A Fatal Slip (10 page)

ARABELLA
and Sylvia greeted Emma the next morning when she arrived at Sweet Nothings as if she’d been gone for days. They were both eager for news of her time spent at the Grangers’.

While Emma put tags on some new items that had come in, she told her aunt and Sylvia about seeing Mariel Granger outside with another man in what could practically be termed a clutch.

“She is a lot younger than Hugh,” Arabella said thoughtfully as she slipped a new gown over the head of one of the mannequins. “I’m assuming this man was more her age?” She raised an eyebrow at Emma.

Emma nodded. “Yes. Perhaps even a bit younger although it was hard to tell—it was getting dark, and they were standing in the shadows. He had brown, curly hair and, while he was taller than her, he didn’t strike me as being particularly tall.”

“Pardon me for playing devil’s advocate,” Sylvia said, “but could he be a relative? Perhaps she has a brother?”

“I don’t know,” Emma mused. “There was something furtive about their meeting. I can’t describe it, but I got the distinct impression they didn’t want to be seen. Besides”—she turned around to face Sylvia—“if it was completely innocent, why didn’t she invite him inside? Why stand on the terrace in the cold?”

“But why worry now?” Sylvia asked, fiddling with the fringe on her scarf. “The husband’s six feet under, after all, or about to be.”

“This isn’t New York,” Arabella said, her lips slightly pursed. “This is a small town. It wouldn’t be seemly for her to be seen with another man so soon. News would get around faster than ice melts on a hot day.”

“Wish we could get a bead on who the guy is.” Sylvia ignored the rebuke in Arabella’s tone.

“Hopefully I’ll pick up something eventually,” Emma said. “There’s a woman who works for them—Molly. I think she’s a sort of cook and housekeeper. I’m hoping I can persuade her to talk. Jackson did tell me to help myself to coffee or tea or anything I wanted from the kitchen, so I’ll have an excuse to be in that part of the house.”

“Just be careful.” Arabella lowered her brows. “Remember what Francis said.”

“Ditto,” Sylvia said.

Emma was about to reassure them when the door opened. She spun around and was startled to see who their customer was.

“Good morning,” Joy Granger said quietly. She was clutching a Sweet Nothings bag in one hand.

Emma tried not to wince as Joy made her way, slowly and painfully, to the counter. She was wearing the same lace-up shoes she’d had on the night of the dinner dance, with the sole of one shoe built up higher than the other. Her coat was a plain and serviceable black, and the beige, wool scarf tucked into the neck did little to liven it up. Joy’s short, brown hair was parted in the middle and held off her face on either side with two tortoise-colored barrettes. Her cheeks were pink from the cold, but her lips were pale and colorless.

She put the bag on the counter and eased out the tissue-wrapped contents.

“My father,” she stumbled slightly over the word, “bought this for my aunt Georgina.” She opened the tissue paper and slid out a nylon, pale blue gown with Alencon lace trim.

“Ah, the Miss Elaine.” Arabella bustled over and slid behind the counter. “I sold this to Mr. Granger the night of our Valentine’s event. It’s vintage nineteen-sixties,” Arabella said, fingering the soft fabric. “He thought his sister would enjoy it.” She looked up at Joy over the top of her half glasses. “Is there something wrong with it?”

“Oh no.” Joy shook her head vigorously. “It’s perfectly fine. It’s just that it doesn’t fit. Father didn’t realize, but Aunt Georgina has”—she paused as if searching for a way to put it delicately—“put on a bit of weight.”

Arabella made a
tsk
ing sound under her breath. “Men never do get sizes right, do they?” Arabella held the gown up and examined it. It flowed straight from the shoulders in a generous circle.

“I wouldn’t know,” Joy said with an edge of bitterness to her voice.

Arabella tilted her head to the side in a way that normally invited confidences, but Joy clamped her thin lips closed and didn’t elaborate.

“Well,” Arabella finally said, “if this gown doesn’t fit, I’m not sure we have anything that will.”

