A Fatal Slip (3 page)

“How romantic,” Emma breathed.

“I certainly thought so,” Arabella quipped. She rolled her eyes. “I continued to travel, and he continued to follow me whenever he could. Finally, he convinced me to come back to Paris and marry him.”

Emma gasped. “What happened?”

“I didn’t decide right away. I saw Hugh off on the SS
France
in Le Havre on his way back to New York. On board he met someone named Elizabeth. By the time I’d made my decision and had flown home a couple of months later, Hugh was married, and they were expecting a baby. Back in those days, people
had
to get married. Not like today.”

“How horrible for you.”

Arabella gave a sad smile. “I put all my energy, time and money into Sweet Nothings. I’d lost my desire to travel—all my memories were too wrapped up with Hugh.”

“What did he say when—”

Arabella laughed. “Oh, he tried to put the blame on me. I’d taken too long to make up my mind. I’d made him chase me for years when all he wanted to do was settle down. I didn’t believe a word of it. Fortunately, until tonight, our paths rarely crossed. Although he still owns the family horse farm here in Tennessee, he spent most of his time in New York or traveling through Europe buying and selling art. He must have come back for some reason. Perhaps he’s tired and has decided it’s time to settle down.”

Francis was looking thoughtful. “What is this fellow’s name again?”

“Hugh. Hugh Granger.”

“He invited us to a dinner dance at the Beau on Saturday night”—Emma glanced at Brian—“but Arabella turned him down.”

“I don’t really mind if you go,” Arabella said, “although I’d rather you didn’t. But still, a big party at the Beau is bound to be spectacular.”

“I’d like to go,” Francis said suddenly.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Arabella pulled away and looked at him sternly.

He nodded. “Yes, if you think you can bear it. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has been looking into Hugh Granger for years. There have been whispers about some of his dealings. We’d love the opportunity to get closer to his operation. This is a chance to at least enter his orbit, rarified though it is.”

Arabella heaved a sigh. “If you really think it important.”

Francis gave her his most winning smile.

“Oh, all right. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him we’ve changed our minds, and we’ll be attending his big, fancy party. Are you satisfied now?”

EMMA
was on pins and needles until Saturday night finally arrived. Brian had once taken her to a friend’s wedding at the Beauchamp Hotel and Spa, or the “Beau” as the locals called it, and it had been a spectacular event with elegant décor and delicious food.

The question of what to wear immediately reared its head. As a stylist in New York Emma had amassed a decent wardrobe, although here in Paris she found herself reaching for the same basic garments over and over again. The back of her closet had become unexplored territory. Emma plunged into the mass of skirts, dresses, pants and blouses and managed to unearth a dress she’d once worn to a charity ball in New York with her then-boyfriend, photographer Guy Richard. She’d scored it at a sample sale, and it hadn’t been out of her closet since.

It was no longer the height of fashion but considering that she was in Tennessee and not New York, she was certain it would do. Besides, Arabella had loaned her some magnificent jewelry to go with it.

Emma stood in front of her bathroom mirror and fastened the clasp on the exquisite ruby-and-diamond necklace. It felt heavy and cold against her bare skin. She slipped on the matching chandelier earrings and turned this way and that, admiring the sparkle of the gems in the overhead light. Had the set been a gift from Hugh Granger, she wondered? Or had there been someone else as well, and Arabella was keeping more than one secret from them?

Brian’s eyes lit up when he arrived an hour and a half later to pick Emma up. He looked her up and down and gave a long, low whistle. “Wow, am I going to have to hire a Brinks guard to protect you?” he said, indicating her necklace and matching earrings.

“I’m sure I’m not going to be the only one at the party resplendent in fine jewels. From what Arabella has said, this Hugh runs with a pretty rich crowd.”

“I’m certain that no one there will be wearing them nearly as well as you do.” Brian took Emma in his arms and kissed her in a way that left her breathless and nearly made her toes curl up. “Do we really have to go to this party tonight?” he asked, his voice husky in her ear.

Emma laughed and pulled away. “We promised Aunt Arabella, remember?”

Brian made a comically sad face, and Emma laughed.

She had never seen him in dinner clothes before. Jeans and work shirts were more his usual attire. He managed to look as if he wore black tie every day. He’d slicked his hair down just a bit, and Emma caught the faintest whiff of cologne.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

Emma picked up her gown with both hands to keep it from trailing on the stairs as they headed to the ground floor. She glanced at the dust in the corners and made a mental note to sweep the very next day.

“The way you look tonight, I feel like you deserve a limousine and not my sister’s station wagon,” Brian said indicating the car parked outside the back door to Emma’s apartment.

