Murder Unmentionable (26 page)

“WHAT did you think of him?” Emma asked as they bounced back down the rutted road leading away from Skip Clark’s barn.

“I thought he was kind of cute actually.” Liz gave a last backward glance at the farm.

“He was. Is,” Emma admitted. Her hands clenched on the steering wheel. “But so…so…annoying at the same time.” She flipped on her blinker for a left turn. “I don’t know what Deirdre sees in him.”

“Do you think it’s possible that she’s really just taking riding lessons from him?” There was a note of amusement in Liz’s voice.

Emma shook her head. “I hope not. Because if that’s the case then she had no reason to murder Guy. And I’m back to square one on this.”

Emma glanced out the window where a farmhouse stood in the midst of a manicured lawn that gave way to acres of cultivated fields. There were rockers out on the big
wraparound, farm-style porch, and an American flag waved in the breeze from the pole in the center of the front lawn.

“That doesn’t rule out Skip Clark though. Maybe Guy approached him with the photograph instead of Deirdre.”

“Or, more likely, Deirdre wouldn’t play along, and he had to go with plan B. Plan B being Skip Clark.”

“If we could just put Guy at the farm, that would clinch things. But the place is in the middle of nowhere.”

“I wonder if Skip has any help. You know, someone to give him a hand grooming the horses and mucking out the stalls. Maybe someone who gives lessons part of the time, too.”

“Good point.”

“And just maybe they were there when Guy came by with his photograph.”

“Could be. But how will we find out?”

“I don’t suppose we can just waltz up to Skip and ask him.”

Liz laughed. “I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t tell us.”

“Yeah, and he’d enjoy every minute of not telling us.” Emma eased on the brake as the light in front of them turned red. “But someone must know. We’ll just have to ask more questions.”

The very thought made Emma groan.

“WHAT did you find out?” Arabella asked the minute they opened the door to Sweet Nothings. She’d pulled a stool up to the counter and was busy addressing a stack of invitations to the Sweet Nothings grand opening. Emma looked at one and sighed in amazement. Arabella’s handwriting was as beautiful as a calligrapher’s. Emma’s own rather decent penmanship began deteriorating in college when she was forced to take notes at warp speed, and it had disintegrated even further with the time she now spent on the computer.

She’d had the invitations printed at a shop in Jackson—an oversized postcard with a photograph of the awning outside the shop with
Sweet Nothings
scrawled in black script. It was one of the photos Guy had taken of the front of the store. Emma felt her heart lurch at the thought of Guy being gone forever. She found she was now remembering the good moments far more than the bad.

Liz began sticking stamps on the cards Arabella had finished. “We didn’t have much luck,” she responded glumly.

Emma nodded in agreement. “Skip Clark refused to tell us much of anything. But I got the feeling,” she added, turning toward Liz for confirmation, “that he knew exactly what Deirdre needed the money for.”

“Definitely,” Liz agreed. “He seemed to think it was amusing to make us fish for it.”

“What did you think of Skip Clark?” Arabella put the finishing touches on one of the invitations and added it to the stack. “His family has run that farm for generations, although I don’t know much about Skip himself. I remember his mother had polio as a child and always walked with a limp.”

Emma shook her head in amazement. Arabella was a walking treasure trove of information about Paris and its occupants. “He’s very attractive,” Emma admitted.

Liz looked up suddenly. “But not as attractive as Brian. I know he’s my brother and all, but still…”

Emma laughed. “Don’t worry. Brian has him beat hands down.”

Liz looked relieved. “Do you think it’s possible that Skip is the one who killed Guy? For Deirdre’s sake?”

“He certainly looked capable of it,” Emma said, recalling the sight of Skip’s muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt.

“His mother is as sweet as can be despite all she’s been through, but his father…” Arabella shook her head. “The Clark men are known for their temper.”

“We need to find out if Guy approached Skip with the photograph. We’re hoping maybe someone saw him. We need to find out if anyone helps out at the barn—you know, with the horses and stables. They might have seen something.”

