A Fatal Slip (Sweet Nothings)

by London, Meg

  “He almost sounded as if he suspected me,” Arabella said as soon as Francis had taken his seat again.

  “I’m sure it’s just routine,” Francis said, but Emma thought the look on his face said something quite different.

  “It’s very upsetting.” Arabella put her head in her hands.

  “I’m sure we won’t hear another thing about it,” Francis said reassuringly as he put his arms around her.

  • • •

  WHEN Emma got back to her apartment, she noticed that she had missed three calls on her cell phone. One was from her mother. Emma’s parents had retired to Pensacola, Florida, where her father was perfecting his golf game, and her mother, Arabella’s younger sister, was devoting much of her time to her ceramics, a hobby she had dabbled in before leaving Paris, but as the hospital administrator of the Henry County Medical Center, hadn’t had much time for.

  She dialed her parents’ number in Florida but got their voice mail so she left a message.

  The second call was from Brian checking up on her and making sure she was okay. Emma smiled as she listened to the message.

  The third call was from Liz, who was home when Emma dialed her. Liz was Emma’s oldest friend and Brian’s younger sister.

  Liz sounded happy to hear from her. “I can’t wait to get the lowdown on your big night at the dinner dance. Did I tell you, I’m doing some work for Hugh Granger?”

  “No,” Emma answered warily. She doubted Liz had heard the news of Hugh’s death yet. It obviously hadn’t made the Sunday papers.

  “He’s hired me to create a web site for his art business. I can’t believe he’s been operating without one this long. I gather his son—what’s his name?—Jackson, I think, convinced him that it was time to enter the twenty-first century. Plus I’ll be taking pictures of a lot of the works so we can have them on the web.” Liz took a breath. “But I’m rambling on when I want to hear all about your evening.”

  Emma didn’t know where to begin. The end seemed the logical place. “It would have been wonderful, but there was a terrible accident.” Even as she said the word accident, she realized it was the wrong word. Detective Walker had called it “murder.”

  “Oh no, what happened? Is everyone okay? Arabella?”

  “Arabella is fine.” But even as she said it, Emma wondered if that was really true. “We had dinner and then afterward there were fireworks. When we came back in from the patio we found Hugh’s . . . body . . . on the floor. It appeared he’d fallen from the balcony that encircles the ballroom.”

  Liz gasped. “But that’s terrible. Was he—”

  “Yes,” Emma said. “But that’s not the worst of it. Detective Walker stopped by Aunt Arabella’s house this morning and said that before he fell he’d been . . . shot.”

  Stunned silence came over the line.

  “And worse than that”—Emma swallowed hard and cleared her throat—“he seemed to insinuate that he thought Arabella had had something to do with it.”

  “Arabella? Why on earth would he think that?”

  Emma hesitated. She wasn’t sure Arabella wanted the world to know about her romance with Hugh. But Liz was Liz. Surely Arabella wouldn’t mind. She explained as succinctly as possible about Arabella and Hugh’s relationship and how he’d practically left her at the altar.

  “The cad!” Liz exclaimed. “I wouldn’t blame Arabella one bit. Not that I think she had anything whatsoever to do with it.”

  “I know.” Emma paced up and down her small living room. “I just hope Detective Walker will believe that.”

  • • •

  ARABELLA was still pale when she arrived at Sweet Nothings on Monday morning.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sylvia said when Arabella walked in a little later than usual.

  “Yes, you do.” Emma said, biting her lower lip. She was becoming more and more concerned about her aunt. This kind of stress couldn’t be good for her.

  Arabella pinched both her cheeks with her fingers, turning them pink. “There, does that satisfy the two of you?”

  They laughed. Pierre scampered off to his dog bed for the first of many naps. Emma had arrived at the shop early, and Bette had had her fill of exploring and was already asleep in her crate.

  “You’ll never guess who called me last night.” Arabella looked at Emma.

  “Who?” Emma was straightening the contents of one of the armoires.

  “Your mother.”

  Her tone of voice made Emma spin around.

