Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  “We need to find out if Guy approached Skip with the photograph. We’re hoping maybe someone saw him. We need to find out if anyone helps out at the barn—you know, with the horses and stables. They might have seen something.”

  Arabella paused with her pen above the last invitation. “Maybe ask Mabel at The Coffee Klatch. She has a younger sister who’s crazy about horses and runs in that circle. She might know.”

  “I feel the sudden urge for a cup of coffee coming on.” Emma smiled and turned to Liz and Arabella. “Can I get you anything?”

  A damp breeze was blowing, and Emma felt the shorter hairs around her face curling in the humidity. A handful of people were walking along the sidewalk, peering into windows before darting into the air-conditioned depths of Paris’s various stores and boutiques. She waved to a burly, bald man with a waxed and pointed handlebar moustache. She recognized him as the owner of Leo’s, the local barbershop.

  She passed Meat Mart, and Willie Williams waved as she went by. He was always behind the counter whenever she went in for something. He was tall and skinny with a very prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down when he talked.

  Emma felt a glow of satisfaction as she pushed open the door to The Coffee Klatch. She hadn’t been back in Paris all that long, but she already felt at home.

  She slipped inside the restaurant and stood for a moment, savoring the feel of the cool air on her skin. She looked around but didn’t immediately see Mabel. She hesitated, but then the swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and Mabel backed out with a tray laden with cups of coffee and slices of various kinds of pie.

  Emma wasn’t at all hungry—her stomach was churning like the Atlantic Ocean during a hurricane—but she thought she’d have a better chance of chatting with Mabel if she ordered something. She slipped into a seat at a table for two and picked up the plastic-coated menu. She turned it over and scanned the desserts, but she wasn’t in the mood for anything sweet. More like an order of fries.

  A couple of minutes later, Mabel slid by and dropped a napkin-wrapped set of silverware on the table along with a sweating glass of water set on a scalloped paper doily.

  “Help you?” Mabel held her pencil poised over her dog-eared order pad.

  Emma smiled. “Just some fries, I think. And do you have any malt vinegar?” she asked as she handed Mabel the menu.

  “Gotta check with the chef. You still want the fries regardless?”

  “Sure.” Emma nodded.

  Mabel skittered away, and Emma mentally kicked herself. She’d have to seize the moment when Mabel came back with the order. She sat with her hands gripped in her lap, her eyes glued to the swinging door to the kitchen.

  The doors opened and Mabel came out carrying a tray laden with burgers and sodas for a group of teens sitting near the window. Moments later, Emma saw straw wrappers shooting through the air like streamers as the kids erupted into fits of giggling. She remembered doing the exact same thing when she was their age. Right now that seemed like a million years ago.

  Mabel came out from the kitchen once more, but this time she had a tray of food for two businessmen who were sitting together but were both conversing with someone else on their cell phones. No one else was waiting, and Emma hoped it would stay that way so Mabel would be inclined to linger and chat.

  Finally the doors opened again, and Mabel emerged with a plate in one hand and a bottle in the other.

  “Here you go.” She slid the fries in front of Emma and plunked the bottle down next to them. “Chef managed to dig up some malt vinegar, although why anyone would want to put that on fries, I don’t know. He said it was common in England, but I thought you were from these parts?”

  Emma was encouraged by Mabel’s chattiness. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all.

  “Born and raised in Paris.” Emma answered. “But an English friend introduced me to a splash of malt vinegar on my fries, and I discovered I liked it.”

  Mabel shuddered. “To each his own, I guess. Anything else I can get you?” She grabbed a sweating stainless pitcher of ice water off the waiter’s station and refilled Emma’s glass.

  Emma shook her head, searching her frantic brain for a way to keep Mabel talking. Fortunately, Mabel must have heard her silent plea.

  “You hear anything new on that murder in Miss Arabella’s shop? I haven’t seen nothing about it in the papers for days now.”

  “As far as I know, there isn’t anything new. But Arabella and I have been doing some of our own sleuthing,” Emma dropped her voice to a whisper. Just as she’d hoped, Mabel leaned in closer and got comfortable.

