by Meg London
“I just can’t stay away, I guess.” Emma smiled. “The sooner we’re up and running, the sooner Aunt Arabella can bring in some money.”
“She’s lucky to have you.” Lucy gave Emma another hug. “I’ll see you later, honey.”
Emma waved to Lucy and went back inside. She was about to close the door when she heard a bark heralding Arabella and Pierre’s arrival.
Emma grinned and held the door open. “How was your day in Memphis?”
Arabella snorted and two spots of color formed high on her cheeks. She made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl to Emma.
“It was a huge estate sale,” Arabella began as she put her purse behind the counter. “Run by one of those big la-di-da companies that make a fortune out of that sort of thing.”
“Were the things overpriced?”
“The prices were absurd,” Arabella said. Her head shook, and the hair coiled on top of it quivered. “And, even worse, they thought they could take advantage of their buyers.” She slapped the counter with her open palm. “Well, they made a mistake in trying to put something over on me. What did they think we were, a bunch of rubes from the country?” Before Emma could answer, she went on. “There was a very pretty blue gown, cut on the bias, with some interesting details. They told me it was definitely vintage, circa 1935. I’m surprised they didn’t try to tell me Jean Harlow once wore it in a movie,” Arabella fumed.
Emma made sympathetic noises.
“As if I can’t tell a vintage gown from a…a…piece of nothing that would be sold at Walmart.”
Emma’s eyes widened. She’d never seen Arabella so incensed before. “How did you know it wasn’t—”
Arabella waved a dismissive hand. “It was easy. Only an amateur would have been fooled.” She leaned over the counter toward Emma. “I turned the garment inside out, which I always do. I like to check the seams and see if any of the original labels are intact. That’s when I saw it!”
“Saw what?” Emma’s voice dropped to nearly a whisper.
“The care label!” Arabella finished triumphantly. “Can you imagine? There was a care label on the garment!”
Emma raised her brows. “But what—”
Arabella took a deep breath. “Care labels weren’t put on clothes until after 1971. There’s no way that gown was made in the thirties!” She finished triumphantly. “Honestly, what kind of a fool did they think I was? I gave that saleswoman a piece of my mind.” Arabella clenched her fist, and Pierre growled in sympathy.
“I’m guessing you didn’t buy anything then.” Emma bent down and picked a microscopic piece of fuzz off the carpet.
Arabella shook her head. “No. But I did learn something very interesting. Very interesting, indeed.”
“What?” Emma flicked the imaginary speck of dust into the wastebasket.
The bright spots of color flamed even brighter on Arabella’s cheeks. “Do you remember that package that was sent to me? With the negligee cut to bits?”
Emma nodded. How could she forget? She thought about it all the time. Dreamt about it even, wondering if the murderer had had a hand in it.
“I got to talking to one of the gals working the sale. She’d been at a similar one in Jackson a week or two ago. And she just happened to remember chatting with a customer there who said she was from Paris, Tennessee. I guess it struck her, the town being called Paris.”
“Talk about a small world!” Emma exclaimed.
Arabella nodded, and the color in her cheeks deepened. “Well, it seems that this mysterious woman from Paris purchased a negligee—a lovely pink Michelene.” Arabella paused looking very pleased with herself. “I managed to persuade her to check her sales records, and the buyer was none other than one Sally Dixon from La Tour Eiffel Antiques of little old Paris, Tennessee.”
“Wow.”
“Indeed.” Arabella sniffed. She looked thoughtful. “I guess she did feel quite proprietary about Francis after all.”
“What is going on between you and Francis?” Emma asked, a slight hint of amusement in her tone.
Arabella wagged her finger at her niece. “Don’t you worry about a thing, missy. Francis has been the perfect Southern gentleman.” And with that Arabella turned her back on Emma and the discussion.
IT wasn’t exactly an audition for Victoria’s Secret, Emma thought when she saw the girls lined up the next morning waiting to get into Sweet Nothings. But they’d attracted a decent crowd. She excused her way through the ones standing in front of the door, and opened the shop.
