by Meg London
“Oh, they’re magnificent!” Arabella exclaimed when she saw the new cabinets.
Brian beamed. “You like them?”
Arabella nodded her head. “Very much so.” She turned toward Emma. “Excellent idea, my dear.” She opened one of the cabinets and peered inside.
Emma tossed the newspaper on the counter and joined Arabella. She tried the doors, opening and closing them. “They’re gorgeous.” She smiled over her shoulder at Brian.
He ducked his head. “Glad you like them.”
Emma stuck her purse under the counter, and was about to tuck the newspaper next to it, when she noticed the front page. Her heart jumped into her throat as she spread open the paper and read the headline.
“Oh, no.”
“What’s wrong, dear?” Arabella turned toward Emma with concern.
Emma held up the newspaper where the headline Murder At Sweet Nothings—Owners Questioned made a bold, black slash across the front page.
Arabella put a hand to her chest. “That almost makes it sound as if the police think we’re guilty.”
Emma put the paper on the counter and began skimming the article.
“The headline sums it up,” Emma said when she’d finished reading, her stomach flipping over and plummeting to the level of her knees. She looked from Arabella to Brian.
“You know what they say,” Arabella put an arm around Emma. “There’s no such thing as bad publicity.”
Emma glanced at the headline again. “I wish I could believe that.”
Two sharp knocks sounded on the front door. The armoires? Emma wondered. She remembered how she’d thought that the last time and instead had found Guy standing on the doorstep. She hesitated momentarily, then hurried to the door and pulled it open.
“Oh.”
A very diminutive woman stood on the mat. She had a paisley scarf tied gypsy-style around her head, and large hoops dangled from her drooping earlobes. A portable oxygen tank stood slightly behind her, and a recently extinguished cigarette was by her right foot. Surely it was dangerous to smoke around oxygen. It was lucky they all hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.
“Can I help you?”
The woman stared back at Emma. “Who are you?” Her heavy New York accent came as a surprise.
“Sylvia.” Arabella rushed over to the door. “Come on in.”
The woman eased her way into Sweet Nothings, the oxygen tank bumping along in back of her.
“This is my niece, Emma Taylor. She’s down from New York to help me with the shop.” Arabella turned toward Emma. “This is Sylvia Brodsky. She’s from New York, too. She moved down here last year with her son and daughter-in-law when her son was transferred.”
“I’m not living with them, though. Got my own place above The Taffy Pull.” Sylvia gave a long, hacking cough. “Didn’t want to be an inconvenience. Besides, I got my little side business going and don’t want to disturb my son and his wife the princess with people coming and going.”
“Side business?” Is she the woman Arabella had hired to do the ironing? Emma wondered.
Sylvia shook her head, and her earrings bobbed back and forth. “I do tarot readings and hold séances. Last week we contacted Loralee’s late husband. She’s the one who runs A Good Yarn, the craft and knitting store on the corner.”
“Oh.” Emma honestly couldn’t think of a single other thing to say.
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” She maneuvered her way farther into the shop and perched on the end of a chair. “The night that young man was killed in your shop.” She pointed a finger at Emma. “He was your fellow, wasn’t he?”
Emma opened her mouth, but Sylvia didn’t wait for an answer.
“I was looking out my window. Billy Bob Winthrop—he’s the football coach over at the high school—had booked a reading, and he was late. So I’m looking out the window and a light goes on over here at Sweet Nothings. I’m thinking to myself, What on earth is Arabella doing at the shop so late?”
It must have been Guy, Emma thought. And his murderer. The thought gave her a chill.
“Then I drew the Tower card.” Sylvia nodded so vigorously her earrings slapped against the side of her face.
“The Tower card? What on earth is that?” Arabella asked.
“It’s a tarot card. And let me tell you, it ain’t good. It signifies death or destruction. And here that very same night that young man was killed!”
“Did you see anything besides the light?” Emma said.
Sylvia’s shoulders rose and fell. “Nah. I thought I might’ve seen a shadow in the window, but I couldn’t tell who it was.” She looked disappointed. “Besides, just then Angel Roy next door started up a real racket with that boyfriend of hers. They live right next door to my place.” She drew a deep breath and began another hacking cough.