  “I can’t tell you everything,” Emma paused and looked down at her plate. She didn’t know all that much about marketing, but she did know a little something!

  As she suspected, Mabel rose to the bait with a gasp and indrawn breath.

  “I won’t tell a soul, don’t you worry about a thing.”

  Emma locked eyes with her. “Promise?”

  Mabel nodded eagerly and slipped into the empty seat opposite Emma. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder, toward the kitchen, but then turned her gaze back toward Emma.

  “Well. I really shouldn’t tell anyone this…” Emma paused for dramatic effect. “But I think Guy—he’s the photographer who was killed—got a snapshot of someone doing something with someone they shouldn’t,” she finished enigmatically.

  Mabel looked confused. “But who…where…how?”

  “Do you know Deirdre Porter?”

  Mabel tossed her head and gave a snort. “I sure do. Talk about putting on airs, as my mama used to say. May she rest in peace.”

  “Well.” Emma paused again, her eyes on Mabel’s. “It looks as if she might be having an affair with her riding instructor.”

  “Skip Clark?” Mabel said, disappointed. “Everyone in Paris knows about that. Not that I think there’s anything to it, mind you. I can’t see Skip being Deirdre’s type or vice versa. Besides, there’s too much money at stake. And Peyton isn’t exactly hard to look at, if you get my drift.”

  Emma was taken aback. Was it really such common knowledge? In that case, wouldn’t Deirdre and Skip just have laughed off Guy’s blackmail attempts?

  Emma straightened up. “But there’s this photo…” Her voice dropped back to a whisper, and she was rewarded when Mabel leaned in closer. She was hooked.

  “What I need to find out…” Emma looked over her shoulder suspiciously, “is whether anyone saw Guy at the barn showing the photo to Skip.” She let her voice drop to a whisper once more. “That would really…” She paused again. “Clinch things.”

  “Oh,” Mabel said, her voice very small, her mouth a round circle.

  “Do you know if there’s anyone who works at the barn—you know, helping out with the riding lessons and mucking out the stables and such?”

  Mabel leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “I don’t want her to get mixed up in any murder. I told Mama I’d take care of her. Swore it on her deathbed, I did. And I’m not about to go against it now.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

  Emma held up a hand. “I would never want you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. I’m just wondering if anyone might have been at the barn when Guy showed up with the photo of Skip with his arm around Deirdre?”

  Mabel gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “A photo? Like that?”

  Emma nodded. She reached for a French fry, drizzled a bit of malt vinegar over it and popped it into her mouth. She chewed. And waited.

  Mabel picked at her cuticles. “I don’t suppose it would get her in trouble. Seeing as how she only works there.” She put her thumb in her mouth and worried at the flesh alongside the nail.

  Emma shook her head emphatically. “I don’t want anyone to get into trouble. I just need to know if Guy went out to the farm and showed Skip the photo he took.”

  Mabel put her hands palms down on the table. “My little sister, Clary, is just crazy about horses.
Can’t get enough of them. She’s willing to do anything just to be around them. Even if it means mucking out stalls.” Mabel wrinkled her nose and made a face.

  Emma wrinkled her own nose in sympathy. “I had a friend in elementary school who was like that.”

  “She took this job with Skip Clark,” Mabel blurted out. “Lending a hand with things around the stables.”

  “Mabel!” The chef’s voice cut across the low level of chatter that filled The Coffee Klatch.

  Mabel jumped. “Go ask Clary. She’s bound to know all about it.”

  “Wait!” Emma put out a hand. “What’s her phone number?”

  Mabel looked around before pulling her order pad from her pocket. She quickly scribbled a telephone number on the top sheet of paper and tore it off. “Here.” She handed it to Emma. “You can reach her at this number. But, please,” she turned to Emma with a pleading look in her eyes. “Don’t get her in any trouble, okay?”

  Emma picked at the remainder of her fries, but she wasn’t at all hungry. She stared at the piece of paper Mabel had thrust at her and at the number scribbled on it. Her breath quickened. Was she getting closer to figuring out who had killed Guy?

