Murder Unmentionable

by Meg London

  “Non!”

  “Yes.” Angel cracked her gum loudly. “Well, come on, big boy. What are you waiting for? You don’t mind, do you?” She glanced at Emma as she headed toward the door.

  Emma opened her mouth, but before any words came out, Angel was gone, high-heeled sandals slapping, whisking Guy along in her wake.

  “Are you going to let her steal your boyfriend like that?” Arabella looked up from the nightgowns she’d been folding.

  “He’s not my boyfriend, and she’s welcome to him.” Emma opened a drawer and began making note of the contents.

  Arabella opened her mouth but then, after a glance at her niece, shut it again. Instead, she shook her head and went back to what she was doing.

  EMMA was alone in the shop, closing up, when Angel returned Guy. He looked exhausted, and his shirt was damp with perspiration. He sagged against the counter where Emma was finishing an inventory of one of the drawers. Arabella had never bothered to keep track of the stock and had no idea what she had in all the cupboards and cabinets.

  His cologne drifted toward Emma, and she closed her eyes against the memories it stirred up. She remembered their first shoot together, and how she’d been enchanted by his consideration toward everyone on the set—ordering in lunch at his expense for everyone from the magazine’s assistant to the assistant to the models themselves. She’d quickly developed a crush on the handsome, dark-haired Frenchman.

  “Have dinner with me, cherie, please?” Guy’s eyes had a pleading look in them, which surprised Emma.

  “Tonight?”

  He nodded.

  “I’m sorry,” Emma looked down and made a notation on her clipboard. “My friend Liz has invited me to dinner tonight.”

  “Are you busy tomorrow then?”

  Emma hesitated.

  Guy reached out and took her hands in his. “I want to tell you something.”

  Emma’s heart rate ratcheted up to warp speed.

  “I’ve missed you.” He turned her hand over and traced the lines on her palm with the tips of his fingers. A shiver ran down Emma’s spine. “I want you to come home.”

  Emma opened her mouth, but he squeezed her hand to stop her. “I’ve arranged an interview for you next week with La Moda Italiana.” He looked at her face as if judging her reaction.

  Emma’s mouth opened but no sound came out. La Moda Italiana! It was one of the biggest fashion houses in the world! For one heady moment her entire career flashed before her eyes—an entry position to start, quick promotion to something more substantial, years of fun and work traveling the globe for La Moda Italiana, finally an executive vice presidency, a fantastic New York apartment, several walk-in closets filled with the latest fashions, an adoring husband—Guy?—by her side. Maybe a baby or two…

  She dropped back to earth suddenly.

  “Don’t say no. Say you’ll think about it.” Guy spread her palm open again and began kissing and nibbling it.

  Emma snatched her hand away. “I can’t. I can’t leave Aunt Arabella. She needs me.”

  “I need you.” Guy looked deep into her eyes, and Emma felt her knees tremble.

  She raised her head and stiffened her spine. “What about Monique? And Gabriella? And Donna?” Hurt washed over her with a sharpness that took her breath away.

  Guy shrugged. “They meant nothing.” He hung his head. “Cherie, I wish I could find the words to tell you how sorry I am. I was very, very—” He waved a hand as if he could pluck the right words from the air. “Very foolish.” He made a sad face. “Sometimes I have to remember that on ne peut avoir le beurre et l’argent du beurre.”

  Emma looked blank.

  “It means, how do you say it in English? You can’t have your cake and eat it, too.”

  Emma laughed bleakly.

  “You must give me another chance.”

  “I can’t do it again.” Emma’s shoulders sagged.

  “Don’t say anything right now. Think about it. And have dinner with me tomorrow night. I’ll put some Veuve Clicquot on ice chez moi, for afterward.”

  Emma knew she should say no. But she didn’t.

  EMMA couldn’t wait to see Liz again. Liz had come up to New York once to visit, but that had been six years ago, before the children arrived, and before Emma had started spending all her holidays in Florida where her parents now lived. She had to bite back her impatience as she settled Arabella in the front passenger seat of her MINI, Pierre at her feet. Arabella had baked a pie to bring, and Emma secured that carefully in the backseat before sliding behind the wheel herself.

