by Meg London
Now Emma’s ears really perked up. “Really?” she said innocently.
Marjorie gave a smug smile. “I could name a few. But,” she said with an air of moral superiority, “mother always said, if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone, then the less said the better.”
“If you know something,” Arabella said, “you really should share the information with the police, don’t you think?”
“I’m sure the police aren’t interested in gossip,” Marjorie said tartly.
No, but we are, Emma thought, trying to telegraph the concept to Marjorie somehow.
Marjorie’s expression softened slightly. “Of course everyone knows that Jessica treated that sniveling wretch Crystal Davis horribly. I can’t imagine why she didn’t sack her except that they’re somehow related. But I can’t imagine Crystal getting up the gumption to do anything about it.” She paused, her lips pursed. “Then there’s Lotte Fanning and that whole affair. She was at the trunk show, too.”
“What about Lotte Fanning?” Arabella said.
Marjorie waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. I’m telling tales out of school. Very naughty of me.” She glanced at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist. “I must be going. I’m so glad you’re going to be doing a trunk show for us. Ta-ta.”
“That woman is infuriating!” Arabella declared as soon as the door shut behind Marjorie.
“I know. Who is that Fanning woman she mentioned?”
“I don’t know her well. She’s part of Marjorie’s crowd.”
Emma rubbed two fingers together.
“Exactly. Money. Although no one can quite keep up with Marjorie Porter in that department. Was that an Hermès bag she was carrying?”
Emma nodded.
“I suppose we should add Charlotte Fanning to our suspect list. Now for the fun part.”
“What’s that?”
“Finding out why she would have wanted to kill Jessica Scott.” Arabella was quiet for a moment. “Blast Marjorie anyway for not telling us!”
LATER that evening, Emma headed over to Arabella’s for dinner. She loved visiting her aunt’s old Victorian with its enormous wraparound porch. The house held many happy memories for Emma. As she pulled into the driveway, she could already hear Pierre beginning to bark. Emma looked through the pane of glass alongside Arabella’s front door and watched with a smile as Pierre slid helter-skelter down the hallway in response to her ring. Arabella came along behind him, wiping her hands on her apron.
“Come on in.” Arabella gave Emma a quick hug. “I’ve got some barbecued ribs in the oven. And ice-cold beer in the fridge if you’ve got a hankering for some.”
“No, thanks.” Emma hugged her aunt back. “I’d rather have a glass of wine if you have any.”
“Of course. There’s a sauvignon blanc chilling. I got the beer in case Brian wanted any.”
Emma stopped dead where she was, on the oval foyer rug. “Brian’s coming?”
“Oh! Didn’t I say?” Arabella was all innocence. “I told him I was making some chess pie, and he begged to be invited.”
Emma rolled her eyes. She knew Brian had probably done no such thing. Well, she wasn’t sorry, that’s for sure. She hadn’t talked to him since Saturday, and as shy as she was feeling about seeing him after their kiss in the garden at the wedding, she knew she would have to face him sooner or later.
Arabella’s old Victorian house was filled with relics from her carefree traveling days—statues of Buddha from the Far East, rugs from India, silks from Thailand—but her kitchen was pure Southern comfort. Emma perched on one of the stools that surrounded the butcher block–topped island in the center of the room. Steam rose from several pots hissing on the stove.
Arabella lifted one of the lids with the edge of her apron. “Almost done.” She let the lid clatter back in place.
“What are you making?” Emma went over to peer into the various saucepans.
“Mashed potatoes and collard greens sautéed with bacon.”
“Sounds delicious.”
Emma resumed her perch on one of the stools. She realized her palms were sweating. It was absurd to be so nervous about seeing Brian, but in her mind, that kiss had created a seismic change in their relationship. She wondered if he felt the same way.
“Should we eat in here or in the dining room?” Arabella paused with a stack of plates in her hand.
“Let’s eat in here. I love this room.”
Emma took a pile of newspapers off the kitchen table and headed toward the mudroom with them. She knew Arabella had a recycling bin out there.
