Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  “I will. I’m going to have to get this place cleaned up before the big day.” She looked around at the crumpled napkins scattered everywhere and the trail of crumbs across the new carpeting.

  Emma waited while the others got their things together and left. For some reason, she didn’t want to tell them about Deirdre’s call and the photograph yet. Finally, the door shut behind Kate, and Emma locked it securely. She’d already kicked off her shoes, and she didn’t want to know what she looked like. More than once she had run her hands through her hair in exasperation.

  She had tucked the photograph and Guy’s memory card into a cardboard mailer and put it in Arabella’s desk drawer. Emma plopped into the swivel chair and eased open the drawer. A pad of paper had become stuck, the cardboard backing catching and keeping the drawer from opening. Emma eased her hand inside and managed to retrieve the pad and open the drawer.

  The photograph should have been right on top, but she didn’t see them. She sifted through the next layer, but there was still no sign of the bright yellow cardboard mailer. She methodically emptied the contents of the drawer, but finally she was down to the last piece of paper, and there was still no sign of them. Maybe Arabella had moved them? Emma opened the drawer on the right and started digging through it. Then the drawer on the left. The photograph wasn’t there. Emma started to run her hands through her hair but then stopped. She’d likely already done enough damage in that department.

  She couldn’t remember moving the photos, but it was always possible she had done just that. She would check the apartment as soon as she closed up Sweet Nothings.

  A rush of warm air greeted Emma when she pushed open the door to her apartment above Sweet Nothings. She dropped her handbag by the front door and went to turn up the air conditioner.

  She’d made herself a pitcher of sweet tea, and it was waiting in the refrigerator. She poured a tall glass and held it to her neck, shivering slightly at the ice-cold contact. First stop, the small desk in the corner of her bedroom.

  Five minutes later she’d emptied the contents of the small desk onto the floor—there wasn’t all that much in the drawers, and the photograph was obviously not there, although she did run her hand under the top of each drawer just to be sure they hadn’t become wedged. She checked the basket on the kitchen table where she corralled the mail, but no luck there, either. She hadn’t tossed them on the coffee table or the end tables. They weren’t on the bathroom or kitchen counters. This time Emma did run her hands through her hair. Where on earth could they have gone?

  Emma decided to call Arabella. She dug her cell out of her purse and stood in front of the open refrigerator door as the phone rang once, twice. Arabella answered as Emma was popping the top off a container of blueberry yogurt.

  Unfortunately, Arabella had no idea where the photograph was, either. She was certain she hadn’t moved the envelope.

  Emma hung up, puzzled.

  Then she wondered if maybe Deirdre was right. The photograph did somehow contain proof that Guy hadn’t shot it. Which meant someone else had used his camera.

  And that someone was most likely the murderer.

  Had they stolen the photograph right out from under her nose?

  EMMA glanced at the glowing face of her alarm clock. The numbers read 5:45 a.m. The last time she’d checked, it had said 3:55 a.m. and the time before that was 2:12 a.m. She pulled the pillow over her head and lay there, indecisive. Should she get up now, or try to catch another forty-five minutes of sleep? Right now, sleep seemed as elusive as a multimillion dollar lottery win. She ought to be tired—they’d worked till almost ten o’clock on Friday getting everything ready for today.

  She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She felt as stiff as if she’d run a marathon the day before, but it was from tossing and turning all night. She’d wanted to be especially well rested for the big day at Sweet Nothings, but it seemed that wasn’t to be. She’d just have to fake it.

  She showered and dressed quickly and filled a thermos with fresh green tea. She wanted to get down to Sweet Nothings early and do a last-minute check before everyone arrived.

  * * *

  Emma put her key in the lock and pushed open the front door, her hand automatically reaching for the light switch. She hesitated when she realized that there was already a light on in the back room.

  “Hello?” Emma called out tentatively.

  A flashback to Guy’s murder and then Nikki’s made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. The thought of calling Brian flashed through her mind, but her footsteps were already taking her toward the pool of light spilling through the doorway.

