Murder Unmentionable (2 page)

“Do you really think so, dear?” Her aunt pulled her braid over her shoulder and fiddled with the ends. “The way things are going, I’ll have nothing but my social security when I retire. And we know what they’re saying about that.” She made a face.

“I know this will be a success!”

She had to make this happen for her aunt, Emma thought. She owed Arabella. Arabella was her mother’s older sister. She’d never had children or even married, and when Emma was born, she had taken a real interest in her, sending gifts from whatever port of call she was calling home at the time. The summer between Emma’s sophomore and junior years in college, Arabella had used some of her connections to secure Emma an internship at Vera Wang. It had changed Emma’s life. Before that, she’d assumed she would have a career, eventually get married and settle down in Tennessee. New York had opened her eyes to a much bigger world.

She still thought she would like to be married someday, but she wasn’t so sure about staying in Tennessee. She did have to stay long enough to help Aunt Arabella get back on her feet, and then she planned to return to New York and her old life.

Everything hinged on making Sweet Nothings the success Arabella deserved.

Emma looked around at the shop and her heart sank slightly. The decor had been new in the 1970s, the last time
her aunt had renovated the shop. The floors were swathed in pea-green shag carpeting that must have been all the rage back then. The bright orange, yellow and hot pink accents had faded over time to slightly less horrific pastel hues, but they added nothing. The stock wasn’t in much better shape. It wasn’t new enough to be saleable, but it wasn’t old enough to be vintage, either. But if her aunt already had a significant amount of vintage lingerie, they could add some new lines to round things out. She thumbed through the BlackBerry in her mind. Chantelle DeLang was a buyer for a very exclusive shop in SoHo and always found the most unique things. Emma knew she’d be happy to share her sources. She felt a sharp tingle of excitement. What a fun challenge to turn around Sweet Nothings for her aunt! They’d combine vintage lingerie with one-of-a-kind pieces from Italy and France.

But first they’d have to redecorate.

“About the shop…” Emma began, and took another sip of her tea.

“I’ve already thought of that,” Arabella said, pouring herself a glass of sweet tea. “As a matter of fact, Brian should be here any minute. He’s agreed to do the renovations for us.”

“Brian?”

“Brian O’Connell. Your friend Liz’s brother. You remember him, don’t you? Tall fellow, brown hair?”

“The last I heard he was in Nashville working for that architecture firm.”

Arabella shook her head. “Their father isn’t doing well—had a triple bypass last year—so Brian came home to help him with the hardware store.”

Emma’s glance strayed toward the front window of Sweet Nothings. She could see O’Connell’s Hardware diagonally across the street. Was that Brian in the window rearranging the display?

When she turned around, Arabella had a strange, smug look on her face. “What?”

Arabella shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

“I figured you more for the Paris, France, type but now here you are, back in Paris, Tennessee.” Brian O’Connell threw his arms around Emma and all but crushed her in a big bear hug.

Emma felt flutters starting in her stomach, like tiny bubbles of champagne. She’d always been a little in love with Liz’s older brother. She’d been a freshman in high school when he was a senior and captain of the soccer team. He’d always been friendly—saying hi when they passed in the hallway and stopping by to say hello when she visited Liz. But he treated her like he treated Liz—a kid sister to tease. She remembered the time she and Liz were huddled under the covers watching a scary movie, and Brian and his friends decided to climb the tree outside Liz’s window. They’d pressed their faces to the pane of glass and sent both Liz and Emma screaming downstairs. Another time when Emma and Liz decided to camp out, Brian had snuck a plastic snake into each of their sleeping bags. Once again, they’d been sent off screaming. Liz had insisted that these pranks meant he liked Emma, but Emma didn’t think that was the case.

Then Brian went off to study architecture at the University of Tennessee, and Emma didn’t see much of him again until she was there herself working toward a degree in art history. But by that time, he was a senior, and their paths hardly ever crossed.

He was even better looking than Emma remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered with strong-looking forearms visible beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his light blue shirt. His brown hair had gold streaks in it, and there were now
crinkles around his blue eyes. Looking at him, Emma felt like a tongue-tied adolescent again.

“So what brings you home?” Brian stepped back and looked at Emma, holding her at arm’s length.

