Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  “I’m meeting a friend.” Emma scanned the dusky restaurant. Only half the tables were filled—it was late by Paris standards—but she didn’t immediately see Guy. Drat, she was hoping he would have already arrived.

  A couple was tucked into the darkened corner in the back, and something about the girl caught Emma’s eye. Even seated, Emma could tell she was very tall, and thin, with long, honey-colored hair. Her arms were draped around her companion’s shoulders like a sweater, and their heads were together in a whispered tête-à-tête. The girl moved slightly, and Emma caught a glimpse of the man’s face.

  It was Guy.

  No wonder the woman looked familiar—it was Nikki St. Clair, the model Guy was rumored to have been playing around with before Emma had fled New York. Emma had styled a number of shoots with her and Guy. You couldn’t open a magazine or newspaper these days without seeing her posing half clad for some advertisement or fashion layout, and her photos were plastered on billboards from New York to California. Emma noticed the other patrons glancing at her and whispering to each other.

  Guy looked up and caught sight of Emma. She saw the shocked look on his face. Had he been planning on ditching Nikki before she got there? She didn’t stay long enough to find out.

  She turned on her heel, flew past the astonished maitre d’, past the bartender whose head swiveled to follow her as she blew by, out the door and into the car.

  Loose gravel churned up and hit the side of the car as she blasted out of the parking lot and down the street.

  EMMA didn’t cry until she got back to her apartment and slammed and locked the door behind her. Her mind was whirling, and her hands were shaking with fury. She leaned against the closed door as hot tears ran down her cheeks. Guy Richard was nothing but a sniveling, lying, cheating bastard!

  And she was through with him. Finished. Finito. Finis. No matter what language you used, the result was the same—she was through!

  She kicked off her high-heeled sandals, dropped her dress on the bed and pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of yoga pants. Her stomach rumbled loudly, but she couldn’t face the prospect of eating. What she needed was some chocolate. And a glass of wine.

  Arabella had left the refrigerator stocked with basics like ketchup, eggs, bread and a wedge of Brie. Fortunately, Arabella’s idea of the basics included an ice-cold bottle of pinot grigio. Emma rummaged in the drawers until she found the corkscrew. She grabbed a glass from the shelf, poured the wine and put the bottle back in the refrigerator. She went through the cupboards again, but the only chocolate she could find was a half-finished bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips. She undid the twist tie and poured out a handful. She nibbled them one by one as she sipped the wine and scrolled through four hundred and fifty cable television channels without finding anything she wanted to watch.

  Finally, she switched the television off and dialed Liz. She glanced at her watch—hopefully she wouldn’t be waking the children up.

  Liz answered on the third ring. “Hello?”

  “Liz,” Emma said with a groan.

  “What’s the matter? You sound as if you’ve been crying.”

  “I have.”

  “Is it that Frenchman you told me about?”

  Emma sniffled. “Yes. This time I thought he meant it, but when I got to the restaurant, that girl was there.” She rummaged in her pocket and pulled out a slightly torn and dusty tissue.

  “What girl is this?”

  “She’s a Claudette model—tall, thin, long blond hair. Perfect. You know the type.” Emma dabbed at her nose with the tissue. “Everyone in New York was saying that she and Guy were a couple, but he told me that wasn’t true. It was me he wanted.” Emma gave a loud hiccough. “But there she was, draped all over him. She must have flown down with him.”

  “What a bastard!”

  “That’s what I said.” Emma hiccoughed again.

  “Do you want me to come over?”

  Emma hesitated. It would be so good to see her friend, but it was late, and she knew Liz had her family to take care of. “I’ll be okay. I think I’m going to go to bed. I drank a bit of wine.” She picked up the bottle and checked the level. “A lot actually. I think I’ll be able to sleep now.”

  She hung up the call and sat staring at the phone. She punched in Guy’s number. Her thumbs flew over the keys as she typed in her text. We are through. Leave me alone. She wanted to tell him what she thought of him, but it would have taken up more than the 160 characters her texting program allowed. She hesitated for a split second, and pressed send. Minutes later, her cell phone rang once, but she didn’t answer, and turned it off instead. Then she stuffed it behind the sofa cushion for good measure. She finished the bag of chocolate chips and stretched out on the couch. Her eyes were getting so heavy, she really needed to rest them for a bit.