  Emma peered around the edge, unconsciously braced for what she might find.

  It was the last thing she’d expected to see. Arabella was sitting in the office chair, legs stretched out in front of her, chin to chest, fast asleep. Pierre was curled protectively at her feet, snoring softly. Emma glanced at her watch. It was barely past six thirty a.m. What time must Arabella have gotten there? Obviously she hadn’t been able to sleep much, either.

  Emma didn’t want to frighten her so she went back out to the showroom and began making some gentle noises—opening and closing cupboards and drawers, rattling papers and whistling softly. Emma was giving a final tweak to the blue Ro-Vel gown on the mannequin when Arabella appeared in the doorway, yawning.

  “I must have fallen asleep.” She rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing here so early, dear? It’s going to be a long day.”

  “Couldn’t sleep.” Emma took a sip of her tea. “I figured I might as well get the day started.”

  “I didn’t sleep much, either,” Arabella admitted. She looked thoughtful for a moment. She cleared her throat and put her hand on Emma’s arm. “I don’t know if I’ve told you or not, but your being here means the world to me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

  Emma felt sentimental tears pressing against the back of her lids. She dashed a hand across her eyes. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

  “I have a little something for you.” Arabella walked toward the back room. “Just a second.”

  She returned moments later with a small white box in her hand. She held it toward Emma. “I want you to have this. My mother gave it to me when I was around your age.”

  Emma took the tiny box. The silver script on the top had been worn away, but she could make out the word jeweler. She lifted the lid.

  “Oh, it’s lovely.” She stared at the pin inside.

  “It’s vintage.” Arabella smiled. “Pins aren’t much in fashion these days, but I thought that would look lovely on you.”

  Emma fumbled with the clasp as she removed it from the box.

  “It’s made of platinum. They hardly ever use it anymore. Too expensive. My mother’s brother made it for her. He was a jeweler.”

  Emma fastened the brooch to her dress and stood in front of the mirror to admire it. It was a spray of platinum flowers dotted with pearls and diamonds. “It’s exquisite. I love it. Thank you so much.” She hugged her aunt.

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  They heard a slight tapping sound at the front door.

  “I’ll get it.” Emma started toward the front of the store.

  “I’ll put some coffee on.” Arabella turned toward the back room.

  Emma opened the door to find Sylvia and Kate on the doorstep.

  She noticed that the sky was getting darker toward the west. She crossed her fingers and said a quick prayer that any rain would hold off until later—much later. Preferably after they had all gone home and to bed.

  Sylvia had had her hair done again and was wearing a simple black dress with a strand of pearls. Kate looked her usual self—charmingly disheveled in black pants, a black-and-white graphic T-shirt and high-heeled sandals. Her hair was clean and shiny, although her part was wildly askew and her bangs needed trimming.

  Sylvia looked at Kate. “Give me your glasses. They’ve got a big smudge on them. It’
s a miracle you can see.”

  “They say that’s not good for your eyes,” Arabella added.

  “I’ve got some lens cleaner in my purse.” Kate began pawing through the contents of the big, squishy tote bag she called a purse. She shook her head. “I’ve got so much stuff in here. I really need to clean it out.”

  Sylvia gestured toward the wad of papers Kate had in her hand. “Do you need those? If you don’t, you can throw them out and make a start.”

  Kate quickly glanced through the assortment of pages torn from various notebooks, restaurant receipts and other miscellaneous papers. “I don’t really need any of these.”

  “There’s a garbage can next to the desk.” Arabella pointed toward the back room.

  Kate had just disappeared into the back when there was a sharp rap on the front door. The brunette model was the first to arrive—the one who had had to bring up Guy’s murder at the rehearsal. She looked sheepish when Emma opened the door. Emma still felt slightly irritated, but she plastered a smile on her face and acted as if she had forgotten the incident. The brunette quickly relaxed and began chatting with Sylvia about the time she’d spent a week in New York City seeing the sights.

