A Fatal Slip (22 page)

“I did get half up front,” Liz reassured him.

Matt grunted.

“According to Molly, the police were around again asking questions. I hope that means they’re no longer considering Arabella as a suspect,” Emma said.

Matt laughed. “The very idea is ludicrous.”

“Tell that to Detective Walker.” Emma pushed her empty plate away.

Emma helped Liz clear the table and put out dessert plates and cups and saucers. Liz cut them each a piece of apple pie, adding a dollop of vanilla ice cream to the top.

They chatted amiably as everyone finished their coffee and desserts. The sounds of canned laughter came from the family room, where Ben and Alice had retreated to watch television.

Matt glanced at his watch. “I think it’s time the rug rats got ready for bed. I’ll go get them in their pajamas.”

Liz cleared the rest of the dishes, and Brian hobbled alongside Emma to the door.

“I’m so glad you like my idea,” he said. “I couldn’t take a chance on your becoming bored with life in Paris and possibly going back to New York.” He grinned at Emma, then bent his head and kissed her gently. The move put him off balance, and Emma had to grab him to keep him from falling.

“You know one thing I’m really looking forward to,” Brian asked with a gleam in his eye.

“No, what?”

“Getting this blasted cast off! It’s really cramping my style,” he said as he lowered his lips to Emma’s again.

Emma drifted home as if on a cloud. She barely remembered steering the car, but suddenly there she was in the Sweet Nothings parking lot. She was getting out of the Bug when she noticed a magazine on the backseat. She didn’t remember tossing it there. She pulled it out. It was the issue of
Art International
she’d taken from the Grangers’ library to cover up the fact she had actually been in there snooping.

She thought she might as well glance through it before returning it just in case Jackson asked her about it. She tucked the magazine under her arm as she walked up the stairs to her apartment.

It felt strange without Bette to greet her. She hoped the puppy was having fun at Arabella’s. Pierre wasn’t always interested in playing but occasionally Bette could persuade him into the canine version of tag or hide-and-seek.

Emma changed into her usual around-the-apartment attire—a pair of yoga pants that had seen better days, and a sweatshirt that had as well. She grabbed a mug from the cupboard, filled it with water and popped it into the microwave.

When the microwave dinged, she grabbed a tea bag from the box on the shelf and dunked it several times before tossing it in the trash. She took her tea over to the sofa, and with a groan, stretched out with her magazine.

She leafed through it marveling at all the different sorts of things that constituted
art
these days. Some of the works were beautiful and evocative, others . . . looked as if preschool children had splashed paint willy-nilly onto a canvas.

Emma turned the pages, her eyes starting to feel heavy and nearly closing, until she came upon the cover article about artwork that had been stolen by the Nazis from Jewish families during World War II. The accompanying picture had her sitting bolt upright on the sofa nearly knocking her tea over in the process.

The picture was of a Matisse painting, and Emma could have sworn it was the same one that was in the picture of Sabina’s grandparents sitting on the table in the Robertses’ living room. A glimpse of an old-fashioned parlor was visible, and Emma thought she recognized the table from the old black-and-white photograph.

She began to read the article. The Matisse painting in question had belonged to a Mr. and Mrs. Jacob Meyer of Berlin. The Meyers had fled with their family to England leaving everything behind, including their elegant home on Friedrichstrasse and all its contents. They had owned dozens of works of art as well as antiques, silver, china and jewels, all of which had been looted by the Nazis.

Emma continued reading the article. Some of the artwork stolen from the Meyers had surfaced in the years after the war and had been returned to the family. Others, like the Matisse painting, the jewel of their collection, had gone underground never to be seen again. According to the article, there were plenty of unscrupulous collectors who would be more than willing to purchase the piece even though it meant being very careful how it was displayed and to whom it was shown.

