Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  Emma laughed. “You’re right. I guess we’re going to have to handle this ourselves.” She hopped off the desk. “Ready?”

  DEIRDRE and Peyton Porter lived in a new development of houses just outside of town. Emma was surprised that with their money they hadn’t bought one of the grand old homes in need of fixing up. But perhaps that wouldn’t have been Deirdre’s idea of grand. Perhaps Deirdre was more interested in granite countertops, double sinks and spa tubs than owning a piece of history.

  The development was named Arbor Woods, an inapt description since the developer had razed almost all of the trees that had once shaded the acreage. They drove slowly down the street, craning their necks to see the house numbers. Each home looked bigger than the next, and Emma wasn’t surprised to see that the Porters’ home was the biggest of them all.

  “Would you look at that?” Arabella leaned out the car window and glanced up at the part-Georgian, part-Victorian wonder that loomed over them. “It has everything but a moat.”

  “I don’t know about that.” Emma pointed toward the front door. “Looks like that little bridge crosses over some kind of man-made creek.”

  Arabella squinted. “You know, I think you’re right. This place really is something.”

  The triple garage was made to look like a stable block, and they could see Deirdre’s red sports car pulled in front of the far door.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’m feeling slightly nervous,” Emma said as the approached the double oak doors. She lifted the enormous brass knocker, and tapped it tentatively. They heard the clang echoing inside the house.

  Emma half expected a maid to answer the door, but Deirdre opened it herself. Her face looked red, as if she’d just scrubbed it, and the hair around her face was damp. She looked startled when she saw them.

  Emma handed her the box of chocolates. “I’m sorry, but something seemed to have upset you at Sweet Nothings. We feel really badly about it.”

  “It’s not your fault.” Deirdre opened the door wider and motioned for them to enter.

  The foyer was two stories tall with a nearly blinding crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The foyer itself was large enough to hold a small party and was dominated by a sweeping circular staircase that rose to a second floor balcony. Emma could see the dining room to the left, with a table that could hold twenty people, and a cavernous living room to the right.

  They followed Deirdre down the hall and into a smaller room made cozy with red paint and book-lined walls. A comfortable sofa and two chairs were arranged in front of a large, flat screen television. A magazine lay open on the coffee table.

  Arabella and Emma perched on the edge of the sofa while Deirdre curled up in one of the chairs, one leg tucked under her and her arms crossed defensively over her chest.

  Emma felt heat rushing to her face. She had no idea how to begin. She hated the thought of upsetting Deirdre even more, but how else was she going to solve Guy’s and Nikki’s murders? She looked at Arabella out of the corner of her eye and noticed she looked equally uncomfortable. Her hands were folded in her lap, and she was kneading her fingers like bread dough.

  “Women can be so catty.” Deirdre picked up the decorative cushion on the chair and hugged it to her chest. “They don’t care who they hurt with their gossiping tongues.” She hid her face in the cushion momentarily. “Especially if you’re pretty. Then they hate you for it and want to make you pay.”

  Emma cleared her throat and managed to find her voice. “So none of it was true? About Peyton leaving?”

  Deirdre raised her chin. “He’s on a business trip. He’ll be home in three days.”

  Emma saw the shadow that crossed Deirdre’s face. Deirdre wasn’t being completely truthful. Perhaps Peyton really was on a business trip—but had he left in anger after a fight?

  “So everything is okay between you and Peyton?”

  “Of course. Why shouldn’t it be?” Deirdre plucked at some loose strings on the pillow.

  “I thought perhaps he might have seen this.” Emma pulled the photograph Guy had taken from her purse. She glanced at it again.

  “What’s that?” Deirdre’s back immediately stiffened.

  Emma passed her the picture.

  Deirdre held it by the edges as if it were radioactive. She didn’t say anything at first, and Emma couldn’t read the expression on her face. Finally, she turned the photo over, glanced at the back, which was blank, and tossed it back at Emma.