  She thought of Nikki, and her breath caught in her throat. Why kill Nikki? Was it out of fear that Nikki knew something? Had Guy confided in her? The thought made Emma’s stomach churn. At one time she thought she was Guy’s only confidante. Obviously, she’d been wrong. Dead wrong.

  Emma shivered and pushed the plate of fries away. She’d call Clary as soon as she got back to the shop. With any luck she could meet with her right away and have the answers before night fell.

  EMMA put her key in the lock of the front door of Sweet Nothings, but before she could turn it, the door was flung open.

  “I have a surprise for you!” Arabella cooed.

  Emma jumped. “You scared me.”

  “Sorry, dear. I’ve just been so excited for you to get back so I could show you.”

  “Did you find another spectacular vintage piece?”

  Arabella shook her head. “No. You’ll have to come inside and see for yourself.”

  Emma followed behind her aunt, her curiosity definitely piqued.

  “Voila!” Arabella pointed to either side of the shop triumphantly.

  Even though Emma had been expecting them for weeks, she was still surprised to see two glazed white armoires tucked into the corners. The doors were propped open, and Arabella had already begun arranging stock on the shelves.

  “They’re gorgeous!” Emma stood and stared for a long moment. She didn’t want to admit how many nights she’d tossed and turned worrying that the dimensions were going to be wrong, or that she had taken the measurements incorrectly, but they were perfect. Perfect!

  “Do you like them?” Arabella asked anxiously when Emma remained silent.

  “I’m speechless. They’re perfect.” Emma fingered the doors lovingly. “I was beginning to think they’d never get here.” She opened one of the cupboards, pulled out a pink satin peignoir set and hung it from the door of one of the armoires. “What do you think?”

  “Wonderful.” Arabella clapped her hands. “It looks like milady has put out her gown preparatory to performing her bedtime toilette.”

  Emma giggled. “Did they have any trouble getting the armoires through the door?”

  Arabella shook her head. “Not at all. As a matter of fact, Brian saw them and popped over to help. With the three of them working together, it was a breeze.”

  At the thought of having missed Brian, disappointment washed over Emma.

  “Was Mabel any help?” Arabella fiddled with the heavy gold chain around her neck.

  Emma retrieved the piece of paper from her pocket. “Yes. Her younger sister actually works for Skip Clark. She gave me her number.” Emma dug in her handbag and pulled out her cell. “I’m going to call her right away.”

  Emma punched in the numbers and waited. The phone didn’t ring, but an automated voice came on the line. Emma hung up, disappointed.

  “Not home?” Arabella turned from where she was straightening the merchandise on the shelves of one of the armoires.

  “Phone’s been turned off.” Emma’s shoulders sagged.

  “Oh, dear.” Arabella shook out a white baby-doll nightgown and refolded it. “I think she lives in that trailer park over near the Henry County airport.”

  Emma straightened up. “I’ll just have to go see her instead.”

  “I don’t have the exact address…”

  “There’s bound to be an office of some sort. I’ll see if they can tell me.” Emma already had her purse in hand and was halfway out the door.

  IN the end she didn’t need any help finding Clary’s trailer. It was at the end of a row of single-wides with a foot-high white picket fence surrounding a miniature lawn. A ceramic statue of a horse grazed on the tiny patch of grass, a toy saddle was slung over the fence and the front door knocker was a horseshoe. This had to be Clary’s place.

  Emma lifted the horseshoe and tapped it gently. She thought she heard music coming from inside the trailer and crossed her fingers. Hopefully that meant Clary was home.

  The door was opened by a young girl in jeans and a blue T-shirt with I ♥ Horses on it in large white letters. She looked to be around eighteen.

  “Clary?”

  She nodded her head. “Yes. What can I do for you? If you’re selling Avon or Mary Kay I can’t afford any, and besides, I don’t wear much in the way of makeup.”

  Freckles stood out across her nose and cheeks, her lashes were short and sandy, and her lips were pale.

  “I’m not selling anything. I just wanted to talk to you. I’m Emma Taylor. I know your sister, Mabel.”

