Murder Unmentionable (29 page)

Emma pushed open the door to Sweet Nothings and stood for a moment admiring the transformation the shop had undergone. Brian had done an amazing job. She pulled her cell phone from her purse and tucked the bag under the counter. She was about to drop the phone into her pocket when she noticed the message light was on. She checked and discovered she’d missed a call from Liz.

Suddenly a thought occurred to her, and she fished her cell from her pocket and punched in Liz’s number.

Emma realized she’d go half crazy if she didn’t find out who Brian’s mysterious Amy was. And if anyone would know, it would be Liz.

THE Coffee Klatch was half filled with sleepy-eyed regulars downing bacon and eggs and glasses of orange juice. Waitresses moved sluggishly around the room, wielding pots of fresh, hot coffee. Liz was already seated at one of the tables when Emma got there.

Liz jumped up and they embraced quickly. Liz was already nursing a cup of coffee, and moments after Emma sat down, the waitress glided by and slid a cup and saucer onto the table in front of her. She held the coffeepot over it inquiringly.

Emma shook her head. “Could I have some green tea, please?”

The woman looked puzzled. Mabel, who was waiting on the table next to theirs, called over her shoulder. “Hank found a box of green tea bags. Should be on the counter next to the bin of sugar packets.”

The waitress scurried away, and Emma picked up her menu and began fiddling with it. She wasn’t planning on
ordering anything, but she needed something to do with her hands. Now that she was here, seated across from Liz, she felt oddly reluctant to bring up the mysterious Amy. She wasn’t sure she would like what she was going to hear.

“Okay, what gives?” Liz took her characteristic blunt approach.

“It’s that obvious?” Emma leaned to one side as the waitress splashed hot water into her cup and plopped in a tea bag.

“Absolutely. You don’t have much of a poker face, you know.”

Emma laughed. “That’s true.” She dunked her tea bag repeatedly, watching as the water turned a pale green, avoiding Liz’s questioning look.

“I’m guessing this has something to do with Brian?” Liz asked with a gentle smile.

Emma nodded. Better to get it over with—like ripping off a bandage quickly. “Who is Amy?”

“So that’s what this is about.”

“Brian called me Amy by mistake one day. He obviously didn’t want to talk about her…whoever she is.”

“His ex-fiancée,” Liz said succinctly, before taking a sip of her coffee. She looked at Emma over the rim of her cup. “Notice I said ex.”

“What happened?”

Liz put her cup down and sighed. “I have to be honest with you. None of us liked her all that much. She was very high-powered and ambitious. She was with a very prestigious law firm in Nashville and was determined to make partner. When Brian decided to come back to Paris after Dad’s surgery, she dumped him.”

“Oh.” Emma felt a rush of conflicting emotions. She was glad that Brian was no longer engaged, but sad to hear that his heart had been broken. In spite of herself, she felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

“He does like you, you know.”

Emma ducked her head. “I’m afraid I’m just another kid sister to him.”

Liz tilted her head, considering. “I think you’re wrong. But you’ll have to give him time. He’s feeling pretty wounded after the way Amy treated him.” Liz looked at Emma, a serious expression on her face. “But if you go back to New York, it’s only going to break his heart again.”

Emma shook her head. “I haven’t decided about that yet.” She felt a wave of sadness wash over her at the thought of giving up on the life in New York she’d dreamed about for so long. On the other hand, the thought of leaving Paris and Aunt Arabella, Liz and Brian and all the new people she’d met made her want to cry. She closed her eyes in frustration. Why did both options have to be mutually exclusive!

Emma noticed the worried expression on Liz’s face and put her hand over her friend’s. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to hurt Brian. I like him too much for that.” She’d almost said “love” but caught herself at the last moment. Even if she didn’t have much of a poker face, there was still no need to wear her heart on her sleeve.

“I know that.” Liz took a last gulp of her coffee. “I’ve got to run.” She got up and put her arms around Emma. “I just know things are going to work out for the best.”

Emma hugged her back. She wished she could believe Liz. If only the police would find out who was behind Guy’s and Nikki’s murders. Then Emma would be able to relax again.

THE door to Sweet Nothings had barely shut behind Emma when it opened again and Arabella walked in with Pierre. She unclipped his leash, and he immediately ran toward his dog bed, sniffing it thoroughly before climbing in and settling down for his first nap of the day.

