by London, Meg
• • •
EMMA had butterflies in her stomach as she pulled into the Grangers’ driveway. Today she really would be snooping—not just overhearing conversations or gossiping with Molly. If one of the Grangers was a murderer, she could be in danger.
Emma tried to quell her nerves as she made her way down the hallway to the storage room where she was working. One of the drawings on the wall caught her eye, and she stopped to admire it. She felt her heartbeat slowly return to normal. She was being overly dramatic—she was just having an attack of nerves.
While waiting for the computer to boot up, she went to the rack of paintings and found where she’d left off. She took the piece over to the worktable and turned it over so she could read the label. She entered the data, and then looked around.
She was all alone. At one point she thought she heard footsteps, but no one came through the door. Besides, no one could possibly guess what she was doing, she rationalized, as she sorted the various data in the computer database.
She started by sorting according to the artist’s name. Strange, there were no Rothkos listed. Perhaps the information had been entered incorrectly? She clicked a few keys and the database was now sorted by title. Emma went through them carefully but still didn’t come up with anything that remotely matched John Jasper’s painting. Finally, she sorted by date and was dismayed when she again came up empty-handed.
Emma leaned her elbows on the desk and put her chin in her hands. What next?
She thought about when she’d started the project a couple of days ago. How stupid of her! The very first entries in this database had been hers. Jackson had told her he’d already started taking an inventory, but he had said he’d used the desktop in the library. Obviously the two databases hadn’t been merged. Did she dare check out the other computer?
Emma spent another hour logging paintings into the database debating about going into the library and sneaking onto that computer. The house was quiet—she hadn’t seen any signs of Jackson or his partner, Tom Roberts. Mariel hardly ever came down this wing. Emma might not get another chance.
Her hands were cold and slick with perspiration. She crept down the hall and across the foyer. Molly was in the kitchen, humming to herself as she swept the floor. Emma wasn’t particularly worried about her—Molly had no idea what Emma was doing and wouldn’t realize that Emma’s job didn’t normally take her into the library.
The light was off in the office where Liz usually worked. Emma paused briefly to listen, but she couldn’t hear anyone about. She tiptoed down the hall toward the library and peeked in. The room was empty.
She left the lights off as she slipped into the chair in front of the desk. Hopefully she couldn’t be seen by someone casually walking by. She powered up the computer and jumped when the light from the monitor came on.
Her hands were damp, and her fingers were clumsy on the keys. Fortunately, the files on the computer were very neatly organized. She found a folder marked Inventory and opened it.
A rustling sound from the hall froze her and she held her breath. She listened carefully. Was someone coming? She waited a minute and then let out her breath. False alarm.
Emma clicked a few keys, and the database opened. She had been afraid it might be password-protected but obviously Jackson didn’t see the need to go that far. She sorted the information by artist and scanned the column until she came to the Rs. She gave a hiss of frustration. No Rothko works were listed. Again, she sorted the database in several different ways, but the title of John’s painting did not appear. There weren’t very many entries—Jackson had obviously quit attempting to inventory the paintings rather quickly.
Emma leaned back in the chair. Did Jackson remove things from the database when they were sold? She tabbed across the page until she came to a column labeled Sold. Names, dates, all the information one would expect was listed there. But no mention of John Jasper or his fake Rothko painting.
Emma closed the file, turned off the computer and sat drumming her fingers on the desk. There was a stack of papers to the right of the computer weighed down by an elegant crystal paperweight. Emma caught the name of a local bank, the Commercial Bank and Trust Company, out of the corner of her eye.
She convinced herself it wouldn’t hurt to have a closer look even though she had no idea what she hoped to find. She eased the paper out from under the paperweight. It was a bank statement, and the account was in the name of Jackson Granger. Several large sums had been deposited recently, and the account total was staggering—at least to Emma.
She straightened the papers quickly and had just gotten up from the chair when Jackson walked into the room.
Emma couldn’t stifle the cry that came to her lips.
“I’m sorry. Did I startle you?”
“Yes. I didn’t hear you coming.” Emma’s heart was pounding furiously. She was surprised Jackson couldn’t hear it.
Had he seen her on the computer? She couldn’t tell. She thought he was looking at her rather strangely, but it might be her guilty conscience. The silence lengthened and Jackson raised one eyebrow as if to say What are you doing in here?
“I was just . . .” Emma searched frantically for an excuse. She noticed the copy of Art International that Tom Roberts had tossed on the sofa, still splayed open to hold his place. “I was just going to borrow this magazine, if you don’t mind.” Emma picked it up and brandished it at Jackson. “This article on the Nazis and stolen art looks very interesting.”
She couldn’t tell if Jackson believed her or not. She didn’t care. She bolted from the library for the relative safety of the storage room. She looked at her watch, but she really couldn’t justify leaving yet. It might arouse Jackson’s suspicions.
Instead, she hauled the next painting out of the rack and began entering the data. She was typing in the information when something occurred to her—Jackson had been lying when he told her that the Cézanne painting she’d found to be slightly wet had been to the restorer. Much more likely it was a fake—one that had just been painted and put into the inventory to be sold to some unsuspecting client.
