A Fatal Slip (Sweet Nothings)

by London, Meg

  • • •

  “I wonder what on earth she’s hoarding her money for,” Arabella said as soon as the door had closed behind Joy.

  “Not too bitter, is she?” Sylvia noted.

  “Indeed,” Arabella agreed. “I feel sorry for her. She seems so unhappy.”

  “I gather she was hurt in the accident that killed her mother. I suppose that might make anyone bitter.” Emma went back to tagging a stack of pastel-colored panties. “What was that she said about her father? He doesn’t like broken things?”

  “That was peculiar, wasn’t it?” Sylvia pulled open one of the drawers and began straightening the bras that were arranged in rows like muffins in a tin. “I wonder what she meant by that?”

  “I think I know.” Arabella put down the gown she’d been examining for any worn spots or small tears. “I suppose it was his art background, and his eye for color and symmetry, but Hugh really disliked things that weren’t attractive. It was very hard on him when we were in India. So many beautiful things—if you’ve never seen the Taj Mahal, you really must, especially at sunset and sunrise—but so much ugliness, too . . . poverty and disease.” She put down the gown she was examining, opened the cupboard behind her and pulled out her sewing kit. “Joy is not the most attractive young woman—she’s not ugly, just plain—but she’s also crippled. That would have been difficult for Hugh to accept. He would want his children to be beautiful and certainly unblemished.” She unwound a piece of white thread, cut it and began attempting to thread a slim, silver needle. Finally she put it down in disgust.

  “Emma, would you be a dear and thread this for me?” She handed the needle to Emma.

  Emma slipped the thread through the tiny slit in the needle and handed it back to her aunt.

  “Thank you, dear. I’m quite convinced they’re making the slits in the needles smaller than they used to.”

  “I wonder what it is she’s saving her money for,” Sylvia said as she folded a bra and tucked it into a row alongside the others. “Whatever it is, it must be awfully expensive. I thought you said these Grangers were rolling in dough.”

  “They are,” Arabella said simply. “I can’t imagine what it is she wants. She’s Hugh’s daughter—she’s bound to come into some sort of inheritance.”

  “Unless he’s leaving it all to his wife, Mariel.” Emma glanced at her watch quickly.

  “Oh, I can’t imagine Hugh would do that. And what about the son? I suppose he’s making some money through Hugh’s art business. But surely Hugh would have made sure to take care of both of them.”

  “We don’t know, do we?” Emma said as she pulled her purse out from under the counter. “But I’m heading over there now, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find out.”

  Arabella’s words, “Be careful, dear,” echoed after Emma as she ran up to her apartment to get her coat.

  • • •

  EMMA stared out the car window at the empty fields rolling past. She thought about what Arabella had said as she drove toward the Grangers’—how everyone should see the Taj Mahal at some point in her life. And she thought of her conversations with her mother and whether or not she would be satisfied living her life out in her small hometown, when she’d always longed to see the world.

  Emma sighed as she pulled up to the Grangers’ house. Perhaps Brian was longing to see more of the world, too, and they could travel together. She would have to talk to him about it.

  Emma was glad to see Liz’s station wagon already parked in the driveway. She pulled up in back of it and got out, shivering as the sharp wind knifed through her jacket. She pulled her collar up around her neck, ducked her head against the wind and scurried toward the shelter of the house.

  She had her foot on the first step when a noise like thunder shook the ground. Emma looked up to see someone roaring up the driveway on a large, black horse, its hooves pounding up a choking cloud of dust and gravel that made Emma’s eyes water. She assumed it was Mariel, but when she looked again, after the air had cleared, she was surprised to discover that it was Joy riding the horse.

  Obviously her crippled leg didn’t keep her from horseback riding. Emma knew little about horses, but she could tell that Joy was an excellent rider—confident and in control of her mount. She looked different, too—content and happy, her plain face flushed from the activity, making her look almost pretty.

