Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  “Anyone else?” Kenny asked. “A neighbor, friend, boyfriend…” His voice trailed off as they all began shaking their heads. “No?”

  “Don’t you think we ought to call this in to headquarters now?” Flanagan reached for his walkie-talkie. “Get one of the detectives out here?”

  “All in good time.” Kenny slapped his notebook shut and stuffed it back in his pocket. “This case seems pretty simple to me. Open and shut.” He pointed a finger at Emma. “You got mad at your ex-boyfriend and clonked him over the head with your aunt’s walking stick.”

  STUNNED silence greeted Officer Kenny’s pronouncement. Then everyone began talking at once. Emma sputtered, she was so mad. Arabella hissed and Brian bellowed. They sounded like a steam engine roaring to life.

  Before any of them could complete a sentence, Kenny was at the front door of Sweet Nothings. “Coroner’s here,” he called over his shoulder as he ushered in a stoop-shouldered man with untidy gray hair.

  “District attorney’s on his way,” the coroner said, pulling a pen from his shirt pocket. “Luckily, I was just down the block getting a cup of coffee.” He approached Guy’s body. “What have we got here?”

  “You might not want to watch this,” Kenny said to Emma, Arabella and Brian. “Why don’t you go on down to The Coffee Klatch and get something to drink?”

  Emma looked down at her yoga pants. At least she wasn’t in her pajamas. She would be more than glad to get away from Sweet Nothings and Guy’s body. The longer she stayed, the more real things became.

  “I’ll just go put Pierre in his crate.” Arabella looked at Pierre and he lowered his head and obediently followed her into the back room.

  As soon as Arabella rejoined them, they trooped out the door and into the warm, humid morning air. Emma had started to shake and the warmth felt good.

  They were closing the door behind them when they saw someone waving from across the street. Emma didn’t recognize him, and she stared, puzzled, as the man darted across Washington Street, just missing a red minivan that had to swerve to avoid him.

  He stopped in front of them, breathless and panting. “Is everything all right? I saw the police and I couldn’t imagine what had happened.” He glanced at Arabella. “I was so afraid you’d taken ill or something.” He smoothed a hand across his head where several long strands of white hair had blown across to the wrong side.

  Arabella gave a dry smile. “Well, as you can see, I’m perfectly fine.” She turned toward Emma and Brian. “Les, this is my niece, Emma. She’s down from New York to help with my shop. And this,” she said, turning toward Brian, “is Brian O’Connell. He’s helping with the renovations. His father owns O’Connell’s Hardware.”

  Arabella turned toward the small, dapper gentleman at her side. “And this is Les Wallace. He runs The Toggery just down the street.”

  Emma looked from Les to Arabella and back again. Was Les a gentleman caller, as they used to say in the old days? There was a twinkle in Arabella’s eye that hadn’t been there before, and Emma swore her cheeks had a faint blush to them. Of course, it could have been the heat, but somehow she didn’t think so.

  “We’re on our way to The Coffee Klatch. Would you care to join us?”

  “But what’s happened?” Les spluttered, adjusting his tie, which had become slightly askew in his dash across the street. “What are the police doing outside your shop?”

  “Come with us.” Arabella linked her arm through his. “And I’ll tell you all about it.” She glanced over her shoulder where a small crowd of people had gathered in front of Sweet Nothings. “It’s probably best if we keep this among ourselves for as long as we can.”

  That won’t be long, Emma thought, remembering how quickly word of Guy’s arrival had spread.

  FOR most of its life The Coffee Klatch had been known simply as The Paris Diner, and several of the letters were still faintly visible behind the sign announcing its new name. Although the name had been changed, the staff and customers remained much the same. The young couple that had taken over the diner after the previous owner died had invested in a fancy espresso/cappuccino maker that retained its original polish these many years later. Orders for anything fancier than coffee with cream and sugar were few and far between. And despite now being called “baristas,” the waitresses still wore frilly white aprons and called all their customers, male and female alike, “honey.”

  A long line snaked from the takeout counter to the back of The Coffee Klatch, but most of the tables were empty. Emma, Brian, Arabella and Les slid into a booth near the back.

