by Meg London
STUNNED silence greeted Marjorie’s pronouncement, then everyone began talking at once. Deirdre went from group to group urging everyone into the dining room where the food had been set out.
Emma felt a prickle of envy when she saw Deirdre’s dining room, but then she reminded herself that she was perfectly content where she was in her little apartment over Sweet Nothings with its darling window seat and view of Washington Street below. If she and Brian O’Connell got married, she doubted they would be able to afford anything so lavish as the house Deirdre lived in, but with Brian’s architectural knowledge and carpentry skills, they would certainly be able to create a nice home.
A blush crept up Emma’s neck to her face. Here she was fantasizing about marrying Brian when they’d barely begun dating. She knew he was beginning to see her as girlfriend material, but he needed time to heal from a failed engagement that had left him scarred and somewhat wary.
Emma glanced around the dining room admiring the beautiful carved marble fireplace, the arched windows partially concealed behind plantation shutters and the exquisite antique dining table and chairs.
The caterer, Lucy Monroe, had created a gorgeous spread for the occasion with her famous cheese straws taking pride of place. She was one of Emma’s mother’s oldest friends. Emma had grown up knowing her as Aunt Lucy, and no Taylor occasion had been complete without some goodies created by Lucy. Emma took one of the small plates Deirdre had set out and helped herself to an assortment of hors d’oeuvres. She had just taken a bite of a deliciously light mille-feuille wrapped around some kind of mushroom mixture when Jessica came up to her.
Jessica’s face was the picture of dissatisfaction—brows lowered threateningly, mouth turned down and eyes narrowed. “How dare that woman! Who does she think she is.” She glared at Emma as if Marjorie’s outburst had been her fault. “Just who is she anyway?”
“Marjorie Porter,” Emma mumbled around the bit of pastry in her mouth. She swallowed quickly. “Our hostess’s mother-in-law. She’s the heir to the Davenport fortune.”
Jessica wrinkled her brow. “Why does that sound familiar?”
“After the Mitchums started the Paris Toilet Company and created the antiperspirant, which they named Mitchum after themselves, the Davenports started a line of bleaching creams that made them almost but not quite as much money,” Emma explained.
Jessica snorted. “Still doesn’t give her the right to browbeat other people. I feel sorry for poor Deirdre having that woman as a mother-in-law. Deirdre and I were sorority sisters—did I tell you?”
“Yes.”
“Phi Mu. My mother was a Phi Mu and her mother before her. I always knew I would join as well.”
“Really?”
“And Rose isn’t in the least bit demented, although I hate to use that term. We prefer to talk about memory issues rather than dementia. No, Rose is perfectly fine in that department, but she does suffer from severe osteoporosis and is all bent over, the poor dear.”
“Oh,” was all Emma could think to say.
“Look, there’s Charlotte Fanning. I must go say hello.”
Jessica walked off toward a tall, exquisitely coiffed, champagne blond woman who was dripping with expensive jewelry. Emma watched idly as she chewed on one of Lucy’s cheese straws. The blond woman stiffened when she noticed Jessica approaching her. Jessica smiled and held out her hand, but instead of returning Jessica’s handshake, the woman ignored the proffered gesture and instead, turned on her heel and stalked away. Jessica was left standing with her hand stuck out in midair.
What was that all about? Emma wondered. But before she could think about it any more, Bitsy came up to her. She had a plate of hors d’oeuvres as well and was nibbling on the end of a cheese straw.
“If I had known she was going to be here, I wouldn’t have come.” Bitsy tipped her head toward Jessica, who had recovered her aplomb and was filling her plate at the buffet table.
“Jessica?” Emma said, to be sure.
Bitsy nodded. “I can’t stand that woman. When we were in college—”
“Excuse me, dear, but could you lend a hand?” Arabella put an arm around Emma. “Hello, Bitsy. I’m looking forward to your delicious cupcakes.”