“My mother called to say that Aunt Arabella needed help with her shop. It seemed like the perfect time to make a change.” Emma glanced away so Brian wouldn’t see the look in her eye.

“I remember your mom. Is she still making those…those…things?”

“Ceramics?” Emma nodded. “Dad built her a studio at their place in Florida. And she’s teaching at the local community college. It keeps her busy while Dad perfects his golf game.”

Arabella bustled over just then. Always the perfect Southern hostess, she had a pitcher of homemade lemonade ready. “Tell Brian about your job in New York.” She turned toward Brian. “Emma was a stylist at
Femme
magazine. She’s worked with some very famous photographers and models.”

Emma thought of Guy and felt her face getting warm.

“Pardon my ignorance,” Brian said, laughing self-deprecatingly, “but what does a stylist do?”

Emma explained how she was in charge of creating the look, feel and theme for magazine photo shoots by choosing the clothes and accessories, the background props and sometimes even the model’s hair and makeup.

Brian looked impressed. “I thought you wanted to be an artist or something.”

“I majored in art history—which is still a passion. But museum jobs are few and far between and pretty much require you to have an independent income if you hope to live anywhere near New York City. Besides, I fell in love with the art of fashion.”

“So, what are you two planning?” Arabella poured out
glasses of lemonade and handed them around. Pierre hovered near her feet, sensing that food might be in the offing.

“I’m thinking something along the lines of shabby chic,” Emma said. “Whitewashed armoires for displays, soft pastel accent colors, lacy window treatments.” She turned toward Arabella.

Arabella clapped her hands. “I love it.” She looked at Brian. “What do you think? Can you manage it?”

Brian shook his head. “No problem. There’s nothing major involved structurally. But you will have to close for a few weeks.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’ve been planning on it.” Arabella turned toward Emma. “What are you thinking for colors?”

Emma furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure. Maybe the palest pink for the walls?”

Arabella nodded. “I know just the shade you’re thinking of.” She opened a drawer and began rummaging through the contents. She pulled out a puddle of silk satin and spread it out on the counter. It was the barest whisper of pink.

“This is what they call a teddy. Sort of like a full slip but with a tap pant bottom.”

“It’s beautiful.” Emma stroked the fabric gently. “It must be very old. It looks like something they would have worn in the twenties.”

Arabella shook her head. “Actually, it isn’t, but I couldn’t resist it since it’s in such beautiful shape. It was made for the J. Peterman Company sometime during the 1990s. The same company made a lot of the pieces that were worn in the remake of the movie
Titanic
.”

“I brought some paint samples with me.” Brian pulled out a fan of colored paint chips. “O’Connell’s Hardware will be pleased to offer you a discount.” He grinned and the dimple in his right cheek deepened.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“We have to go above and beyond to compete with the
big box stores these days. We’re even opening half days on Sunday; otherwise the weekend DIY crowd will head to one of the big stores that do keep Sunday hours. So many mom-and-pop places are closing their doors.”

Emma nodded. “That’s why Sweet Nothings needs something special to compete with the chain places at the malls. But I’m confident we’ve found it.” She stopped for a minute as a thought formed in her mind. “What if we had a grand opening complete with a fashion show?”

“That’s a wonderful idea,” Arabella said.

“We can have models showing off your best vintage pieces.”

“Will you be modeling some of the styles yourself?” Brian grinned at Emma.

Emma felt the heat rush into her face, and when she looked at her aunt, Arabella was giving her that smug smile again.

Emma and Brian spent the rest of the afternoon with their heads together over the new design for Sweet Nothings, their talk punctuated by the faint sounds of Pierre’s snoring. Arabella ghosted about, occasionally gifting them with that same smug smile she’d bestowed on Emma earlier. Emma was dying to ask her what was up, but she had the feeling she’d find out soon enough.

Finally they poured the last glass of lemonade and pushed their chairs back.

“So what really brings you back to Paris?” Brian asked suddenly.

Emma stammered. “I told you. My aunt needed help with the shop, and my mother thought that with my experience I could…” She trailed off at the look on Brian’s face.

“Really?”

“No. Not really, but I’m not ready to talk about it yet. How about you?”

“I came back to help my father with the store.” Brian
drained the last of his lemonade and wiped a hand across his mouth.

“Really?”