She felt the surge of warm bodies press against her back and turned around. She checked her watch, and held up her hand. “Thank you so much for coming. We’ve got fifteen minutes until ten o’clock, and I’ll have to ask you all to wait patiently until then. There are a few things I need to do before I open the doors.”
An impatient murmur ran through the crowd, but the women obligingly backed away from the door.
Emma slipped inside Sweet Nothings and closed and locked the door behind her with a sigh. She tucked her purse under the front counter and hurried into the back room to put on some coffee and heat hot water for her morning cup of green tea.
She was setting out pads of paper and a supply of pens when she heard the rattle of keys at the front door. Arabella burst in, her hair threatening to topple from its perch on top of her head, and her cotton wrap askew. She’d tucked Pierre under her arm protectively, and he squirmed, trying to get loose.
“It’s a madhouse out there.” Arabella turned to shut the door behind her, when someone put their hand against it and pushed.
Arabella started to push back but then peered around the edge. “Sylvia! You’d better get inside.”
Sylvia sidled through the opening and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe her brow. Arabella started to close the door.
“Hold on a sec.” Sylvia maneuvered her oxygen tank through the opening and parked it against the wall. “Who are all those people?” She looked from Emma to Arabella and back again. “They can’t all be here for the fashion show?”
Before Emma could answer, there was another knock on the door. She opened it and Kate entered, breathless. Her glasses were crooked, and a hunk of hair had escaped her ponytail. “I can’t believe how many women are out there. I went to park the car and when I turned the corner I saw them all. I thought it was some kind of protest.” She wiped her upper lip with the edge of her sleeve.
“It seems that all of Paris is interested in modeling in our fashion show,” Arabella commented dryly.
“It’s great for publicity,” Emma said. “At least they know we exist.”
Emma was headed toward the counter when fierce pounding on the door stopped her in her tracks.
“What on earth?” Arabella moved toward the door, but Emma stopped her.
“Let me get it. You’re liable to be run over if everyone tries to crowd into the shop at once.”
Emma eased the door open a chink and peered around the edge.
“What on earth is going on out there?” It was Bitsy with a bakery box in her hand. “I’ve brought you some cupcakes.” She held the box toward Emma.
Emma widened the crack, and Bitsy slipped through.
“You’ve certainly attracted a crowd,” Bitsy said as she straightened her top and tidied her hair. “I imagine that bodes well for your opening.”
“Let’s just hope people buy.” Kate looked wistfully at the negligee displayed on the mannequin.
Sylvia cleared her throat and gave a small cough. “They will if we know how to sell. And honey, if I learned one thing in all those years at Macy’s, it’s how to sell.” Sylvia moved behind the counter and settled in as if she were a ship coming into its home berth at last.
Emma undid the string on Bitsy’s box. The cupcakes nestled inside had pink frosting and Sweet Nothings scrawled across the tops in white icing. “These look delicious!”
Bitsy smiled. “They’re something of a bribe.” She smiled shyly. “I’m
hoping you all will let me model in your fashion show. This is just about the most exciting thing that’s ever happened in Paris,” she confided. “Aside from the murders, of course.” Her face darkened.
“We’d love to have you.” Emma looked at Arabella, who smiled and shook her head.
“I think it’s time.” Sylvia called from behind the counter, pointing at the ornate, gilt clock on the wall.
“Okay, brace yourselves!” Arabella shouted as she looked at her watch. “Two minutes till blast off.”
Emma stood by the door with her hand on the knob, and they all counted down the last ten seconds as if it were New Year’s Eve in Times Square.
As the countdown struck one, Emma opened the door with a flourish and stood aside as the women spilled into the shop. The girls ranged in size from model-tall to barely five feet and from beanpoles to so curvaceous that anything they put on would automatically look R-rated. But at least they had shown up.