“I’m sorry, Aunt Arabella.” Emma put her plate down and dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “I’ll be right there.”
“That’s perfectly all right, dear. I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself. Sylvia and I have made any number of sales.” Arabella’s cheeks pinked up from excitement. She wound the long blue and white print scarf she was wearing through her hands. “I’m very, very pleased. But we do need some help getting that nightgown and peignoir off dear Melanie for the trip home.”
Emma couldn’t help it. She started to laugh.
“What’s so funny, dear? I do wish you’d let me in on the joke,” Arabella said dryly.
Emma related the incident with the police on the way to Deirdre’s house, and soon Arabella and Bitsy were joining in the laughter.
Arabella dabbed at her eyes. “Perhaps we should leave the garments on poor Melanie then. We don’t want the dear girl getting a ticket for being a public nuisance. That would be rather harsh, don’t you think?”
By the time Emma finished helping Arabella and Sylvia pack up, Deirdre was clearing the food from the table.
Emma picked up a platter that was empty save for a few curls of parsley.
“Oh, don’t bother,” Deirdre said from across the table where she was stacking dirty plates. “Gladys can take care of it.” Deirdre motioned toward a timid-looking red-haired girl skulking in the corner. Her face was ghostly white except where peppered with ginger-colored freckles.
“It’s no problem,” Emma said. “I’m happy to help.”
“Thanks.” Deirdre smiled. “You can leave it on the counter. Gladys can load the dishwasher after everyone is gone.”
Emma leaned against the swinging door to the kitchen and pushed it open. Deirdre’s kitchen was as exquisite as the rest of the house with a huge island in the center, granite countertops, a brick fireplace and a huge, antique dresser against the far wall displaying an impressive collection of china and pottery. French doors led to a brick terrace surrounded by well-tended gardens.
Gladys came into the kitchen behind Emma, her hands full of precariously balanced plates. Emma took a stack from her quickly.
“Don’t want these to fall.”
Gladys smiled her thanks.
“Have you worked for Deirdre long?” Emma tried to draw the girl out.
She nodded mutely. “I help out a few of the other ladies, and I work part-time at Sunny Days as an aide.”
She clamped her thin lips closed as if she’d already revealed too much.
Emma left the dishes on the counter as instructed. Gladys was already rinsing the stack of plates she’d brought in from the dining room.
Emma noticed that three white boxes, tied with string, were stacked on the island, and she recognized them as coming from Sprinkles. They must be Bitsy’s cupcakes. Bitsy made delicious cupcakes in all sorts of unusual flavors and decorated them with edible flowers that Liz provided from her garden. Her shop was full all day long with people looking to satisfy their sweet tooth.
Emma put a hand against the door to the dining room, but it wouldn’t budge. She stepped aside, perplexed, but a second later the door swung to and Marjorie stepped into the kitchen.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, sounding anything but. “Were you trying to get through the door?”
Emma nodded and smiled to show that she hadn’t taken offense in any way and then pushed her way through the door and back into the dining room.
Everything had been cleared, and Deirdre was putting out cups and saucers for coffee and tea as well as delicate porcelain plates for dessert. Some women had drifted back toward the living room, while others were still standing around, nursing glasses of punch or nibbling on the last of their hors d’oeuvres.
Emma chatted with
a few of the women, and several asked for her business card. Many had never been to Sweet Nothings before, and she was happy to have the opportunity to spread the word.
A few minutes later, Marjorie came back through the swinging door with a platter of cupcakes in her hand.
“I do hope you don’t mind, Deirdre. I thought I would make myself useful and put these out for you.”
Deirdre gave a tight smile. “That’s fine, Marjorie. Thank you for your help.”
“I thought I would pass them around, if that’s all right with you.”
Deirdre nodded, her smile getting even tighter.
Marjorie held the tray toward Jessica.