  Emma waved to her and continued up the steps, brushing at the dust that had blown onto her coat. The front door was open, as Jackson had said it would be. Emma stepped inside and looked around. The foyer was empty. Someone had placed a large bouquet of flowers on the foyer table. They made Emma long for spring. Their scent mingled with the smell of furniture polish and the faint odor of horse, which permeated the house. Emma stuck her head in the office. Liz had one of the paintings Emma remembered seeing in the hallway set on an easel with two tall, bright lights on either side. Liz’s camera rested on a tripod, and she was squinting through the lens. Emma cleared her throat, and Liz turned around.

  “Hey, good to see you.” Liz stretched. “I was just going to get a cup of coffee. Want one before you get started?”

  “I’ll have some tea if there is any.”

  The kitchen was empty. A large thermos of coffee stood on the center island surrounded by cups and saucers, sugar and a pitcher of cream. There was also a woven basket of tea bags. Emma dug through them until she found a sachet of green tea. She microwaved some hot water while Liz helped herself to the coffee.

  Emma was dunking her tea bag in her cup when the doorbell rang.

  Heels clicked across the wood floor, and shortly afterward voices drifted into the kitchen from the foyer. Emma and Liz looked at each other.

  “That voice is familiar,” Liz said.

  Emma nodded. “Yes. It sounds like Detective Walker to me.” Emma peered around the kitchen door into the hallway. “It is Detective Walker.”

  Liz raised her eyebrows. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “Maybe he’s come to ask some questions. It’s about time he bothered someone other than poor Aunt Arabella.”

  Footsteps, two sets this time, clattered back across the wood floor of the entrance hall, and the voices faded away.

  Emma and Liz looked at each other.

  Emma chewed on a cuticle. “I wish I could hear what they’re saying.”

  “So do I.” Liz stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

  “I suppose we could eavesdrop.”

  Liz’s face broke into a wide grin. “Let’s.” She put her cup down on the counter.

  They tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The voices were louder now and perfectly clear. Detective Walker was talking to Mariel Granger. Emma and Liz lingered in the foyer, keeping out of sight of the living room.

  Emma’s ears strained to hear both the conversation in the room beyond as well as the sounds of anyone approaching. She certainly didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping.

  “Did you go out on the terrace to see the fireworks?” they heard Detective Walker ask.

  “Yes,” Mariel answered.

  “And when they ended?”

  “I . . . I went back inside with the crowd.”

  “Your husband was with you?”

  “No, no, he wasn’t. The party was a bit much for him. He is . . . was . . . in perfect health, but at his age . . .” Mariel’s voice trailed off. “He said he’d seen plenty of fireworks in his day and preferred to stay inside and nurse a snifter of brandy.”

  “So you were alone on the terrace?”

  “Hardly alone, Detective. There were dozens of people out there with me.”

  “When the fireworks ended you came inside, and then someone screamed, is that correct?”

  Emma leaned in as close to the door as she dared, but she couldn’t hear Mariel’s response.

  “I’m sorry. I’m sure this is difficult for you. But after the person screamed, someone discovered Mr. Granger’s body at the foot of the balcony.”

>   “Yes,” Mariel said. Emma thought her tone sounded hesitant . . . as if she were unsure of the answer.

  “Do you have any idea why he might have gone up on that balcony? Was he meeting someone?”

  “Not that I know of. Perhaps he wanted to get a view of the ballroom from above. That’s the sort of thing Hugh would do . . . would have done.”

  They heard paper rustling, and Walker continued, “As soon as the police arrived at the hotel, we secured the scene.”

  “What?”

  “I mean we locked everything down—all the doors to the hotel were locked, and we had officers stationed at each of them. We obviously couldn’t interview everyone that night, but we did get everyone’s name and contact information. I have a list of those names.”

  He paused, and they heard paper rustling again.

  “I’ve gone over the list several times. Your name does not appear to be on it.”

  “What do you mean?” Mariel’s voice had taken on a slightly indignant tone. “There must be some mistake.”

  “It means,” Walker said with exaggerated patience, “that you were not in the ballroom or the hotel after your husband was killed. If you had been, your name would be on the list.”