  “She’s coming for a visit,” Arabella announced.

  “When?” Emma asked, realizing that her mother hadn’t called her back the previous evening.

  Arabella glanced at her watch. “In about eight hours. She ought to arrive around six o’clock. She said she was getting an early start, but what with stopping and traffic, it will probably take longer than the nine hours’ travel time she’s anticipating.”

  “Tonight?” Emma squeaked.

  “Yes.”

  “But why . . . she didn’t say anything about—”

  “Apparently, she’s worried about me.” Arabella’s voice broke.

  Sylvia looked up sharply. “Is something wrong? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

  Just then the bell over the front door jingled, and they all snapped to attention as a well-preserved blonde on the wrong side of forty walked into the shop. She sported a pair of diamond stud earrings the size of headlights; it was obvious she had money to spend.

  “Can I help you?” Arabella gave the woman her most professional smile, her head tilted slightly to one said, her whole countenance inviting the woman to spill her innermost secrets.

  The woman batted her enormous fake eyelashes at Arabella. “I need a little something that will get my husband”—she lowered her lashes shyly—“you know . . . going again?”

  Arabella patted the woman’s arm comfortingly. “Now, now,” she said as she led her to one of the cupboards. “I’m sure we have just the thing to put the, er, fire back in your relationship.” She smiled at their new customer. “You’re a very beautiful woman, you know. You have a splendid figure. Just a little icing on the cake is all you need.”

  The woman threw back her shoulders and preened like a peacock.

  Arabella opened the cupboard and began clicking through the hangers. She pulled out a garment and hung it from a hook on the door.

  “The baby doll nightgown has been the staple of the seductive woman’s wardrobe for decades.” Arabella waved a hand in front of the negligee, a chiffon peach confection with chocolate lace trim. “This is from the late 1950s, and was made by Glyndons of Hollywood. It is unusual in that it comes with a matching peignoir.” Arabella waved another garment in front of the woman like a conjurer performing a magic trick.

  Even from across the room, Emma could see the woman’s eyes light up. It looked as if the sale was in the bag.

  Sylvia sidled up next to Emma and whispered to her. “So what’s up with your aunt?”

  Emma explained about the dinner dance, Hugh’s death and the visit from Detective Walker. Sylvia’s mouth set more firmly with each word Emma spoke.

  “There’s no way anyone is hanging this on your aunt. No way.” Her voice rose, and Arabella shot her a warning look. “No way,” Sylvia whispered a final time for emphasis.

  Emma picked at a piece of loose cuticle. “I’m a little worried though. Arabella seemed . . . confused . . . about where she’d been at the time of the murder. She said she went to the ladies’ room, but claims she was alone. Something about it just didn’t ring true.”

  “Seriously?” Sylvia frowned. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and rubbed at a smudge on the glass case.

  “Don’t get me wrong. I know my aunt had nothing to do with Hugh’s death. But I do think she’s hiding something.” Emma sighed. “I just don’t know what it is.”

  “Maybe she’ll spill the beans to her sister while she’s here.”

  Emma pursed
her lips. “I don’t know. Arabella and Priscilla don’t always see eye to eye. Mother has never really approved of Arabella.”

  “Why on earth not? Your aunt is a marvelous woman.”

  “Mother is just very . . . different. While Arabella was traveling around the world, my mother spent her trust fund on college. She had her whole life mapped out from the time she was twenty—she graduated from UT a year early, married my father, had me—more than one child might have interfered with her work. So far, everything has gone according to her plan. Her career goals were met right on schedule, she retired at sixty as she had intended and now she’s concentrating on her other passion, ceramics.”

  “But you know what they say: blood is thicker than water.”

  “Oh, you’re absolutely right. Arabella and Mother may not be close, but they are sisters. That doesn’t mean, however, that there aren’t going to be fireworks of a very different sort when she gets here.”

  Chapter 6

  PROMPTLY at five o’clock, Emma closed the door to Sweet Nothings behind their last customer and flipped the open sign to closed. Her mother was due to arrive in Paris shortly. She was heading straight to Arabella’s house, where she would be staying in the guest room.

