A Fatal Slip (11 page)

“I’m sorry. I’m sure this is difficult for you. But after the person screamed, someone discovered Mr. Granger’s body at the foot of the balcony.”

“Yes,” Mariel said. Emma thought her tone sounded hesitant . . . as if she were unsure of the answer.

“Do you have any idea why he might have gone up on that balcony? Was he meeting someone?”

“Not that I know of. Perhaps he wanted to get a view of the ballroom from above. That’s the sort of thing Hugh would do . . . would have done.”

They heard paper rustling, and Walker continued, “As soon as the police arrived at the hotel, we secured the scene.”

“What?”

“I mean we locked everything down—all the doors to the hotel were locked, and we had officers stationed at each of them. We obviously couldn’t interview everyone that night, but we did get everyone’s name and contact information. I have a list of those names.”

He paused, and they heard paper rustling again.

“I’ve gone over the list several times. Your name does not appear to be on it.”

“What do you mean?” Mariel’s voice had taken on a slightly indignant tone. “There must be some mistake.”

“It means,” Walker said with exaggerated patience, “that you were not in the ballroom or the hotel after your husband was killed. If you had been, your name would be on the list.”

There was a silence that extended for several minutes. Finally Walker spoke.

“Where did you go, Mrs. Granger, and when did you leave? Before your husband was killed or afterward?”

“This is ridiculous.” Mariel’s voice rose to a near hysterical level. “You can’t prove I wasn’t there just because I’m not on some list.”

Emma could imagine her sitting there fuming, those large, mannish hands clenched into fists.

“Where did you go, Mrs. Granger?” Walker repeated. “That’s all we want to know. If you left the ballroom before your husband was murdered, and someone can attest to that, you’re one more person we can cross off the list.”

“I thought you just said I wasn’t on the list.” Mariel’s voice had a pronounced sneer to it.

Even in the hallway they could hear Walker sigh. “I meant that figuratively, of course. If you have nothing to hide, just tell us where you went and whether someone can verify it. It’s as simple as that.”

“I’m sorry, but I think it’s time you left.” They heard the rustling sounds of someone getting up. “I’m sure the mayor would not want to hear that the police have been harassing innocent widows.”

Emma and Liz did not hear Walker’s response to Mariel’s final sally as they turned and scooted back to the safety of the kitchen.

“WELL
that was something,” Liz whispered when she and Emma were back in the kitchen, their eavesdropping undetected. They both leaned against the island, panting slightly from their sudden dash.

Emma looked over her shoulder just in case Mariel was headed their way, but she must have gone off somewhere else in the house. “Yes, I find it very interesting that she refuses say where she was when Hugh was killed—especially since it would give her an alibi. Of course, it’s also quite possible she murdered her husband and then slipped away before the body was discovered.”

“Or”—Liz helped herself to one of the iced lemon cookies from the ceramic jar on the counter—“she didn’t murder him, but still can’t say where she went.” She leaned on her elbows and took a bite of her cookie. “She can’t say because she was with someone she shouldn’t have been—for instance, that dark-haired man we saw her with in the garden yesterday.”

Emma wasn’t convinced. “But this is murder. Wouldn’t you want to clear your name no matter what the consequences?”

“You’re forgetting that Paris is still a very small town,” Liz said, echoing Arabella’s earlier words. “I would imagine until the estate is settled, she doesn’t want
anyone
to know she was playing around. No gossip, no tongues wagging, no being the subject of back-fence chatter. If for some reason, someone decided to contest the will, why give him any ammunition?”

Emma took a sip of her tea, which was now barely lukewarm. She popped the cup into the microwave and hit the Start button. Sixty seconds later the timer pinged. Emma was retrieving it when Joy walked into the room.

“Oh,” she said, looking slightly flustered at the sight of Emma and Liz.

“Sorry,” Emma and Liz chorused. “We don’t want to get in your way. We’re just getting something to drink.”

“Please, help yourselves.” Joy waved a hand toward the provisions set out on the counter. Her face was still flushed from the outdoors, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea. She smiled shyly at Emma and Liz. “Riding always makes me thirsty,” she said, filling a tall glass to the brim. “Would you like some?”

Emma and Liz shook their heads. The house was always slightly chilly, and Emma was grateful for the warmth of the cup in her hands.

