by Meg London
PRAISE FOR
Murder Unmentionable
“Sweet iced tea, a cast of charming Tennessee characters, and a vintage-lingerie store help this debut go down easier than a mint julep in July. Readers who like their cozies with a Southern flavor will enjoy getting to know Emma and her aunt, Arabella, as they try to catch a killer as slippery as a satin peignoir.”
—Lila Dare, author of the Southern Beauty Shop Mysteries
“Filled with Southern charm, this is a flirty mystery you’re sure to find alluring.”
—Riley Adams, author of the Memphis BBQ Mysteries
“Meg London has hit the right note with the characters…and the setting…Vintage-lingerie details and Southern charm add to the atmosphere of this appealing first cozy.”
—The Mystery Reader
“Entertaining…Meg London captures the essence of a small Southern town’s quirkiness.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
“Like the name of the store, this mystery is very sweet. With a very interesting cast of characters…this was a fun debut into the life of Emma and the town of Paris, Tennessee, and I’m looking forward to more books in the series.”
—Cozy Mystery Book Reviews
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Meg London
MURDER UNMENTIONABLE
LACED WITH POISON
MEG LONDON
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
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LACED WITH POISON
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any
printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy
of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are
trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN:978-1-101-62442-5
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / July 2013
Cover illustration by Nathalie Dion.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for
author or third-party websites or their content.
To my wonderful husband, two beautiful daughters and the best sister in the world. Your never-ending support and encouragement mean the world to me.
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my editor, Faith Black, who takes my raw material and helps me turn it into a book, and my agent, Jessica Faust, who helped me fulfill my dream of becoming an author.
I’d also like to thank my friends Laura Alden, Janet Bolin, Krista Davis, Kaye George, Daryl Wood Gerber and Marilyn Levinson for their brainstorming, hand-holding and support.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
EMMA Taylor stood behind the counter of Sweet Nothings, her aunt’s vintage lingerie shop in downtown Paris, Tennessee. It was almost the end of September, and Emma was reviewing the month’s sales before opening for business. She twirled a piece of dark brown hair around her finger as she studied the black-and-white figures on the computer printout. Sales had been good. Customers were coming from as far away as Nashville and Memphis to check out their one-of-a-kind pieces, and they were doing a brisk online business, too, since Emma’s friend Liz had gotten their web site up and running for them.
Unfortunately, though, they were still in something of a hole. Emma worried her lower lip between her teeth. Someone had thrown a brick at their front window—the police were never able to discover who, although Emma and Arabella suspected it was someone whose feathers they’d riled while investigating the murder of Emma’s ex-boyfriend—and replacing that enormous pane of glass had cost a small fortune.
Emma ran a finger down the column of numbers. Things were definitely improving, though, and hopefully a robust Christmas season would put them back in the black again.
Emma glanced at her watch. Almost time to open. She looked around the shop. Everything seemed to be in order—stock was tidied and ready, a Lucie Ann gown hung from the open door of one of the white distressed armoires Emma had ordered for the shop when they renovated and a Jenelle sheer lace nightgown in a soft rose graced the mannequin. Sweet Nothings was ready for business.
Emma unlocked the front door, switched the sign from closed to open and was putting away the computer printouts when she heard the front door ping. “Can I help you?” she said, looking up.
“It’s just me, dear.” Arabella bustled into the shop, two enormous shopping bags in one hand and the leash for Pierre, her French bulldog, wound around the other. She had the jacket of her pale gray pantsuit over her arm and had untied the bow at the neck of her cap-sleeved white blouse. “It’s getting quite warm. There’s not a cloud in the sky and that sun is still strong even if it is September.” She tucked a strand of her silver hair back into her French twist.
Emma’s aunt might have been in her late sixties, but she was as stylish as anyone Emma knew half her age. Emma had always been intrigued with her and remembered spending many pleasant evenings on Arabella’s porch listening to tales of her travels to Europe, India and the Far East. Emma never knew what had made her aunt decide to return to Paris in the ’70s, settle down and open her lingerie shop.
Emma indicated the two shopping bags. “Let me take those for you.”
Emma took the bags, and Arabella bent down to unclip Pierre’s leash. He made a beeline for his black-and-white toile dog bed where he immediately stretched out, the occasional twitch of his black ear or white ear his only movement.
“Wait till you see what I have in there.” Arabella grinned and pointed at the bags.
“Did you and Francis go shopping?”