  From then on, the door opened and closed repeatedly as the rest of the models arrived. Bitsy came with her usual stack of bakery boxes filled with delectable cupcakes, and chatter soon filled Sweet Nothings as they nursed cups of coffee from Arabella’s never-ending pot.

  Emma glanced at her watch and decided it was time. She began shepherding the women toward the dressing rooms.

  There was a thump at the front door, and Emma paused. It didn’t sound like a knock—more like someone had hit the door. Best to check, she decided, as she eased the door open.

  The young man standing there was nearly hidden behind a huge, tissue-wrapped bouquet. “Delivery,” he mumbled around the flowers in his hands.

  Emma couldn’t imagine who had sent them flowers. She signed the delivery receipt and carried the vase to the counter. Her name was on the tiny white envelope tucked into the top of the bouquet of pink peonies.

  She slid her finger under the flap, opened the envelope and eased out the card. Wishing you the best on this special day, Brian, was scrawled inside.

  “Those must have cost a fortune!” Bitsy sighed as she admired the flowers.

  Emma buried her nose in the velvet soft petals hoping to hide the blush that she could tell was coloring her face as pink as the flowers.

  “I’m guessing it’s your boyfriend who sent those.”

  Emma hesitated. “A friend, actually.”

  “Wish I had friends like that.” Bitsy laughed and ran a hand through her hair.

  Emma had just placed the vase of peonies on the counter when there was another thump against the front door. What now, she wondered?

  “Yes?” She said as she swung the door open.

  There was another delivery boy standing there hidden behind another gigantic floral arrangement. He dumped them into Emma’s arms. “Delivery for you.”

  Emma eased the door closed with her foot and carried the flowers to the other side of the counter.

  “Good heavens,” Arabella exclaimed when she saw them. “It’s beginning to look more like a florist in here than a lingerie shop. Who are they from?”

  “I don’t know. They’re addressed to you.” Emma retrieved the card from the heart of the dozen red roses.

  “Really?” Arabella raised her eyebrows. “It’s been way too long since someone has sent me any of these.” She opened the card, and an array of emotions crossed her face. “Oh, dear.” She put her hand to her chest.

  Emma tried to peer over her shoulder.

  “Here,” Arabella handed her the card. “Read it.”

  Emma scanned the rather quaint penmanship. “Wishing you a most successful opening. Regards, Les,” she read out loud.

  “Indeed.” Arabella rolled her eyes.

  Emma handed her the card. “He’s trying to get back into your good graces.”

  “Apparently.” Arabella sniffed the flowers. “They are heavenly.”

  Women were coming out of the dressing rooms and mingling in front of the counter, admiring the two bouquets. Emma was collecting the used coffee cups when a third thump rattled the front door. She grabbed for the doorknob with one hand, the other clutching the three mugs by their handles.

  “My goodness! Not more flowers.” Emma said.

  The delivery boy, who was wearing a yellow T-shirt that had Francesca’s Flowers printed on it, grinned. “First time I ever heard anyone say that.” He put the bouquet down on the doormat as he scrounged in his back pocket for the delivery slip.

  Emma laughed. She signed the receipt and picked up the flowers.

  “Good heavens!” Arabella said. “Another bouquet? These must be for you.”

  “I don’t know who would have sent them.” Emma poked around inside the tissue but didn’t immediately find anything.

  “Looks like they might have been sent anonymously.”

  “Whoever sent them has good taste.” Arabella admired the arrangement of garden flowers.

  Emma glanced down to see a small white square envelope lying on the floor. “Looks like I dropped the card.” She quickly read the front. “And it looks like they’re for you.”

  “Me?” Arabella said pointing to herself. “Who on earth…” She slid the card out and read it.

  This time her face turned as pink as the peonies.

  “Who’s it from?” Emma prodded.

  Arabella held the note to her chest. “They’re from Francis. Can you imagine?”

  Emma whistled softly. “Where shall we put them?”

  “In the center between the other two, I think.” Arabella quickly bustled off with the bouquet.