“I saw you riding earlier.” Emma tested her tea. It was now too hot so she blew on it briefly, sending ripples across the surface like tiny waves. “I’m always impressed when someone can ride well. I’ve never gotten the hang of it myself.”

Joy’s plain face flushed with pleasure, and Emma realized Joy
was
pretty. It was her habitual expression of bitterness that obscured the beauty of her large blue eyes, fine cheekbones and chiseled nose.

“I love riding,” Joy said. “My mother had me on a horse by the time I was three years old. I still remember his name—Maximillian. Mother was an expert horsewoman herself.” She dashed at the tears that had formed in her eyes. “That was before . . .” She gestured toward her leg. “On a horse, I can forget that I’m . . . crippled.” Bitterness twisted her mouth, and the flash of beauty Emma had noticed earlier faded like the setting sun.

Joy turned her back to them and fiddled with the top to the cookie jar. “When I’m riding, the horse becomes my legs, and I can move like the wind, unhampered and . . . free,” she said slightly breathlessly. She spun around. “You have no idea how tiresome it is to drag this thing”—she held out her leg—“around all the time.”

Joy took a long swallow of her tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Riding has many therapeutic properties—it’s not just for cripples.” Again the bitter half smile, which didn’t reach her blue eyes. “Disabilities come in all flavors. It’s beneficial for autistic children, those with learning disabilities or with mental health issues.” She ducked her head. “Sorry; I’ll get off my soap box now.”

“No, that’s very interesting,” Emma said and meant it.

“I’d love to start a therapeutic horseback riding program here at the farm.” She shrugged. “It costs a lot of money though. Teachers have to be certified, the horses have to be trained. As I said”—she rubbed two fingers together—“it’s expensive.”

“It’s such a worthwhile project though,” Emma said.

“Yeah, well, tell that to the judge,” Joy said enigmatically. She picked up her glass of iced tea and headed toward the door. “Please help yourselves to anything you want. I know Molly keeps the fridge well stocked,” she called over her shoulder.

Emma and Liz looked at each other for a moment after she was gone.

“She’s a very odd girl,” Liz said, taking the last sip of her coffee. She rinsed the cup and started to open the dishwasher.

“Oh, please, let me do that for you.” Molly bustled into the room, a plain white apron already tied around her waist.

“Thanks.” Liz put the cup and saucer down by the sink.

“Did you find everything you need?” Molly asked. She picked up a sponge and began wiping down the counter. Her hands were small but capable-looking, with short square nails.

“Yes,” Emma and Liz chorused.

“How long have you been working for the Grangers?” Emma asked.

Molly frowned and put her hands on her hips. She blew out a gust of breath that sent the fine gray hairs around her forehead flying. “Oh, it’s been a long time, I can tell you that. How many years though, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. Can you believe it?” She chuckled. “I was here when Miss Joy was born, that I know. I’ll never forget it; such a pretty baby, and so good, too. She hardly ever fussed, which was a wonderful thing because it was me and Miss Elizabeth alone with her most of the time. Mr. Granger was traveling all over the world, and Miss Joy went from crawling to walking while he was away. Sometimes he hardly recognized her when he got home.”

A frown crossed her face. “Some men don’t take to babies, and Mr. Granger was one of them. Which was a terribly sad thing when Miss Elizabeth died and Miss Joy had to spend all those months in the hospital, crying for her mother, while they did one surgery after another trying to fix her leg. They did the best they could.” Her lips snapped together briskly.

“It was different when Mr. Jackson came along. Mr. Granger doted on him something fierce. It’s made Miss Joy a little bitter, if you know what I mean. Not that anyone can blame her. Losing her mother like that, and with a father who took no interest whatsoever. When he married the second Mrs. Granger, I had hopes that she would be like a mother to Miss Joy, but they took an almost instant dislike to each other.”

Emma and Liz were quiet, not wanting to possibly staunch the flow of information.

“Recently, Mr. Granger had begun to make an effort. Maybe it was because he was getting on in years and knew his time was limited.” Molly gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Not to say he knew what was coming. I didn’t mean that. May he rest in peace.”

Molly was quiet for a moment, and Liz and Emma waited with bated breath.

“He tried to take an interest in Miss Joy and what she was doing. It’s just too bad that . . .” Molly stopped abruptly and wrung her hands.

“Just too bad that what?” Emma asked in her most persuasive voice.

Emotions skittered across Molly’s face while Emma nearly stopped breathing.