“That’s all right,” Joy said, folding up the Sweet Nothings bag. “Aunt Georgina is a little . . . dotty.” She made small circles around the side of her head with her finger. “I’m surprised Father even bothered to buy her something. He rarely went to visit.”

Joy’s mouth turned down, and for a moment, Emma was afraid she was going to cry. “He doesn’t like . . . broken things.” She tucked the empty shopping bag under her arm.

“We can give you a credit or perhaps there’s something you’d like,” Arabella said, not being one to let a customer leave the shop empty-handed.

Joy gave a laugh that was halfway to a sob. “Me?” She pointed a finger at her own chest. “What would I do with”—she waved her hand around Sweet Nothings—“these things?” She handed Arabella the receipt for the gown.

Arabella punched some numbers into the credit card machine, which, after a brief pause, spit out a piece of paper. “If you wouldn’t mind signing here.” Arabella handed Joy a pen.

Joy signed her name and handed the pen back to Arabella. She glanced at the receipt. “Your things sure are expensive.” She turned to head toward the door. “I’m saving every penny for something much more important.”

• • •

“I
wonder what on earth she’s hoarding her money for,” Arabella said as soon as the door had closed behind Joy.

“Not too bitter, is she?” Sylvia noted.

“Indeed,” Arabella agreed. “I feel sorry for her. She seems so unhappy.”

“I gather she was hurt in the accident that killed her mother. I suppose that might make anyone bitter.” Emma went back to tagging a stack of pastel-colored panties. “What was that she said about her father? He doesn’t like
broken things
?”

“That was peculiar, wasn’t it?” Sylvia pulled open one of the drawers and began straightening the bras that were arranged in rows like muffins in a tin. “I wonder what she meant by that?”

“I think I know.” Arabella put down the gown she’d been examining for any worn spots or small tears. “I suppose it was his art background, and his eye for color and symmetry, but Hugh really disliked things that weren’t attractive. It was very hard on him when we were in India. So many beautiful things—if you’ve never seen the Taj Mahal, you really must, especially at sunset and sunrise—but so much ugliness, too . . . poverty and disease.” She put down the gown she was examining, opened the cupboard behind her and pulled out her sewing kit. “Joy is not the most attractive young woman—she’s not ugly, just plain—but she’s also crippled. That would have been difficult for Hugh to accept. He would want his children to be beautiful and certainly unblemished.” She unwound a piece of white thread, cut it and began attempting to thread a slim, silver needle. Finally she put it down in disgust.

“Emma, would you be a dear and thread this for me?” She handed the needle to Emma.

Emma slipped the thread through the tiny slit in the needle and handed it back to her aunt.

“Thank you, dear. I’m quite convinced they’re making the slits in the needles smaller than they used to.”

“I wonder what it is she’s saving her money for,” Sylvia said as she folded a bra and tucked it into a row alongside the others. “Whatever it is, it must be awfully expensive. I thought you said these Grangers were rolling in dough.”

“They are,” Arabella said simply. “I can’t imagine what it is she wants. She’s Hugh’s daughter—she’s bound to come into some sort of inheritance.”

“Unless he’s leaving it all to his wife, Mariel.” Emma glanced at her watch quickly.

“Oh, I can’t imagine Hugh would do that. And what about the son? I suppose he’s making some money through Hugh’s art business. But surely Hugh would have made sure to take care of both of them.”

“We don’t know, do we?” Emma said as she pulled her purse out from under the counter. “But I’m heading over there now, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll find out.”

Arabella’s words, “Be careful, dear,” echoed after Emma as she ran up to her apartment to get her coat.

• • •

EMMA
stared out the car window at the empty fields rolling past. She thought about what Arabella had said as she drove toward the Grangers’—how everyone should see the Taj Mahal at some point in her life. And she thought of her conversations with her mother and whether or not she would be satisfied living her life out in her small hometown, when she’d always longed to see the world.