  EMMA dreamt someone was screaming, and sat bolt upright, surprised to find herself on the sofa with the morning sun streaming in the windows. She saw the wineglass and empty Hershey’s bag on the coffee table, and slowly the evening before came back to her.

  There was another scream, and this time it was definitely not part of her dream. It was coming from downstairs—from Sweet Nothings as far as she could tell. Emma grabbed her keys from the kitchen counter and bolted down the stairs. Her head pounded dully and her mouth felt thick and dry.

  A third scream curdled the air, and Emma flung herself down the last few steps, out the door and around to the front of Sweet Nothings. Her hand was shaking and she had trouble getting the key in the lock. She swore in frustration as she missed a second time. It wasn’t until she got the door open that it occurred to her she ought to be afraid. Who knew what she was going to find?

  It was certainly the last thing she expected. Arabella’s hands were over her mouth, stifling another scream, and she was leaning over something on the floor. It looked like a body.

  Emma stopped short when she saw who it was.

  Guy Richard.

  Blood pooled on the carpet beneath him, and his eyes were open. Emma was pretty sure he was dead.

  She, too, began to scream.

  EMMA closed her eyes, clenched her fists and forced herself to stop screaming. Deep breaths. Like yoga class. In…out…in…out. Her heartbeat slowed and steadied in time to the measured rhythm. When she opened her eyes, everything looked perfectly normal—morning sun streaming through the dusty front windows; Arabella dressed for work in a long black-and-white batik print dress, her hair pinned into a knot on top of her head; the interior of the shop silent and smelling faintly of fresh sawdust. Everything was perfectly normal. She looked down.

  Except for the body at their feet.

  Guy’s body.

  Pierre circled Guy, sniffing furiously. His one black ear twitched back and forth like an antenna looking for a signal.

  “Pierre, no.” Emma made a shooing motion with her hand. Pierre gave a disdainful snort and proceeded to ignore her.

  Arabella pointed at Pierre’s dog bed with an imperious finger. “Pierre Louis Auguste! Now!” Pierre lowered his head and slunk toward the bed, with the occasional backward glance at Guy.

  “We need to call an ambulance.”

  Arabella shook her head. “I think it’s too late for that.” She got down on one knee beside the body and put her index and forefinger against Guy’s neck. “Give me a hand,” she said to Emma as she struggled back to her feet. She shook her head again. “There’s no pulse.” She looked at Emma, her mouth quivering.

  Emma felt tears spring into her eyes. Her knees wobbled dangerously. “Are you okay?” Emma whispered with a worried glance at Arabella.

  Arabella nodded her head. “I think so. Sixty-eight years of living do prepare you for a lot, but even so, this is still a shock.” Her hand trembled as she wiped it across her forehead. “How about you? You’re deathly pale.”

  Emma took a shuddering breath and stood a little straighter. If her aunt Arabella could cope with this, then so could she. Her relationship wit
h Guy flashed in front of her eyes—Guy wooing her with compliments and flowers; Guy cooking her his famous coq au vin; Guy whispering in her ear in French.

  Zoe at Vera Wang had introduced them. Emma had needed a portfolio to interview for the job at Femme, and Guy had been willing to let her style a couple of his shoots. He’d taken to asking for her as his stylist even after she got the job. One night he’d invited her to join him and one of the models and her agent for a drink. Emma and Guy had sat and talked for hours at the bar long after the other two had left.

  A tear slid down Emma’s cheek, and a knot formed in her throat.

  “We’d better call 9-1-1.” Emma reached into her pocket for her cell phone but then remembered stuffing it behind the sofa cushions. She looked around helplessly.

  Arabella pulled an iPhone from her macramé tote bag. She saw the look on Emma’s face. “What?”

  “Nothing.” Emma shrugged. “I’m just kind of surprised you have one of those.”

  “I’m not that old,” Arabella shot back as she punched in the numbers.