Molly twisted her apron between her hands as if she were trying to wring it out. She gave a deep sigh. “It was right before the big party planned for Mr. Granger’s birthday on Saturday night. He and Miss Joy were in the library, talking. I brought them a tray with some sherry. It made me happy to see them sitting there together.”

She looked down at the floor, and Emma imagined she was picturing the scene.

She looked up, her eyes large and wet with tears. “I passed the library later on my way to turn down the beds for the night, knowing everyone would come back from the party too tired to do more than slip between the covers. I heard raised voices coming from the library—Mr. Granger’s deep voice bellowing out like the preacher’s in church at Sunday service, and Miss Joy’s louder than I’ve ever heard it.”

“What a shame,” Emma said. “What were they arguing about?”

Molly stuck her hands into the pockets of her apron, and Emma could see her clenching the fabric, her fingers curled into fists. “I don’t know. I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t want to know.”

Molly dashed a hand across her eyes where the tears threatened to spill over the rims and cascade down her wrinkled cheeks. “It just makes me so sad, you know?” She looked from Emma to Liz.

Emma put on her most sympathetic look, and she could see that Liz was doing the same.

“I really thought that father and daughter were becoming close, and then this horrible argument on the night he died. I feel terrible for poor Miss Joy. Here the poor man’s gone to his grave, and her last conversation with him was filled with anger and strong language. Can you imagine how she must feel, the poor thing? The guilt must be eating her alive,” Molly finished with a final wrench of her apron.

BETTE
woke Emma early on Friday morning. Emma sat up, trying to rub the sleep from her eyes. Bette was sitting in front of the door to Emma’s apartment, emitting a low-pitched whine that reminded Emma of the drone of a mosquito. It was certainly just as impossible to ignore and definitely as annoying.

Emma reluctantly left her warm bed, pulled on a pair of gray sweats and her fur-lined boots. The boots would be warm enough even without a pair of socks.

“Okay, girl, I’m coming,” Emma said. Her eyes weren’t quite open yet—they were still sticky with sleep—and she fumbled blindly in her closet for her down jacket, scarf and hat. She had a pair of leather gloves already stuffed in the pockets of her jacket; she would pull those on when she got outside.

Bette’s retractable leash was on the wooden table by the front door, half-lost amid a spill of old junk mail and catalogs. Emma made a mental note, as she did every time she retrieved Bette’s leash, to clean up the mess and polish the table. She grabbed the leash and called to Bette. Bette mistakenly thought Emma wanted to play and took off running through the apartment. Emma darted after her, swearing softly under her breath.

“Come on, Bette. I thought you had to go out?” Emma stood with her hands on her hips, panting slightly. Bette skidded to a stop in front of Emma, but Emma knew that the moment she reached for Bette, the dog would be off running again.

Instead, Emma headed for the door, ignoring Bette. She was beginning to sweat inside her warm jacket and was actually looking forward to the cold air outside. Bette watched Emma for several seconds, her head cocked to one side, her ears twitching, before scampering after Emma and allowing her leash to be hooked on.

“Let’s go, girl.”

Emma and Bette ran down the stairs, and Emma pulled open the door to the outside. She recoiled as the first icy blast of frigid air hit her. Suddenly her warm bed with its fluffy down comforter seemed twice as inviting. Bette, however, didn’t seem to mind the wintery cold as she scampered across the sidewalk toward the curb. A whiff of some delectable scent had obviously caught her attention because she circled one small spot for what seemed an eternity to Emma who stood there waiting, stomping her feet against the bitter cold.

“Come on, Bette. If you’re done, we’re going in.”

“You’re out awfully early.”

The voice, coming from behind, startled Emma. She looked up to see Brian striding toward her, his face nearly obscured by an orange and white striped scarf.

“Bette woke me,” Emma admitted, tilting her head toward the puppy. “But you’re out early, too.”

Brian put his hands on Emma’s shoulders and drew her toward him for a kiss as Bette wound her way in and out between their legs.

“There are some things I have to get done at the hardware store, and this is the only time I have,” he said when he reluctantly pulled his lips away from Emma’s. “I’ll be on site for a renovation project the rest of the day.” He peered at her over the edge of his scarf and sighed. “I’ve been so busy lately, I haven’t had time for anything but work.” He slipped his hand into Emma’s and squeezed it. “I’ve missed you.”