“At least it’s not a pumpkin.”

Brian laughed as he slid behind the wheel. “Yes, and let’s hope it doesn’t turn into one at midnight, or we’ll be riding brooms back to your place.” He laughed again. “I think I’m mixing up my fairy tales.”

The Beau was located about fifteen minutes out of town, and the drive went quickly. They passed miles of dark and shadowy open fields, prickly with matted, frozen vegetation. Suddenly they rounded the corner and Emma gasped as the Beau came into view. It glowed from stem to stern, like a great ship ablaze against the inky darkness of the night. Several sleek, black cars were pulled up to the entrance where white-jacketed valets quickly whisked them away. Men in dinner jackets and women in fur coats and elegant gowns mingled around the entrance.

Emma felt the stirrings of excitement. This was going to be a very glamorous evening indeed.

Brian pulled up to the curb with a flourish, put the car in park and went around to help Emma out. She made what she hoped was a reasonably graceful exit considering the width of her skirt. Arabella and Francis were already waiting for them by the door. Arabella was resplendent in a midnight blue, long-sleeved gown that set off her white hair, and Francis looked just as distinguished in his evening wear.

Hugh Granger greeted them as soon as they entered. “I’m so glad you changed your mind.” His practiced smile was aimed at Arabella.

She nodded stiffly and gave a brief smile.

“This is my wife, Mariel.” Hugh gestured to the woman standing next to him, her lips set in a thin line.

She was considerably younger than Hugh—around fifty—and what Emma supposed would be called handsome rather than pretty. She was tall and trim but with broad shoulders and large, capable-looking hands. Her thick, dark blond hair was swept back off her forehead, the ashy color hiding a sprinkling of gray. She greeted them somewhat disinterestedly and immediately turned to talk to an older couple who had come in after Emma and Brian.

“Well! Looks like he’s on wife number two,” Arabella said sharply as they moved away. “Or, number three or four, who knows? I only know that the first was called Elizabeth.”

Francis forged a path through the throng of guests, and the rest of them followed, Brian’s hand on Emma’s elbow gently steering her past the knots of people milling around the reception area. Their chatter drowned out the trickle of a waterfall and the soothing, Zenlike music in the background.

The ballroom was down a corridor lined with windows on one side. The glass reflected Emma’s image back at her, but she could just barely discern a courtyard beyond the mirrorlike windows.

“This is some place,” Emma heard Francis whisper to Arabella.

Double doors led into a magnificent ballroom. It was white and trimmed lavishly with gilt. A small balcony ran along the upper level. Two enormous chandeliers dripping with crystals were suspended over the tables below, covered tonight in white cloths with deep blue overlays. The tables were set with glittering silverware and crystal and white plates with a dark blue and gold rim.

Brian ran a finger around his collar. “This is quite the setup.”

“It sure is.” Emma looked around her, not even trying to pretend she was too sophisticated to be impressed.

Waiters in black tie and tails and white gloves carrying trays laden with flutes of champagne and elegant hors d’oeuvres made their way through the crowd. A waiter suddenly appeared at Emma’s elbow offering champagne.

“Thank you.” Emma selected a glass. She was tilting it toward her mouth when someone jostled her arm.

Emma whirled around to see a woman standing by her side.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “My leg makes me clumsy. Let me call for a waiter to get you a cloth.”

The woman wore a long dress, but judging by the slant of her hips, Emma suspected that her left leg was shorter than her right. And the shoes peeking out from under the swath of burgundy satin that made up the skirt of her gown were stout-looking ones with the sole built up on the left one. She was quite plain with pale skin, a sprinkle of freckles and only a dash of pink lipstick for makeup. Emma thought her to be in her late thirties or possibly early forties.

Emma glanced at her dress. “Oh, please don’t bother. It’s fine. It didn’t spill.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Joy Granger, Hugh’s daughter.” She put a hand out, steadying herself by clutching the back of a chair with the other.

Emma took her hand. “What a lovely name.”

“Rather ironic, actually.” Joy gave a bitter smile. “Are you sure about your dress? I can easily have the waiter bring you a damp cloth.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

“In that case, I hope you enjoy the dog and pony show.” She moved away awkwardly.

“What an odd woman,” Francis said after Joy had disappeared into the milling crowd. “And that remark about her name was rather strange, don’t you think?”

“She might have been referring to the fact that her arrival hadn’t been particularly joyful—in which case, it would certainly be an odd choice for a name,” Arabella said.

Francis nodded his head. “You’re probably right.”

Arabella turned to Brian and Emma. “Did you get our place cards?”