Arabella tilted her head in the direction of the pile of Paris Post-Intelligencers in Emma’s hands. “I read that Wyatt Porter was picked up again on a suspected DUI.”
Emma raised her eyebrows.
“Wyatt is the younger brother of Alfred, Marjorie’s husband. He’s been trouble practically from the time he was born. Not like Alfred who, if everyone is to be believed, has never set a foot wrong in his life.” Arabella opened a drawer and began counting out silverware. “If it weren’t for the Porter money, Wyatt might have spent more than a few nights in the local jail.”
“Is he married?”
Arabella walked around the large, worn kitchen table setting out forks and knives. “No. But there was a scandal a while back that the Porters hushed up real quick. This woman from Memphis showed up here in Paris—and what a piece of work she was. Probably met him in a bar down there or something. Rumor has it she was claiming that Wyatt was the father of her child. Another gold digger.”
“Maybe it was true?” Emma folded napkins and placed them next to the plates.
Arabella shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Everyone reckons Wyatt is a little light in the loafers if you know what I mean.”
“Gay?”
“Yes. And the South still being the South, it’s probably what drove him to some of those escapades of his. Of course he doesn’t get any of the Porter money, least not a whole lot of it. The bulk of the estate always goes to the oldest male. Wyatt will get enough for a reasonably comfortable life, but nothing like what Alfred will inherit now that old man George Porter is gone.”
“That doesn’t seem fair.”
Arabella shrugged. “You’re right. But that’s how the Porters have always done it. Of course Marjorie and Alfred already have the money from Marjorie’s family, but I heard that they lost a bundle in the recent stock market crash, so this may have come just in time.”
Emma was getting the salt and pepper shakers from the cupboard by the stove when the doorbell rang, sending Pierre into high gear. She followed him down the hall where he misjudged the distance and narrowly missed slamming into the front door.
Emma felt her heart going into overdrive. She wiped her palms quickly on her slacks and plastered a rather nervous smile on her face.
“Hey,” Brian said as he pulled her into a quick hug. “It sure smells good in here.” He bent down to scratch Pierre behind the ears.
Emma led Brian into the kitchen, where Arabella also gave him a hug.
“What’s cooking?” Brian glanced at the stove.
Arabella gave him a rundown of what she was making.
“And chess pie. You promised me.” Brian smiled at Arabella.
“Of course. How could I disappoint you?” Arabella opened the refrigerator. “Can I tempt you with a cold beer?”
“Absolutely.” Brian slumped into one of the armchairs Arabella had pulled up to the fireplace on the far wall of the kitchen.
“You look tired. Rough day?” Emma sat down in the other chair but then immediately popped up again. “Aunt Arabella, can I help with anything?”
“Not right now, dear.”
“Yes, I guess you could say it was pretty rough. We found some dry rot in the roof of a house we’re renovating.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s going to mean a lot more work than I anticipated, and we’re a bit behind already because Jack, our carpenter, has been out s
ick.”
“Sounds like you need this.” Arabella handed him a frosty bottle of Killian’s Irish Red and a tall, iced glass.
“You do spoil me, Arabella.” Brian gave a tired smile.
“I’m sure everything will turn out all right in the end,” Emma reassured him.
“You’re probably right. It’s just that…” Brian hesitated. “Never mind.” He smiled at Emma.
Emma stayed quiet. Something was obviously on Brian’s mind, but she couldn’t force him to talk about it.
“Who’s hungry?” Arabella pulled a baking dish from the oven, and the sweet and tangy aroma of barbecued ribs filled the air.
“Oh my, that sure does smell good. I think my day has suddenly taken a turn for the better.” Brian put his beer down. “Here, let me carry that for you.”
“Never you mind. I’m fine.” Arabella slid the pan onto the counter. “But if you would go in that cupboard over there”—she indicated which one with her bent elbow—“and get down the big platter on the top shelf, I’d be very grateful.”