  Emma slipped on her coat and took Bette for a quick sprint around the block, then they both dashed up the stairs to Emma’s apartment. She wanted to wash her face and hands and run a comb through her hair before going to Arabella’s. She hadn’t seen either of her parents in over a year. She was sorry her father had decided not to come along, but apparently he was playing in a golf tournament he didn’t want to miss.

  The last time Emma had seen her parents had been in New York, when they visited her there. Her mother had complained about the dirt, the noise and the cost of their hotel, but they had enjoyed the restaurants and several Broadway shows.

  Emma tipped some food into Bette’s bowl and refreshed her water. Bette gobbled down her dinner, and by the time Emma had turned on the tap in the bathroom, was sound asleep on the fluffy throw rug in front of the bathtub.

  Emma freshened her makeup, ran some product through her hair to revive it and changed her black pants for a pair of skinny jeans and her leather boots for some ballet flats.

  “Come on, Bette, we’re going to Pierre’s house.”

  In one swift movement, Bette rolled from her back to her feet and galloped toward the front door as if she hadn’t just been sound asleep. Emma wished she could wake up that quickly—instead it took her fifteen minutes of yoga stretches, a hot shower and at least one cup of green tea to join the living every morning.

  Emma clipped on Bette’s leash, and they bounded downstairs to her VW Beetle.

  Arabella’s driveway was empty when Emma got there. Emma was relieved that her mother hadn’t yet arrived; she wanted to be there to greet her. Pierre was already by the front door barking when Emma mounted the front steps. The front door was open, as usual. No amount of warnings was able to persuade Arabella that times had changed and she ought to keep the house locked up.

  Her aunt was nowhere to be seen when Emma entered, but familiar noises were coming from the kitchen. “I’m here,” she called out, bending down to unsnap Bette’s leash. Untethered, Bette made a beeline for the kitchen, rounding the corner on her two left paws. Emma followed at a more sedate pace.

  Arabella was at the kitchen counter. She had a platter of cut-up chicken pieces in front of her and a paper bag that Emma knew was filled with flour and the spices that Arabella put into her fried chicken. Arabella was as secretive as the Colonel about what went into her special recipe. According to her, it had been handed down verbally from generation to generation. It would be passed to Emma when she married.

  Emma kissed her aunt on the cheek and opened the refrigerator, where she knew a pitcher of sweet tea would be waiting.

  “Oooh, you’ve made your chess pie,” she said, closing the door and opening the cupboard where the glasses were kept.

  “It’s not every day my younger sister comes to visit.” Arabella dropped a chicken leg into the paper bag and began to shake it. “Although what all the fuss is about, I don’t know. I’m perfectly all right.”

  “You know how Mom is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”

  “Do I ever,” Arabella exclaimed. “Sometimes I think she ought to have been the older sibling, not me.”

  Emma thought Arabella was looking considerably better—she was less pale and the sparkle had returned to her blue eyes.

  Emma was setting the table when the doorbell rang. Pierre and Bette launched themselves onto their feet and skidded together down the long front hall. Arabella dried her hands on her apron and scurried after them.

  “Priscilla,” Emma heard her aunt say as Emma rounded the corner to the front hall.

  Despite more than eight hours of car travel, Emma’s mother’s blond hair looked as if she had just left the salon, her makeup was perfect and her clothes were as fresh as they had no doubt been when she’d left that morning. Emma thought of all the car trips she’d taken where they were barely out of the state before she’d dribbled a blob of ketchup from a fast food hamburger on her top or had a grease stain on her pants from a dropped French fry. Her mother was as slim as ever in a pair of perfectly creased khakis, white blouse and brown leather driving shoes.

  “Emma,” Priscilla called, holding her arms out.

  Emma hugged her mother while Priscilla offered her cheek for a kiss.