He laughed. “Yes, really.” He was quiet for a moment. “I’m glad I came back. Liz’s kids are getting bigger, and I want them to know who their uncle Brian is.”

He gave Emma a look she couldn’t quite read—wasn’t even sure she
wanted
to read.

Arabella came out of the back room with her purse over her arm. “If you don’t mind keeping an eye on Pierre, I’m heading down to Angel Cuts for a wash. Angel Roy gives all of us shop owners a discount so if you need a trim, that would be the place to go. Of course you’ll have to listen to Angel go on and on about her latest conquest—she figures herself to be Paris’s femme fatale, but at least the cut’s cheap.” She gestured at Emma. “I love what you’ve done with your hair, by the way. Very Audrey Hepburn in
Roman Holiday
.”

Emma put a hand to her head. “Thanks.” Cutting her hair short had been a whim, but she liked it. Guy said it played up her eyes, which he’d told her were almost as violet as Elizabeth Taylor’s. Emma had laughed at his outrageousness, but she’d been pleased, too. She shook her head. She didn’t want to think about Guy right now.

Arabella glanced toward the window and frowned. “Is that Deirdre Porter?” She moved closer until her nose was almost pressed to the glass then turned around with a sigh. “The mayor’s new daughter-in-law—I don’t know who she thinks she is. Speeding through town in that expensive red sports car of hers.”

“I thought she was rather pretty,” Brian said.

Arabella and Emma both swiveled in his direction.

He held his hands up in defense and laughed. “Okay, okay, I didn’t mean anything by that.”

Arabella sniffed. “I know you didn’t,” she said in a soothing voice. “But there’s something about that girl that gets
my dander up. It’s as if we’re not good enough for her. The other day I heard her getting all snippy with Jim at the Meat Mart because he didn’t have
foie gras
. Folks here want their pork for a good barbecue, their turkey for Thanksgiving, their ham for Easter and a decent chicken or rib eye the rest of the time. None of this
foie gras
. Not that I didn’t love it when I had it in France.” She sighed. “Yves Aubertin introduced me to the pleasures of a fine foie gras. And a rich, ripe St. Andre…And…” She stopped abruptly.

“And?” Brian prompted.

Arabella shook her finger at him playfully. “Never you mind!”

ARABELLA had offered Emma a room in her house—a large, rambling Victorian done up in yummy sherbet hues, with a deep front porch that always seemed to catch a fresh breeze. Sitting on the swing watching the world go by had been one of Emma’s favorite pastimes. Instead, Emma had opted for the one-bedroom apartment above Sweet Nothings. She’d become something of a night owl and didn’t want to disturb her aunt.

The apartment had escaped Arabella’s seventies renovation craze. Emma looked around at the charming living room with the built-in window seats, wall of bookshelves, polished wooden pieces and jewel-toned Oriental carpets. The apartment was small by most standards, but enormous by the standards Emma was used to—a hideously overpriced studio on Manhattan’s Lower East Side where the bathtub stood in the middle of the room, and in order to entertain guests, she had to cover it with a board and a cloth and disguise it as a table.

Tonight, Emma was glad to be alone. She kicked off her shoes, pulled a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator and poured herself a glass. She curled up on the window seat
and looked down at Washington Street below. She loved living right in the center of town. Shop owners were flipping their open signs to closed and shutting and locking their front doors. Emma thought she saw a shadow move behind the window at O’Connell’s Hardware Store, and she squinted trying to make out the shape. It looked like Brian, but she couldn’t be sure.

Not that it mattered. She was done with men—at least for the moment. Guy Richard had trampled her heart, leaving it broken and shopworn. She moved away from the window, and noticed that the message light on her cell phone was blinking. She dialed voice mail, but the message, from Guy’s assistant, Kate Hathaway, was brief—just that she’d call back later. Emma was relieved. The last thing she wanted to do at the moment was talk about Guy.

EMMA felt a strange sense of proprietorship when she put her key in the lock of Sweet Nothings the next morning. Dappled morning sun lit the white brick façade that hadn’t changed much since the early 1900s when the building was erected. A glossy black-and-white striped awning with S
WEET
N
OTHINGS
penned in elegant script shaded the front door. Emma paused and plucked some dead leaves off the white geraniums that sat in twin plaster urns on either side of the entrance.