Laced with Poison (12 page)

“I can’t exactly imagine anyone carrying foxglove flowers around in their purse,”
Arabella said.

“No.” Emma scrunched up her face. “But Deirdre has a garden. What if she has foxglove
growing and someone noticed it? It would be easy enough to slip outside when no one
is looking, pick one of the flowers and put it in place of one of the edible ones
Bitsy used to decorate her cupcakes.”

“Foxglove is a fairly showy plant, so it’s possible a landscaper might have used it
in the Porters’ garden,” Liz said. “We need to ask Deirdre.”

Arabella cleared her throat. “That might sound as if we’re accusing her.” She frowned.
“Deirdre’s been a good customer. I would hate to offend her.”

Emma and Liz looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes. “We could sneak
in,” they said almost in unison.

Sylvia gave a throaty chuckle. “What fun. I’m sorry I’d slow you down too much to
come along.”

“Same here,” Arabella said wistfully. “Will you go along, Bitsy?”

“I’d love to. Hayley can mind the shop for me for a few hours. She’s finally mastered
making change and replacing the tape in the cash register.” Bitsy rolled her eyes.

“When should we go?” Liz began to gather her things together.

“I wonder if Deirdre still takes riding lessons out at Skip Clark’s farm?” Arabella
brushed some crumbs off the countertop.

“I can find out.” Emma peeked at the cupcakes remaining in Bitsy’s box but then decided
she really didn’t need another one. “Mabel, the waitress at the Coffee Klatch, has
a younger sister who works on Skip’s farm. She might know.”

*   *   *

EMMA was putting away the lovely camisoles and panties that had arrived from New York
earlier, and which gave her such a pang of conscience, when she heard the front door
of Sweet Nothings open. Even before she raised her head, a cloud of very expensive-smelling
perfume wafted in her direction. Emma looked up to see Marjorie Porter standing in
the middle of the shop. She was wearing a silk shirtwaist dress and had one of those
handbags that cost thousands of dollars slung over her arm. As usual, her ash-blond
French twist was perfect, without a hair out of place. It didn’t matter
how hard the wind blew; it knew better than to mess up Marjorie’s hairdo.

Emma smiled. “Marjorie. So nice to see you.” She edged out from behind the counter
and advanced with her hand out.

Marjorie smiled briefly and barely touched Emma’s hand. “Is Arabella around? I wanted
to have a word.”

“Of course.” Emma moved back behind the counter and stuck her head into the stockroom.

“Aunt Arabella?”

Arabella emerged with a quizzical look on her face that quickly changed to a practiced
smile. “Marjorie. How lovely to see you. What can we do for you today?”

Emma watched, barely suppressing a bubble of amusement. She knew Arabella couldn’t
stand Marjorie, but you would be hard-pressed to tell by the act she was putting on.
Curious, Emma edged closer to the pair and kept her ears open.

“It’s a shame that your lovely trunk show at my daughter-in-law’s was ruined by that
woman and her untimely death.”

Emma listened as Arabella made the appropriately soothing noises.

“I was hoping,” Marjorie said as she smiled coyly, swinging her imported bag from
the crook of her elbow, “that you might consider putting on another trunk show. I
know the members of my garden club would love it.”

Arabella gasped and put both hands against her chest. “Really? We’d be honored, Marjorie.”

Emma bit her lip and barely managed to stifle a chuckle. Arabella was really laying
it on.

“But I’m thinking,” Marjorie continued. “Most of the women in our group are…” She
dropped her voice. “…middle-aged. Could you possibly do something on the new
shape wear? I must confess, we’re all curious about it,” she said conspiratorially,
patting her own slightly rounded tummy.

“Of course,” Arabella said briskly. “That’s a wonderful idea. There are so many options
these days. Not like in our day,” she said in a near whisper.

Marjorie stiffened. “I’m not so sure your day and mine are exactly the same.”

Arabella nodded diplomatically as if to say
touché.
She gestured toward Emma. “Emma, Mrs. Porter has had the most brilliant idea.”