  They stood huddled together, waiting. Emma thought she saw the door to O’Connell’s Hardware open and she found herself wishing that Brian would stop by. His presence always made her feel secure. She guessed that’s what big brothers were for.

  Finally, they heard the long, low wail of a siren in the distance.

  “Sounds like the cavalry are on their way.” Arabella said. “Let’s just hope they’ve sent someone with a brain.”

  Emma went to the front door and peered out the window. A silver Crown Vic slewed into a parking space in front of Sweet Nothings, its siren trailing off as it came to a halt.

  A large, beefy policeman shouldered his way into the shop. His forehead shone with perspiration, and he had his hat pushed back to the center of his head. His damp blond hair curled around the brim.

  “You reported a body?” He skidded to a stop just inside the shop. Emma noticed his glance stray to a mannequin in a lacy bra and panties, and she watched as his face flushed a deep red.

  Arabella opened her mouth, her lips working furiously but no sound emerging.

  Emma quickly spoke up. “Yes.”

  The front door banged open again, and another policeman entered. He was broad shouldered, with red hair cut really short and a wide face peppered with freckles.

  “What have we got here?” He pushed his hat farther back on his head and scratched behind his ear.

  “Looks like a body,” the other policeman answered. “We got ourselves a real, live dead body.” His face paled suddenly, and he swayed slightly.

  “No kidding, Einstein.” The other policeman shuffled from foot to foot, staring at Guy’s body. “We haven’t had one of these since 2004 when Mrs. McGillicuddy came home early and found her husband in bed with the neighbor. Missed the neighbor, but she nailed him good.” He circled Guy slowly then looked at Emma.

  Emma glanced at the shiny badge pinned to his uniform. Officer Joe Kenny.

  “Who is this guy? Do you know him?”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen him around these parts before,” the other policeman said. His badge indicated his name was Patrick Flanagan. He swallowed hard and kept his eyes averted from the floor of Sweet Nothings.

  “Me neither.” Kenny scratched the other side of his head as he stared at Guy. “Know who he is?” He looked at Emma.

  She began to stutter. “His name is Guy Richard. He’s a photographer.”

  “What’s he doing here?” Flanagan asked.

  “Dunno,” Kenny answered.

  Emma gave him a stern look

  “He a friend of yours?” Kenny asked.

  Emma nodded her head.

  “Boyfriend?”

  Emma began to nod her head again but then stopped. “Ex. Ex-boyfriend. We dated, but it was over.” She crossed her arms over her chest definitively. She wished her head wasn’t pounding quite so hard. It was putting her at a disadvantage.

  “Okay, so let’s start from the beginning.” Kenny nodded toward Arabella. “Who found the body?”

  Arabella finally got her voice back. “I did.” She fiddled with the strands of jet beads at her neck. “Would you mind if I sat down?” She moved toward a chair. “I’ve had quite a shock.”

  “Aunt Arabella, are you okay?” Emma helped her to the chair. “Would you like a drink of water?”

  Arabella shook her head. “I’d rather get this over with as soon as possible. She perched on the edge of the chair, her back rigid, her head high.

  “So you found the body.” Kenny turned toward Arabella. “When did this happen?”

  “Obviously a few minutes before I called you. I certainly didn’t sit around polishing my nails first,” she added with a sharp edge to her voice.

  Pierre lifted his head and gave a low growl.

  Take that, Emma thought, and shot an admiring glance at her aunt.

  “So the body was here on the floor when you arrived?”

  Arabella gave a quick nod. “I came in through the front door,” she waved a hand in that direction, “and there he was.”

  “Was the door locked?” Kenny pulled a small, worn-looking notebook from his pocket and scribbled in it.

  “Yes. I used my key to get in. Then I locked the door in back of me.”

  “Why?”

  “Obviously so no one would come in.”

  “Were you expecting someone to come in?”

  Arabella gave a hiss of annoyance. “Of course not. But occasionally customers try the door, and if it’s not locked, they assume we’re open for business.”

  “And you aren’t?”