  “If that’s the case, you might as well come in.” She opened the door wider and stood back.

  Emma stepped inside. The trailer was as neat as a pin. The equine theme continued throughout with a horse-head-patterned throw on the sofa, a lamp with a base in the shape of a mustang rearing on its hind legs and a cowboy hat slung on the coat tree.

  “I’ve got some fresh sweet tea if you’d like.” Clary indicated the refrigerator tucked in the corner of the tiny kitchen.

  “Thanks. I’m fine.” Emma perched on the sofa and Clary sat opposite her in an old wooden rocker. Everything was clean and neat and looked as if it came from yard sales or second hand stores.

  “I can see you’re very interested in horses.” Emma indicated the horse-themed décor and the statement on Clary’s shirt.

  Clary nodded her head, and a big smile spread across her face. “I love ’em. All I’ve ever been interested in is riding. Used to go crazy in school waiting for the bell to ring so I could run over to the neighbor’s and saddle up one of their old swaybacks.” She poked at a small hole in her jeans. “I wasn’t much for learning. Figured I’d get a job working with horses, and I did.”

  “I heard you work for Skip Clark at his place?”

  Clary rocked the chair back and forth. “Even before that I was working for the neighbor after school and on weekends. I never minded how much manure I had to sling as long as I got to ride at the end of the day.”

  “But now you’re working for—”

  “Skip. I clean out the stalls, help with the lessons, stuff like that.” She hugged herself as if she couldn’t believe her great luck. “I love it. I can’t imagine what it’s like for those people stuck in an office all day or run off their feet at the mall.”

  Far from it being difficult to get Clary to talk, Emma mused, it was going to be touch and go as to whether or not she would be able to get a word in edgewise.

  “Sprout’s my favorite. He’s Skip’s newest horse. He’s a great big quarter horse so the name Sprout is kind of funny, if you know what I mean. Do you ride? If you’d like to take lessons, we do that, too.”

  Clary paused briefly, and Emma jumped in. “Do adults take lessons or do you mostly have children?”

  Clary thought for a momen
t. “It’s mostly kids, but we do have some grown-ups, too,” she said in a way that suggested to Emma she felt more akin to the children than the adults.

  Emma had been brought up believing that lying was wrong, and even bending the truth a bit to suit one’s own purposes never felt quite right to her. Nevertheless, she gritted her teeth, squeezed her eyes shut and said, “I think a friend of mine is taking lessons with Skip Clark. Her name is Deirdre Porter?” She let her voice go up at the end so that it sounded more like a question than a statement.

  “Oh, Mrs. Porter.” Clary’s face lit up. “She’s ever so nice. Gave me a pair of boots that she didn’t want anymore, can you imagine? Genuine leather and ordered straight from some famous shop in Houston.” She stuck out her feet so that Emma could admire them.

  Emma made the appropriate noises while trying to decide where to steer the conversation next. She didn’t want to put Clary in the position of having to defend Deirdre. She’d get a lot less information out of her that way.

  “I guess Deirdre and Skip Clark are old friends,” Emma hazarded, her fingers crossed again.

  “Old friends? Oh, I didn’t know that. That would explain—” She stopped abruptly and bit her lip.

  “Explain?” Emma prompted.

  “Nothing.” Clary shook her head. “Just a feeling. Like maybe they knew each other in a past life or something.” She giggled. “You must think I’m plain silly.”

  “Not at all.” Emma smiled reassuringly. “Is there a Mrs. Clark?”

  “Mrs. Clark?” Clary wrinkled her nose. “Oh, you mean like is Skip married?” She nodded her head. “Yes. She doesn’t come around the stable much. I think she has a job in town. Least I see her leaving every morning around the same time. Just as I’m getting the feed ready for the horses.”

  How was she going to connect the dots for Clary, Emma wondered. Maybe she could sort of sidle into it.

  She sighed dramatically. “People are so mean, don’t you think?” She leaned closer to Clary.

  “What do you mean?” Clary pushed the rocking chair back, away from Emma.