  There was a silence that extended for several minutes. Finally Walker spoke.

  “Where did you go, Mrs. Granger, and when did you leave? Before your husband was killed or afterward?”

  “This is ridiculous.” Mariel’s voice rose to a near hysterical level. “You can’t prove I wasn’t there just because I’m not on some list.”

  Emma could imagine her sitting there fuming, those large, mannish hands clenched into fists.

  “Where did you go, Mrs. Granger?” Walker repeated. “That’s all we want to know. If you left the ballroom before your husband was murdered, and someone can attest to that, you’re one more person we can cross off the list.”

  “I thought you just said I wasn’t on the list.” Mariel’s voice had a pronounced sneer to it.

  Even in the hallway they could hear Walker sigh. “I meant that figuratively, of course. If you have nothing to hide, just tell us where you went and whether someone can verify it. It’s as simple as that.”

  “I’m sorry, but I think it’s time you left.” They heard the rustling sounds of someone getting up. “I’m sure the mayor would not want to hear that the police have been harassing innocent widows.”

  Emma and Liz did not hear Walker’s response to Mariel’s final sally as they turned and scooted back to the safety of the kitchen.

  Chapter 10

  “WELL that was something,” Liz whispered when she and Emma were back in the kitchen, their eavesdropping undetected. They both leaned against the island, panting slightly from their sudden dash.

  Emma looked over her shoulder just in case Mariel was headed their way, but she must have gone off somewhere else in the house. “Yes, I find it very interesting that she refuses say where she was when Hugh was killed—especially since it would give her an alibi. Of course, it’s also quite possible she murdered her husband and then slipped away before the body was discovered.”

  “Or”—Liz helped herself to one of the iced lemon cookies from the ceramic jar on the counter—“she didn’t murder him, but still can’t say where she went.” She leaned on her elbows and took a bite of her cookie. “She can’t say because she was with someone she shouldn’t have been—for instance, that dark-haired man we saw her with in the garden yesterday.”

  Emma wasn’t convinced. “But this is murder. Wouldn’t you want to clear your name no matter what the consequences?”

  “You’re forgetting that Paris is still a very small town,” Liz said, echoing Arabella’s earlier words. “I would imagine until the estate is settled, she doesn’t want anyone to know she was playing around. No gossip, no tongues wagging, no being the subject of back-fence chatter. If for some reason, someone decided to contest the will, why give him any ammunition?”

  Emma took a sip of her tea, which was now barely lukewarm. She popped the cup into the microwave and hit the Start button. Sixty seconds later the timer pinged. Emma was retrieving it when Joy walked into the room.

  “Oh,” she said, looking slightly flustered at the sight of Emma and Liz.

  “Sorry,” Emma and Liz chorused. “We don’t want to get in your way. We’re just getting something to drink.”

  “Please, help yourselves.” Joy waved a hand toward the provisions set out on the counter. Her face was still flushed from the outdoors, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea. She smiled shyly at Emma and Liz. “Riding always makes me thirsty,” she said, filling a tall glass to the brim. “Would you like some?”

  Emma and Liz shook their heads. The house was always slightly chilly, and Emma was grateful for the warmth of the cup in her hands.

  “I saw you riding earlier.” Emma tested her tea. It was now too hot so she blew on it briefly, sending ripples across the surface like tiny waves. “I’m always impressed when someone can ride well. I’ve never gotten the hang of it myself.”

  Joy’s plain face flushed with pleasure, and Emma realized Joy was pretty. It was her habitual expression of bitterness that obscured the beauty of her large blue eyes, fine cheekbones and chiseled nose.

  “I love riding,” Joy said. “My mother had me on a horse by the time I was three years old. I still remember his name—Maximillian. Mother was an expert horsewoman herself.” She dashed at the tears that had formed in her eyes. “That was before . . .” She gestured toward her leg. “On a horse, I can forget that I’m . . . crippled.” Bitterness twisted her mouth, and the flash of beauty Emma had noticed earlier faded like the setting sun.

