Walker about finding that dent in Lotte Fanning’s car,” Arabella said.
“I know,” Emma admitted with a sinking heart.
* * *
BY Monday morning the rain had stopped and pale sun peeked from between the clouds. Emma opened the door to Sweet Nothings. It wasn’t time to open yet, and she needed to do a little accounting first. Arabella was a whiz at finding exquisite vintage pieces, but she was hopeless with numbers.
Emma was staring at some figures—at least they were getting better—when she heard Arabella enter. She joined her aunt in the stockroom for a cup of tea. Pierre headed straight for his dog bed. Obviously the car ride over had exhausted him and he was ready for his first nap of the day.
Pierre was snoring softly when they heard someone banging on the front door. Pierre levitated from the bed and was on all four paws, barking, before Emma could even blink.
She glanced at her watch and then at Arabella. “It’s not time to open yet. Maybe it’s a delivery?”
“Are you expecting something?”
Emma shook her head. “No.”
They both began walking toward the door. Through the glass they could see the shadow of a man. He was slightly bent over and wearing an old-fashioned hat.
Arabella squinted at the door. “It looks like Mr. Zimmerman from across the street.” She glanced toward Pierre. “What on earth could he want? Pierre is right here and certainly not bothering his precious Bertha.”
Arabella opened the door slowly and peered around the edge. “Yes? We’re not open yet.” She pointed to the large sign that was flipped to closed.
“I’m not here to go shopping.” Zimmerman nearly spat out the words. “I can’t imagine what use I would have for any of the things you sell. It’s bad enough having to look at all that scanty stuff from my window across the street.”
Emma saw Arabella’s back stiffen. They did their best to keep their window displays classy and not provocative, but they were selling lingerie, after all.
“What can I do for you, then?” Arabella cracked the door a little wider. Pierre had stopped barking, but he was growling under his breath.
“That cur of yours…”
Arabella lifted her chin and gazed at Zimmerman through narrow eyes. “If you mean my championship French bulldog—”
“Call him what you will. He’s nothing but a beast as far as I’m concerned.”
“Pray tell. What did Pierre do to annoy you this time? He’s been with me all morning.”
“He got my Bertha in the family way!” Zimmerman said so vehemently that Emma could see his spit spraying the air.
Arabella clapped a hand to her mouth, and Emma had to stifle her own laugh.
“Bertha’s got a bun in the oven, and it’s all his fault.” Zimmerman pointed a bony finger at Pierre.
Pierre lowered his head and skulked back toward his bed.
“That’s ridiculous!” Arabella sniffed.
“How many times has he gotten loose and come over to my shop?” Zimmerman moved his face until it was only inches from Arabella’s.
Arabella’s eyes were blazing. “So what of it? They were never together for more than a few minutes.”
“Don’t take long for dogs,” Zimmerman said smugly.
“I refuse to believe it.”
“Well, we’ll see, won’t we? When Bertha delivers her litter, then we’ll know. And if a single one of them pups looks at all like…like…him”—he pointed at Pierre—“then I’ll drown the lot of them!”
“He wouldn’t really do that, would he?” Emma said as they closed the door on Zimmerman’s retreating back.
“I wouldn’t put it past him. But don’t worry. I’m quite certain Pierre had nothing to do with his precious Bertha’s being enceinte. Obviously Bertha got out at one point and found herself a beau. And I’m certain it wasn’t Pierre.” She turned toward Pierre, who was lying on his dog bed, one eye closed and the other half open. “Right, Pierre?”
Arabella went to stand by the window. “Well, would you look at that!” she said suddenly.
“What is it?”
Emma went to stand by her aunt.
“Look.” Arabella pointed to a couple walking down the sidewalk across the street.
“That’s Les,” Emma said.
“Yes.” Arabella nodded briskly. “And that’s Sally Dixon with him.” Bright spots of red suffused her cheeks. “Of all the nerve.” She was quiet for a moment. “Well, I suppose that does solve the problem of what to do about Les. Sally never forgave me for stealing Francis from her, as she put it.”
“And now she’s stolen Les from you by the looks of things.” Emma peered out the window where Sally was walking arm in arm with Les.
“I’m glad,” Arabella said, and Emma could tell she meant it. “I like Les and want him to be happy. If Sally Dixon makes him happy, then so be it.”
* * *
MONDAY mornings weren’t usually their busy times, but Emma was pleased to sell a 1940s rayon satin negligee that was in a very small size. Emma had been worried about finding someone whom it would fit. She also sold three pieces of shape wear to one of the members of Marjorie Porter’s garden club. She’d missed the trunk show but had made a note to stop by Sweet Nothings. All in all, it was a very satisfactory morning.
“You know what?” Emma said to Arabella, who was rearranging some stock. “I think I’m going to put on my big girl panties and go to Detective Walker and tell him about that dent in Lotte Fanning’s car. Hopefully he’ll bring it in for examination.”
“At the least, I imagine they’d go out and talk to her. If she is the killer it wouldn’t hurt to make
her a little nervous.”
“Good point.” Emma glanced at her watch. “If you can handle things, maybe I’ll take a ride over there now.”
“No problem, dear. Besides, Sylvia’s due any minute.”
Emma ran a comb through her hair and freshened her lipstick. It was obvious Walker found her attractive. She would have to use that to her advantage, selling him on this idea with as much vigor as she sold lingerie to the customers of Sweet Nothings.
The police station was on North Caldwell Street, and it didn’t take her long to get there. The flat brick building was hardly imposing, but Emma sat in her car for a minute, marshalling her thoughts. Finally she was ready and marched up to the front door and pulled it open.
Fortunately, Walker was in and more than willing to see her. A uniformed officer showed Emma the way down the hall.
Walker’s office was small and cramped with stacks of folders spilling half off the chair pulled up in front of his desk. He jumped up when Emma entered.
He stared at her for a moment. “If you aren’t a sight for sore eyes.” He began to move the papers off the chair. “Please. Have a seat.”
His desk was piled high with papers, too, but he’d cleared a spot in the middle where he had a piece of wax paper open with half of a large deli sandwich resting on it. He gestured toward it.
“Sorry. You’ve caught me on my lunch break.”
“Please. Don’t let me interrupt.”
“I hope you mean that, because I’m starving. I got called out early this morning and never did manage breakfast.” He picked up the sandwich and took a large bite.
“Are you still working on the hit-and-run case involving Gladys Smit?”
Walker finished chewing and took a big glug from a can of pop. “Yes. The case is still open, although we don’t have much of anything in the way of leads at the moment.”
“I think I might have a lead for you.”
Walker raised his dark brows. “Really?” He picked up the last of his sandwich.
Here was where Emma began to get a little nervous. How was she to explain what she was doing skulking around in the Sunny Days parking lot looking for damaged cars? She should have thought this through before coming to the police station.