Emma waited as patiently as she could. “What were they fighting about?” She asked as soon as Sylvia stopped wheezing.
“I couldn’t hear every word. You know in movies when they show some gal holding a glass to the wall and listening? Well, don’t believe it. It don’t work. But I did manage to hear the boyfriend say something about Angel hanging around with some guy.”
That didn’t help them much, Emma thought. Unless…
Unless the boyfriend hadn’t meant “some guy” but had actually been referring to Guy. Guy Richard.
Could Angel’s boyfriend have become jealous enough to kill?
“MAYBE it’s time you took Angel up on that mani-pedi she offered when you first arrived,” Arabella said as she closed the door behind Sylvia Brodsky.
Emma was about to protest but then realized what Arabella was getting at. This would give her the chance to probe for more information. She thought for a minute. “Do you know Angel’s boyfriend? What’s he like? The jealous type?”
“Can’t say that I know him all that well. Angel’s boyfriends tend to come and go. At the moment it’s Tom Mulligan. He owns the auto repair shop just outside of town on Route 69. I took my car there once, and he was polite enough. Did reasonable work, too.”
“I don’t know Tom, but I’ve heard some things.” Brian straightened from where he’d been busy nailing molding around the cabinets.
“Do tell.” Arabella settled back in her chair, her hands folded expectantly in her lap.
“I don’t approve of gossip,” Brian said, “but I’ve heard the same thing from a number of people. He likes his drink, they say. And he can get a little hot under the collar after a few shots.” He ran his hands through his hair, leaving it even more rumpled than before. Emma had to resist the urge to smooth it down for him.
“I heard he got into a fight with some guy outside the Rooster, the bar out on Route 69. Put the guy in the hospital. He would have gone to jail, but the fellow refused to press charges. Said it was his fault. He started it.”
“This is beginning to sound interesting,” Emma said. She glanced at her watch. Perhaps she could get in to see Angel sometime during the afternoon.
“Look.” Brian came around the corner and stood toe-to-toe with her. “You’d better be careful. Someone—whoever it is—has killed already. What’s going to stop him from doing it again? If they catch wind of you snooping around…”
Emma inhaled sharply. Brian was right. This wasn’t some game or show on television. This was real. Someone was dead. Guy was dead.
But Chuck Reilly was threatening to pin the murder on her. If she didn’t investigate she could go to jail. She shivered. Suddenly a mani-pedi at Angel Cuts didn’t seem all that dangerous.
EMMA secured an appointment for two o’clock that afternoon. She was looking forward to a little pampering. It brought to mind her first days in New York, when she’d been so intimidated by all the high-maintenance women and their perfect clothes, hair, makeup and nails. The editor of Femme magazine had a standing appointment at seven a.m. every morning for a blowout, and the fashion editor’s trademark was Chanel’s Rouge Fatal polish, with the hal
f-moons on her nails left unpainted. Emma had immediately started taking tuna sandwiches on day-old bread for lunch in order to save enough money for manicures, pedicures, haircuts that cost more than rent did back in Paris and expensive—and painful—wax jobs. She looked down at her hands and cringed. She’d been back in Paris for such a short time and already her nails were a mess. It was high time she indulged in a manicure.
But first she dialed Kate Hathaway’s number at work. Arabella had recommended several small bed-and-breakfasts that would be very suitable, and Emma wanted to run them past Kate before making a decision.
Kate’s extension at Guy Richard Photography rang and rang. Emma was about to hang up and dial Kate’s cell when someone grabbed the phone.
“Hello?” The girl said breathlessly. She didn’t sound remotely like Kate.
“Is Kate Hathaway there?”
“I’m so sorry,” the voice said. “She’s been on vacation all this week. We don’t expect her back until Monday.”
“Oh. Thanks. I guess I’ll call her on her cell.” Emma hung up the phone, perplexed. Kate hadn’t said anything about being on vacation. With the news of Guy’s murder, it had probably slipped her mind.