Arabella paused with her pen above the last invitation. “Maybe ask Mabel at The Coffee Klatch. She has a younger sister who’s crazy about horses and runs in that circle. She might know.”

“I feel the sudden urge for a cup of coffee coming on.” Emma smiled and turned to Liz and Arabella. “Can I get you anything?”

A damp breeze was blowing, and Emma felt the shorter hairs around her face curling in the humidity. A handful of people were walking along the sidewalk, peering into windows before darting into the air-conditioned depths of Paris’s various stores and boutiques. She waved to a burly, bald man with a waxed and pointed handlebar moustache. She recognized him as the owner of Leo’s, the local barbershop.

She passed Meat Mart, and Willie Williams waved as she went by. He was always behind the counter whenever she went in for something. He was tall and skinny with a very prominent Adam’s apple that bobbed up and down when he talked.

Emma felt a glow of satisfaction as she pushed open the door to The Coffee Klatch. She hadn’t been back in Paris all that long, but she already felt at home.

She slipped inside the restaurant and stood for a moment, savoring the feel of the cool air on her skin. She looked around but didn’t immediately see Mabel. She hesitated, but then the swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and Mabel backed out with a tray laden with cups of coffee and slices of various kinds of pie.

Emma wasn’t at all hungry—her stomach was churning like the Atlantic Ocean during a hurricane—but she thought she’d have a better chance of chatting with Mabel if she ordered something. She slipped into a seat at a table for two and picked up the plastic-coated menu. She turned it over and scanned the desserts, but she wasn’t in the mood for anything sweet. More like an order of fries.

A couple of minutes later, Mabel slid by and dropped a napkin-wrapped set of silverware on the table along with a sweating glass of water set on a scalloped paper doily.

“Help you?” Mabel held her pencil poised over her dog-eared order pad.

Emma smiled. “Just some fries, I think. And do you have any malt vinegar?” she asked as she handed Mabel the menu.

“Gotta check with the chef. You still want the fries regardless?”

“Sure.” Emma nodded.

Mabel skittered away, and Emma mentally kicked herself. She’d have to seize the moment when Mabel came back with the order. She sat with her hands gripped in her lap, her eyes glued to the swinging door to the kitchen.

The doors opened and Mabel came out carrying a tray laden with burgers and sodas for a group of teens sitting near the window. Moments later, Emma saw straw wrappers shooting through the air like streamers as the kids erupted into fits of giggling. She remembered doing the exact same thing when she was their age. Right now that seemed like a million years ago.

Mabel came out from the kitchen once more, but this time she had a tray of food for two businessmen who were sitting together but were both conversing with someone else on their cell phones. No one else was waiting, and Emma hoped it would stay that way so Mabel would be inclined to linger and chat.

Finally the doors opened again, and Mabel emerged with a plate in one hand and a bottle in the other.

“Here you go.” She slid the fries in front of Emma and plunked the bottle down next to them. “Chef managed to dig up some malt vinegar, although why anyone would want to put that on fries, I don’t know. He said it was common in England, but I thought you were from these parts?”

Emma was encouraged by Mabel’s chattiness. Maybe this wasn’t going to be so difficult after all.

“Born and raised in Paris.” Emma answered. “But an English friend introduced me to a splash of malt vinegar on my fries, and I discovered I liked it.”

Mabel shuddered. “To each his own, I guess. Anything else I can get you?” She grabbed a sweating stainless pitcher of ice water off the waiter’s station and refilled Emma’s glass.

Emma shook her head, searching her frantic brain for a way to keep Mabel talking. Fortunately, Mabel must have heard her silent plea.

“You hear anything new on that murder in Miss Arabella’s shop? I haven’t seen nothing about it in the papers for days now.”

“As far as I know, there isn’t anything new. But Arabella and I have been doing some of our own sleuthing,” Emma dropped her voice to a whisper. Just as she’d hoped, Mabel leaned in closer and got comfortable.

“I can’t tell you everything,” Emma paused and looked down at her plate. She didn’t know all that much about marketing, but she did know a little something!