Emma closed the magazine. She was quite certain the Matisse pictured in the article and the one in the photograph in Sabina Roberts’s living room were one and the same. She wondered if Sabina had seen the article. It must be very painful to realize all that had been lost by her family because of the war.

Emma tossed the magazine onto the coffee table. She would take it back to the Grangers’ and leave it in the library. Her stint there had certainly proved fascinating. She had a feeling though, that it was coming to an end.

SATURDAY
was a busy day at Sweet Nothings. Not that Emma was complaining, but she was exhausted by the time she locked the door shortly after five o’clock. She leaned against it for a moment. Her feet and back ached, and she was longing for a hot bath. She could only imagine how her aunt must feel.

“Am I glad tomorrow is Sunday,” Arabella said as she put away some stock. “Did your mother tell you she plans to leave on Monday?” She turned toward Emma, one of the store’s vintage bullet bras in her hand.

“Don’t aim that thing at me.” Emma laughed.

Arabella glanced at the piece of lingerie in her hand and she, too, laughed.

“No, Mother didn’t say she was leaving.” Emma was about to spray glass cleaner on the counter but stopped abruptly. “What is she going to do? Where is she going to go?”

“I don’t know. I tried to persuade her to stay longer—I have plenty of room—but she feels she’s in the way.” Arabella tucked the bra into one of the drawers.

Emma spritzed glass cleaner on the countertop and wiped it down with a paper towel. She stood back to see if she had removed all the fingerprints from the glass. “I don’t think it’s that. I think she wants to get home to talk to Dad. Although she’s afraid she’s hurt him too much for him to be willing to reconcile.”

“That doesn’t sound like your father at all,” Arabella said. “I’m going to have to talk to Priscilla and see if I can persuade her to call George before this goes any further. I’m sure he’d be more than willing to take her back. He must be suffering, poor thing.”

“I’m sure he is.” Emma conjured up a picture of her father. He’d been a crackerjack attorney, and was a better than average golfer and a whiz at trivia. The one thing he hadn’t been was a cook. “Dad can’t even heat up a can of soup without help. I can’t imagine what he’s doing with Mom gone.”

Arabella gave her a sharp look. “I wouldn’t worry about his being fed. I’m sure all the widowed or divorced ladies in the community are lining up to bring him casseroles,” she commented dryly. “It was the same when Francis’s wife died. He said his freezer was stuffed full of tuna noodle casseroles, turkey tetrazzini, one-dish chicken noodle meals and other delights.”

“Really?” Emma said doubtfully.

“Your father is still a very good-looking man.” Arabella sighed. “Why do men get better looking as they age while no one calls
our
wrinkles and gray hair
distinguished
? It isn’t fair.”

Emma was now worrying in earnest. “I’m going to have to convince Mom to call him before anything happens.”

“Excellent plan.” Arabella nodded approvingly. “Come for dinner tomorrow. You can talk to her then and see her off. I’ve promised her another batch of fried chicken. I’ll make some extra for her to take on her trip.”

Emma couldn’t imagine her mother eating fried chicken in the car. She was the only person Emma knew who never picked it up with her hands to get at the meat closer to the bone. Priscilla insisted on using her knife and fork as her grandmother Andrews had taught her, she would always say when encouraged to pick up food in her hands.

“Oh.” Arabella turned around as if the thought had just occurred to her. “I’ve asked Brian, too. Liz said she’d be more than happy to run him over in her station wagon since he doesn’t fit in your car.”

Arabella smiled coyly, the picture of innocence.

• • •

EMMA
spent Sunday puttering around her apartment. It was a luxury she didn’t often have. She cleaned out her closet, washed the kitchen floor and took Bette on several long walks, bundling up against the cold wind that was blowing. It was snowing lightly—but not sticking—and Bette was entranced with trying to catch the flakes that melted as fast as they fell.

Emma spent a good part of the day mulling over Hugh Granger’s death, and everything she had learned in the meantime. Jackson now had an alibi whereas Mariel didn’t. Sabina had argued with Hugh shortly before his death and so had Joy. It went around and around in her head but by the time she was ready to leave for Arabella’s she still had not come to any conclusions.