Chapter 19
EMMA spent the rest of the afternoon looking over her shoulder. She was five minutes away from calling it a day when she heard footsteps in the hallway. They stopped just shy of the door to the storage room. Emma hesitated then swung around in her seat.
Jackson stood there watching her. “Mind if I come in?” he asked politely.
Emma wanted to scream no, but instead she smiled and said, “Please do.”
Jackson perched on the edge of the worktable and smiled at Emma. She pushed her chair back to increase the distance between them. His hands were spread out on his knees—large hands capable of . . . Emma shook her head. Her imagination was beginning to run away with her.
“I hope you’re enjoying the job, and that it hasn’t been too difficult for you. I’m afraid I’ve left you alone. There’s been so much to do with my father’s funeral, meetings with lawyers and, well, I’m sure you can imagine.”
Emma nodded. What was he getting at? Had he seen her snooping in the library? She tried to read the answer in his face, but his expression was bland.
After a few more pleasantries, he went, leaving Emma to wonder . . . had his visit been meant as a warning?
Talking with Jackson had made Emma late. When she checked her phone there was a message from Arabella saying that she was taking Bette to her house, and Emma could pick the dog up there. Emma turned off the computer, slipped into her coat and turned out the lights. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she crossed the foyer to the front door. She sprinted to her car and slammed the door shut. Her hands were shaking slightly as she put the car in gear and drove away, churning up gravel in her wake.
Bette was asleep in a sunbeam by the front door when Emma got to Arabella’s, but she immediately jumped to her feet to lavish great quantities of affection on Emma, which included licking her face, hands and nearly kn
ocking her over.
“Hello, dear.” Arabella came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. “How was your—” she started then stopped abruptly. “Is everything okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Come out to the kitchen and get a glass of tea.”
Emma followed Arabella to the kitchen, where Priscilla was busy peeling potatoes and Francis was seated at the table thumbing through the newspaper.
“You haven’t told me what happened,” Arabella said as she retrieved a glass from the cupboard.
“Something’s happened?” Priscilla whirled around with the potato peeler in her hand. She had tied one of Arabella’s aprons over her tweed slacks and black turtleneck.
“Not really,” Emma said, taking a grateful sip of the tea Arabella handed her. “I just did a little . . . snooping, and I’m not sure if Jackson saw me or not.”
“Oh dear.” Arabella wrung her hands. “Do you really think he might have seen you?”
“I don’t know.” Emma sank into a chair at the table.
Francis closed his newspaper and folded it up. He smiled encouragingly at Emma. “I hope you found out something for your troubles.”
“Oh yes. I tried to find the provenance for the Rothko painting they sold to Jasper. It wasn’t in the database I was working on, so I checked one of the other computers. There was a complete inventory on it—except, of course, for the pieces I was cataloging—and the Rothko wasn’t there, either.”
Francis stroked his mustache. “That’s a shame. It would really help to know where the painting came from originally.” He absentmindedly ruffled the pages of the newspaper. “Forged art is a tricky business. The FBI may go after the forgers, but, unfortunately, there’s no protocol for dealing with the works of art—Jasper will probably be welcome to keep the painting if he wants. And there’s nothing to stop him from passing it off as an original a decade or two from now.”
“I don’t think he would do that,” Emma said.
Francis shrugged. “It’s happened before.”
“But that’s not all. Jackson had left his personal bank statement sitting out on the desk. I took a peek at it. The total in the account was astounding, and there were some recent, big deposits.”
“To his personal account?” Francis fiddled with his mustache. “That sounds as if his father didn’t know what was going on and Jackson had a little side business of his own going.”
Arabella bustled over and put a plate of cheese and crackers on the table. “Now, don’t eat too many.” She shook her finger at them. “There’s pulled pork and coleslaw for dinner.”
Emma took a cracker and topped it with a piece of cheese. “The other day when I was working, I picked up a painting—a Cézanne—and it was slightly tacky. I got paint on my hand.”
Francis’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline.
“I mentioned it to Jackson, and he said it had been sent to the restorer and that the restorer had probably sent it back before it was completely dry. Now I’m wondering if it’s a fake as well. If it is, it’s a very good one. Whoever did it has a lot of talent.”
Emma finished her cracker and turned to her aunt, who was standing at the stove. “Have you seen Dr. Baker yet, Aunt Arabella?”
“Not yet, but I have made my appointment. I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing.”
Arabella kept her back to them, but Emma could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe what she was saying—she was worried. Emma glanced at Francis, and she could tell by the look on his face that he was worried, too.
• • •
LATER, after dinner, Arabella and Francis went into the living room. Francis was going to read his book, and Arabella had her sewing basket and a Lucie Ann negligee she had picked up at a garage sale that needed some mending.
Emma offered to do the dishes. She expected Priscilla to join Francis and Arabella in the living room, but her mother lingered behind, putting away the place mats and wiping off the table.