“Land sakes, it’s hot out there,” Arabella declared,
waving a hand in front of her face. She took off the jacket to her white linen pants suit and hung it over a chair. Underneath, she had on a bright orange shell with a choker of coral beads at her neck.

“What time are these women supposed to arrive?”

Emma glanced at her watch. “Very soon. In ten minutes or so.”

They both jumped when another knock sounded at the door. Emma hastened to open it, and Kate and Sylvia walked in. Sylvia was dressed to the nines in a purple sheath with a paisley shawl draped loosely over her shoulders. Shiny discs reflected from her earrings, which hung almost to her shoulders. She’d forgone her usual head scarf and had had her gray hair set in a sleek bob.

“Well, don’t just stand there staring,” she admonished Emma and Arabella.

“I must say, you clean up real good,” Arabella commented dryly.

Sylvia cracked a smile. “Guess I’ve still got it.” She took a last whiff from her oxygen tank and parked it behind the counter. “Now I’ve just got to prove it to the kids. My lease on the apartment is up next month, and they’ve made an appointment for a tour at that place over on the other side of town. Sunrise Hills, Sunset Hills, something like that. I figured I’d play nice and go along. But if they think I’m moving there…” She made a slicing gesture across her throat.

Kate giggled, took off her glasses and swiped a tissue across them. She was wearing her usual black, and Emma wondered whether she wasn’t terribly hot in that getup. Her hair looked limp and shapeless, and she was visibly sweating.

“Hot enough for you?” Sylvia said as she got comfortable behind the counter.

“At least it doesn’t smell,” Emma answered, wrinkling her nose. “And it’s not so crowded that you can’t breathe.”

“You’re turning into a real country girl.” Sylvia laughed, her laughter slowly turning to a nagging cough.

The first knock on the door came just as the clock ticked over to the hour. Emma opened it and stood aside as three women came in, laughing and chatting.

The door had almost closed behind them when it was pushed open again, and Bitsy strode in cradling a tower of white boxes tied with string. “I’ve brought you some cupcakes,” she said, handing them to Sylvia who had rushed forward to help her.

“Lord, it is hot.” One of the women stopped dead right beneath the ceiling fan, her face turned toward the breeze. “I could do with a big old glass of sweet tea right about now.”

“Now that’s one of the best ideas I’ve heard in a long time.” Bitsy stuck out her hand. “I’m Bitsy. I run Sprinkles, the cupcake place around the corner.”

“Ginger.” The blonde took Bitsy’s proffered hand.

Kate pushed off from the stool where she had been leaning. “I’ll go get the tea. I know Arabella has a fresh pitcher all made up.”

Before Kate could move, there was another knock on the door.

“I’ll get it.” Sylvia made for the front of the store. She pulled open the door, and several more women tumbled into the shop.

Emma had been up late creating lists and corresponding tags. Each garment was labeled with the model’s name and hung in a dressing room. Each dressing room had a list of names taped to the door so the models would know where to find the item they would be wearing.

“Very organized, dear,” Arabella said with admiration as she watched the women line up smoothly in front of each of the three dressing rooms.

Ginger was the first one dressed. While she was petite, she didn’t lack for some really eye-catching curves, which
the bias cut of the peach silk nightgown highlighted to perfection.

“Just call me Jean,” she said, making her voice low and husky. “Jean Harlow.” She circled in front of Emma and Arabella.

“I’d whistle, if I knew how,” Arabella said.

Emma couldn’t believe how the soft, silken fabric came to life on the human form.

“The French designer Madeleine Vionnet was a huge proponent of the bias cut,” Arabella said, pointing to the gown. “You wouldn’t be able to make the garment drape and stretch over the round contours of the female form if the fabric was cut on the straight grain. It has to be turned to an angle of forty-five degrees.”

Emma watched Ginger transform from a very pretty but ordinary woman into a femme fatale thanks to a couple of yards of sensuous fabric. She really ought to rethink those old T-shirts she wore to bed every night. The idea of wearing one of these gowns for Brian streaked across her mind like a comet, and a flash of heat scorched her face. Arabella looked at her questioningly, and she fanned her face furiously.