  Liz and her husband had moved into a house just outside of Paris. It had belonged to Liz’s father, and his father before that, but after his heart attack, he’d moved to an assisted living community in town. Emma knew that Liz and her husband had completely renovated the place, preserving the best of the old while adding new features and amenities.

  The fifteen-minute drive seemed to take forever, but then finally they were turning onto Liz’s street. Emma felt her pulse quicken as the house came into view. It was built in the old-fashioned farmhouse-style with a huge wraparound porch out front. All the paint had been renewed, and brightly colored Adirondack chairs provided a warm welcome.

  Liz was standing on the steps when Emma pulled into the drive. She was tall, with a wide-open, freckled face and strawberry blond hair that was a total contrast to Emma’s petite frame, heart-shaped face and dark hair. They embraced heartily and, with an arm under Arabella’s elbow, Liz led them up the steps toward a small table set with a pitcher of Tennessee Tea.

  Liz ensconced Arabella in a bright red Adirondack chair and handed her a sweating glass of the cold Tennessee Tea. Matt Banning, Liz’s husband, gave Emma a hug that nearly took her breath away before taking a seat on the floor, his back against one of the porch railings. He had the looks of a handsome cowboy, and Emma half expected to see a horse tied to the railings.

  Their daughter, and Emma’s goddaughter, Alice, was playing on the swing set with her younger brother, Ben, beside her, her blond ponytail whipping back and forth. All of a sudden they jumped off the swings and began running toward the drive, shouting “Uncle Bri, Uncle Bri!”

  A red pickup truck was coming down the drive, kicking up dust and pebbles. It stopped and Brian got out—more like unfolded himself, Emma thought. He was immediately tackled around the knees by two small munchkins who continued to chant “Uncle Bri, Uncle Bri!” He pulled something from his pocket and handed it to them.

  “It’s for after dinner,” he shouted as the children scampered toward their mother, demanding, “Can we eat it now, can we?”

  Liz shook her head. “No more candy, Brian, please. It will be impossible to get them to bed tonight.”

  “An occasional treat isn’t going to hurt them.” Brian mounted the steps to the porch, swiping a hand across his forehead.

  “You’re going to spoil them rotten!” Liz admonished.

  Brian faked surprise. “I thought that was my job!”

  Liz took a playful swipe at him, and he ducked. “Just wait till you have kids,” she said.

  “If that ever happens,” Brian said, his expression suddenly serious.

  There was an awkward pause that Liz rushed to fill. “Tea?” She grabbed the pitcher from the table and held it toward Emma and Brian.

  Brian glanced at the pitcher. “Is it the real deal?”

  Liz nodded. “One part Jack Daniel’s, one part triple sec, one part sweet and sour mix and two parts cola,” she recited.

  “Then I’ll take a big ol’ glass.” Brian smiled.

  Matt heaved himself up off the floor. “I’ll go get the grill started. Want to give me a hand?” He glanced at Brian.

  The rest of the evening went by in a blur, everyone seeming to talk at once in their effort to catch up on all the news. The children had retreated to the family room to watch television, and when Emma went in to peek at them, they were on the sofa, fast asleep.

  “They look
like angels, don’t they?” Brian said as he came up behind Emma. He tiptoed over and pulled up the light throw that was folded over the arm of the couch.

  “You two want some pie?” Liz came out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on her apron.

  “Coming!” Brian said as they followed Liz back out to the porch.

  “I haven’t had chess pie like this since I left home.” Emma closed her eyes as she savored the first bite of her aunt’s homemade dessert. She scraped up the bits of flaky pastry and licked them off the tines of her fork.

  “Absolutely delicious.” Brian declared and put his plate down with a sigh of satisfaction.

  A lone car came down the street, its headlights picking out a row of honeysuckle bushes and a white picket fence.

  “I wonder why they call it chess pie?” Emma took a sip from her coffee cup.

  “I’ve heard a lot of different stories about the origin of the name.” Arabella dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “But my favorite is that the housewife who created it, when asked by her husband what kind of pie it was, answered, ‘I dunno. It’s ches pie.’”

