Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  The picture changed, and there was a young girl in a black leather jacket posed against the red door of a brownstone on the corner of Perry Street. She wasn’t a model—Guy liked to approach women on the street and ask if he could take their picture. He felt the resultant shots were more spontaneous and more genuine. If this photo was anything to go by, he was right.

  “He certainly could take a good picture,” Arabella said, and leaned closer to the screen.

  The kaleidoscope of photos changed from New York City street scenes to rolling green hills and empty meadows. Emma’s stomach tightened. They were getting closer to the more recent snaps. She was half afraid they wouldn’t find anything useful, and half afraid they would.

  Emma recognized Nikki in the next photo and felt her jaw clench. The setting looked familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it. Nikki was peering out from between tall, ornamental grasses with only her face and a bare, bronzed arm and leg visible. With her cat eyes rimmed in black she looked like an exotic wild animal. Emma’s mouse hovered over the NEXT button. There was something about the picture that was familiar. It came to her—it must have been taken outside the Beau Hotel, on the island covered with striped grasses. Now they were really close. Her stomach clenched another notch tighter. Maybe the next photograph would tell them…something.

  The next picture was a shot of downtown Paris. Emma wondered if Guy had taken it when he first arrived. The following one zeroed in on the front of Sweet Nothings with its white awning and name in elegant black script. Paris’s own Eiffel Tower filled the next photograph.

  Arabella pointed at it. “That must have been when Angel took Guy on the tour of Paris.”

  Emma clicked to the next image. “Here she is posing in front of it.” She leaned closer trying to see if there was anything to be discerned from the photograph.

  “Angel photographs well, I’ll give her that,” Arabella said as she, too, leaned closer for a better look.

  Following were several more pictures taken in and around Paris. Emma clicked through them with a sinking heart. It didn’t look as if Guy’s camera was going to reveal much of anything at all.

  Emma almost clicked past the last slide, but something caught her eye, and she hit the back arrow.

  “Who’s that?” Arabella retrieved her glasses from the top of her head and settled them on her nose.

  Emma studied the photograph. A stable door was in the foreground, and a young couple embracing was in the background. The woman had on a crisp white shirt and jodhpurs that showed off her slim figure. The man had a cowboy hat pushed to the back of his head.

  “Wait just a minute,” Arabella declared, pointing at the photo. “I think I know who that is.”

  Emma had come to the same conclusion. And now she suspected she knew why Guy had been murdered.

  He’d been up to something.

  Blackmail, by the looks of it.

  “WHO is it?” Kate looked from Emma to Arabella and back again, her eyes huge behind her smudged lenses.

  “If I’m not mistaken…” Arabella adjusted her glasses and peered more closely at the picture. She tapped a finger against the woman’s image on the screen. “That’s Deirdre Porter. And,” she said, turning toward Emma and Kate, “that”—she tapped the computer screen again—“isn’t Peyton Porter.”

  “Do you mean…?” Kate’s eyes got even bigger, and a slow flush rose from her neck to her cheeks to her forehead.

  “Absolutely.” Arabella nodded. “It looks like your friend Guy caught Mrs. Porter in a compromising position. A very compromising position, indeed.”

  “They’ve only got their arms around each other. It doesn’t necessarily mean anything,” Kate protested.

  Arabella raised an eyebrow. “True. But I doubt Peyton Porter is going to like seeing his wife with her arm around Skip Clark. Especially since it was Skip Clark who tackled Peyton during football practice and broke his arm. Peyton missed the big game when all the college scouts came looking.” Arabella paused. “And even if Peyton can’t muster some anger, his parents certainly will. Especially Marjorie Porter. She holds the purse strings in that family, and she’s as tight as a tick. She’s a Davenport. Her family made all their money from a special skin care lotion that they eventually sold to Revlon for a small fortune. They didn’t make as much money as the Mitchums, of course. The Mitchums started the Paris Toilet company, which sold bleaching creams before they developed their famous antiperspirant. I think it’s always stuck in Marjorie’s craw that the Mitchum name is better known than that of the Davenports. She’s not letting a dime of the hard-earned family fortune escape. If Deirdre embarrasses her son, she’ll be out on the street without even the clothes on her back. And there’s no use her looking to the Blackmores,” Arabella turned toward Emma. “That’s her family. Very well connected but without a dime to their name. Deirdre’s great-great grandfather gambled and drank away all their money a long time ago.” Arabella leaned back in her chair. “A friend of mine’s daughter was at UT with Deirdre—same sorority I think. She told me all about it.”