Emma dialed Kate’s cell phone. Kate answered on the third ring. She laughed when Emma mentioned not knowing Kate was on vacation.
“I took time off to get some things done around the apartment. I’m such a slob! My closets are a total disaster. I decided to dedicate a week to getting them in order.”
“I know what you mean!” Emma said. She’d taken her share of days off to get her life in order. When you worked so hard and put in such long hours, things got away from you easily.
“My aunt has found you a couple of places you might like to stay. Have you booked your flights?”
“Yes. Hang on while I grab the printout.”
Emma took down Kate’s flight details and offered to meet her at the airport. Kate insisted that she’d be fine taking a taxi, and she promised she would stop by Sweet Nothings immediately upon arrival.
ANGEL Cuts was humming when Emma got there. There was a roller-bedecked head under each of the five dryers, and all four manicure stations were busy. Six chairs were lined up in front of a row of mirrors, and a customer was in each, getting a haircut, color or blow-dry. Angel’s chair was slightly to the side and had its own niche, as befitted the owner of the salon. She was creating a foot-high updo for a blond, twentysomething bride.
“Hey.” Angel greeted Emma with a wave of her curling iron. “We’re kind of backed up. Sorry about that, but Heather went into labor during the night. It’s a week early, but you know babies, they don’t follow any kind of schedule.”
One of the waiting ladies lowered her magazine and peered over the edge. “Did she have a boy or girl?”
“Neither.” Angel wrapped a strand of the blonde’s hair around the curling iron and clamped it shut. “Least not yet. She’s still in labor last we heard. Going on eighteen hours by my count.”
“Oh, the poor thing,” the woman said, and went back to her reading.
Emma pawed through the basket of magazines by the front counter. She pushed aside the gardening tomes and fashion titles until she found a slightly worn copy of Star magazine. The cover promised lots of juicy gossip, and she settled happily into one of the empty seats.
Two tanned, expensively highlighted blondes sat next to Emma. They were both impeccably dressed in white linen slacks, silk blouses, strands of sizeable pearls and armfuls of gold bangles. One peered over the top of her reading glasses at someone passing the front window of Angel Cuts. Her nose rose a fraction of an inch in the air, and she elbowed her companion gently.
Emma glanced out the window to see a woman striding past in a red Polo shirt, well-fitting jodhpurs and dark brown riding boots. She carried a helmet in one hand and a riding crop in the other. Her posture indicated she was someone to be reckoned with.
“Looks like Deirdre’s been riding again,” the one woman said to the other with a snicker.
“Yes, but the question is, what’s she been riding.” The other woman shot back, and they both laughed.
The first woman noticed Emma looking at them and leaned closer to her, gesturing toward the window with a shrug of her shoulder. “Deirdre Porter. She’s the mayor’s new daughter-in-law. Rumor has it that her new riding instructor is a bit,” she cleared her throat purposefully, “more than just a riding instructor.”
“Oh.” Emma squirmed uncomfortably. It was one thing to read the stories in magazines like People and Star, which were about celebrities you didn’t actually know. It was quite another thing to be confronted with such a juicy tidbit at the hairdresser’s. She had to remind herself that if she was going to solve Guy’s murder, she would have to give in and listen to the wagging tongues.
“I think Luanne’s ready for you,” Angel called above the roar of the blow-dryers and the din of chattering female voices. She gestured toward a woman with jet-black hair in a pink smock decorated with Barbie dolls.
As Emma walked past Angel’s station, Angel tapped her on the shoulder. “Check these out.” She pointed to a vase overflowing with two dozen red roses.
“They’re gorgeous.” Emma touched one of the silky petals and inhaled the rich perfume.
“Tom.” Angel said succinctly. She winked at Emma. “Kind of makes the whole fight worth it, don’t you think?”
“A fight?” Emma lingered by Angel’s chair despite the encouraging gestures of Luanne.
“He is just so jealous! Honestly.” Angel sounded more proud than irritated. “Can you believe he got his boxers all in a knot over me taking Guy sightseeing that day?”