Brian immediately hurried to perform his task. Emma got glasses from another cupboard and began filling them with ice water while Arabella spooned the collard greens into a serving dish.
Finally all the dishes were on the table, and Emma, Arabella and Brian were seated around it, their plates full. Arabella’s ribs were superb, as Emma knew they would be. They were her favorite dish, and Arabella used to make them for Emma’s birthday every year.
By the time Arabella brought the chess pie to the table, Brian was looking much more relaxed. He leaned back in his chair and drained the last of his beer. “I swear, Arabella, I’m going to have to loosen my belt a notch after this feast.”
Arabella smiled at him. “And there’s still pie. It’s hard to imagine how sugar, eggs and butter can come together and transform into something so delicious.”
“There’s chess pie, and then there’s your chess pie, Arabella. Yours is the best I’ve ever had.”
Arabella’s face turned pink with pleasure as she handed around the dessert.
They ate in silence for a moment, and then Arabella addressed Brian, her voice soft with fondness. “I think something is bothering you today, Brian. Do you want to tell us about it?”
Brian looked down at his nearly empty plate. “It’s nothing, really. Nothing important. I’ve moved on. It’s just…”
“Just what?” Arabella said softly.
Brian closed his eyes briefly. “It’s just that I heard that Amy—she’s my ex-fiancée—is getting married next month.”
“I can see how that would be…disturbing,” Arabella said.
Emma was quiet. So that’s what was bothering Brian. She could understand how he must feel—not only had Amy rejected him, she had now chosen someone else.
They took their coffee into the living room, and by the time Brian had finished his, he looked considerably more cheerful. More than once his laugh rang out as Arabella recounted one of her foreign escapades.
And when Emma walked Brian to the door later, the warm hug he gave her definitely indicated that Amy and her news had been forgotten, at least for the moment.
* * *
EMMA wasn’t at all hungry when she woke up on Wednesday morning, but she needed to talk to Mabel at the Coffee Klatch to find out whether Deirdre was still taking riding lessons, and if so, on which days.
Half an hour later, Emma arrived at Sweet Nothings with a cup of green tea and the knowledge that Deirdre spent Wednesday afternoons at Skip Clark’s farm going riding. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and called Liz and Bitsy. Sylvia would be in the shop doing bra fittings that afternoon, and between her and Arabella, they ought to be able to manage for an hour or two on their own.
Liz and Bitsy agreed to meet Emma at Sweet Nothings at two o’clock. Meanwhile, Emma got to work cleaning the counters and changing the window display. Paris was still a fairly conservative town, and she had to be careful what she put on display. She chose a demure mint green peignoir set with a high collar edged in lace and short, puffed sleeves.
By the time Arabella arrived an hour later, Emma had finished the window and was doing some research on shape wear for their trunk show at Marjorie Porter’s. She would have to order in some new things. Emma bit her lip. She hoped there was enough left in their credit line at the bank. And she hoped Marjorie’s garden club would buy.
The rest of the day went quickly, and Emma was finishing a hasty ham and pickle sandwich when Liz and Bitsy arrived. They bid Arabella and Sylvia good-bye and piled into Liz’s station wagon for the drive to Deirdre Porter’s house.
The wrought-iron black gates that segregated the Kingsvale Estates from the rest of the world were locked, but Emma remembered the code from the last time they were at Deirdre’s. She recited the numbers to Liz, and Liz punched them in. Seconds later the gates magically opened, allowing them entrée into the exclusive community.
The tree-lined streets were immaculate, the lawns and gardens perfectly manicured, and all the windows gleamed in the afternoon sun. A hush hovered over the neighborhood, with no sound of distant traffic audible.
Liz drove past Deirdre’s house, first checking the driveway to be sure it was empty. No cars were sitting outside the enormous three-stall garage, so Liz turned around at the end of the cul-de-sac and headed back. This time she drove past Deirdre’s house in the opposite direction. They didn’t want to arouse any suspicion by pulling into the driveway, so Liz parked at the curb, several houses away.