  “Hopefully no one will find us here,” Arabella said, as she swiped a paper napkin across the table. “The less we say to people, the better.”

  A waitress arrived at their table, pad in hand, piece of gum tucked firmly behind her back molars. Her glance kept straying to the front windows of The Coffee Klatch.

  “Something’s going on down the street,” she said even before she asked for their order. “A whole lot of police cars went screaming past.” She cocked her head toward the chef flipping eggs on the griddle. “Hank said they stopped in front of Sweet Nothings. That’s your shop, isn’t it, Miss Arabella?”

  Arabella fiddled with her menu. “Yes,” she agreed reluctantly. “And how is Marshall?” she asked firmly. “Marshall is Mabel’s son, and he’s just about to start first grade,” she explained to the rest of the table.

  “Oh he’s fine,” Mabel glowed, adroitly deflected. “He’s so excited about taking the bus to school for the first time.” She tucked her pad into the pocket of her apron. “Just coffee then?” she asked, reaching out a hand for the menus.

  “Could I get some green tea?” Emma asked.

  “Green tea? I’ll see if we have any. I think they bought some a couple of years ago, but no one ever asks for it.”

  Mabel tossed her yellow curls and strode off.

  “That was close.” Brian smiled at Arabella.

  “We won’t be able to hold the questions off forever—”

  “Speaking of that,” Les cleared his throat timidly. “What is going on? Do you know?”

  Arabella hesitated. “There’s been an unfortunate accident at the shop, and a young man has been killed.”

  Les gasped. “But…” he sputtered.

  Before he could say another word, Angel Roy rushed up to their table. Her French twist was coming down around her ears, and her face was flushed with excitement. “What is going on?” she demanded before even saying hello. “There are all these police cars outside your shop, Arabella. Are you okay?”

  Arabella sighed. “Just an accident. Nothing for everyone to get so worked up over.”

  Angel looked at her watch and groaned. “Of all the days for me to have an early appointment. Gertrude Bloch is coming in for a perm. She’s going to visit her daughter in Nashville and wants to get it done before she leaves.” Angel heaved another sigh. “See you all later,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be by as soon as I’m done with Gertrude.”

  “Is that a threat or a promise?” Arabella muttered under her breath. She fell silent as Mabel approached with their coffee.

  Mabel put the cups down with a bang, sending coffee sluicing over the sides. She pushed a mug of pale liquid toward Emma. “You’re in luck. Hank found that old box of green tea.” She tossed a stack of napkins on the table. “I got a quick look-see out the door while I was getting your coffee, and I swear the cops were wheeling a body out of Sweet Nothings!”

  Arabella sighed again.

  Mabel lingered by their table, adjusting and readjusting the packets of sugar in their ceramic holder. They all stared glumly into their cups until Hank shouted for Mabel, and she went running toward the counter.

  “We’re not going to be able to keep this to ourselves.” Emma took a sip of her tea, trying to look normal, but her hand was shaking and her stomach revolted as soon as the hot brew hit bottom.

  “You’re right, of course.” Arabella ripped open a pac
ket of sugar and dumped it into her mug. “I just can’t stand gossip.” She took a sip and squared her shoulders. “It’s so destructive. Better to wait until the police know something and let them announce it to the public. Their people will know how to put the appropriate spin on things.”

  As if on cue, the front door of The Coffee Klatch banged open, and Officer Kenny barged in, blinking against the lights like a mole. He caught sight of Emma and Arabella in the back booth and headed their way with obvious determination.

  He was puffed up like a blowfish with self-importance, his eyes popping. He didn’t waste any time. “Detective Reilly wants to speak to you. Stat!”

  “Me?” Emma’s voice quavered in spite of herself.

  “Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Now.”

  Emma followed Kenny out of the restaurant. All heads swiveled in her direction, and she had the urge to grab one of the brown paper bags from the stack by the takeout window and pull it over her head. She gave one last backward glance at her friends and let the door shut in back of her.

