Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  Emma sighed again. “People talk. And they say terrible things.”

  “What! You don’t mean about Skip. He takes the best care of those horses anyone could. Pays for top quality feed, always got Doc Barber out there seeing to them even if it’s no more than a strained muscle.”

  Emma was already shaking her head. “I don’t mean about the horses. I mean about him and Deirdre Porter.”

  Clary stopped mid-rock. “What do you mean about him and Mrs. Porter? Why would they say anything?”

  Emma lowered her voice. “They’re saying that something is going on…between the two of them.”

  “Oh.” Clary looked thunderstruck. “You mean like an affair? Like in the movies?”

  “Yes.” Emma sighed with relief. Finally she and Clary were on the same page. “What do you think?” She prompted.

  Clary frowned, obviously giving it serious thought. “I don’t know. Skip is friendly with everyone. He’s just that way. Throwing his arm around you and giving you a hug now and then. It don’t mean nothing. But I can see how someone else might see it different.”

  “Apparently someone took a picture of the two of them, and, as you said, they saw it different. They’re trying to say that Skip and Deirdre are having an affair.”

  “That’s just awful!” Clary’s rocking increased furiously. “Why would they do that?”

  “Some people just like to cause trouble.”

  “I suppose you’re right. Is there anything we can do about it?”

  Emma shrugged. “I don’t know. I am trying to find out if anyone showed Skip that picture. It would have been a man with dark hair and eyes…” Emma sketched out a rough picture of Guy. “Skip would probably have been upset.”

  Clary nodded. “Especially seeing as how it’s not true.”

  “Do you remember anyone like that coming around? I’m guessing Skip would have been furious afterward. You probably would have noticed something.”

  “Someone did come around one day. Couple of weeks ago, I’d say. I saw them walking together down toward the ring where we give lessons. I could tell, even from a distance, that Skip was upset. He shouted and threw something down on the ground. Even stepped on it with his boot and ground it into the dust.”

  “What about the other person? Did they get angry?”

  “Nope. Just laughed.”

  “And it was a man? With dark hair?”

  Clary looked confused. She began to shake her head. “No, no, it was a woman.”

  “A woman!” Arabella exclaimed when Emma recounted her chat with Clary the next day.

  Emma and Arabella were at the counter of O’Connell’s Hardware Store. It hadn’t changed a bit, Emma noticed, since she left Paris. It was tidier—that was obviously Brian’s doing—but the same smell of sawdust, wood and grease mingled in the air. The wooden floors creaked and the glass-fronted cabinets were older than she was.

  Brian thought one of the screws in the door of Emma’s armoire was bent. It didn’t seem to be doing any harm, but he was something of a perfectionist. He was behind the counter searching through a drawer in a row of dozens of similar drawers for the correct size.

  “Got it.” He held up a tiny piece of hardware, smiled and stuck it in his pocket. He leaned on the counter. “You say it was a girl who approached Skip with the photograph?”

  The sleeves of his blue shirt were rolled up to his elbows, and Emma noticed his skin was tanned a slightly darker shade than it had been just last week.

  “It must have been Nikki doing Guy’s dirty work, don’t you think?” Arabella took a handkerchief from her purse and dabbed at her nose.

  “I don’t know.” Emma looked at Brian, and their eyes met. She felt a hot flush creeping up her chest and looked down quickly. “It didn’t sound like Nikki.”

  “How so?” Brian straightened a small Plexiglas holder of flyers advertising Bert’s Mole Removal that sat out on the counter.

  “Clary described her as ordinary. And that’s hardly a word anyone would use in relation to Nikki.”

  “True.” Arabella put her fingertips together. “What is this Clary like? A pretty girl? Into clothes and makeup and the like?”

  Emma looked at her aunt curiously. “No, not at all. She’s quite plain, and she’s crazy about horses. She lives, breaths, eats and drinks them, by her own account.”

  “Do you think she would notice just how extraordinary Nikki is then? Probably the only thing she’d be inclined to notice would be her height.”

  “That’s true. She did say the woman looked fairly tall.” Emma smiled. “And she did say that if she were going to choose a horse for her it would be something called a quarter horse.”