As she suspected, Mabel rose to the bait with a gasp and indrawn breath.

“I won’t tell a soul, don’t you worry about a thing.”

Emma locked eyes with her. “Promise?”

Mabel nodded eagerly and slipped into the empty seat opposite Emma. She cast a nervous glance over her shoulder,
toward the kitchen, but then turned her gaze back toward Emma.

“Well. I really shouldn’t tell anyone this…” Emma paused for dramatic effect. “But I think Guy—he’s the photographer who was killed—got a snapshot of someone doing something with someone they shouldn’t,” she finished enigmatically.

Mabel looked confused. “But who…where…how?”

“Do you know Deirdre Porter?”

Mabel tossed her head and gave a snort. “I sure do. Talk about putting on airs, as my mama used to say. May she rest in peace.”

“Well.” Emma paused again, her eyes on Mabel’s. “It looks as if she might be having an affair with her riding instructor.”

“Skip Clark?” Mabel said, disappointed. “Everyone in Paris knows about that. Not that I think there’s anything to it, mind you. I can’t see Skip being Deirdre’s type or vice versa. Besides, there’s too much money at stake. And Peyton isn’t exactly hard to look at, if you get my drift.”

Emma was taken aback. Was it really such common knowledge? In that case, wouldn’t Deirdre and Skip just have laughed off Guy’s blackmail attempts?

Emma straightened up. “But there’s this photo…” Her voice dropped back to a whisper, and she was rewarded when Mabel leaned in closer. She was hooked.

“What I need to find out…” Emma looked over her shoulder suspiciously, “is whether anyone saw Guy at the barn showing the photo to Skip.” She let her voice drop to a whisper once more. “That would really…” She paused again. “Clinch things.”

“Oh,” Mabel said, her voice very small, her mouth a round circle.

“Do you know if there’s anyone who works at the
barn—you know, helping out with the riding lessons and mucking out the stables and such?”

Mabel leaned back in her chair and shook her head. “I don’t want her to get mixed up in any murder. I told Mama I’d take care of her. Swore it on her deathbed, I did. And I’m not about to go against it now.” She crossed her arms over her chest.

Emma held up a hand. “I would never want you to do anything you weren’t comfortable with. I’m just wondering if anyone might have been at the barn when Guy showed up with the photo of Skip with his arm around Deirdre?”

Mabel gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “A photo? Like that?”

Emma nodded. She reached for a French fry, drizzled a bit of malt vinegar over it and popped it into her mouth. She chewed. And waited.

Mabel picked at her cuticles. “I don’t suppose it would get her in trouble. Seeing as how she only works there.” She put her thumb in her mouth and worried at the flesh alongside the nail.

Emma shook her head emphatically. “I don’t want anyone to get into trouble. I just need to know if Guy went out to the farm and showed Skip the photo he took.”

Mabel put her hands palms down on the table. “My little sister, Clary, is just crazy about horses. Can’t get enough of them. She’s willing to do anything just to be around them. Even if it means mucking out stalls.” Mabel wrinkled her nose and made a face.

Emma wrinkled her own nose in sympathy. “I had a friend in elementary school who was like that.”

“She took this job with Skip Clark,” Mabel blurted out. “Lending a hand with things around the stables.”

“Mabel!” The chef’s voice cut across the low level of chatter that filled The Coffee Klatch.

Mabel jumped. “Go ask Clary. She’s bound to know all about it.”

“Wait!” Emma put out a hand. “What’s her phone number?”

Mabel looked around before pulling her order pad from her pocket. She quickly scribbled a telephone number on the top sheet of paper and tore it off. “Here.” She handed it to Emma. “You can reach her at this number. But, please,” she turned to Emma with a pleading look in her eyes. “Don’t get her in any trouble, okay?”

Emma picked at the remainder of her fries, but she wasn’t at all hungry. She stared at the piece of paper Mabel had thrust at her and at the number scribbled on it. Her breath quickened. Was she getting closer to figuring out who had killed Guy?