  EMMA trotted down the street after Officer Kenny, trying to keep pace with his lumbering gait. Flanagan was standing outside Sweet Nothings, attempting to keep the crowd at bay. All heads swiveled toward Emma as she arrived, breathless and perspiring, in Kenny’s wake.

  “Excuse me. Step aside, please.”

  Kenny elbowed his way past the curious stares of Emma’s neighbors and fellow shopkeepers and shepherded her safely through the door and into the relative quiet of Sweet Nothings. Emma noticed a camera flash as Kenny led her past the scene of the crime, his broad shoulders partially blocking the view. She averted her eyes quickly. As it was, she doubted she’d ever get the image of Guy sprawled on the floor out of her mind.

  The stockroom was in shadow, the only illumination coming from the small lamp on Arabella’s desk. A man was standing with his back to Emma. He was of medium height, wearing a boxy suit and had dark hair curling over his shirt collar in back. Something about his stance seemed familiar.

  He turned around and Emma gasped.

  “Chuck Reilly!”

  “Emma Taylor,” he answered smoothly.

  “What are you doing here?” they both asked simultaneously.

  Chuck indicated for Emma to go first.

  “I’m here helping my aunt with her store.” Emma realized she sounded defensive, which was ridiculous. She had every right to come back to Paris if she wanted to.

  Chuck pulled out his wallet, flicked it open and held out his badge. “I’m a sergeant now. Made the CID, Criminal Investigation Division, that is, last year.”

  “Oh” was all Emma could say. Last she’d heard, Chuck was still a patrolman chasing down jaywalkers and helping get cats out of trees. They’d dated briefly in high school, but she’d quickly broken it off. Chuck hadn’t taken it well. He had been Henry County High School’s star running back and wasn’t used to being rejected.

  He’d made life miserable for Emma after the breakup. She hoped he was over it, because he was in a much more powerful position now. Just the thought made her palms sweat.

  “I want to ask you a few questions,” Chuck said quietly. Too quietly.

  Emma’s mouth went dry. “Okay.”

  He had her walk through the whole thing again—hearing Arabella scream, running down to Sweet Nothings, finding Guy’s body. All familiar territory now.

  Emma felt herself sag with fatigue. Chuck pointed toward the desk chair, and Emma sank into it gratefully. He pulled an armless folding chair toward him, spun it around and straddled it. “This was your ex-boyfriend, you say? What was he doing here?”

  Emma cleared her throat. She wouldn’t lie—she couldn’t. Her face would get as scarlet as Rudolph’s nose, and she’d be busted immediately. “He was here to…to try to make up with me.”

  Chuck gave a slow smile. Emma’s palms got slicker.

  “Another one of your victims?”

  Emma jerked as if she’d been jolted by an electrical current. “What do you mean—one of my victims?”

  Chuck gave a nasty laugh. “I mean another victim who felt the sting of your rejection.”

  “Look…” Emma began.

  Chuck held up a hand. “How about you let me do the talking, okay?”

  Emma sank back down into her seat. Chuck held all the cards in this round. It wasn’t fair. Why wasn’t he still giving out speeding tickets and directing traffic?

  He was a good-looking man—even better looking than he’d been in high school. Maturity had added to his attractiveness, along with the ice blue eyes and cleft chin that had drawn Emma to him in the first place. But Emma had soon discovered that Chuck’s attractiveness wasn’t more than skin deep. He oozed fake charm, but as Abraham Lincoln had so famously said, you can’t fool all the people all the time. Emma had come to her senses quickly.

  Chuck rested his hands on the back of the chair. “So, the boyfriend tracked you down in order to try to get you back?”

  Emma flashed back to the scene at L’Etoile and Nikki St. Clair draped around Guy’s shoulders. Guy had certainly chosen a strange method of trying to win her back.

  “And you met the boyfriend in the shop and had it out?” Chuck began a thorough examination of his fingernails.

  “No!” Emma protested.

  Chuck raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really?”

