A Fatal Slip (8 page)

“I imagine you’ve heard about my father’s death,” Jackson began. “I understand you were there.”

Emma nodded. “I’m terribly sorry—” she began.

“That’s very kind of you,” Jackson interrupted.

Emma could see his eyes were red-rimmed, and his hand shook a little as he played with the glass paperweight on the desk, turning it over and over again. He immediately dispensed with small talk and began to explain what the project entailed—basically taking an inventory of the works of art in their collection.

“There might be a little research involved as well,” he said, swiveling back and forth in the chair. “Looking up the provenance, or the history, of certain paintings. Things like that. Nothing we couldn’t show you how to do.”

“It certainly sounds very interesting.”

“Could you start tomorrow?” Jackson said suddenly, plunking down the paperweight he’d been toying with.

Emma hesitated. She had been expecting more questions and had even brought along her resume. She still had to talk to Eloise about taking her place at Sweet Nothings, but she didn’t want to lose this opportunity. “Certainly.”

“Great.” A brief smile whispered across Jackson’s face. “Would one o’clock work for you? Liz did tell you it was part-time?” he said with a sudden frown.

“Yes, she did. And that’s fine.”

As if by magic, the wizened old woman in the apron appeared in the doorway. Jackson turned toward her.

“If you will please see Miss Taylor out.”

She nodded and waited silently while Emma shook hands with Jackson and collected her coat and purse.

Emma followed the woman back down the hall. She looked about her as they walked. The house wasn’t particularly grand—at least not in the way that she expected. It was more comfortable than pretentious, but the walls were lined with artwork worthy of a museum. Emma glimpsed a few pieces she recognized as they went past—a Giacometti drawing, a sketch she thought was a Lucien Freud and a fanciful Chagall watercolor. She was looking forward to having a better look when she came back.

They had almost reached the foyer when Emma heard a strange thumping sound coming from behind. She turned around to see Hugh’s daughter, Joy, walking toward them surprisingly quickly despite her crippled leg. She nodded at Emma, but Emma got the impression Joy didn’t remember her from the dinner dance.

They were all standing in the foyer when the front door swung open, and a woman strode in. Emma recognized her as Hugh Granger’s widow, Mariel. She was wearing leather chaps over a pair of jeans, black riding boots and a quilted barn jacket. She slapped a pair of leather gloves down on the foyer table and plunked her riding hat on top of them.

“Molly,” she said to the old woman in the apron, “can you please put these things away for me?”

Joy continued moving forward awkwardly, her hips going up and down like a piston, until she came face-to-face with Mariel. Mariel stared at her coldly for a moment before sweeping past and continuing down the hall.

Emma was startled. What on earth was that all about? She was now more eager than ever to start her part-time job. She had a feeling there were a lot of secrets to be uncovered. Hopefully one of them would lead to the murderer.

EMMA
checked her cell phone when she got back to her car and discovered a text message from Arabella. Francis had purchased enough lamb chops to feed an army—just like a man—and would Emma like to come to dinner? Brian had already accepted Arabella’s invitation.

Emma smiled as she put her car in gear and headed down the gravel drive. Brian was now universally accepted as her
plus one
. Emma had a sudden thought that nearly made her slam on the brakes. She hadn’t told her mother that she and Brian were dating—what would she think?

Emma had another thought as she drove along through the deepening dusk—had Arabella told Priscilla about Francis, and what would Priscilla think about that?

There was only one way to find out. Emma put on her left blinker and headed toward Arabella’s house.

• • •

A
few minutes later, Emma pulled into Arabella’s driveway. Brian’s red pickup truck was already there, and she parked behind it. She flicked on the interior car lights and dug in her handbag for her compact and lipstick. Her nose powdered, lip color renewed and hair combed, she got out, beeped the doors to the VW closed and headed toward the front door.

It was open as usual so Emma called out a hello as she stepped into the foyer. She stopped to pet Bette and Pierre, who had both come racing down the hall to see who was at the door. Voices drifted toward Emma from the living room, and as soon as both dogs had finished their energetic greeting of much face-licking and tail-wagging, she headed in that direction.

Arabella’s front parlor, as it would have been known in the days when the house was built, was a comfortable room with an elegant marble fireplace, a bay window and many souvenirs from her travels, including a stone Buddha on the mantel and several Oriental silkscreens adorning the walls.