  Emma looked at the flowers spaced out on the counter. They were just what Sweet Nothings needed for their opening day. She knew she was partial, but she thought Brian’s bouquet was the nicest. She couldn’t wait to thank him for it. She buried her nose in the flowers once more and sniffed the delicious scents.

  “Should we get going?” Arabella asked. Emma noticed the frown between her brows and the shadows under her eyes.

  Emma threw her arms around her aunt. “I just know this is going to be a success.”

  Arabella looked startled for a moment, but then her face relaxed. She kissed Emma on the cheek. “I agree one hundred percent.”

  Emma felt a warm glow of satisfaction that more than made up for any feelings she had about missing New York and her old life. This is where she belonged. She knew it now.

  Emma was turning toward the counter when a terrible sound rent the air of Sweet Nothings. It was the sound of a garment ripping, and it was followed by a long, drawn-out feminine wail.

  ARABELLA grabbed her sewing bag and went running as fast as an EMT with a first-aid kit at the scene of an accident.

  The woman who had introduced herself as Ginger tore open the black-and-white toile curtain to the dressing room and stood wailing loudly, her black lace Barbizon gown hugging her curves except where the seam had decided to separate into two pieces.

  Arabella examined the hole the way a doctor might examine a wound. She furrowed her brow and checked the contents of her sewing kit.

  “You’re going to need to take it off,” she told Ginger.

  Tears were streaming down Ginger’s face.

  Arabella gave a hiss of impatience. “We’ll get it fixed in no time. Don’t you worry.”

  “I’ve so been looking forward to being in your fashion show,” Ginger alternately cried and hiccoughed. “I didn’t do nothing except pull the gown over my head.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Arabella soothed as she threaded her needle with some black silk thread. “I’m sure I can fix it.” She smiled reassuringly. “These old seams are fragile. It’s not your fault.”

  “Honest, I’ve never worn anything as beautiful as this before,” Ginger lamented. “My wedding gown wasn’t eve
n this special. I got it from the dry cleaner. Someone had taken it in to be preserved and never bothered to pick it up. He gave me a real deal on it seeing as how he never did get that spot near the hem out.” She sniffed loudly.

  Arabella gently urged her back into the dressing room and pulled the toile curtain closed. Moments later an arm, bearing the torn piece of lingerie, snaked its way through the part in the curtains.

  Arabella grabbed the garment. “You just stay put. I’ll have this fixed in no time.”

  Arabella retreated to the Louis XIV chair, perched her glasses on the end of her nose and set to work. Moments later, she’d stuck the repaired garment through the curtain, and Ginger reappeared clad in black lace and wearing a huge grin. She paused in front of the full-length beveled glass mirror to admire herself.

  “Someone’s at the back door,” Kate called to Emma. “Do you want me to see who it is?”

  “It’s probably Lucy, the caterer, with the food.”

  Both Emma and Kate headed toward the back room. Lucy’s small white van with Let Us Cater To You written on the side in rose-colored script, was backed up as close as she could get to the door. Lucy was waiting, holding a huge silver platter covered in plastic wrap.

  “It’s just starting to rain,” she said as a plump drop splattered on the plastic covering the platter. “Let’s get these things inside before we have a real deluge on our hands.”

  “Need some help?” Kate started toward the open doors to the van.

  “Thanks.” Lucy gestured with her chin toward a stack of boxes. “If you could bring in the napkins and silverware…” She glanced at Emma. “And we’ll need the folding table and the linens.”

  “I’ll get those.”

  Arabella was waiting anxiously by the back door. “Is it raining?” She stuck a hand out, palm up.

  “It’s just starting,” Lucy said as she edged past the open door. “I think we’re in for a real downpour.”

  Arabella’s face darkened as she held the door open for Kate, with her armload of boxes, and Emma, who maneuvered her way through with the folding table. She trotted ahead of them, Pierre right on her heels, to the spot where they’d decided to set up the food. They didn’t have a whole lot of room, so Lucy had chosen some of her smaller platters and planned to refill them with supplies kept in the refrigerated portion of her van.