  “And I did hear those two ladies talking that day at Angel Cuts,” Emma said. “This isn’t the first time someone’s suggested there’s something going on between Deirdre and her riding instructor.”

  Arabella nodded. “And Guy managed to get proof.” She tapped the computer screen again. “Are there more pictures?”

  “I don’t think so.” Emma hit the forward button, but the next photograph to appear was the first street scene of New York. They were back at the beginning again.

  “Should we tell the police?” Kate worried her bottom lip with her teeth.

  “I don’t think it would do any good.” Emma’s shoulders slumped. “They seem determined to pin the crime on me.”

  “What if I mentioned it to Francis? And asked him to look into it for us?”

  “He’s already said he leaves most of the detecting to the local force.”

  “But perhaps, just this once—”

  Emma stifled a sob and swiped at the tears that sprang to her eyes.

  “Oh, sweetie,” Arabella put her arm around her niece. “This changes the game, don’t you think? Maybe Guy tried to blackmail Deirdre. And even if he didn’t, just the existence of this photograph could have put his life in danger.” She gave Emma a squeeze. She pointed to the young man on the screen. “If Skip is really crazy about Deirdre, who knows what he would do to protect her and her reputation.”

  Emma sniffed back her tears and straightened her shoulders. “You’re right, Aunt Arabella. But I think we should look into it ourselves first before going to Francis. If we can present him with some hard facts…”

  “Excellent idea.” Arabella held up her hand for a fist bump. “What’s that look for?”

  “Nothing,” Emma said as she joined Arabella and Kate in sealing their decision. “I didn’t think you’d be up on the latest—”

  Arabella sniffed. “I’m not that old, you know.”

  “ARE you open yet?”

  Emma was unlocking the front door of Sweet Nothings the next morning when two young women approached her.

  “Not yet, no. But our grand opening is next week. If you don’t mind waiting a second, I’ll get you a card with all the information.”

  “That would be super.” The taller girl giggled.

  “We can’t wait till you open,” the other one said.

  “How nice.” Emma smiled.

  “Yeah,” the taller one said, cracking her gum. “We can’t wait to see where that man was murdered.”

  They both giggled.

  “But…” Emma got the door open and went inside to grab some postcards off the counter. “Here.” She handed one to each of the girls.

  “Thanks.” They chorused as they flounced on down the street.

  Great, Emma thought. She’d been imagining Sweet Nothings becoming renowned for its beautiful vintage garments and innovative new stock, not becoming notorious as the site of a murder.


  Would that entice people to the grand opening or repel them? she wondered.

  Emma vowed to print the photo from Guy’s memory card as soon as possible. That photograph changed everything. It might provide the clue that would solve this whole mess.

  She would have to figure out a way to approach Deirdre. She suspected Arabella was right—Skip Clark probably had taken it upon himself to protect Deirdre. Perhaps he’d just meant to talk to Guy, but things had gotten out of hand. Maybe Nikki had put two and two together and had had to be eliminated as well? It’s quite possible she had seen the photograph on Guy’s camera herself.

  Undoubtedly Skip had told Deirdre about it. Probably said he didn’t want her to worry, things had been taken care of—not realizing that any sane person wouldn’t condone murder no matter what. Was Deirdre tossing and turning at night not knowing what to do? If she turned in Skip, she’d be exposing their affair, but how could she feel the same about him knowing what he’d done? Maybe the slightest bit of pressure would get her talking. Or, better yet, a sympathetic ear. No doubt Deirdre was just dying to talk to someone.

  A sharp bark heralded Pierre and Arabella’s arrival. Pierre burst through the door with his usual enthusiasm and proceeded to circle the shop, sniffing furiously.