Marjorie gave a tiny smile and preened like a peacock showing off its feathers.

“We’re going to do a trunk show for her garden club,” Arabella said in a lowered voice,
as if the paparazzi were hovering on their doorstep.

Marjorie rolled her eyes heavenward. “I promise you”—she struck her chest with her
open palm—“that there won’t be another…incident…like the one that occurred at my poor,
dear daughter-in-law’s.” She shook her head, and the very tip of her twist oscillated
slightly. “I really do think that someone had it in for that poor woman.”

Now Emma’s ears really perked up. “Really?” she said innocently.

Marjorie gave a smug smile. “I could name a few. But,” she said with an air of moral
superiority, “mother always said, if you don’t have anything nice to say about someone,
then the less said the better.”

“If you know something,” Arabella said, “you really should share the information with
the police, don’t you think?”

“I’m sure the police aren’t interested in gossip,” Marjorie said tartly.

No, but we are
, Emma thought, trying to telegraph the concept to Marjorie somehow.

Marjorie’s expression softened slightly. “Of course everyone knows that Jessica treated
that sniveling wretch Crystal Davis horribly. I can’t imagine why she didn’t sack
her except that they’re somehow related. But I can’t imagine Crystal getting up the
gumption to do anything about it.” She paused, her lips pursed. “Then there’s Lotte
Fanning and that whole affair. She was at the trunk show, too.”

“What about Lotte Fanning?” Arabella said.

Marjorie waved a hand. “Oh, nothing. I’m telling tales out of school. Very naughty
of me.” She glanced at the diamond-encrusted watch on her wrist. “I must be going.
I’m so glad you’re going to be doing a trunk show for us. Ta-ta.”

“That woman is infuriating!” Arabella declared as soon as the door shut behind Marjorie.

“I know. Who is that Fanning woman she mentioned?”

“I don’t know her well. She’s part of Marjorie’s crowd.”

Emma rubbed two fingers together.

“Exactly. Money. Although no one can quite keep up with Marjorie Porter in that department.
Was that an Hermès bag she was carrying?”

Emma nodded.

“I suppose we should add Charlotte Fanning to our suspect list. Now for the fun part.”

“What’s that?”

“Finding out why she would have wanted to kill Jessica Scott.” Arabella was quiet
for a moment. “Blast Marjorie anyway for not telling us!”

LATER that evening, Emma headed over to Arabella’s for dinner. She loved visiting
her aunt’s old Victorian with its enormous wraparound porch. The house held many happy
memories for Emma. As she pulled into the driveway, she could already hear Pierre
beginning to bark. Emma looked through the pane of glass alongside Arabella’s front
door and watched with a smile as Pierre slid helter-skelter down the hallway in response
to her ring. Arabella came along behind him, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Come on in.” Arabella gave Emma a quick hug. “I’ve got some barbecued ribs in the
oven. And ice-cold beer in the fridge if you’ve got a hankering for some.”

“No, thanks.” Emma hugged her aunt back. “I’d rather have a glass of wine if you have
any.”

“Of course. There’s a sauvignon blanc chilling. I got the beer in case Brian wanted
any.”

Emma stopped dead where she was, on the oval foyer rug. “Brian’s coming?”

“Oh! Didn’t I say?” Arabella was all innocence. “I told him I was making some chess
pie, and he begged to be invited.”

Emma rolled her eyes. She knew Brian had probably done no such thing. Well, she wasn’t
sorry, that’s for sure. She hadn’t talked to him since Saturday, and as shy as she
was feeling about seeing him after their kiss in the garden at the wedding, she knew
she would have to face him sooner or later.

Arabella’s old Victorian house was filled with relics from her carefree traveling
days—statues of Buddha from the Far East, rugs from India, silks from Thailand—but
her kitchen was pure Southern comfort. Emma perched on one of the stools that surrounded
the butcher block–topped island in the center of the room. Steam rose from several
pots hissing on the stove.