Arabella had spent the weekend in Jackson, Tennessee, about an hour away, where Francis Salerno lived. He was an agent with the TBI—Tennessee Bureau of Investigation—and
Arabella had met him when he was helping the local police look into the murder of Emma’s ex-boyfriend. Arabella had had to brave the wrath of her old friend Sally Dixon when Francis began asking her out. Sally thought she was owed first dibs, but it wasn’t Arabella’s fault that she had been the one to catch his eye. He was tall, with dark hair streaked with gray, and always reminded Emma of the actor who used to play the star in Magnum P.I.
Arabella shook her head. “No, but we did catch a wonderful movie, although I’ve already forgotten the name of it, and had a great steak dinner at that place, whatever it’s called. We even had a picnic yesterday!” she finished triumphantly. She looked at Emma over the rims of her reading glasses. “And don’t worry. Francis made a reservation for me at the loveliest bed-and-breakfast.”
Emma smiled to herself. Arabella had obviously fallen hard for Francis. She was glowing and walked around in a perpetual haze, unable to remember names, places or much of anything else.
Emma straightened a peach 1930s negligee on one of the mannequins. “So, no shopping?”
“Not with Francis, no. He’s not much of a fan, I’m afraid. But I did stop at a wonderful estate sale on my way back yesterday. Wait till you see what I bought!” She reached for the nearest of the shopping bags.
Emma felt her stomach clench. They really couldn’t afford to purchase more stock at the moment. The figures she’d been perusing earlier that morning swam before her eyes in a dismal sea of red.
Arabella must have noticed the look on her face. “Don’t worry, dear Emma.” She put a hand on Emma’s arm. “We’ll sell these things in no time. Besides, I’ve had the most wonderful idea.”
“What is that?”
Arabella winked and shook a finger at her playfully. “Let me show you what I’ve got first.”
She pulled a beautiful flowered peignoir set from the first shopping bag. It looked brand-new, although Emma could tell by the style that it was vintage. Arabella arranged it carefully on the counter and stood back with the air of a parent presenting a clever child’s best trick.
“It’s early 1950s,” Arabella said, running the fabric through her fingers. “Crepe de Chine, bias cut and pleated all around. The skirt on the robe has a sweep of one hundred and two inches!” She finished triumphantly. “It has French seams throughout and they’re all pinked.”
Emma admired the print of tiny roses and other multicolored flowers. It was beautifully delicate and feminine. “Oh, look.” She fingered the three Lucite buttons that closed the robe at the waist. “These are so perfect.”
Arabella nodded as if to say I told you so. “And you won’t believe what else. The ensemble was made in-house at Henri Bendel, the exclusive New York City department store. It’s really one of a kind.”
Arabella put a hand inside the shopping bag. “But that’s not all.” She pulled out an off-white robe and nightgown set. The robe had cream-colored lace from the neck to the waist and also around the waist, and a sweeping skirt. The negligee had matching lace creating a V under the bust. “This set is from the 1940s,” Arabella said as she spread the two pieces out on the counter. “It was made by Tula, but the rayon crepe de Chine is by Narco—the North American Rayon Corporation. The fabric was highly prized during the World War Two era for its exotic feel.”
Emma held the luxurious fabric reverently in her hands. She could imagine how wearing a gown and peignoir set like this would make any woman feel glamorous.
“There’s more.” Arabella dove back into her two shopping bags and pulled out several additional nightgowns, another peignoir and negligee set and a gorgeous bed jacket.
“These things look almost brand-new,” Emma said as she helped Arabella fold the garments up and put them back in the bags.
“They do, don’t they?”
Emma slid the last of the garments in. “Okay, now that we’ve looked at your purchases, are you going to tell me what your wonderful idea is?”
Arabella clapped her hands. “I think you’re going to love it!”
Emma raised her eyebrows and waited.
“A trunk show!” Arabella declared with all the vigor of a game show host announcing the winner. “What do you think?”
“A trunk show?”
Arabella nodded. “Yes. It’s like a party—like the ones where your friends try to sell you jewelry or makeup or things for the kitchen that you don’t even recognize. The hostess invites all her friends and provides refreshments, and we show off our wares.”
“But who would we get to host it?” Emma ran through her mental list of friends.
“That’s the best part!” Arabella was nearly bouncing in her excitement. “Deirdre Porter has agreed to host it for us! I called her on the way back here on my cell. She’s going to e-mail an invitation to all her friends today. It’s perfect.”
“You’re right.” Emma began to smile. “It is perfect.” Deirdre Porter was the daughter-in-law of Alfred Porter, the mayor of Paris, Tennessee, and his wife Marjorie, who came from one of Paris’s oldest and wealthiest families. Deirdre would attract the A-list to their trunk show.