  “Yours is definitely some of the best.” Brian took a gulp of his coffee. “I like the hint of lemon in it.”

  Arabella nodded. “It cuts the sweetness. Some people use vinegar, but I prefer the citrus taste from the lemon.”

  Liz began to collect the plates and cups and saucers.

  “Here, I’ll help.” Arabella got to her feet. “I need to move, or I’ll get as stiff as a board.”

  They heard a thud as Pierre jumped off the swing where he’d been sleeping and padded out to the kitchen behind them.

  They piled the dirty dishes on the granite-topped counter. Liz had knocked two rooms into one to expand the kitchen. There was now a large island encircled with stools, with a pot rack suspended over it, as well as a fireplace with two overstuffed armchairs pulled up in front of it.

  “Finally we can talk.” Liz leaned her arms on the island.

  “Have you told Liz about your delicious Frenchman?”

  “Guy? I’m afraid that’s over.” Emma fiddled with a loose thread on one of Liz’s dish towels.

  “But he seems quite smitten with you,” Arabella said. “Besides, he’s come all this way…”

  Emma grabbed one of the dishes and began rinsing it. “Oh, I’m sure Guy is convinced that he’s in love with me. It’s just that he can’t give up Donna and Gabriella and Sophie and I don’t know how many others.”

  “Those Frenchmen,” Arabella sighed. “Cheating seems to be in their DNA or something.” She fiddled with one of the pins anchoring her French twist. “Were you serious about him?”

  Emma nodded.

  “You poor baby.” Arabella put her arms around her niece. “You must have really been hurting if you were willing to come back to Paris, Tennessee, to help your old aunt! When your mother told me you were coming, I couldn’t believe my good luck.” She rubbed Emma’s back absentmindedly. “But I’m sorry to hear it’s because your heart has been broken.” She gave Emma a squeeze. “But he’s come after you—that must mean something.”

  Liz nodded. “Yes! He’s come all the way here from New York. He must be pretty serious.”

  Emma grabbed a cloth and wiped at a spot on the counter. “I don’t know. He says he is, but…” She scrubbed a little harder, although the spot was virtually gone. “He claims it’s because he was sickly as a kid. He grew up really skinny with ears that stuck out.” Emma made a noise that was halfway between a laugh and a sob.

  “He certainly turned out to be handsome enough. You should see him.” Arabella turned toward Liz.

  Emma nodded. “I know. But he says it haunts him still—all those years when none of the girls would even say hello to him. When gorgeous models virtually throw themselves at him now, he can’t resist.” Emma swiped at a tear that was making its way down her cheek. “Every day, everywhere I went, I saw Gabriella, Monique, Sophie and the rest of them staring down at me from billboards all over Times Square. Wearing nothing but a push-up bra and a lacy thong.” She smiled. “It’s hard to believe in yourself, when you’re surrounded by so much perfection.”

  “Airbrushing!” Arabella declared firmly. “I read all about it in a magazine. None of them really look that good.”

  Liz nodded vehemently.

  “And none of them could possibly hold a candle to Emma.”

  They hadn’t heard Brian come out to the kitchen, and Emma, Arabella and Liz all jumped.

  “You scared me!” Emma accused to hide her confusion. She could feel heat flooding her face.

  “Just saying.” Brian picked up a dishcloth and began drying the glasses. “You deserve the best. And I’m not sure that Guy is it.”

  “Well!” Arabella and Liz exchanged glances, and Arabella whispered to Emma as Brian was taking out the trash. “If you decide not to go back to New York, it looks as if there might very well be something for you here in Paris.”

  EMMA felt strangely shy around Brian the next day at Sweet Nothings. Not that she believed Arabella—Brian wasn’t interested in her, she was just his kid sister’s best friend.

  It didn’t help that Arabella kept referring to them as “you two” all day. Fortunately, Guy had gone out to scout locations for the Sweet Nothings online catalogue shoot. Emma didn’t think he was the jealous type, but she was glad she wouldn’t have to find out.

  “There you are, you two!” Arabella interrupted Emma’s thoughts. She was carrying a huge stack of glossy white boxes and could barely see around them.