Francis was seated in one of the armchairs, a tumbler of Pritchards, a fine Tennessee whiskey Arabella kept just for him, in his hand. Arabella was perched on the ottoman at his feet, one hand draped over Francis’s knee. Priscilla had a straight-backed chair with wooden arms and needlepoint cushions. She was cradling a small cut crystal glass of sherry. Brian was on the sofa, legs stretched out, the picture of relaxation, a foaming glass of beer on the coffee table in front of him.

Everyone looked to be getting along, and Emma hoped that was the case. Priscilla could be quite prickly when she didn’t like someone.

Francis and Brian got to their feet when Emma entered the room. Brian came over and gave Emma a quick kiss. He rested his hands on her shoulders proprietarily. Emma noticed her mother glancing at them, one eyebrow raised.

“Emma!” Arabella exclaimed. “How did it go?”

“First, you need a drink,” Francis said, moving swiftly toward Arabella’s drinks cabinet. He opened the double doors. “What’s your pleasure? Whiskey? Scotch? A gin and tonic?”

“Just a glass of wine for me.”

“There’s a bottle of white in the refrigerator,” Arabella said. “Brian, would you get Emma a glass? The glasses are in the cupboard next to the refrigerator,” she called out as he headed toward the kitchen.

Emma took a seat on the sofa and put her hand on the cushion next to her. She could feel the warmth Brian had left behind. It was a comforting feeling.

Brian almost immediately returned with a glass of chilled chardonnay.

“Tell us how your afternoon went,” Priscilla prompted. She was as pristine as ever in a pale pink blouse, black pants and black patent leather–tipped flats.

Emma told them about her meeting with Jackson and the rather strange run-in between Granger’s daughter, Joy, and his wife.

“Sounds like there’s no love lost between those two,” Arabella said.

Emma sipped her wine. “I know.”

“It’s rather sad. She might have been a second mother to Joy, but it sounds as if that wasn’t the case.” Arabella reached for her glass of wine, which was on an occasional table alongside the armchair. “More like Cinderella’s stepmother from your description.”

Brian put a hand on Emma’s knee. “Just be careful, okay?”

Emma looked up to find her mother watching her and Brian intently. Priscilla pursed her lips and then looked away. Her look plainly said
we’ll talk about it later.

Francis eased back in his seat and took a glug of his whiskey. He placed the tumbler on the table alongside Arabella’s glass of wine. “I’ve been talking to the local boys. They’ve been really decent about keeping me in the loop even though this isn’t my case. But they did tell me a couple of interesting things.”

Everyone leaned forward in their seats.

Francis stretched his arms out in front of him, fingers interlaced, and cracked his knuckles. “As you know, they took down the names and contact information of everyone who was still in the ballroom after Hugh’s fall. Unfortunately, the list is hardly conclusive. It wasn’t possible to seal the scene immediately after Granger’s body was discovered, so any number of people could have slipped out in the meantime.”

“In other words”—Arabella had another sip of her wine—“the killer was probably gone by the time the police got there.”

Francis nodded. “I took a drive over to the hotel and checked out that balcony. There’s a spiral staircase leading up to it in the east corner of the ballroom. But it’s easily reached from the second floor as well—there are double doors on two sides that open to the balcony. It wouldn’t have taken the killer any time at all to make her exit through those doors, and catch an elevator down to the first floor. That would leave her in the lobby, a stone’s throw from the front entrance.”

“And her escape route,” Arabella said, and Francis nodded.

Francis picked up his glass and regarded the amber liquid for a moment. “What’s really interesting,” he said so softly that everyone leaned in even closer, “is who
isn’t
on the police list of names and contacts.”

“And who would that be?” Arabella asked, pulling her cardigan around her shoulders.

“First off, Mariel Granger.” Francis took another sip of his drink and put it down on the table. “Don’t you think that’s a bit odd? You would hardly expect her to leave her own husband’s birthday party early—a party she herself had planned. Especially before the big finale.”

“That is odd,” Arabella said. “You would have thought she’d have been eager to bask in the glow of an eminently successful party.”

“Didn’t I tell you that the wife is the most logical suspect?” Priscilla piped up. She put her glass of sherry to her lips but appeared to merely wet them.