“We’ll make a fortune!” Arabella assured Emma, patting her on the arm. “Meanwhile, let me put these bags in the back. Our first customers could be arriving shortly.”
An hour later, after a dark-haired, fortyish woman left with a glossy black-and-white Sweet Nothings bag dangling from the crook of her arm, Arabella stood in the middle of the shop and looked around.
“Some days I honestly cannot believe what you’ve done with the shop.” She turned and smiled at Emma. “The pink walls, the black-and-white toile…it’s all perfect,” she said with a slight catch in her voice.
“So you don’t miss your pea green shag? Or the fluorescent pink and orange accents?” Emma had stripped the shop of everything that had screamed ’70s in exchange for shabby chic décor.
“Not a bit!”
Arabella was straightening the gown on the mannequin and Emma was flipping through a catalogue when they heard a strange noise coming from outside. It sounded like someone yelling for help. Arabella glanced at Emma with her eyebrows raised. Emma ran to the door and yanked it open.
She stepped outside, stood under the black-and-white Sweet Nothings awning and looked up and down Washington Street—the main shopping area in Paris, Tennessee. At first things looked just as usual, but then she noticed someone coming down the sidewalk. She squinted slightly. It looked like Sylvia Brodsky, who lived over the Taffy Pull a few doors down and worked at Sweet Nothings as a saleswoman and bra-fitting specialist. She’d moved with her son and daughter-in-law from New York where she’d spent several decades working in lingerie at Macy’s department store. Emma had often heard the term crusty New Yorker, but she’d never quite understood what it meant before meeting Sylvia.
Emma looked again. It was Sylvia. She was waving her arms and calling for help. Emma couldn’t imagine what the emergency was. Washington Street looked as peaceful as ever—no flames shooting from any of the windows, and no one chasing Sylvia. Emma started down the street toward her.
They met in front of the Meat Mart, where Emma occasionally went to treat herself to a good steak or some loin lamb chops. Emma glanced at the window and saw Willie Williams, the butcher, tip a figurative hat in her direction. She smiled in return and turned her attention toward Sylvia.
Sylvia tended to cultivate a somewhat unusual style of dress, and today was no exception. She was wearing a bandanna that had gone askew, leaving one eye nearly covered, like a bizarre pirate’s patch. Her gray hair bristled out around the edges. She had a trench coat over a pair of purple fleece pajama pants and was shuffling along in fuzzy pink slippers. Something had obviously sent her fleeing to the street still in her nightclothes.
“What is it?” Emma asked.
“Help!” Sylvia gasped. “You’ve got to help me.” She grabbed Emma by the arm and began to drag her down the street.
Shopkeepers were peering out their doors now, and some had come to
stand on the sidewalk, arms folded across their chests. Angel Roy stood in front of her beauty salon, a comb in one hand and a can of hair spray in the other. Today her fire-engine-red hair was teased high in front and gathered into an asymmetrical ponytail that complemented her one-shoulder cotton top. She looked quizzically at Emma as she and Sylvia marched toward her. Emma gave a quick shrug as they came to a halt just beyond Angel Cuts, Angel’s salon.
A red truck was pulled up to the curb, the back doors yawning open. We Move You was written on the side in white block letters. Two men came out of the door next to the Taffy Pull, which led upstairs to Sylvia’s apartment. They muscled a large, floral-patterned recliner through the door, set it down on the pavement, tilted back their ball caps and swiped a hand across their sweaty foreheads.
“What’s going on?” Emma asked again.
“It’s not fair,” Sylvia protested, plopping down onto the temporarily abandoned recliner. “They didn’t even tell me. These men”—she gestured toward the two who were still breathing heavily after their trip down the stairs with the enormous chair, and the one who was waiting by the truck—“just showed up and started heaving my furniture around.”
“What?”
Sylvia nodded so vigorously, her hoop earrings slapped against the side of her face. “I told them I didn’t want to move, but they went ahead and did it anyway.”
“Who is doing this?” For a moment Emma wondered if Sylvia hadn’t paid her rent and was being evicted.
“My rotten kids. My son and that princess he’s married to. They’ve been trying to get me to move to that old folks home, Sunrise or Sunset or something like that, over on Harrison, near the cemetery, for a year now. Pretty convenient. First the home, then a short trip to a plot and gravestone.” Sylvia crossed her arms over her chest and set her jaw. “This is a sneaky, nasty, underhanded maneuver if you ask me.” Her chin quivered, and she dashed a hand across her eyes. “They sent these moving men without even telling me. I was making my tea when they barged in.”
The two men in ball caps looked at each other. One began to open his mouth, then closed it again and shrugged.