  “Let me,” Emma began, but before she could complete the sentence, Arabella took a tumble and the boxes skittered across the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Emma and Brian asked in unison.

  “Of course, of course.” Arabella began to struggle to her feet. Emma and Brian each put a hand under her arms to help her up.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “Of course. Couldn’t be better.” Arabella put her foot down. “Ouch.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I must have twisted my ankle.”

  “You’d better sit down.” Brian picked her up in his arms as if she were a child and carried her to a chair. “Let’s see that ankle.”

  Arabella stuck her leg out, and Brian gingerly rotated her foot. “Ouch,” she said, wincing again.

  “I don’t think it’s anything serious. A sprain at the most. It’s probably best if you stay off it as much as possible.”

  “I can run down to the drugstore and get you a cane.”

  “Bah,” Arabella exclaimed. “Those ugly things! I’ve got a collection of walking sticks in an urn by the door. Bring me one of those.”

  Emma hurried to the urn and chose a hefty ebony stick with an ornate silver head. “Here. This should work.”

  Brian took the cane, weighed it in his hands and swung it in an arc as if batting a ball. “Well, if anyone tries to mess with you, you can clobber him with this. I don’t doubt it would do a good bit of damage.”

  “I’ll be fine. Stop fussing, you two.” Arabella smiled benignly at them.

  BY the time the day was over, all Emma wanted to do was go upstairs, shower, microwave a frozen dinner and veg out in front of the television. However, Guy had made reservations for the two of them at L’Etoile and would be waiting for her there.

  Emma was about to step into the shower when her cell rang. “Drat.” She pulled on her terry robe and went in search of the ringing phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Emma? It’s Kate.”

  “Kate.” Emma perched on the arm of an upholstered wing chair. Kate Hathaway was Guy’s longtime, and long-suffering, assistant. She and Emma had hit it off right away—bonding over Guy’s many and varied idiosyncrasies. Emma suspected Kate had put up with Guy so long because she was a little in love with him herself.

  “I’m sorry. I tried to reach you to warn you that Guy was on his way, but I was too late.”

  “
I appreciate the effort.” Emma swung her foot back and forth. She really needed a pedicure, she thought, as she examined her toes. Maybe she would give Angel a call.

  “Has he persuaded you to come back with him?” Kate laughed as if she understood the absurdity of that.

  Emma sighed. “I don’t know, Kate. On the one hand, I’m having a blast here with my aunt Arabella, helping her redo her shop…on the other hand, Guy did manage to get me an interview at La Moda Italiana next week. You know I’d kill to work there.”

  Emma thought she heard Kate give a strangled gasp. “Are you okay?”

  “Fine. Some water just went down the wrong way.” She paused. “So? Are you coming back with Guy or not?” Her voice got higher at the end of the sentence—as if Emma’s answer had assumed an unnatural importance.

  “I haven’t decided.” Emma pushed off from the chair and got to her feet. “But I’ll let you know, okay?”

  “Fine. Just let me know.”

  Emma clicked the phone off, shrugged out of her robe and plunged into the steamy shower.

  THE parking lot of L’Etoile wasn’t too crowded when Emma got there, and she managed to find a space fairly near the front door, where a green and white striped awning stretched out to the sidewalk.

  The interior of L’Etoile was dimly lit and soothingly cool after the mugginess of the Tennessee evening. Emma pulled her pashmina shawl up around her shoulders. L’Etoile was Paris’s most upscale restaurant—the go-to place for special birthdays, memorable anniversaries and popping the question. The tables were covered in white linen, the silver was heavy, the waiters wore dinner jackets and there wasn’t a revolving rack of cakes and pies for sale by the hostess stand.

  Emma walked through the bar, where the bartender paused briefly in his glass-polishing to give her the once-over. Judging by the smile on his lips, she passed.

  The maitre d’ stood behind a wooden console, a stack of menus in his arms.

  “Mademoiselle.” He bowed and tugged at the collar of his dress shirt. A couple sat on the banquette just outside the dining room, waiting for their table. They were holding hands and looked nervous.