By the time she clipped on Bette’s leash and went down to her car, she’d nearly given herself a headache. Her spirits lifted as she approached her aunt’s house.
Brian will be there
ran through her head like some sort of musical refrain.

Priscilla was sitting in Arabella’s living room, staring at the cell phone in her hand, when Emma arrived. Her suitcase was already packed and was at the ready by the front door. It was a somber black but with a bright red pompon on the handle, which her mother had put there to identify the bag whenever she and Emma’s father traveled. For some reason, the sight of it made Emma inexplicably sad.

Emma unclipped Bette, who made a mad dash for the kitchen to see if Arabella had any treats. She hung her coat in the closet and hesitated on the threshold to the living room.

Her mother turned around. She gestured to the phone. “I called him, but there was no answer.”

Emma sat on the ottoman opposite her mother’s chair. “Did you leave a message?”

“Yes. But I doubt he’ll call me back.”

Emma squeezed her mother’s hand. “I think he will.”

Just then the bell rang. “I’ll get it,” Emma called to her aunt in the kitchen. She pulled open the front door. It was Brian standing rather unsteadily on the front steps, leaning heavily on his crutches.

Emma felt the grin spread across her face. She held the door wide as Brian made his slow and awkward way into the foyer. He gave Emma a lingering kiss then struggled out of his jacket and handed it to her. He was wearing a blue plaid flannel shirt, which brought out the color of his eyes, and a pair of jeans with one leg partially cut off to accommodate his cast. Emma noticed that both Ben and Alice had already left their signatures on the plaster—Alice having dotted the
i
in her name with a heart.

Brian took a deep breath. “It sure smells good in here. Is that Arabella’s fried chicken?”

Emma smiled. If the way to a man’s heart was truly through his stomach, Brian was going to end up marrying Arabella. The thought gave her pause for a moment—perhaps she ought to cook a nice meal for Brian. Not fried chicken; she couldn’t compete with Arabella on that front. She hadn’t cooked much of anything of late beyond grilling a piece of meat or throwing together an omelet. Perhaps it was time she brushed off her skills. When she was dating Guy, he’d done most of the cooking. She shuddered remembering the prodigious amounts of butter and cream he had used that never seemed to put an ounce on his sinewy frame.

Priscilla came out of the living room. “Brian, how nice to see you again.” She held out her hand.

Her mother was a true Southern gentlewoman, Emma thought, never letting her feelings or emotions get in the way of good manners. She had plastered a smile on her face, albeit a slightly stiff one, and risen to the occasion.

They all trooped into the kitchen, where Arabella was lowering chicken pieces into the pan sizzling on the stove. Priscilla went to the pantry and got out the place mats and napkins, and Emma began to fill the water glasses.

Brian looked chagrined. “I wish I could help.”

“Don’t be silly,” Arabella said as she turned a piece of chicken over with a pair of tongs. “You sit and rest that leg of yours.” She turned and pointed a finger at Brian. “But as soon as that cast is off, we’ll put you to work, don’t worry.”

Brian laughed. “It’s a deal.”

“Where’s Francis?” Emma asked.

“At some kind of departmental meeting. He’s going to be so sorry he missed this meal.” Arabella began moving the chicken pieces to a large white platter.

She had been using that same platter for years. Emma remembered Arabella serving fried chicken on it when Emma was a child. As far as Emma knew, it wasn’t used for anything else.

Finally Arabella had hustled everything over to the table, and they all sat down.

“Everything looks delicious,” Brian said as Arabella handed him a bowl of succotash.

“Has there been anything new at the Grangers’?” Arabella asked Emma as she helped herself to a biscuit. She spread it with butter, drizzled it with honey and took a bite.