  “Look,” Emma held her hands out, palms up. “If I’d killed Guy, wouldn’t it have been the other way around?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” Emma took a deep breath, trying to calm the sledgehammering of her heart. “If I’d hit Guy over the head, wouldn’t it make more sense if I’d been the one trying to get him back?”

  Chuck raised an eyebrow.

  Emma sighed in exasperation. “It’s like this. Imagine that I wanted Guy to take me back. He refuses. So I”—she clenched her fists—“grab Aunt Arabella’s walking stick and clobber him over the head.” She swung her arms in an arc as if wielding a deathly blow.

  “So, that’s what happened,” Chuck declared over his steepled fingers.

  He leaned back with a smug expression on his face.

  LATER that afternoon, Arabella sat in a pool of light from the gooseneck lamp that was trained on the bundle of silk in her hands. She was repairing a slight tear in a section of lace with silk thread ordered especially from a shop in New York City. Emma noticed her hands shook slightly, although Arabella insisted she was fine after the shock of that morning.

  “The police can’t possibly think you had anything to do with it!” Arabella eased her needle into the garment in her lap.

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Liz. As soon as news of the murder had reached her, she had come running to Sweet Nothings, double-parking her station wagon in her haste. She was now perched on a stool in front of the counter, one eye trained on the street outside.

  Emma shrugged and tilted the lid of her laptop slightly. Chantelle DeLang had sent photos of several wonderful lingerie lines. “I get the impression I’m Chuck’s only suspect. He kept pointing out how I didn’t have any alibi.”

  “Lots of other people don’t either.” Brian put down the block of wood he was sanding. “Why pick on you?”

  “Think about it.” Emma bookmarked the site she was exploring and powered down her laptop. “Who else had any reason to kill Guy? No one knew him before he arrived here. Except me,” she added glumly.

  “That may be true, but what’s more important,” Arabella said, knotting the end of her thread, “is what are we going to do about it?”

  “What do you mean?” Emma ran a hand through her hair. She rolled her shoulders forward and back. She was so tired. She couldn’t wait to crawl into bed and put this day behind her.

  “Do you mean we should do some of our own investigating?” Brian wiped his hands on a rag, balled it up and stuffed it into his toolbox.

  Arabella arched an eyebrow as she deftly slid her needle through the periwinkle blue silk
in her hands. “Why not? Surely among us we can muster a few more brain cells than that pathetic Chuck Reilly.”

  Brian laughed, and Emma managed a small smile in spite of her worries.

  “Sure, why not?” Emma shrugged and glanced at Brian.

  “I’m in.” Brian gave Emma a big smile.

  “Me, too, although I’ll have to work around Ben and Alice’s schedule.” Liz slid off her stool in her excitement.

  Emma felt her spirits lift. “There’s Nikki St. Clair, although Chuck didn’t seem to think much of that angle.”

  “Nikki?” Brian’s head swiveled in Emma’s direction. “Who’s Nikki?”

  “She’s the blonde who was with Guy that night at the restaurant. When I arrived at L’Etoile.” Emma shuddered. “She was draped all over him.” Her lips curled in disgust.

  “Oh, no!” Arabella exclaimed, dropping the peignoir she was working on.

  “What’s the matter?” Emma, Brian and Liz all rushed to her side.

  “It’s nothing. I just pricked my finger.”

  “Do you want me to get—”

  “No.” Arabella shook her head. “I was just afraid I might get blood on the fabric.” She examined the stretch of lace carefully. “Fortunately, I don’t seem to have done any damage.”

  Emma thought of the blood pooling under Guy’s head and felt her stomach turn over.

  “I think we need to track down this Nikki.” Brian began putting his tools away. “Was she someone local?”

  “Uh, not exactly. She must have come down with Guy from New York. You’d know her if you saw her. She’s a rather well-known lingerie model.” Emma thought Brian’s eyes lit up, and she had a pang of what felt an awful lot like jealousy.

  “Do you think she’s still here in Paris?” Arabella snipped the end of her thread.

  “It’s possible. I know Guy’s return flight was for tomorrow. If she came down with him, she probably planned to leave with him as well.”

  “I wonder where she’s staying?” Brian said.