It soon became obvious that the women had been as attracted by the opportunity to see the scene of a murder as they were by the chance to model in a fashion show. Emma heard Guy’s name murmured under various women’s breaths at least two dozen times. And she’d lost count of how many times she saw someone pointing at a nonexistent spot on the rug and whispering in a friend’s ear. It wasn’t exactly the publicity she’d planned for Sweet Nothings, but she would take what she could get.
Sylvia forged her way through the crowd, like a ship cleaving water, and went to stand next to Emma.
“So, what’s the drill? How are we going to handle this crowd?”
Emma hadn’t counted on so many people. She wasn’t sure what to do. She looked at Sylvia helplessly.
Sylvia patted her on the shoulder briskly. “Leave it to me.” She took a hit of her oxygen, tucked the tank back in the corner and gave an earsplitting whistle.
The cacophony of chattering female voices slowly ground to a halt.
“Thank you.” Sylvia smiled at the women assembled in front of her. “If you will, take a sheet of paper from the pads we’ve put out”—she indicated the tablets Emma had arranged on the counter earlier—“and fill out your name, address, telephone number and size.” She emphasized the last word. “Then please bring the paper to me, Emma or Miss Arabella.” She pointed to each of them in turn.
Arabella had just bustled out from the back room with two pitchers of sweet tea and a tottering stack of paper cups. She smiled hesitantly at the assembled crowd. Arabella put her tray down on the counter and hurried over to where Sylvia was holding court behind the counter. “What are we supposed to do?”
“Check to make sure they’ve put down their name and contact information, and then check the size. I’m betting ninety percent of them are going to lie in one direction or the other.” Sylvia sniffed knowingly. “Then make a notation as to your best guess of their actual size, and whether or not you want them in the show. Later we’ll call back the ones who are possibilities.”
Arabella nodded and the bun on top of her head wobbled precariously. Emma got into position beside her with Sylvia on the other side.
The first woman to approach Emma was a quiet, tiny, rather timid-looking brunette. She had short, curly hair that would look adorable with a ribbon threaded through it. Emma made a notation that she’d be perfect for one of the baby-doll negligees they’d collected. One of them was quite small and ought to fit her perfectly.
A very statuesque blonde turned away from the counter after chatting with Arabella. Arabella leaned toward Emma. “She’s perfect for the red Miss Elaine nightgown. She’ll fill it out like nobody’s business.”
The crowd was thinning slightly when the front door opened. Emma was surprised to see Deirdre Porter poke her head around the edge. She sidled into the room and started toward the counter. She was wearing a silk sundress that bared her smoothly bronzed arms and legs, and her hair was caught in a loose ponytail at the nape of her neck. She was going to make a gorgeous model, Emma thought. They would have to pick something extra special for her.
Deirdre approached the counter and squared her shoulders. A strange look crossed her face, and Emma wondered if Mrs. Porter wasn’t quite as confident as she would have everyone believe.
Arabella bustled over and greeted Deirdre effusively. Emma knew she didn’t really like Deirdre, but Emma could read her aunt’s face and it basically said, “Whatever’s good for business.”
Bitsy, who had been hovering nearby, whispered to Emma. “Well, well, well. Just look who’s here.”
Arabella put her arm around Deirdre’s shoulders and led her over to the glass-fronted cabinets. She opened a door and began showing Deirdre some of the contents.
Emma edged her way through the crowd toward them. A woman grabbed Emma’s arm and stopped her.
“I can’t wear one of them real flimsy nightgowns. Billy Bob wouldn’t like it.” She shook her head, and her blond beehive bobbed back and forth. “Billy Bob wouldn’t like it at all.”
“I know Billy Bob myself, and she’s right,” Bitsy came up behind Emma. “He’d have her in a burka if we did that sort of thing here.”
Emma reassured the woman that no one would be forced to model anything they were uncomfortable in. The blonde nodded, satisfied, and moved away.