  “So good to see you, darling. It’s been too long.” She stood back and held Emma at arm’s length. “Are you going to leave your hair like that? Men don’t like women with such short hair, you know.”

  “I think she looks adorable,” Arabella said, rolling her eyes behind her sister’s back.

  “How was your trip?” Emma asked, anxious to change the subject.

  “Rather tedious, I’m afraid. I hit a patch of bad weather outside of Birmingham, which slowed me down. Very annoying.”

  “I imagine you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ve put you in the guest room at the back of the second floor.”

  “Wonderful,” Priscilla cooed. “Last time you had me in the front and the traffic kept me up nearly all night.”

  Emma and Arabella looked at each other. The only sounds Emma had ever heard at Arabella’s at night were the chirping of crickets and the sighing of the wind in the tree branches.

  Priscilla grasped her rolling bag by the handle and headed toward the stairs.

  “Do you want me to help you with that?” Emma asked.

  “Of course not. I can manage.”

  Emma and Arabella retreated to the kitchen where they could hear the thump of the wheels as Priscilla bumped the suitcase up the stairs.

  “Some things never change,” Arabella said as she placed the last of the chicken pieces in the bag and shook it.

  Emma laughed. Arabella was right.

  Arabella poured oil into a pan on the stove and hesitated, her hand on the burner. She looked over her shoulder at Emma. “This is the part I hate.”

  Emma knew exactly what she meant. It had been a pan of oil that had started the fire that had nearly destroyed Arabella’s kitchen.

  Arabella finally turned the burner, and the flame sprang to life. A few minutes later, she began adding the chicken pieces, one by one, to the pan.

  Light footsteps sounded down the hall, and Priscilla reappeared with Pierre and Bette right on her heels. She’d exchanged her blouse for a cream-colored sweater.

  Priscilla bent and scratched Pierre behind the ear. “You’ve put on some weight haven’t you, darling.”

  Emma noticed Arabella bristle slightly.

  “And who is this?” Priscilla held out a hand toward Bette, who approached her with unusual caution.

  “That’s Bette. She’s Pierre’s puppy.”

  Priscilla studied Bette, her head tilted to one side. “I see elements of Pierre—certainly the ears—but she’s obviously not a French bulldog.”

/>   “Pierre had a”—Arabella cleared her throat—“liaison with a dachshund.”

  “Pierre, you scamp. I’m surprised you allowed it, Arabella.”

  “I didn’t,” Arabella said, frowning.

  Again, Emma thought it might be best if she changed the subject. She glanced at her mother. “I thought you would be tanner.”

  “You should see your father! I keep telling him sunscreen, sunscreen, but he doesn’t listen. And he’s out on that golf course all day. Well, no matter. It gives me time for my ceramics.”

  Emma noticed a strange look cross her mother’s face.

  “How is that going?” Arabella turned away from the stove briefly.

  “Very well. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m having a showing at the Belmont Arts and Cultural Center in May.”

  “That’s wonderful. You’ll have to send me some pictures,” Emma said.

  “There’s a small arts and crafts store over on Market Street,” Arabella said, swiping at her nose and leaving it dusted with flour. “You might put some of your pieces up for consignment.”

  “I hardly think of my work as arts and crafts.” Priscilla walked over to the stove, where the chicken was now spitting and crackling in the pan. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, this will be a treat. I love your fried chicken, Arabella. Mine never comes out quite as flavorful and crisp as yours.”

  Arabella’s face glowed with pleasure. She removed the chicken pieces from the pot and placed them on a white platter.

  “Emma, if you could put this on the table . . .” She handed Emma the dish, then opened the oven and took out a cast iron pan of cornbread and a green bean casserole.

  Finally, everything was on the table, and they were all seated around it.

  Emma looked from her mother to her aunt and back again. There was a slight resemblance—the vivid blue eyes and the shape of the nose—but otherwise they were as unalike as two sisters could be.

  “So tell me about this murder of yours, Arabella. You two have been getting up to some awfully unsavory things.”

  Arabella bristled again. “What on earth do you mean by that?” Arabella said.