“Oh, those look delicious,” Jessica said, peering at the display in Marjorie’s hand. “Are those flowers edible?” She pointed at the multicolored pansies, violets and other small flowers adorning the tops of the cupcakes.
“They are.” Bitsy piped up from where she was standing near the entrance to the dining room. “There are a number of edible flowers, but they must be grown organically without pesticides.”
“I can vouch for these.” Liz stepped farther into the room. “I grew them myself in my garden.”
“I can’t wait to try one,” Jessica said, her hand hovering over the platter. “Mother always said it was rude to reach across a serving plate to select an item from the back.” Jessica reached for the closest cupcake.
“My mama would have slapped my hand if I’d done that,” a woman in a bright magenta silk blouse said as she, too, selected the nearest cupcake when Marjorie approached her with the tray.
While Marjorie handed round the rest of the cupcakes, Emma helped Deirdre pass out cups of tea and coffee. Emma was stirring a spoon of sugar into her tea when someone grabbed her elbow.
It was Jessica. Her face was the color of oatmeal, and there were drops of perspiration on her forehead.
“Do you know where the powder room is?”
“Yes, it’s just down the hall there.” Emma pointed toward the corridor. “Are you okay?”
Jessica shook her head. “I must have eaten something that disagreed with me. I’ll be fine.” She moved at a quick pace in the direction Emma had indicated.
“Is she okay?” Deirdre said, coming up behind Emma.
“She said she thinks she ate something that didn’t agree with her.”
“She looked terrible.” Deirdre furrowed her brow. “I’ll give her a few minutes and then go check on her.”
Emma milled around, chatting with different people, but always with an eye out for Jessica. Suddenly she realized it had been ten minutes since the woman had disappeared in the direction of the powder room. The same thought must have occurred to Deirdre, because just then she came up to Emma.
“Has Jessica come back yet? I don’t see her.”
Emma shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”
“I’m going to check on her.” Deirdre put down the cup she was holding and walked purposefully toward the hallway.
Emma wondered if she ought to follow, but before she could decide, she heard a scream, and Deirdre burst into the room.
“Someone call nine-one-one! Jessica has taken ill, and we need to get help right away.”
“Is there anything I can do?” Emma whispered to Deirdre.
She shook her head. “I don’t think so. She’s unconscious, and it’s obvious she’s been very sick.” She wrung her hands together. “I’ve covered her with a blanket and put something under her head, but there’s nothing more we can do. I have no idea what happened to her.” She looked around. “Oh, I do wish the ambulance would hurry.”
Just then the wail of a siren pierced the Saturday afternoon quiet.
“I’d better open the door.” Deirdre headed out toward the front hall.
All conversation stopped as they watched a man and a woman wheel a stretcher down the hall toward Deirdre’s powder room. Conversation resumed, but in hushed tones, as they waited for the ambulance crew to reappear.
Fifteen minutes later, they heard the sounds of wheels on the wood floor, and within seconds the stretcher was being wheeled past the dining room on the way to the front door, only this time a passenger was strapped to it, shrouded in blankets.
Deirdre chewed on the skin on the side of her thumbnail. “I hope she’s going to be okay,” she whispered to Emma as if it had suddenly become improper to speak out loud.
Conversation broke out again as soon as the door closed behind Jessica and the stretcher.
“Do you think it was something she ate?” a woman suggested.
“We all ate the same thing,” Deirdre pointed out.
“It could have been some kind of allergy,” the woman shot back.
“I wish we knew what was going on,” someone else wailed plaintively.
“We could call the hospital,” another suggested. Emma noticed it was the woman with the washed out–looking red hair.
“I don’t think they’re going to tell us anything, our not being relatives,” the woman in the expensive-looking pantsuit said.
“It might be best if I handle this.” Marjorie drew herself up to her full height, head high, bosom thrust forward. She looked annoyed, as if Jessica had ruined Deirdre’s party on purpose. “I’ll get my things, and then I’ll be off to the hospital to find out what is going on. I’m on the board. They’ll have to talk to me.”