  “No. We’re in the process of renovating the shop. We plan on being closed for a few weeks.”

  “So let me get this straight.” Kenny took his hat off and tucked it under his arm. “You come open up the shop as usual and bam, you fall over this dead body lying in the middle of your floor.”

  “I didn’t fall over him,” Arabella protested.

  “In a manner of speaking, only,” Kenny reassured her. “And this guy is your niece’s ex-boyfriend. And it looks like someone clonked him over the head with something.” Kenny squatted down next to the body and examined the wound. “Nasty.” He shook his head and stood up.

  Emma noticed a glint of something shiny underneath the edge of one of the cabinets. She bent down to get a better view. It was Arabella’s silver-headed walking stick. She reached out a hand.

  “Don’t touch it!” Kenny snapped.

  Emma jumped and pulled her hand back. “I was only—”

  “That could be our murder weapon.” Kenny yanked a slightly tatty-looking handkerchief from his back pocket, wrapped it around his hand and reached under the cabinet. He pulled out the walking stick.

  “Do you really think it’s murder?” Arabella’s face turned even paler.

  “Unless our victim tripped on something and hit his head hard enough to cause that kind of damage.” Kenny pointed toward the body.

  “I suppose that is possible.” Arabella looked at Emma eagerly.

  Kenny gave a harsh bark of laughter and Pierre half rose from his dog bed, his upper lip pulled back in a snarl.

  “I think this is our murder weapon right here.” Kenny brandished the walking stick under their noses. “See? There’s blood.”

  Emma recoiled, her stomach doing Olympic-worthy flip-flops.

  “The detectives will have a field day with this. Hopefully we’ll be able to lift some prints if the perp wasn’t smart enough to wear gloves.”

  “It’s going to be covered in prints,” Arabella pointed out dryly. “Mine, specifically. My niece’s, too, since she handled it. And probably half a dozen other people.”

  “Is that so?”

  They all heard the front door open and turned to look in that direction.

  Brian strode in but stopped short when he saw what was going on. “What happened?” He moved swiftly toward Emma and Arabella.

  “And who might
you be?” Kenny asked, his pencil poised above his battered notebook.

  “Brian. Brian O’Connell.”

  “As in O’Connell’s Hardware Store?” Kenny gestured toward the front window.

  “Yes.” Brian turned to Emma and Arabella. “Are you ladies okay?”

  They both nodded.

  “What’s going on?” Brian addressed Kenny and Flanagan.

  “I might ask you the same question.” Kenny replied. He moved toward Brian and stood toe-to-toe with him. “What are you doing here? According to these ladies”—he swept a hand in Emma and Arabella’s direction—“the shop is closed.”

  “I’ve been doing the renovations,” Brian said.

  “Were you acquainted with the deceased?” Kenny indicated the body with a nod of his head.

  “I met him once. The other day.”

  Kenny brandished the walking stick, which he still had in his hand. “I take it this is yours?” He looked at Arabella.

  “Yes, that belongs to me.” Arabella responded.

  “It does, does it?”

  Emma bristled at the tone in Kenny’s voice. “What is that supposed to mean?” she snapped.

  “Nothing, nothing,” Kenny said soothingly. “Just trying to confirm ownership, that’s all.”

  “When did you last see this walking stick?” He turned back to Arabella.

  “Yesterday. I was using it to get around after I’d tripped and twisted my ankle. But it was feeling much better, and I didn’t think I needed it anymore.”

  “So what do we have here?” Kenny looked around at them, sounding like Hercule Poirot in one of Agatha Christie’s Golden Age mysteries. “We have a body.” He indicated Guy with a flourish of the walking stick. “We have the murder weapon.” He brandished the stick again. “We have no sign of a forced entry.” He glanced toward the front door. “Ergo, our murderer must be someone with a key.” He looked around his assembled audience. “Who has a key to this place?”

  “Obviously, I do.” Arabella spoke first. “And my niece.”

  “Me, too,” said Brian.

  “Really?” Kenny said, and Emma did not like the tone of his voice.

  “I’m going to be doing the renovations on the shop, so Arabella thought I ought to have a key.”