  “What’s he doing?” Emma watched as Pierre rounded the room for the second time.

  “I think he hid his bone here somewhere yesterday.” Arabella put her handbag behind the counter. “He’s been looking for it everywhere.”

  Just then Pierre backed out from behind the counter triumphantly dragging a half-chewed rawhide bone. He carried it to his dog bed and nestled in for a good gnaw.

  “Thank goodness he’s happy now. He was driving me crazy,” Arabella said.

  Emma told her about the two girls who had stopped by earlier.

  Arabella sighed. “I know. Whenever I go to Angel Cuts or Meat Mart everyone stops talking the minute I walk in. I do hope this doesn’t hurt business.”

  “I think curiosity will bring people out.” Emma opened one of the drawers. “And when they see these beautiful things, they’ll buy.”

  “I do hope you’re right.”

  THE sign Emma had ordered arrived later that morning. It announced their grand opening and fashion show in script that matched the Sweet Nothings canopy.

  “That should get everyone’s attention.” Arabella stood back and admired it.

  “Now to get it into the window.”

  “Be careful.” Arabella followed behind Emma, making sure the corner of the sign didn’t hit anything. “Maybe we should get some help?”

  Emma looked over her shoulder, one eyebrow raised. “By help, do you mean Brian?”

  Arabella looked sheepish. “Well, it is nice having him around.”

  It certainly is, Emma thought. Every time the phone rang, she hoped—But Brian was busy, she knew that. That project outside of town was huge.

  “If you can hold the sign while I step into the window…” Emma pulled herself up and turned toward Arabella. “I can take it now.” Emma carefully maneuvered the sign into the small space. She centered it and turned back to Arabella. “If you can push the mannequin a little closer…”

  Emma indicated the mannequin she’d dressed in a sky blue chiffon and lace Ro-Vel nightgown and peignoir set from the sixties. She planned to put it in the window along with the sign.

  “Fingers crossed. Let’s hope this generates some buzz,” Emma said.

  “Honey, all we have to do is announce we’re serving hors d’oeuvres and we’ll have the whole town lined up outside.”

  A couple of people stopped and watched as Emma corrected the positioning of the sign and angled the mannequin just so. Being perched in the window gave her a unique view of Washington Street. She caught sight of Les coming out of The Toggery and noticed him glance across the street at Sweet Nothings. He paused for a moment but then continued walking. He hadn’t gotten far when Emma noticed Francis coming down the street.

  “Uh-oh.”

  “What is it, dear?”

  Emma poked her head back into the shop briefly. “Les is across the street.” She glanced back over her shoulder. “And Francis is coming straight toward him. Les’s face is getting all red.”

  “Oh, dear.” Arabella put a foot on the window ledge. “Here, give me a hand.”

  “Are you sure—”

  Arabella grasped Emma’s hand and pulled herself up. “Yes, I’m sure. Stop fretting, dear, it will give you wrinkles.”

  They both turned to look out the window. Francis was obviously angling to go around Les, a noncommittal look on his face, when Les took a step forward and purposely bumped him.

  Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh, dear. This is not going to end well.”

  Francis stopped in his tracks, the same bland look on his face, as if he expected Les to apologize and then move out of the way. Les was obviously having none of it. He balled his hands into fists and stood in front of Francis.

  “Very brave of him, don’t you think?” Emma indicated Les, who was dwarfed by Francis.

  “Or very foolish.” Arabella’s nose was glued to the glass as she watched the scene unfold.

  Francis stood with his arms crossed over his chest while Les made ineffectual jabbing motions with his fists. Finally, Francis put his hand on Les’s shoulder, gently moved him out of the way and continued down the street.

  They could see Les’s mouth moving but couldn’t hear what he was saying.

  “Probably a good thing,” Arabella commented sagely.

  “And I thought small-town living was going to be dull.”

  Arabella laughed. “Good heavens, this place is positively seething with passions and secrets and I don’t know what else.”

  Murder, Emma thought to herself. That’s what else.