They tried to be as quiet as possible as they walked down the street, back toward Deirdre’s impressive, Georgian-style home. Emma felt as if eyes were staring from behind every pair of curtains, and she swore she saw a few of them twitch, but no one came out to challenge them. They stopped and stood in front of the Porter house.
“Okay, what now?” Bitsy nibbled on her thumbnail nervously.
Emma looked all around, but no one was in the area. “I think we can get to the backyard through that gate over there.” She pointed toward an ornamental wrought-iron fence.
“I don’t know why, but I have the strangest feeling someone is watching us,” Bitsy said as they made their way through the gate and into the back gardens.
“It’s nerves,” Liz reassured her. She pulled a piece of folded paper from her pocket. “This is what we’re looking for.” She held out a photograph of the flower for them to see. “Foxglove comes in a number of colors—from various shades of purple to pink, white or yellow. The flowers are bell shaped and grow on tall, slender stalks.”
“It looks so pretty,” Bitsy commented.
“Yes, but it can be deadly,” Liz replied. “That’s why I wouldn’t grow any in our garden. It’s not just because of the children. It’s poisonous to pets and livestock as well.”
Bitsy shivered. “I don’t know why anyone would plant it then.”
“It’s a very pretty biennial, and it grows quite tall so it’s often used in the back row of a garden.”
Emma glanced around the large, beautifully landscaped yard. French doors from the back of the house led to a circular terraced brick patio where expensive-looking lawn furniture was hidden under canvas covers. The patio was ringed with flower boxes, but the plants were all low to the ground, so Emma doubted they would find any foxglove there.
They spread out around the garden. Emma tried to carry a mental image of the conical-shaped flower in her head. She wasn’t much of a gardener and couldn’t easily identify anything beyond roses, tulips, pansies and petunias. The yard was banked toward the sides, and Emma noticed some taller plants growing behind some lower ground cover. As she moved closer, she began to get excited. The flowers, at least from a distance, looked an awful lot like the ones in Liz’s picture.
Emma stepped as delicately as possible into the flower bed and reached for one of the taller stalks growing behind. She pulled it closer. The flowers were bell shaped and a vivid purple.
“Liz!” she call
ed excitedly. “I think I’ve found some.”
Bitsy and Liz both arrived at a trot.
“Where?” Liz was slightly breathless.
Emma grabbed the stalk again and pulled it toward them.
“Yes. That’s definitely foxglove.” Liz’s expression was serious. She turned toward Emma and Bitsy. “It’s definitely possible someone came out here, picked a flower from this plant and replaced one of the edible ones on Bitsy’s cupcake.” She put a hand up to shield her eyes from the sun and looked toward the house. “It’s close enough to the French doors that lead to the kitchen, too.”
Both Emma and Bitsy turned to follow her gaze.
“And everyone was busy in the dining room and living room and not likely to notice someone stepping outside.”
“I imagine any footprints would be gone by now,” Bitsy said, looking at the ground around her.
“We had that rain the other night. I’m sure that wiped out any evidence.” Emma sighed.
Liz edged her way into the garden, closer to the foxglove plant. “See this?” She pointed at a truncated stalk. “Someone broke a piece off here. I definitely think this is where that flower came from.”
Emma’s feeling of triumph was short-lived.
“Hello!” someone called across the lawn to them.
They all jumped.
“Hello? What are you doing in Miss Deirdre’s garden?” The woman brandished a cell phone. “I’m going to call the police right this minute.”
Emma, Liz and Bitsy hurried toward the woman. She was wearing a pair of denim capri pants and a red T-shirt with Patriots Wrestling on the front. She had her phone in one hand and a sponge in the other.
“Please.” Emma held up a hand. “We’re friends of Deirdre’s. We stopped by to see her garden.”
The woman lowered the phone from her ear, but the suspicious look on her face only intensified.
“How come Miss Deirdre didn’t tell me anything about you ladies coming around this afternoon? I’ve been cleaning for Miss Deirdre for two years now, and there ain’t ever been no surprises.”