  Joy turned her back to them and fiddled with the top to the cookie jar. “When I’m riding, the horse becomes my legs, and I can move like the wind, unhampered and . . . free,” she said slightly breathlessly. She spun around. “You have no idea how tiresome it is to drag this thing”—she held out her leg—“around all the time.”

  Joy took a long swallow of her tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Riding has many therapeutic properties—it’s not just for cripples.” Again the bitter half smile, which didn’t reach her blue eyes. “Disabilities come in all flavors. It’s beneficial for autistic children, those with learning disabilities or with mental health issues.” She ducked her head. “Sorry; I’ll get off my soap box now.”

  “No, that’s very interesting,” Emma said and meant it.

  “I’d love to start a therapeutic horseback riding program here at the farm.” She shrugged. “It costs a lot of money though. Teachers have to be certified, the horses have to be trained. As I said”—she rubbed two fingers together—“it’s expensive.”

  “It’s such a worthwhile project though,” Emma said.

  “Yeah, well, tell that to the judge,” Joy said enigmatically. She picked up her glass of iced tea and headed toward the door. “Please help yourselves to anything you want. I know Molly keeps the fridge well stocked,” she called over her shoulder.

  Emma and Liz looked at each other for a moment after she was gone.

  “She’s a very odd girl,” Liz said, taking the last sip of her coffee. She rinsed the cup and started to open the dishwasher.

  “Oh, please, let me do that for you.” Molly bustled into the room, a plain white apron already tied around her waist.

  “Thanks.” Liz put the cup and saucer down by the sink.

  “Did you find everything you need?” Molly asked. She picked up a sponge and began wiping down the counter. Her hands were small but capable-looking, with short square nails.

  “Yes,” Emma and Liz chorused.

  “How long have you been working for the Grangers?” Emma asked.

  Molly frowned and put her hands on her hips. She blew out a gust of breath that sent the fine gray hairs around her forehead flying. “Oh, it’s been a long time, I can tell you that. How many years thou
gh, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. Can you believe it?” She chuckled. “I was here when Miss Joy was born, that I know. I’ll never forget it; such a pretty baby, and so good, too. She hardly ever fussed, which was a wonderful thing because it was me and Miss Elizabeth alone with her most of the time. Mr. Granger was traveling all over the world, and Miss Joy went from crawling to walking while he was away. Sometimes he hardly recognized her when he got home.”

  A frown crossed her face. “Some men don’t take to babies, and Mr. Granger was one of them. Which was a terribly sad thing when Miss Elizabeth died and Miss Joy had to spend all those months in the hospital, crying for her mother, while they did one surgery after another trying to fix her leg. They did the best they could.” Her lips snapped together briskly.

  “It was different when Mr. Jackson came along. Mr. Granger doted on him something fierce. It’s made Miss Joy a little bitter, if you know what I mean. Not that anyone can blame her. Losing her mother like that, and with a father who took no interest whatsoever. When he married the second Mrs. Granger, I had hopes that she would be like a mother to Miss Joy, but they took an almost instant dislike to each other.”

  Emma and Liz were quiet, not wanting to possibly staunch the flow of information.

  “Recently, Mr. Granger had begun to make an effort. Maybe it was because he was getting on in years and knew his time was limited.” Molly gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Not to say he knew what was coming. I didn’t mean that. May he rest in peace.”

  Molly was quiet for a moment, and Liz and Emma waited with bated breath.

  “He tried to take an interest in Miss Joy and what she was doing. It’s just too bad that . . .” Molly stopped abruptly and wrung her hands.

  “Just too bad that what?” Emma asked in her most persuasive voice.

  Emotions skittered across Molly’s face while Emma nearly stopped breathing.

  Molly twisted her apron between her hands as if she were trying to wring it out. She gave a deep sigh. “It was right before the big party planned for Mr. Granger’s birthday on Saturday night. He and Miss Joy were in the library, talking. I brought them a tray with some sherry. It made me happy to see them sitting there together.”