  Brian smiled. “That’s a good-sized horse. She must have been tall, then.”

  “So Nikki’s the one who showed the blackmail photograph to Skip,” Emma said. “But is Skip the one who acted on it by bashing Guy over the head?”

  “It’s beginning to look like that.” Arabella tucked her handkerchief back in her purse.

  “But what if…” Emma paused thinking the idea through. “What if Guy wasn’t the one resorting to blackmail?”

  Arabella’s and Brian’s heads both swiveled in her direction.

  Emma held up a hand. “What if Nikki found that photo on Guy’s camera and decided to make use of it herself?”

  “Why would she do something like that?” Brian took out a cloth and began to wipe down the counter.

  “Maybe she needed money for something. Maybe she got into debt.”

  “But don’t these girls rake in a fortune each day?” Brian said.

  “They do. But their expenses are sky-high as well. Apartment rentals in New York City can be thousands per month.”

  Brian shuddered. “To live with all that dirt and exhaust and smog?”

  Emma smiled. “There are compensations. Broadway, the symphony, some of the best restaurants in the world and amazing window-shopping at Christmastime.”

  “But surely this Nikki made thousands just for showing up.” Arabella frowned. “What was she doing with it all?”

  “Gambling?” Brian hazarded.

  “Drugs?” Emma threw out. “It’s epidemic among that crowd.”

  Arabella nodded. “I read a story on it in People magazine. Hard to imagine how those models keep their looks with all those late nights drinking and doing drugs.”

  “There’s a reason the heroin chic look became so popular among magazine stylists,” Emma quipped.

  “She could have fallen prey to one of those unscrupulous investment advisors or stockbrokers,” said Brian.

  “Like one of those Ponzi schemes that have been in the news recently.” Arabella tilted her head toward the wall-mounted telephone behind the counter. “Can you find out? Call some people in New York and see what rumors there are?”

  Emma let out a breath. No reason she couldn’t call some people and at least chat. She’d been trying to avoid talking to her old friends. It stirred up longings for her life the way it used to be. But she was happy here in Paris with her aunt and Sweet Nothings, and she didn’t want anything to ruin it.

  Emma looked up to find Arabella and Brian both staring at her. “Sure,” she blurted out. “I’ll make a few phone calls.

  As usual, her phone had fallen to the bottom of her purse. Emma dug it out and checked for missed calls or voice messages. Nothing. She clicked to the address book and began scanning the names. Who should she call? Tad Davito? He did Nikki’s hair for several of the shoots she’d had with Guy. They always had their heads together when Nikki wasn’t in front of the camera. Madeleine Montague? She did Nikki’s makeup nine times out of ten. They often grabbed lunch together during breaks. She scrolled a little farther. Brigitta Sandstrom? If Nikki had a rival it was her. They’d started their careers around the same time and had been running neck and neck until recently when Brigitta scored a mega-millions contract with Blush Cosmetics. More than once Emma had heard Nikki ranting about the unfairness of
it.

  Emma thought for a minute. She needed to talk to someone levelheaded. Who didn’t hold any grudges or have any complaints against Nikki. Brilliant, Kool-Aid red hair came into her mind—cut in an asymmetrical pixie with Bettie Page fringe. Frieda Strauss, booking agent at Top Model, Inc. She had no gripes with Nikki. Nikki made plenty of money for them and was completely professional when it came to showing up on time and being ready to strut her stuff.

  Arabella looked in Emma’s direction. “Don’t mind me. I’m taking off.”

  “Are you okay?” Emma once again studied the dark circles under Arabella’s eyes.

  Arabella bristled. “I’m fine, dear. I just have…something to do, that’s all.”

  Emma raised an eyebrow. “Something to do?”

  “Never you mind.” Arabella crossed her arms over her chest with a finality that made Emma smile. She knew when to stop asking questions.

  Emma flipped open her phone and punched in Frieda’s number.

  TANTALIZING smells drifted down the stairs and curled under Emma’s nose, leading her upwards. Sylvia and Kate had invited her for dinner in Sylvia’s little apartment over The Taffy Pull. The scents of caramel and chocolate added interesting top notes to the odor of whatever it was that Sylvia was cooking.