  Deirdre gave a bark of laughter. “So Skip put his arm around me and some sneak photographer thought it was a Kodak moment.” She threw the pillow on the floor. “My horse had just thrown me, and I was upset. Skip was trying to comfort me. Any law against that?” She stared at Emma, her face white except for two bright red patches high on her cheekbones.

  “I’m guessing your husband wouldn’t be very happy to see that,” Emma ventured, brandishing the photograph. She felt Arabella stiffen beside her.

  “Well, he’s not going to see it, is he? Unless you’re planning on showing it to him.” Deirdre’s eyes bored into Emma’s.

  She was already in up to her neck, Emma thought. She might as well go all the way. She took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to plunge into deep water, and said, “Something tells me Peyton might have already seen this photograph.”

  Deirdre arched one carefully plucked brow. “Really?” She drew the word out in full Southern drawl. “Did you show it to him?”

  Emma jumped. That wasn’t the response she had expected.

  “Of course not!” Arabella protested. “We would never do that. I hope you realize that. We’re simply trying to get to the bottom of things.”

  “Like whether I’m cheating on my husband?” Deirdre sprang from her seat and went to lean on the fireplace mantle.

  “I could care less about that,” Emma said. “What I’m trying to find out is who killed Guy Richard and why.”

  “And you think that picture has something to do with it?”

  “I think Guy was trying to use it for blackmail, and it backfired.”

  “You think I killed him?” Deirdre laughed, and this time she sounded genuinely amused.

  “Not you, necessarily. But I do think he tried to blackmail you.”

  Deirdre plunked down in the chair again and leaned back with her legs crossed. “And what on earth gave you that idea?”

  “The fact that you seem to be in need of money.”

  “What!” Deirdre swept an arm around the room. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Then why did you try to sell the diamond and sapphire bracelet your husband gave you for a wedding gift?”

  Deirdre’s jaw literally dropped. “How…how did you know about that?” She stuttered. She jumped to her feet. “Have you been going around asking questions about me? How dare you!”

  She picked up the photograph Emma had placed on the coffee table halfway between them. She looked at it for a long minute then tore it in half and threw down the pieces. She glared at Emma and Arabella. “Now I think it’s time our little visit was over.”

  “Do you think she’ll still be willing to model in our fashion show?” Emma said as the door slammed in back of them so hard the pots of pink geraniums by the entrance jumped.

  Arabella glanced over her shoulder. “I think that’s our answer.”

  ARABELLA, Emma and Liz were curled up on the sofa in Arabella’s living room watching a DVD of Bette Davis in All About Eve. The movie made Emma wish she’d known New York City in the fifties. Everything looked so sophisticated. Although she was having trouble keeping her mind on the movie and off of Guy’s and Nikki’s murders. How were they going to find out if Guy had tried to blackmail Deirdre?

  “Maybe Guy didn’t approach Deirdre first!” Emma exclaimed suddenly.

  The others jumped.

  “What do you mean?” Arabella pressed the PAUSE button on the remote.

  “Maybe Guy showed the photograph to Skip, and he told Deirdre about it
. Maybe he even suggested she sell her jewelry to pay the money Guy demanded.”

  “Even if Guy didn’t go to Skip, Skip would certainly know about it. Probably the first thing Deirdre did was run to him. That’s what I would do,” Arabella said.

  “You might be right.” Liz reached for another tortilla chip and dipped it into the bowl of Arabella’s homemade salsa. “Are you going to go talk to Skip now?”

  Emma made a face. “I suppose I’ll have to. I can’t say I’m looking forward to it after that conversation with Deirdre.”

  “I’ll go with you.” Liz offered.

  Emma grinned. “I’m not going to turn you down. I need all the moral support I can get.”

  EMMA realized she’d worn the wrong shoes as soon as she got out of the car at Skip Clark’s farm the next morning. Her feet sank into the mud, and muck oozed up and over her sandals and between her toes. It sucked at her feet and squelched as she walked. She noticed Liz glancing at her.

  “You’ll get used to our country ways soon enough.” Liz laughed.