Emma had the distinct impression that her mother wanted to tell her something but for some reason, she was reluctant. It wasn’t like Priscilla to confide in her so Emma was surprised. They made small talk about the weather, which was completely unremarkable, as Emma rinsed the dishes and silverware and put them in the dishwasher.
Priscilla pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. She twisted her wedding ring around and around, the light over the table reflecting off the diamonds set in the gold band. Emma wondered if she ought to ask if anything was wrong.
Finally, Priscilla cleared her throat. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she began. “And I just don’t know how.” She was twisting the ring faster and faster like a person fingering worry beads. “I didn’t come up here just because of Arabella.”
Emma stopped with a fork halfway to the dishwasher. “Oh?”
“Of course I was worried about your aunt. I feel it’s my . . . duty to look out for her. I’ve always been the stable one—the settled one—taking the traditional path in life.” She was quiet for a moment. “But now all that seems to be coming . . . unraveled.” She choked back a sob.
“Mother, what’s wrong?” Emma went over and put her arms around her mother.
“I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me . . . in us. Your father and I both love you very much, and nothing will ever change that. We want the best for you, I’m sure you know that.”
“I do. But please tell me what is going on.” Emma felt dread settle in the pit of her stomach like an overly heavy meal. Was her father ill? Was that why he hadn’t come along?
“Your father and I have decided that it might be best if we . . . separate for a bit. Nothing final, of course. Just to see how things go.” She looked up at Emma with tears in her eyes.
Emma didn’t know what to say. It was the last thing on earth she had expected. Her parents were . . . her parents. They couldn’t separate. They went together like peanut butter and jelly. George and Priscilla. Emma couldn’t imagine it any other way.
Priscilla grabbed Emma’s hand. “We’ll get through this, don’t worry.”
“Does Aunt Arabella know?”
Again, Priscilla fiddled with her wedding band. “I haven’t told her yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.” She pulled the ring off, slipped it onto the ring finger of her right hand, then put it back on her left hand. “I’ll tell her after you’ve gone.”
“I just can’t believe it.” Emma felt hot tears pressing against the back of her eyelids. Other people’s parents got divorced . . . not hers.
“As I said, nothing is final. It’s just a trial . . . to see how we feel.”
“Yes. Sure. I understand.” Emma turned away, poured soap into the dishwasher dispenser and turned the machine on. She took off her apron, wadded it up and tossed it on the counter. “I think I’d better go back to my apartment. It’s getting late.”
“Darling, please don’t blame me,” Priscilla called after her.
Emma stopped in the doorway. “I don’t blame you. I just need time to . . . think, okay?”
She grabbed her coat from the closet, and managed to corral Bette and clip on her leash.
She stuck her head into the living room. “Good night, all. Thank you for dinner, Aunt Arabella.”
“You’re going already?” Arabella started to get up from her seat.
“Please,” Emma said, “don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”
She managed to make it out the front door and to her car before the tears that had been threatening spilled out and ran down her cheeks.
Emma dialed Brian’s number as soon as she got home. When anything happened—good or bad—he was the first person she thought to call. Bette sensed that something was wrong and curled up in Emma’s lap. Emma found her warmth and steady breathing soothing.
Brian was sympathetic. “I know when my mother died, I felt as if my world had ended. I’m sure having your parents separate must feel something like that.”
“It’s not
as bad as if one of them had died,” Emma said, “but it still feels as if my life is falling apart. My parents have always just been there.”
“You have your own life to live now,” Brian said softly. “A life that I hope we will someday build together.”
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. Brian wasn’t exactly proposing, but he was obviously thinking along those lines. Emma realized he was right—she needed to live her own life now. If her parents divorced, it would be sad. But she had reached the point where she could look forward to building her own family.
By the time she hung up, she was feeling considerably better. She would have to make the best of things no matter what happened.
• • •
ARABELLA eyed Emma somewhat warily when Arabella arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning.
“Would you like something to drink?” Arabella dangled a tea bag in front of Emma.
“Sure.” Emma had done the vacuuming as soon as she arrived and hadn’t yet had the chance to make herself a cup of tea. She could tell that Arabella was worried about her, which was why she was being so overly solicitous. Emma thought perhaps it would be best if she broached the topic herself.
“Did Priscilla talk to you last night?”
Arabella jerked, and water spilled on the counter. She fussed about, grabbing a paper towel and cleaning it up, her back to Emma. “Yes, she did.” Her voice was muffled.
“It’s okay. I’m okay,” Emma said, and she realized she meant it.
“Are you really, dear?” Arabella put a hand on Emma’s arm. “I was so worried about you. It wasn’t an easy thing for you to hear.”
“I talked with Brian.” Emma leaned on the old upright Hoover they kept in the shop. “He helped me put things in perspective.” Emma couldn’t stop it; a grin spread across her face.
Arabella regarded her, her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. “The last thing I expected was to see you smiling, so out with it.”
Emma ducked her head. “It’s nothing really. Just that Brian pointed out that someday we’ll be creating a family of our own so I need to look forward.”