The floor was packed, and Emma felt a trickle of perspiration wend its way down her spine. The beginnings of a headache hammered behind her brow, and she wondered if she could sneak into the back room for some aspirin and a cold drink. She felt a moment of panic as she looked around at the crowd. How was she going to pull this whole thing together?
“Don’t look so scared, kid. Everything’s going to turn out fine.” Sylvia came up behind Emma and put a hand on her shoulder.
“I hope so.” Emma couldn’t help but notice two women pointing at the floor and whispering in each other’s ear. “Sometimes I worry that the only thing Sweet Nothings will ever be known as is the site of a murder!”
Sylvia gave a bark of laughter that segued into a rumbling cough. “This isn’t New York, kid. People are going to be telling this story for a long time. But I’ve got faith in Sweet Nothings, and I’ve got faith in you.” She thumped Emma on the back.
Emma smiled wanly. It was nice to know that someone believed in her.
“When you get a chance, Lucy is here from Let Us Cater To You.” Bitsy grabbed Emma by the arm and pointed toward the stockroom. “I gave her a seat in the back and made sure she had a glass of cold, sweet tea.”
“Thanks.” Emma began to maneuver her way toward the back room.
She tried to get around two women, but they were so deep in conversation they didn’t hear her murmured “excuse me.”
“I heard he just up and left,” the tall brunette, her eyes as wide as saucers, said to the other one.
In spite of herself, Emma sidled closer. Who were they talking about?
The shorter one, with dark curls and cherry red lipstick, nodded and lowered her voice. “Charlotte said she saw him toss three suitcases into the back of his car, although how he managed to get them into that little sports car he drives, I don’t know.”
The other one looked skeptical. “What on earth was Charlotte doing way over there?”
“You know she started that dog walking business, and I guess one of her customers lives on the same street as the Porters, although just a ways down. They’ve got a standard poodle, and Charlotte says she’s the devil to walk.”
At the sound of the Porters’ name, Emma leaned in even closer.
“Mama said right away she didn’t think it would last. He only married her on account of Marcie breaking up with him their senior year at UT.”
The shorter one nodded in agreement. “They was together all of high school and then college. It about broke his heart in two. Next thing you know he’s bringing this new girl home. Deirdre.” She said the name with a sneer.
Emma heard someone give a tiny cry and looked up to see Deirdre Porter staring at them with a str
icken look on her face. Before Emma could move, Deirdre had elbowed her way through the crowd to the door. Everyone turned to look as she slammed the door loudly in back of her.
“WE should go after her, don’t you think?” Arabella collapsed into a chair, kicked off her left shoe and rubbed her foot.
“Definitely.” Sylvia swiveled in the desk chair opposite.
Arabella gave her a withering look. “It might be overwhelming if we all go,” she said pointedly.
“We’d need a parade permit,” Kate quipped. She was perched on one end of the desk, and Emma on the other.
Bitsy had already left to go back to her shop.
“I think it would be better if just Emma and I went.”
“That’s fine with me.” Kate twirled a piece of hair around her finger. “I don’t like confrontations.” She shuddered.
Emma swung her leg back and forth and then in circles. All the chattering women had gone home, and Sweet Nothings was blessedly quiet. She’d written a check for the deposit to Lucy Monroe and the catering, and she had left, too. “Maybe we should just leave Deirdre alone for the moment?” She looked from Arabella to Sylvia. “She seemed pretty upset.”
“All the more reason to go and make sure she’s okay.”
“But if we show her the photograph now, she’s only going to get more upset…”
“It’s better to strike while she’s vulnerable, distasteful as that may seem. We’re more likely to get the truth out of her.”
“I suppose.”
“Emma and I can pick up a box of candy at The Taffy Pull.”
Emma was doubtful. She straightened the edges of a pile of papers on the desk. “Maybe it would be better if we take what we’ve found to the police? Let them handle it?”
Arabella peered at Emma over her half glasses. “Two words,” she said. “Chuck Reilly.”