  Emma checked out Liz’s shoes and noticed she’d chosen a pair of solid-soled clogs and had no trouble traversing the rutted road that led to the barn. If Emma was going to be visiting any more farms, she’d have to invest in a pair of those herself.

  They reached the barn, eased open the door and peered inside. The darkness was intense after the light of the day, and they both blinked furiously.

  “I can’t see anything, can you?” Emma rubbed her eyes.

  “Not a thing.” Liz leaned around the edge of the door. She turned toward Emma. “But I don’t think anyone’s in there. What would they be doing in the dark?”

  “True.” Emma let the door close. She surveyed the acres of dirt and patchy grass that surrounded them. Her legs were already speckled with mud, and the thought of walking across all that mire made her feel sick. But if they were going to talk to Skip Clark, they’d have to find him.

  They started across the field in front of the barn. Every step threatened to suck the shoes off Emma’s feet. She closed her eyes in misery and reminded herself of what she was after. If she didn’t find out who killed Guy, the police would try to hang it on her. And even if they were unsuccessful, she knew enough about small towns to know that a cloud would hang over her forever. She could picture herself walking around with a cartoon-like bubble over her head with the words suspected of murder written inside in bold, black letters. And at the rate she was going, it looked like she would be living in Paris forever. Brian’s face crossed her mind, and she felt a small smile tugging at her lips until she remembered Amy, whoever she was.

  They hadn’t gone far when the sound of horse’s hooves pounding the earth was carried on the air toward them. A tuneless whistling reached them next and finally a speck of brown appeared on the horizon. The speck grew until they could see it was Skip Clark riding toward them.

  He pulled up sharply alongside Emma and dismounted, throwing the reins over the horse’s neck. The horse stood obligingly near, snorting and pawing the ground with its hooves.

  “You gals looking to take some riding lessons?” Skip pushed his hat farther back on his head and smiled broadly. Emma noticed not only how green his eyes were but also how alert and intelligent. Skip Clark was no fool, no matter how much dust clung to his boots.

  “Not exactly.” Emma hemmed, not sure where to begin.

  He gave them both a long, appraising look. “So what can I do for you ladies then?” He crossed his arms over his chest, and Emma could see the muscles bulging under his T-shirt.

  Emma looked at Liz, and Liz looked back at her. It reminded Emma of high school when she and Liz would get in some scrape or other, each praying the other would get them out of it. She decided not to beat around the bush. She pulled the photo Guy had taken from her pocket.

  Skip looked at it and shrugged. “So?”

  Emma closed her eyes as the heat rushed into her cheeks. Keep cool, she reminded herself. It was just like negotiating a better price for a new line of lingerie. She smiled at Skip. “I agree, it doesn’t mean much by itself.”

  Liz looked at Emma with her mouth open in surprise.

  “I’m sure there are plenty of innocent reasons why you might have put your arm around a married woman’s shoulders.”

  Skip snorted. “You got that right. I’m the touchy-feely type despite my crusty exterior. So what of it?”

  “I happen to know that Mrs. Porter,” Emma began, and gestured toward the photo, “sold a very valuable and very sentimental piece of jewelry in order to get cash. You know what that says to me?”

  “No, what?” Skip smiled and his eyes crinkled as if he were enjoying this.

  “To me, it sounds like blackmail,” Emma finished dramatically, like a lawyer summing up before the jury.

  “Does it really?” Skip rocked back on his heels, the look of amusement still on his face.

  “Why? What does it say to you?” Emma shot back defensively.

  “To me…” Skip paused and slapped the horse on the rump affectionately. “It says she wanted to buy something and needed the money to do it.”

  “Really?” Emma couldn’t keep the sarcasm out of her voice. She could picture Deirdre’s enormous house with all its beautiful furniture, and the expensive little sports car parked out front. As if she had to worry about money!

  “Yes, really.” Skip’s eyes danced, and Emma got the impression he was enjoying this.

  He was a damned good-looking man, and he obviously knew it. But right now Emma found him merely infuriating. “What was this mysterious something she wanted to buy?”