  “It smells heavenly,” Emma exclaimed when Kate threw open the door.

  “It is heavenly,” Kate said. “It’s Sylvia’s famous goulash, and it’s to die for.”

  Sylvia shuffled out of the kitchen, her chef’s apron tied around a pair of black slacks and a colorful Indian tunic covered with brilliant embroidery and small mirrored discs. She gestured toward her feet.

  “Pardon the slippers, but my ankles are swelling like crazy today. Must be the heat.” She grabbed Emma’s hand and pulled her toward the kitchen. “Come see what’s on the stove.”

  Emma followed Sylvia into the tiny aisle kitchen where pots were bubbling and hissing on the stove. Sylvia lifted the lid of one of them, and the delicious steam wafted around Emma’s face.

  “It’s my famous goulash.” Sylvia replaced the lid. “But first, let’s have a drink.” She opened the freezer door and brought out a bottle encased in ice.

  Emma looked at it curiously. “What’s that?”

  “Vodka,” Sylvia said, although she pronounced it “wodka.”

  Sylvia retrieved some tiny crystal glasses the size of shot glasses from the cupboard across from the stove and carefully filled each one. She handed one to Emma and one to Kate. She held hers up and proclaimed “Nastrovia,” before downing the liquid in one gulp.

  Emma and Kate approached their glasses with a little more caution. Emma took a sip and swore she could feel the liquid burning all the way down her throat and into the pit of her stomach. She put her glass down on the table and pushed it a safe distance away. She’d have to go easy on that stuff.

  Sylvia took a platter from the refrigerator and shepherded them into the tiny living room, whose windows overlooked the square. An overstuffed burgundy sofa and two chairs dripped with lace doilies, and a curio cabinet was stuffed with nesting dolls, decorated Easter eggs and various icons. An elaborate silver samovar held pride of place on a gate-legged table. Emma wondered if Sylvia ever used it.

  Sylvia put the platter on the coffee table. “Help yourself. An old, dear friend who works at Bloomingdale’s just sent me a tin of caviar for my birthday. This is the perfect occasion to enjoy it.” She beamed at Kate and Emma.

  “Happy birthday,” Emma and Kate chorused.

  Sylvia turned slightly pink and waved a hand. “Go on. Enjoy.”

  Emma looked at the plate and hesitated.

  “Go on.” Sylvia made encouraging gestures. “First,” she said, picking up a triangle of toast to demonstrate, “a dab of caviar.” She waved the spoon at them. “And never, ever use a silver spoon. The caviar will tarnish it.” She put a dollop of caviar on her cracker. “Then you add some chopped egg.” She dipped into the pile of chopped hard-boiled whites and yolks. “A little onion adds some zest.” She spooned a few pieces of onion onto the top of her bread. “And,” she finished, picking up a lemon wedge encased in cheesecloth, “I like a tiny squeeze of lemon juice.” She handed the toast to Emma.

  Emma took a bite. It wasn’t the first time she’d had caviar, but it was the first time she’d had it prepared like this. She closed her eyes. The sharp sea taste of the caviar blended with the pungent onion, tang of citrus and smooth blandness of egg. It was delicious.

  Sylvia prepared another one and handed it to Kate.

  “So. Tell me what’s going on with this murder case you gals have been investigating.”

  Emma ventured another sip from her glass of vodka. This time she only wet her lips a bit. “We think Nikki was trying to blackmail Deirdre Porter.”

  “Really?” Kate looked startled.

  “At first we thought it was Guy doing it. His camera was used to take the incriminating photograph.” Emma paused for a moment. She doubted she’d ever used the word incriminating in a conversation before.

  “But then why kill Guy if Nikki was the one who was blackmailing Deirdre?” Sylvia dabbed at her lips with a napkin, and Emma noticed she had toast crumbs and bits of egg clinging to the front of her blouse.

  Emma’s stomach descended as quickly as if she’d been in an airplane doing a nose dive. Why kill Guy indeed? She felt her theory crumbling around her. Obviously she wasn’t exactly cut out to be a detective.

  “Nikki.” Kate mumbled around a mouthful of toast and caviar. “Sorry.” She chewed for a second. “Maybe Nikki killed Guy?” She turned to Emma and Sylvia.

