Read Murder Unmentionable Online
Authors: Meg London
Murder Unmentionable
Little shop of horror…
Emma closed her eyes, clenched her fists and forced herself to stop screaming. Deep breaths. Like yoga class. In…out…in…out. Her heartbeat slowed and steadied in time to the measured rhythm. When she opened her eyes, everything looked perfectly normal—morning sun streaming through the dusty front windows; Arabella dressed for work in a long black-and-white batik-print dress, her hair pinned into a knot on top of her head; the interior of the shop silent and smelling faintly of fresh sawdust. Everything was perfectly normal. She looked down.
Except for the body at their feet…
MEG LONDON
BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
MURDER UNMENTIONABLE
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Cover illustration by Nathalie Dion.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.
All rights reserved.
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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58956-4
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Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
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If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
First I would like to thank Lieutenant Tom Lankford of the Paris, Tennessee Police Department for kindly answering my many questions. Any mistakes in police procedure are strictly my own.
I would like to thank Katelynn Lacopo, who worked tirelessly with me to perfect my proposal and first three chapters.
I would also like to thank my agent, Jessica Faust, for her guidance, and my editor, Faith Black, for showing me how to make my manuscript considerably better. And a thank-you to the Berkley Prime Crime copyeditor Megan Gerrity who worked so hard and saved me from some really embarrassing errors!
I apologize to the people of Paris, Tennessee, for adding in a number of stores and restaurants that don’t actually exist in your charming town, among them, the Sweet Nothings vintage lingerie shop.
And finally, a big thank-you to my family and friends who have been so supportive of me on my writing journey!
EMMA Taylor stifled a gasp as she pulled the garment out of the drawer at Sweet Nothings, her aunt’s lingerie shop. “Aunt Arabella,” she said, dangling the questionable piece of lingerie in the air. “What on earth is this?” She already knew her aunt’s stock was hopelessly out-of-date—did anyone even wear half-slips these days?—but she didn’t realize it was going to be this bad.
“Coming, dear, just a second.” Arabella pushed aside the curtain from the back room. She was carrying a tray with a sweating pitcher of iced sweet tea and several glasses. Her French bulldog, Pierre, trotted obediently at her heels. He had one black ear and one white one, and he was getting quite round in the middle. Arabella claimed she didn’t have the heart to put him on a diet. She set the tea and glasses on the counter and went over to where Emma was standing.
“This.” Emma dangled the undergarment in front of her aunt. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Her aunt laughed and ducked her head. “Oh, that. Just a
little hobby of mine. I got interested in it when Sally Dixon of La Tour Eiffel Antiques dragged me to some estate sales.”
Emma’s brows rose even higher. “But this looks like some kind of…of…” She couldn’t bring herself to use the word
fetish
in front of her aunt.
“It’s vintage, dear. Vintage. Early 1950s Maidenform. It’s called a bullet bra. It’s their Chansonette model. See”—her aunt pointed to the circular stitching—“this is what gave the famous sweater girls their shape. You know, like Marilyn Monroe, Lana Turner. That crowd.”
Emma examined the reinforced stitching. “Did you wear—?”
“Of course. We all wore them. We actually used to iron them to get the shape just right. Some girls were known to stuff the tips of theirs.” Arabella sniffed. “Then in the 1960s we all burned our bras and started going au naturel.” She laughed as she poured a tall glass of tea. “I bet they don’t serve sweet tea like this in New York.” She handed Emma the glass.
Emma closed her eyes as the cool, sweet liquid slid down her throat. She held the glass to the back of her neck. She was glad she’d cut her hair short. She’d forgotten how muggy Tennessee could be in the summer.
Her aunt wore her long silver hair in a single braid down her back. She was dressed for the heat in a gauzy looking tunic and flowing pants. The all-white of the ensemble was relieved by a splash of color from an enormous coral necklace—the kind of piece that Emma had often heard called “important.”
“I have several drawers full of vintage lingerie that I’ve cleaned and repaired, and lots more at home ready to be worked on.” Arabella pulled open another drawer. “What intrigues me about vintage things is that they’re a glimpse of another era—an era when women strove for feminine glamour instead of wanting to look like…like…” She
waved a hand in the air. She turned and opened a cupboard and sorted through the padded white hangers. “This”—Arabella pulled out a garment—“would have been the crowning jewel of any woman’s trousseau.” She laid the nightgown and peignoir set out on the counter carefully. “Early 1940s. Silk charmeuse,” she said, fingering the peach fabric lovingly. “And Point de Venise lace.”
The bodice of the nightgown was indeed lace, and touches of the same lace graced the cuffs and collar of the matching peignoir.
“It’s beautiful,” Emma said as she took in the meticulous detailing on the matching set. The gown had a circular skirt and was made with only one seam running up the back.
“Would you like me to save it for you?” Arabella’s eyes twinkled as she looked at her niece.
“Save it for me?” Emma repeated blankly.
“For your trousseau, dear. You’re twenty-nine. I’m sure that any minute now you’ll—”
Emma shook her head vehemently.
“Don’t tell me there isn’t someone…?”
Emma shook her head again. “Nope. I’m as free as a bird.” Emma thought about Guy and crossed her fingers behind her back. “Besides, women don’t really have trousseaus anymore, do they?”
“True. What a shame. I remember reading an old Emily Post etiquette book that detailed everything the modern woman of the 1930s needed in her trousseau—from day dresses and evening dresses to sports clothes to the right number of sets of monogrammed towels for her bathroom.”
Arabella opened another cabinet and took out a gown. “Look at this.” She carefully smoothed out the fabric. “It’s a 1930s peach Satin Dasche slip gown.” Arabella pointed to the lace at the throat. “With beige Alençon lace. It needed a slight repair here,” she pointed to a spot under the arm, “but I think I’ve managed it very nicely. You can’t even tell.”
“This is just what we need!” Emma exclaimed so suddenly her aunt jumped and even Pierre paused in his attempts to hoist his considerable bulk onto the padded bench by the window.
“For what, dear?”
“To put your shop back on the map! We’ll specialize in vintage lingerie! People will come out from Memphis and Nashville just to shop at Sweet Nothings!”