  “You seem to be pretty keen on playing detective. I think I’ll let you figure that out for yourself,” Skip said, infuriating Emma even more.

  “WHAT did you think of him?” Emma asked as they bounced back down the rutted road leading away from Skip Clark’s barn.

  “I thought he was kind of cute actually.” Liz gave a last backward glance at the farm.

  “He was. Is,” Emma admitted. Her hands clenched on the steering wheel. “But so…so…annoying at the same time.” She flipped on her blinker for a left turn. “I don’t know what Deirdre sees in him.”

  “Do you think it’s possible that she’s really just taking riding lessons from him?” There was a note of amusement in Liz’s voice.

  Emma shook her head. “I hope not. Because if that’s the case then she had no reason to murder Guy. And I’m back to square one on this.”

  Emma glanced out the window where a farmhouse stood in the midst of a manicured lawn that gave way to acres of cultivated fields. There were rockers out on the big wraparound, farm-style porch, and an American flag waved in the breeze from the pole in the center of the front lawn.

  “That doesn’t rule out Skip Clark though. Maybe Guy approached him with the photograph instead of Deirdre.”

  “Or, more likely, Deirdre wouldn’t play along, and he had to go with plan B. Plan B being Skip Clark.”

  “If we could just put Guy at the farm, that would clinch things. But the place is in the middle of nowhere.”

  “I wonder if Skip has any help. You know, someone to give him a hand grooming the horses and mucking out the stalls. Maybe someone who gives lessons part of the time, too.”

  “Good point.”

  “And just maybe they were there when Guy came by with his photograph.”

  “Could be. But how will we find out?”

  “I don’t suppose we can just waltz up to Skip and ask him.”

  Liz laughed. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t tell us.”

  “Yeah, and he’d enjoy every minute of not telling us.” Emma eased on the brake as the light in front of them turned red. “But someone must know. We’ll just have to ask more questions.”

  The very thought made Emma groan.

  “WHAT did you find out?” Arabella asked the minute they opened the door to Sweet Nothings. She’d pulled a stool up to the counter and was busy addressing a stac
k of invitations to the Sweet Nothings grand opening. Emma looked at one and sighed in amazement. Arabella’s handwriting was as beautiful as a calligrapher’s. Emma’s own rather decent penmanship began deteriorating in college when she was forced to take notes at warp speed, and it had disintegrated even further with the time she now spent on the computer.

  She’d had the invitations printed at a shop in Jackson—an oversized postcard with a photograph of the awning outside the shop with Sweet Nothings scrawled in black script. It was one of the photos Guy had taken of the front of the store. Emma felt her heart lurch at the thought of Guy being gone forever. She found she was now remembering the good moments far more than the bad.

  Liz began sticking stamps on the cards Arabella had finished. “We didn’t have much luck,” she responded glumly.

  Emma nodded in agreement. “Skip Clark refused to tell us much of anything. But I got the feeling,” she added, turning toward Liz for confirmation, “that he knew exactly what Deirdre needed the money for.”

  “Definitely,” Liz agreed. “He seemed to think it was amusing to make us fish for it.”

  “What did you think of Skip Clark?” Arabella put the finishing touches on one of the invitations and added it to the stack. “His family has run that farm for generations, although I don’t know much about Skip himself. I remember his mother had polio as a child and always walked with a limp.”

  Emma shook her head in amazement. Arabella was a walking treasure trove of information about Paris and its occupants. “He’s very attractive,” Emma admitted.

  Liz looked up suddenly. “But not as attractive as Brian. I know he’s my brother and all, but still…”

  Emma laughed. “Don’t worry. Brian has him beat hands down.”

  Liz looked relieved. “Do you think it’s possible that Skip is the one who killed Guy? For Deirdre’s sake?”

  “He certainly looked capable of it,” Emma said, recalling the sight of Skip’s muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt.

  “His mother is as sweet as can be despite all she’s been through, but his father…” Arabella shook her head. “The Clark men are known for their temper.”