Arabella lifted one of the lids with the edge of her apron. “Almost done.” She let
the lid clatter back in place.

“What are you making?” Emma went over to peer into the various saucepans.

“Mashed potatoes and collard greens sautéed with bacon.”

“Sounds delicious.”

Emma resumed her perch on one of the stools. She realized her palms were sweating.
It was absurd to be so nervous about seeing Brian, but in her mind, that kiss had
created a seismic change in their relationship. She wondered if he felt the same way.

“Should we eat in here or in the dining room?” Arabella paused with a stack of plates
in her hand.

“Let’s eat in here. I love this room.”

Emma took a pile of newspapers off the kitchen table and headed toward the mudroom
with them. She knew Arabella had a recycling bin out there.

Arabella tilted her head in the direction of the pile of
Paris Post-Intelligencers
in Emma’s hands. “I read that Wyatt Porter was picked up again on a suspected DUI.”

Emma raised her eyebrows.

“Wyatt is the younger brother of Alfred, Marjorie’s husband. He’s been trouble practically
from the time he was born. Not like Alfred who, if everyone is to be believed, has
never set a foot wrong in his life.” Arabella opened a drawer and began counting out
silverware. “If it weren’t for the Porter money, Wyatt might have spent more than
a few nights in the local jail.”

“Is he married?”

Arabella walked around the large, worn kitchen table setting out forks and knives.
“No. But there was a scandal a while back that the Porters hushed up real quick. This
woman from Memphis showed up here in Paris—and what a piece of work she was. Probably
met him in a bar down there or something. Rumor has it she was claiming that Wyatt
was the father of her child. Another gold digger.”

“Maybe it was true?” Emma folded napkins and placed them next to the plates.

Arabella shook her head. “No, I don’t think so. Everyone reckons Wyatt is a little
light in the loafers if you know what I mean.”

“Gay?”

“Yes. And the South still being the South, it’s probably what drove him to some of
those escapades of his. Of course he doesn’t get any of the Porter money, least not
a whole lot of it. The bulk of the estate always goes to the oldest male. Wyatt will
get enough for a reasonably comfortable life, but
nothing like what Alfred will inherit now that old man George Porter is gone.”

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

Arabella shrugged. “You’re right. But that’s how the Porters have always done it.
Of course Marjorie and Alfred already have the money from Marjorie’s family, but I
heard that they lost a bundle in the recent stock market crash, so this may have come
just in time.”

Emma was getting the salt and pepper shakers from the cupboard by the stove when the
doorbell rang, sending Pierre into high gear. She followed him down the hall where
he misjudged the distance and narrowly missed slamming into the front door.

Emma felt her heart going into overdrive. She wiped her palms quickly on her slacks
and plastered a rather nervous smile on her face.

“Hey,” Brian said as he pulled her into a quick hug. “It sure smells good in here.”
He bent down to scratch Pierre behind the ears.

Emma led Brian into the kitchen, where Arabella also gave him a hug.

“What’s cooking?” Brian glanced at the stove.

Arabella gave him a rundown of what she was making.

“And chess pie. You promised me.” Brian smiled at Arabella.

“Of course. How could I disappoint you?” Arabella opened the refrigerator. “Can I
tempt you with a cold beer?”

“Absolutely.” Brian slumped into one of the armchairs Arabella had pulled up to the
fireplace on the far wall of the kitchen.

“You look tired. Rough day?” Emma sat down in the other chair but then immediately
popped up again. “Aunt Arabella, can I help with anything?”

“Not right now, dear.”

“Yes, I guess you could say it was pretty rough. We found some dry rot in the roof
of a house we’re renovating.” He rubbed a hand across his face. “It’s going to mean
a lot more work than I anticipated, and we’re a bit behind already because Jack, our
carpenter, has been out sick.”

“Sounds like you need this.” Arabella handed him a frosty bottle of Killian’s Irish
Red and a tall, iced glass.

“You do spoil me, Arabella.” Brian gave a tired smile.

“I’m sure everything will turn out all right in the end,” Emma reassured him.