Emma sighed as she pulled up to the Grangers’ house. Perhaps Brian was longing to see more of the world, too, and they could travel together. She would have to talk to him about it.

Emma was glad to see Liz’s station wagon already parked in the driveway. She pulled up in back of it and got out, shivering as the sharp wind knifed through her jacket. She pulled her collar up around her neck, ducked her head against the wind and scurried toward the shelter of the house.

She had her foot on the first step when a noise like thunder shook the ground. Emma looked up to see someone roaring up the driveway on a large, black horse, its hooves pounding up a choking cloud of dust and gravel that made Emma’s eyes water. She assumed it was Mariel, but when she looked again, after the air had cleared, she was surprised to discover that it was Joy riding the horse.

Obviously her crippled leg didn’t keep her from horseback riding. Emma knew little about horses, but she could tell that Joy was an excellent rider—confident and in control of her mount. She looked different, too—content and happy, her plain face flushed from the activity, making her look almost pretty.

Emma waved to her and continued up the steps, brushing at the dust that had blown onto her coat. The front door was open, as Jackson had said it would be. Emma stepped inside and looked around. The foyer was empty. Someone had placed a large bouquet of flowers on the foyer table. They made Emma long for spring. Their scent mingled with the smell of furniture polish and the faint odor of horse, which permeated the house. Emma stuck her head in the office. Liz had one of the paintings Emma remembered seeing in the hallway set on an easel with two tall, bright lights on either side. Liz’s camera rested on a tripod, and she was squinting through the lens. Emma cleared her throat, and Liz turned around.

“Hey, good to see you.” Liz stretched. “I was just going to get a cup of coffee. Want one before you get started?”

“I’ll have some tea if there is any.”

The kitchen was empty. A large thermos of coffee stood on the center island surrounded by cups and saucers, sugar and a pitcher of cream. There was also a woven basket of tea bags. Emma dug through them until she found a sachet of green tea. She microwaved some hot water while Liz helped herself to the coffee.

Emma was dunking her tea bag in her cup when the doorbell rang.

Heels clicked across the wood floor, and shortly afterward voices drifted into the kitchen from the foyer. Emma and Liz looked at each other.

“That voice is familiar,” Liz said.

Emma nodded. “Yes. It sounds like Detective Walker to me.” Emma peered around the kitchen door into the hallway. “It
is
Detective Walker.”

Liz raised her eyebrows. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

“Maybe he’s come to ask some questions. It’s about time he bothered someone other than poor Aunt Arabella.”

Footsteps, two sets this time, clattered back across the wood floor of the entrance hall, and the voices faded away.

Emma and Liz looked at each other.

Emma chewed on a cuticle. “I wish I could hear what they’re saying.”

“So do I.” Liz stirred her coffee thoughtfully.

“I suppose we could eavesdrop.”

Liz’s face broke into a wide grin. “Let’s.” She put her cup down on the counter.

They tiptoed out of the kitchen and down the hallway. The voices were louder now and perfectly clear. Detective Walker was talking to Mariel Granger. Emma and Liz lingered in the foyer, keeping out of sight of the living room.

Emma’s ears strained to hear both the conversation in the room beyond as well as the sounds of anyone approaching. She certainly didn’t want to be caught eavesdropping.

“Did you go out on the terrace to see the fireworks?” they heard Detective Walker ask.

“Yes,” Mariel answered.

“And when they ended?”

“I . . . I went back inside with the crowd.”

“Your husband was with you?”

“No, no, he wasn’t. The party was a bit much for him. He is . . . was . . . in perfect health, but at his age . . .” Mariel’s voice trailed off. “He said he’d seen plenty of fireworks in his day and preferred to stay inside and nurse a snifter of brandy.”

“So you were alone on the terrace?”

“Hardly alone, Detective. There were dozens of people out there with me.”

“When the fireworks ended you came inside, and then someone screamed, is that correct?”

Emma leaned in as close to the door as she dared, but she couldn’t hear Mariel’s response.