  “Nikki?” Emma squeaked. “But why?”

  “Maybe he found out what she was up to, and they got into a fight, and she clonked him over the head?”

  Emma nodded enthusiastically. “That makes sense.” She thought for a moment. “But then who killed Nikki?”

  Sylvia shrugged as she loaded more caviar on a toast piece. “Maybe Nikki went ahead with the blackmail and”—she leveled a cocked finger at Emma—“Deirdre or her paramour went ahead with the murder.

  “Come on.” Sylvia stood up and swept them along with a flourish of her arm. “Dinner’s ready.”

  She had a tiny table set up in the corner of the living room. It was draped in a white cloth with colorful embroidery along the edges, which matched the embroidery on the cloth napkins set beside each plate. Sylvia placed the steaming bowl of goulash in the middle of the table along with a smaller bowl of egg noodles. “Please, help yourselves.” She gestured toward the food. “Eat.”

  Emma helped herself to a plate of egg noodles and spread some delicious smelling goulash on top. Her mind was whirling. Was it really possible that two killers were at work here—Nikki and Deirdre or Skip? It was inconceivable.

  Emma spooned up a forkful of goulash, but she hardly tasted it with her mind going a mile a minute.

  She was taking a second bite when her cell phone rang. “I’m so sorry,” she jumped up. “I should have turned it off.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Answer it. Maybe it’s important.” Sylvia filled her plate with noodles and stew.

  “Hello?”

  Frieda’s familiar voice came over the line. Emma glanced at Sylvia but she motioned for Emma to go ahead.

  Emma nodded apologetically to Sylvia and Kate, got up from the table and went over and perched on the edge of the rough velvet sofa. Frieda was never much for small talk, so Emma asked her straight out if she had any knowledge of Nikki’s financial situation.

  For several minutes, the only words Emma was able to interject into the conversation were “mmmhhmm” and “aha” mingled with the occasional “Really?”

  Frieda’s speech was crisp, succinct and firm. Emma got an immediate picture of her long lanky frame, short red hair and bright blue eyes.

  “Really?” Emma said a final time before hanging up. She sat for a moment staring at her phone.

  “What is it, darling?” Sylvia
put her hand on Emma’s arm.

  Emma shook her head. “I’m so confused.” She looked from Kate to Sylvia and back again.

  Sylvia raised her bushy gray brows, and Kate tilted her head to the side.

  “According to Frieda, and she got this straight from Nikki’s financial advisor, Nikki had plenty of money. More than anyone could ever need.”

  Sylvia grunted, and Kate got as white as a sheet.

  “It looks as if Nikki had no reason whatsoever to blackmail Deirdre or Skip.”

  EMMA woke early with butterflies in her stomach. For a moment she couldn’t imagine why. Then she remembered. The women they had picked for the grand opening fashion show were arriving for their rehearsal this morning. And the grand opening of Sweet Nothings itself was only two days away—whether they were ready or not! Emma ran through the ever-present checklist in her head. So far they were on track for a successful opening. As long as nothing happened between now and two days from now. She crossed her fingers.

  Emma was glad she was up before her alarm. It gave her plenty of time to get ready for the day ahead. She dressed quickly and headed straight down to Sweet Nothings, a travel mug of green tea tucked in her bag. She paused with her key in the front door. She loved watching Washington Street slowly come to life. Mabel scurried past on the sidewalk across the street and waved. Les was right behind her, hurrying toward The Toggery where lights were already coming on. Emma felt a small warm glow of contentment form a ball in the pit of her stomach. She was really settling into life in Paris. Was this where she was meant to be?

  Emma pushed open the door to Sweet Nothings and stood for a moment admiring the transformation the shop had undergone. Brian had done an amazing job. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and tucked the bag under the counter. She was about to drop the phone into her pocket when she noticed the message light was on. She checked and discovered she’d missed a call from Liz.

  Suddenly a thought occurred to her, and she fished her cell from her pocket and punched in Liz’s number.

  Emma realized she’d go half crazy if she didn’t find out who Brian’s mysterious Amy was. And if anyone would know, it would be Liz.