Emma and Brian had started dating before the summer. Saturday night dinners or trips to the movies had gradually turned into nightly phone calls and sharing takeout or one of Emma’s home cooked meals several times a week. But the last week or two Brian had been so busy he’d barely had time for more than a phone call or a cup of coffee.

“I can have some coffee going at the store in under five minutes. Interested?”

“Sure. But can you make that tea?” Emma reined Bette in, and they crossed the deserted street.

“No problem. We’re stocked for all contingencies.”

Brian pulled his keys from his pocket, inserted them in the lock and pulled open the glass-and-wood front door of O’Connell’s Hardware store. He felt along the wall and flipped on a handful of the lights.

Emma followed him inside. The wooden floors creaked under their weight, and the store had the old familiar smell of lumber and metal. Emma unclipped Bette, and freed from her leash, Bette ran in circles, nose to the ground, enjoying all the new smells.

Brian unwound his scarf and slipped out of his jacket. He moved slowly, and Emma thought he looked tired. Between running the hardware store and his renovation business, he was certainly burning the candle at both ends.

“I gather you and Liz are both working over at the Grangers’,” Brian said as he measured coffee into the pot and put a mug of water into the microwave. He turned and put his hands on Emma’s shoulders. “Just be careful, okay? There’s a murderer on the loose. You’re my two favorite girls, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to either of you.”

“Don’t worry. We won’t take any chances.”

Emma recounted her and Liz’s experience of the day before, eavesdropping on Mariel and Detective Walker. She told Brian how Mariel had refused to reveal where she had gone before the police arrived at the ballroom the night of her husband’s murder. She also told him what she’d learned from Molly—how Joy had been overheard arguing with her father hours before his death.

“Interesting,” Brian said as he poured coffee into a thick white mug with
O’Connell’s Hardware
written on it in green. He handed a similar mug of hot water to Emma, opened a cabinet and rummaged around inside. He handed Emma a box of tea bags. “Of course, Hugh Granger traveled extensively and ran a multimillion dollar business. He was bound to make some enemies along the way.”

Emma took a sip of her tea. She was enjoying this moment with Brian. The rest of the world was quiet—probably still sleeping. She shot a glance at Bette—now she was grateful to the puppy for waking her so early.

“Aunt Arabella did say that Hugh traveled an awful lot.” Emma was quiet for a moment. “Do you ever get the urge to . . . travel?” she asked. Her hands were still cold, and she wrapped them around the warm mug gratefully. Brian had turned the heat up, but it would take the ancient furnace a while to warm the drafty store.

“Travel? Not really. I’m so busy getting my business off the ground that I don’t see how I’d find the time. Maybe someday . . .”

Emma nodded, strangely disappointed. Of course Brian wasn’t thinking about travel right now. She had just hoped that he would have sounded more . . . enthusiastic.

“Do you think you’ll ever get tired of living in a small town like Paris?” Emma put down her cup.

Brian shrugged. “I don’t see why I would. I was born here, and it’s my home. My father is here, Liz and the kids are here.” He lowered his voice. “And you’re here.” He leaned over and brushed his lips against Emma’s.

It wasn’t exactly the answer Emma wanted, but it would have to do.

• • •

ARABELLA
was already at Sweet Nothings when Emma arrived later that morning. The smell of fresh coffee wafted toward her as soon as she opened the door.

“You’re early,” Emma said as she unclipped Bette’s leash. Bette made a beeline for Pierre, who was lounging in his dog bed contemplating his first nap of the day. Bette managed to persuade him to engage in a brief tussling match before he turned a cold shoulder on her and snuggled down for a couple of winks.

“I absolutely had to get out of the house,” Arabella said, her habitual smile absent. Emma could see the muscle in her temple clenching and unclenching repeatedly.

“What’s wrong?” Emma grabbed a mug from the cupboard, filled it with hot water from the tap and stuck it in the microwave to heat.

Arabella sighed heavily and walked out into the showroom. Emma followed her.

“What’s wrong?” Emma repeated.

“I hate to say this.” Arabella stopped in her tracks and turned to face Emma. She clenched her lips as if that would hold the words back and fiddled with the silver and black onyx pendant around her neck.

“Please tell me what it is.” Emma put a hand on her aunt’s arm.

“Okay.” Arabella took a deep breath. “It’s your mother.”

“Mother?”