“Liz is very upset by what is going on over there,” Brian said, putting down his fork. “I’m not so sure it’s a good place for you to be, either.” He reached out and put his hand over Emma’s.

Emma noticed her mother watching them.

“I don’t feel as if I’m in any danger,” she reassured Brian. “I’m hoping to get to the bottom of things very soon.”

“Can’t you leave that for the police?” Brian still looked concerned.

“The police have been too busy barking up the wrong tree to get anywhere,” Arabella said acerbically.

“What about that Jasper fellow?” Priscilla pushed a bite of chicken around on her plate. Emma noticed she’d barely touched her dinner.

“John Jasper? What about him?” Brian looked wary.

“Well, you told us that the painting he purchased from Granger Art turned out to be a forgery. What if he’d found that out a lot earlier than he admitted? Maybe he approached Granger and demanded his money back. Granger refused so he”—she swallowed delicately—“did away with him.”

Brian was already shaking his head. “No, no, John would never do something like that. It’s impossible.”

“Besides”—Emma put down her fork—“John bought the painting from Jackson, not his father. Arabella doubts Hugh knew anything about the forgeries.”

“That’s right. It wouldn’t be like Hugh at all to sell fake artwork,” Arabella interjected.

“Then why kill Hugh? Why not Jackson?”

Priscilla shrugged. “You’re right. It wouldn’t make sense under those circumstances.”

The sudden sound of a cell phone ringing made them all jump.

“That’s mine.” Priscilla fumbled in her pocket. “I’m so sorry. I meant to turn it off. It’s just that I thought maybe . . .” She glanced at the caller ID and jumped up from her chair, banging the table in the process and nearly upsetting her water glass. She put out a hand to steady it. “It’s George,” she said with a note of wonder in her voice.

“Well, don’t just stare at the phone,” Arabella admonished, “answer it.”

“Hello?” Priscilla said breathlessly as she bolted from the room.

“Keep your fingers crossed,” Arabella said to Emma.

Brian looked confused.

Emma put her hand over his. “I’ll fill you in later.”

They were all quiet while Priscilla was out of the room. Emma strained to hear her mother’s conversation, but all she could hear was the low, indistinct murmur of her voice. Suddenly her appetite deserted her. What if her father refused to reconcile? It was unthinkable.

They were still eating silently when Priscilla burst back into the room, her usual decorum put aside for the moment.

Three heads swiveled in her direction.

“Well?” Arabella said.

Priscilla let out her breath in a whoosh that fluttered the edge of her napkin. “Everything is going to be fine!” She beamed.

“Wonderful,” Arabella and Emma chorused at the same time.

Brian looked from one to the other of them, then shrugged and reached for another biscuit.

Priscilla smiled at everyone and then, much to Emma’s complete amazement, picked up her chicken leg in her fingers and began to nibble it.

They took their dessert and coffee into the living room and were just finishing up when they heard a car horn toot followed by the ringing of the doorbell.

“It’s me,” Liz said when Emma opened the door. “I hope I’m not too early.”

Brian had struggled to his feet and was making his way to the door. He smiled at his sister. “I’m afraid I’m becoming a real bother to you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Liz admonished. “You’ve been a great help with the kids. They’re ecstatic to have their uncle Bri around. Giving you a ride is the least I can do to repay you for keeping them occupied.”

Brian stuck his head into the living room. “Arabella, thank you for another delicious dinner.” He patted his stomach. “And Mrs. Taylor, it was a pleasure seeing you. Have a safe trip home tomorrow.”

Brian brushed Emma’s lips with his then took Liz’s arm as they descended the stairs to the sidewalk.

Emma turned around to find her mother standing in back of her, a thoughtful look on her face. She put her arm around Emma’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

“I know what I said earlier—about whether it was wise of you to stay in Paris and about your young man’s plans for his career.” She gestured toward the door through which Brian had just departed. “Forget what I said.” She smiled. “Don’t let Brian go. He’s a keeper.”