“It is dreadfully hot, isn’t it? Perhaps I’ll go turn up the air conditioner.”

Arabella nodded at her, but Emma didn’t think she looked convinced. She escaped to the back room where she went to the sink and splashed some cold water on her face before returning to the showroom. Knowing that the mysterious Amy was no longer in the picture made Emma feel quite hopeful for the first time.

The girl with the short, curly hair who Emma had picked out earlier, emerged from the dressing room in one of the baby-doll nighties Arabella had scored from an estate sale in Jackson. It was perfect on her, Emma thought. Her face was youthful and innocent while her figure, though tiny, was every bit a woman’s.

“We’d better bar the doors so that we don’t get any men in here during the show,” Sylvia said, wheezing.

“But aren’t they supposed to be our best customers?” Emma tied a satin sash on Bitsy’s gown. She’d been worried about finding a garment long enough for her, but Arabella had come up with something perfect.

“What you do is, you have special nights just for men. Right before Christmas and right before Valentine’s Day. Close the shop to other customers. Give ’em something to drink and eat, and ka-ching!” Sylvia made the sound of a cash register.

Arabella and Emma looked at each other. “Brilliant!” they chorused.

Arabella patted Sylvia on the arm. “I don’t know what we would do without you.”

Sylvia smiled and the shadows behind her eyes momentarily lifted.

Finally, everyone was dressed in their assigned garment and lined up across the floor of Sweet Nothings. Emma straightened a strap here, retied a bow there. Emma, Arabella, Kate and Sylvia stood back to admire the lineup.

Emma glanced over her shoulder and saw several people had stopped to peer through the front window, their hands shadowing their eyes and their foreheads pressed to the glass.

She didn’t want to give anyone a preview, especially not that boy on the end who didn’t look to be much more than twelve years old. Emma climbed into the window, gave a sad smile as if to say “sorry,” and pulled down the front shade. She heard groans and protests as the blind quickly obscured the view. At least people were interested and curious, she thought. Arabella’s shop had stood on that same spot, unchanged, since the early 1970s. Until Emma got there, it had been covered in dust and some pretty heinous green shag carpeting. People hadn’t stopped looking at it; they’d
stopped
seeing
it. Emma was grateful that they were now sitting up and taking notice, even if that meant they were trying to peer through the front window.

The women in the shop began chattering, quietly at first, but then the sound of feminine voices rose to a crescendo. Kate passed around glasses of Arabella’s sweet tea, and Emma watched carefully, terrified that someone would spill something on one of the pieces.

One voice, a slightly nasal one with a native Southern twang, rose above the others, cutting through the chatter like a knife cuts through butter.

“I suppose that’s where the murder took place.”

Emma froze. Slowly, she inched her head around to scan the crowd for the origin of the voice.

A tall brunette with dark eyes and a slash of crimson lipstick stood pointing at the carpet with a long, bloodred fingernail.

All other conversation died away as if someone had sucked the oxygen from the room. Emma heard a couple of gasps and a few “oh, dears.” Some turned their heads away politely.

The brunette was undeterred. “My husband was one of the first people on the scene.” Heads swiveled back in her direction, curiosity getting the better of Southern manners. “They still don’t know for sure who done it, but the girlfriend’s the most likely suspect. I heard he came down here from New York just to go after her.” She gave a high-pitched laugh.

Emma tried to take consolation in the fact that if the brunette was married to either Officer Flanagan or Kenny, then she was married to a complete idiot, but it didn’t help. She knew her face was as flaming red as a chili pepper so everyone in the entire room would know immediately that she was “the girlfriend.” Although in this case, it was more like “the ex-girlfriend.” She noticed Sylvia looking at her,
obviously concerned, and Emma forced herself to smile and make a devil-may-care gesture to reassure her. In reality, every fiber of her being wanted to walk over and throttle the wretched woman who’d brought up Guy’s murder. That, however, would obviously not be good for business!

“I hope you all like cupcakes because I’ve brought some of my favorites.” Bitsy’s voice sang out, filling the awkward silence. “I’ve got red velvet, dark chocolate, lemon coconut and carrot.”

Emma silently blessed Bitsy. The shrill ringing of the telephone sliced through the noise, and Emma didn’t hesitate. She bolted for the back room, glad of the excuse to flee.