Brian held up four folded pieces of heavy card stock with names handwritten on them in fancy script. He glanced at one of them. “We’re at table 14.”

“I don’t suppose we shall know the rest of our dinner partners,” Arabella said, adjusting the light shawl draped over her shoulders. “No matter. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Arabella plucked an hors d’oeuvre from the tray of a circulating waiter. “Mmmm, caviar.” She tapped the waiter on the arm and he spun around. “You must try one,” she said to Emma, Brian and Francis. “It’s divine. Osetra, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What on earth is Osetra?” Francis raised an eyebrow as he reached for the tray.

“Very, very expensive caviar,” Arabella said, taking his arm. “Savor it,” she cautioned. “Burst the delicious, little bubbles with your tongue and cherish the flavor.”

Francis raised both eyebrows. “I’m a country boy, Arabella. My pleasures are simple ones. Some good barbecue and a pitcher of Tennessee tea, and I’m a happy man.”

“Nonsense.” Arabella slapped him on the arm playfully. “Everyone loves caviar.”

Emma turned to Brian who was trying, as discretely as possible, to spit the hors d’oeuvre into his cocktail napkin. He laughed when he noticed Emma watching. “Sorry, I’m just not as sophisticated as you are.”

Emma squeezed his arm. “It’s all a matter of taste. I knew some very sophisticated people who
hated
caviar.”

Brian took Emma’s hand as they wound their way among the tables, looking for number 14.

Suddenly Hugh’s amplified voice came from the front of the room.

“I want to welcome you all here tonight and thank you for coming. My dear wife, Mariel, arranged this lovely get-together to celebrate not only my upcoming birthday, but also the fact that we have moved back to Paris to stay. I’ve spent most of my life traveling the globe, truly the peripatetic traveler, but now at my age”—he paused and there was polite laughter from the audience—“I’m ready to settle down. If you will find your tables, please, Mariel has a spectacular dinner and evening planned for you all.”

A smattering of applause came from the audience, quickly dying away as people moved toward their seats, the ladies’ gowns rustling as they moved.

Brian found their table easily enough and held out one of the gilt chairs for Emma while Francis did the same for Arabella. The centerpieces dripped with luscious pink and blue hydrangeas, and a dozen tea lights glittered among the crystal, china and silver. The beauty of it all—the elegant ballroom, the twinkling lights, the flowers, the caviar . . . everything . . . nearly took Emma’s breath away.

“I think this is our table,” Emma heard someone say behind her. She twisted around in her seat. “Oh.”

Brian, meanwhile, had jumped to his feet. “John!” He pumped the other man’s hand enthusiastically. He turned to Emma. “Emma, you remember the Jaspers, don’t you? John and Lara?”

“Yes, certainly.” Brian and Emma had run into them one night while dining at L’Etoile, Paris’s most elegant restaurant. They were clients of Brian’s, having employed him to completely renovate the mid-century modern house they had recently purchased.

“I think we’re at your table.” John gave a big smile, his round face flushed from champagne and the warmth of the room.

Brian introduced Arabella and Francis as John pulled out a chair, and Lara slipped into it.

“My wife, Lara,” John said with a look of pride.

She was a beautiful young woman in her late twenties with long, golden brown hair and green eyes. Her low-cut, backless, sequined fishtail gown made the most of her figure, and Emma suspected it wasn’t something she had picked up at the local mall. Fortunately, Lara was warm and gracious, and Emma had really liked her the last time they met.

“So how do you know Hugh Granger?” John settled in his seat, tilting the chair slightly backward on two legs.

“He’s an old friend,” Arabella said succinctly. “And you?”

“He’s been my art dealer for a couple of years.” John looked at Lara as if for confirmation. “We collect art—although it’s not much of a collection yet.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Just the odd piece here and there.”

Lara was turning her knife over and over. She smiled at her husband.

“It started with this piece a young art student had done of Lara in Sao Paulo. She used to model for the class.” John glanced at his wife with a proprietary air. “It was a triptych—three panels—that was in the style of the portraits Andy Warhol used to do. Warhol did a lot of famous people—even Jackie Onassis and Marilyn Monroe. Lara showed me a picture of the student’s work, and I decided I had to have it. It took me three years to track him down and buy the piece.” John took a gulp of water from the glass next to his plate. “I guess I caught the collecting bug. Hugh has been helping us build our collection, as pitiful as it is.”

Waiters had begun circulating among the tables, and one of them slid bowls of lobster bisque in front of them.

“Looks like we’re in for some pretty impressive chow.” John chuckled.

“So you’ve been a client of Granger’s for a while,” Francis said as he unfurled his napkin and placed it in his lap.