“Really?”
Angel nodded vigorously, and the knot of flame-red hair on top of her head bobbed precariously. She moved her face closer to Emma’s until Emma could smell the fruity scent of her gum. “Just between you and me, I was kind of nervous. You know that night Guy was killed? Tom didn’t come home till late, and he refused to tell me where he’d been. Mama always said not to jump to conclusions, but I was worried. Turns out he’d been playing poker with the guys again. After promising me he wouldn’t.” She grabbed a chunk of the blonde’s hair and pulled so vigorously the girl winced. “Sorry about that.” Angel tapped her on the shoulder then turned back to Emma. “I think they’re taking advantage of him. Last time he dropped a C-note, and he can’t hardly afford to lose that kind of money.”
By now Luanne’s welcoming gestures had taken on a desperate edge. Emma reluctantly moved away from Angel’s station toward the manicure carts in the back.
By the time Luanne was done, Emma had perfectly painted pink toes and fingernails.
But she was leaving Angel Cuts with oh so much more.
CLOUDS rolled in on Saturday morning, and the skies were dark when Emma looked out her apartment window onto Washington Street. She hoped the weather wouldn’t delay Kate’s flight. She was really looking forward to seeing a familiar face.
Excited yelps greeted Emma as she pushed open the front door to Sweet Nothings. Pierre danced around her legs, tail wagging furiously. Emma dodged his leaps as she made her way into the shop. Brian was nailing up the last stretch of molding around the new cabinets. He’d happily agreed to work on Saturdays so that Sweet Nothings wouldn’t have to be closed any longer than necessary.
“Coffee?” He proffered his thermos. “Homemade with freshly ground beans.”
“Thanks.” Emma shook her head. “I’m having my usual.” She held up a travel mug. “Green tea.”
Brian made a comical face. “Okay, suit yourself.”
Pierre continued to circle Emma, giving little yips of excitement.
“Pierre!” Arabella pointed to his dog bed. He obediently trotted over, but instead of lying down, he sat upright, ears straight and alert, head scanning the room for anything interesting.
“Guess what—” Arabella and Emma said at the same time.
Emma laughed. “You go first.�
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Arabella’s cheeks flushed with excitement. “Wait till you see what I’ve got!” She pulled a tissue-wrapped bundle from under the counter. “Sally Dixon went to a sale at the old Kilpatrick Estate out near Green Acres Lake. Mrs. Kilpatrick finally departed this life at the age of 105. She outlived some of her own children and grandchildren.” Arabella shook her head, and her white bun quivered. “I don’t think I would like that.”
“What is it?” Emma moved over to the counter and leaned her elbows on it.
Arabella fumbled with the bit of tape that held the edges of the tissue together. “You won’t believe this. As soon as Sally spotted it, she called me, bless her heart.” She wrestled the package open with shaking hands and pulled out a pink chiffon gown. “Heavenly by Fischer lingerie,” Arabella exclaimed. “Mint condition. Never, ever worn. Look,” she pointed to a small department store tag affixed to the bodice. “Here’s the label,” she pointed to a blue and white tag stitched to the seam. “See? There’s the mermaid. That’s their trademark.” She put her hands on her hips. “This is museum quality Fischer.”
Emma peered at the tag.
“Heavenly by Fischer is one of the most coveted vintage lingerie labels. A gown like this sells for over four hundred dollars!”
“Now we really need to get that web site up and running.” Emma turned toward Brian. “Do you think Liz would be willing to help?” Liz had given up a very lucrative web design business to stay home with the children.
“I’m sure she’d be delighted.” Brian grinned. “I’ve gotten the impression lately that she would love to have something a little more challenging to sink her teeth into.”
“Now that that’s settled,” Arabella said, beaming at the two of them, “why don’t you tell us your news.” She turned toward Emma.
Emma’s mind had raced ahead to web site designs and colors and fonts and it took her a moment to remember what she’d been about to tell everyone.
“I had a very interesting visit at Angel Cuts yesterday.” Emma wiggled her fingers in the air.