They all watched as Marjorie marched out the front door a moment later. Groups clustered here and there in the living room and dining room. Everyone was obviously reluctant to leave until they heard about Jessica. Deirdre put on another pot of coffee, but no one was anxious to touch any of the leftover food.
Finally, after what felt to Emma like an eternity of small talk, the front door opened and Marjorie walked in. All heads turned immediately in her direction. She very deliberately removed her jacket, put down her handbag and then stood in front of the group.
“I’m afraid I have very bad news.”
A gasp went through the crowd at her words.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you that Jessica did not make it.”
A half dozen women began shouting questions, but Marjorie held up her hand, and they quieted down.
“The cause of death is currently inconclusive. There will be an autopsy at which point we will all know more. The doctors have said, however, that it seems to have been something to do with her heart.”
EMMA spent an uneasy Sunday unable to settle down to anything. She would pick up a book or turn on the television, but soon her concentration was diverted by thoughts of what had happened at Deirdre’s party. She felt terrible about Jessica even though she hadn’t really liked the woman all that much. She hoped they would soon find out what went wrong. Perhaps Jessica had had some kind of heart condition that no one knew about?
It was something of a relief when Monday morning arrived and she was able to go down to Sweet Nothings and start a new day.
“For once I’m glad it’s Monday,” said Arabella, who arrived shortly after Emma. She unclipped Pierre’s leash, and Pierre made a dash for his dog bed.
“I feel the same way.”
“I can’t get that poor girl out of my mind.”
A long, drawn-out cough heralded Sylvia’s arrival, and both Arabella and Emma turned toward the door. Sylvia yanked her portable oxygen tank over the threshold and parked it in the corner. “What a weekend,” she said as she tucked her purse under the counter. “First all that excitement on Saturday at Deirdre Porter’s, and then yesterday, bingo with the ladies in the home. My head is reeling,” she commented dryly.
Arabella took off her jacket and went into the back to hang it up.
“I know what you mean. My head is reeling, too. And on top of it,” Arabella said as she stuck her head around the corner, “I had a call from Les.”
“What? Is he asking you out again?” Emma went to stand in the doorway. Les was Arabella’s longtime on-again, off-again beau. He ran the Toggery, the oldest shop in Par
is. She had been spending less and less time with him since meeting Francis.
“Yes.” Arabella sighed. “I managed to put him off by saying I had to check my calendar.” She fiddled with the button on her blouse. “I do like Les, it’s just that…Oh, I don’t know! It’s because of Francis of course.”
“Well, if you’re not planning to marry Francis, then why not go out with both of them?”
“Do you really think that’s okay?” Arabella looked unsure. She tipped a bag of dog food into Pierre’s empty dish. At the sound of the nuggets hitting the metal bowl, Pierre roused himself from his bed and ambled over to see what was on offer.
Sylvia snorted. “Why not?”
“It’s just that I feel guilty.”
“It’s not as if you were stringing either of them along,” Emma said. “You’ve always been open about not wanting a serious relationship.”
“That is true,” Arabella said, although she didn’t look completely convinced.
Sylvia shrugged and went back to straightening a drawer full of camisoles. “Everyone in the retirement home is talking about that girl, Jessica, dropping dead at our trunk show.”
Emma noticed Arabella cringe slightly at Sylvia’s blunt statement and gave a small smile. New Yorkers weren’t known for sugarcoating their words, whereas Southern ladies employed so much sweetener it was enough to give anyone cavities.
“Does anyone at Sunny Days know Jessica well?” Emma asked. “Was there something wrong with her that might have caused her to take ill suddenly?”
Sylvia blew out a puff of air. “Don’t know, really. I don’t think anyone was all that close to her. And believe me, no one is crying in their soup to see her go.”
“That’s awfully harsh.” Arabella put down the garment she was examining.
Sylvia shrugged. “I’m only repeating what I heard.”