“Yes.” Arabella nodded briskly. “Quite frankly, she’s driving me crazy.” She smiled as if to take some of the sting out of her words. “She . . . she . . .
pecks
at me,” Arabella said. “It’s
Arabella, do you think
 . . .
Arabella, do you really want
 . . .
Arabella, why
 . . . all day long!”

“I’m so sorry.” Emma hugged her aunt.

“Darling, it’s not your fault.” Arabella squeezed her back. “Priscilla has always been like that. I remember that when she was little, she would question everything I did as if she were the elder sibling and not me.”

Arabella was quiet for a moment, and the only sound was the gurgling of the coffeemaker. “There is one thing, though, where I’m afraid she might have a point.” She turned to Emma and looked her straight in the face. Emma noticed her aunt’s eyes were wet with tears. “She thinks I’m being terribly selfish keeping you here in Paris helping me with the shop when you could be anywhere doing . . . anything. Something more important or something more interesting, at least.”

Emma felt her stomach lurch. She had been thinking much the same thing—not that her aunt was being selfish—but whether or not she was wasting her life staying in Paris.

But she wasn’t about to reveal her doubts to her aunt. Not now—this wasn’t the right moment. She gave Arabella’s arm a squeeze. “Don’t be silly. I’m perfectly content here. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I don’t know.” Arabella looked down at her shoes. “I know there were times when I felt . . . stifled . . . by the small-town atmosphere. Everyone knowing everyone else’s business. Nothing changing—or if it did, it took light-years.” She looked up at Emma and examined her face as if she were searching for clues. “And I had already traveled the world. I can only imagine how you must feel.”

“Please don’t listen to Mother,” Emma said, grasping Arabella by both arms. “I know what I want, and it’s here in Paris.”

A twinkle appeared in Arabella’s eyes. “I imagine that it’s right across the street,” she said with a smile.

Emma smiled back. “I think you’re right.”

But was she really?

• • •

LIZ
was already ensconced at the Grangers’ when Emma got there later that afternoon. Emma stuck her head into the office to say hello. She was sorry that the two of them weren’t working together in the same room, but Jackson was right in that it was a lot easier to set up a computer in the art storage room.

Emma was walking down the back hallway toward the storage room’s locked steel door when she heard someone behind her clear his throat. She turned around to see Tom Roberts standing at the head of the hallway. He was wearing a tweed blazer, tan corduroy slacks and an open-necked shirt.

“I hope everything is going well,” he said hesitantly when Emma turned around. He had a hand in his pocket and was jingling his loose change.

“Very well, thank you.”

“You haven’t seen my wife, have you? She said she’d be stopping by”—he glanced at his watch—“any minute now.”

Emma shook her head. “Sorry, no. But I just got here myself. Perhaps she’s in the library?”

“I’ve just come from there.” Tom hesitated. He ran a hand through his hair, disturbing the carefully arranged strands. He smiled at Emma briefly. “I imagine she’s on her way. Sabina isn’t known for being on time unless it’s for a performance.” And he drifted away, back down the hall.

Emma opened the storage room and flipped on the lights. It was chilly, and she was glad she’d worn a heavy sweater. She turned on the computer and brought up the custom-designed database she was using to collect information.

She’d already finished entering one section of drawings and was about to start on a group of paintings. She chose the first one—a small watercolor attributed to Cézanne. Emma examined the label where all the information was filled in save for the date.

Jackson had encouraged her to do as much research as she was comfortable with. She brought up a popular search engine on the Internet and entered the name of the artist and the painting. A long list of articles came up in the resultant search. Emma clicked on the first one. Cézanne was mentioned in the piece, but not the particular work she was researching, but the article caught her interest, and she kept reading. It dealt with works of art that had been stolen, by the Nazis, from Jewish families during the war. Emma was halfway through the article when she realized she was wasting her employer’s time. She went back to the search engine to try again.

After a half hour of researching, Emma decided to move on to the next piece. All the information was intact, and she entered the data quickly. She soon became engrossed in the work—each painting or drawing was something new and different. When Emma looked up again, another hour had gone by. She stood up and stretched her arms overhead. The chill in the room was making her feel achy, so she decided to take a break and get a cup of tea.

Emma stopped by the office on her way to the kitchen. “Want a cup of tea?” Liz switched off the bright lights she had trained on the painting resting on the easel.

“Good idea. Make mine coffee, though. Ben had a nightmare last night and woke us up. It was four o’clock in the morning before we got back to sleep.” She stretched and yawned.