  She helped Arabella out of the window and was about to jump down herself when she spied Sylvia Brodsky coming down the street, her oxygen tank on wheels bumping and swerving behind her. She appeared to be headed toward the front door of Sweet Nothings.

  “Sylvia’s coming,” she said to Arabella.

  Arabella pulled open the front door and stood aside as Sylvia maneuvered over the doorstep. Pierre gave her a perfunctory sniff and went back to his rawhide bone.

  Sylvia paused and took several drafts of oxygen. She had a paisley scarf pulled down nearly to her eyebrows, gold hoops in her ears and a ring on each of her gnarled fingers. She looked like a cross between a pirate and one of the Rolling Stones.

  “I’ve got something very important to tell you,” she wheezed between breaths of oxygen.

  “What?” Both Emma and Arabella stopped and stared at her.

  “Danger,” Sylvia eked out before beginning a prolonged and intense coughing fit.

  Emma and Arabella looked at each other.

  “Maybe a glass of water?” Arabella suggested.

  “I’ll get it.” Emma flew into the back room and filled a glass with cold water. She didn’t really believe in Sylvia’s pronouncements, but, on the other hand, she couldn’t quite dismiss them out of hand, either.

  Sylvia waved the glass of water away and continued to wheeze and hack. Finally, the coughing spell sputtered to an end. Sylvia stood with her hands on her knees, panting slightly. She took a couple of hits of oxygen and straightened up, her hoop earrings swinging back and forth.

  “I laid out the cards this morning. Well, I do it every morning, as you know. Can’t start my day unless I know how it’s going to turn out.”

  Arabella didn’t say anything, but Emma noticed her raised eyebrows.

  “First card I pull is the Moon. Can you believe it? Never before. Never. This was a first.”

  “What is the significance of the Moon card?” Arabella retrieved some glass cleaner from behind the counter and began to wipe down the countertops.

  “Significance?” Sylvia sputtered, shaking her head. Her earrings swung so violently, Emma was afraid they might take flight.<
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  “Deception!” Sylvia barked, her eyes darkening. “Hidden enemies!”

  “And just what does that mean?” Arabella spritzed the counter with the cleanser and tore a new section of paper towels off the roll.

  “It means…” Sylvia paused dramatically. “Someone is not who they say they are!” She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and blew her nose with a loud honk. “Someone is trying to fool us.” She shook a finger at Emma and Arabella. “And that friend of yours,” she pointed at Emma, “had just walked into the room when I pulled the card.” She finished triumphantly.

  “Kate!”

  Sylvia nodded. “What if she isn’t who she says she is?”

  “But I know Kate,” Emma protested. “I’ve known her for a couple of years. She’s a perfectly nice, normal—”

  “Okay, so maybe it’s not Kate. But someone is deceiving us. The cards said so!”

  “Far be it from me to argue with the cards.” Arabella rolled her eyes.

  “The murderer,” Emma said. “The murderer is certainly deceiving us.”

  “WHO’S thirsty?” Arabella bustled out of the back room with a pitcher of lemonade and a plate of cookies.

  Sylvia was perched on a stool helping fold stock, and Emma was sorting through the negligees and peignoirs in the glass-fronted cupboards.

  “None for me, thanks.” Sylvia waved Arabella’s plate away. “I’ve kind of lost my appetite lately.”

  Arabella paused. “Why? What’s the matter?”

  Sylvia shrugged, and her earrings bobbed back and forth. “The kids want to put me in one of those assisted living places. They’re trying to say I’m not safe living on my own anymore.” She threw her hands up. “Just because of a little fire!”

  “What fire?”

  “It wasn’t anything. Just some smoke. I left the teakettle on the stove a little too long. I was watching something on the television and forgot all about it. Someone saw the smoke and called the fire department.” Sylvia shook her head.

  “That could happen to anyone,” Emma said, remembering the time the wind had blown her curtains into a lit candle. Guy had thrown his glass of wine at the flames. A very nice Château Lafite Rothschild Guy had brought to celebrate…something. Emma could no longer remember what. She tried to swallow the memory past the lump in her throat.