Francis held up a hand. “But she’s not the only one who is missing from the list. Jackson, their son, is as well.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. I can see a young man wanting to scamper from a party filled with a bunch of old goats,” Arabella said and laughed. She glanced at Emma and Brian. “Present company excepted, of course,” she added quickly.

“I agree,” Francis said. “It doesn’t necessarily mean anything in and of itself. But it is interesting.” He started to get up from his chair. “The killer might also have calmly walked back down the stairs to the ballroom and mingled with the crowd, waiting for Granger’s body to be found. Almost everyone was still outside. There was every chance he would go unnoticed.” He rubbed his hands together. “And now I’d better see to those lamb chops, since I’m in charge of dinner tonight.” He winked at Arabella.

“Let me help you.” Arabella pushed off from her seat. She turned to Brian. “Brian, I left a case of ginger ale out in the garage. Would you mind bringing it in for me?”

“It would be my pleasure.” Brian patted Emma’s knee and got up.

“Do you need any help?” Emma half rose from the sofa. She didn’t want to be left alone with her mother and the questions Emma could already read in Priscilla’s eyes.

Both Arabella and Francis shook their heads no.

Emma reluctantly sank back down into her seat. She and Priscilla stared at each other for a moment. Priscilla wet her lips with the sherry again.

“Arabella seems to be doing just fine,” Priscilla said rather huffily. “That’s not the impression I got when I last talked to her.”

“Yes, of course,” was all Emma could think to say.

“I do wish someone had told me about this Francis.” The way Priscilla said his name you would have thought Arabella had dragged him in off the street. “If I’d known I might not have come rushing up here from Florida.” She fixed Emma with a stare, her blue eyes sharp and piercing. “It was a very tiresome drive, especially when you are by yourself.” A strange look crossed her face, and she threw her head back. “I’m not getting any younger, you know.”

Emma went to protest, but Priscilla waved away the words before they left Emma’s lips.

“This Francis seems to be taking care of Arabella just fine. Not that I’m not grateful; don’t get me wrong. Arabella has always needed someone to look after her.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” Emma rose to Arabella’s defense. Her aunt was one of the most independent women Emma knew.

Priscilla waved away Emma’s objection. “So,” she said changing the subject with relish. “I gather that young man is the reason you’re so keen to stay in Paris,” she said smugly, as if she had ferreted out a top national secret.

Emma was flustered. She didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t make her sound defensive. She settled for a simple “Yes,” but then quickly added, “and Aunt Arabella, of course.”

“He seems like a nice enough young man. He’s Liz O’Connell’s brother, right?”

Emma nodded warily.

“What are his plans?”

“Plans?” Emma repeated, much as she had earlier when she and her mother had had this conversation about her.

“Yes. What does he plan to do with his future?”

“He’s helping to run the family hardware store, O’Connell’s. It’s across the street from Sweet Nothings.”

“I remember it. Your father often went there for things he needed to fix stuff around the house. Although in the end I usually had to call in a professional.”

The mention of her father suddenly made Emma wish he was there. He would like Brian. She was sure of it.

“And he’s started his own renovation company. He’s an architect,” Emma added rather proudly.

Her mother’s eyebrows shot up at that, and a gleam lit her eyes. “Oh, an architect. But why is he wasting his time in this town when he could go to Nashville or Memphis or . . . or anywhere and make buckets more money?”

“Making buckets of money isn’t that important to Brian.” Emma raised her chin. “He’s more interested in doing what’s right. And right now that’s helping his father because his father can no longer run the business himself. It’s been in the family for years—Brian doesn’t want to have to close the doors or sell to someone else.”

“Pity.” Priscilla picked up her glass. She studied it for a moment before taking an actual sip. She had opened her mouth again when Brian came into the room. She shut it quickly and managed a tight smile, much to Emma’s relief.

• • •

EMMA
spent the morning at Sweet Nothings helping Arabella and Sylvia. A new shipment had come in from Monique Berthole in New York, and Emma was excited to display all of the pretty things. She thought back to several months earlier when she’d been afraid to order anything for fear of blowing the business’s terribly meager budget, but sales had improved considerably. When Emma ran the numbers, they had turned from red to a good, solid black.

Sylvia had contacted Eloise Montgomery, and she was absolutely thrilled to be asked to help out in the shop. She arrived at Sweet Nothings in a cloud of Evening in Paris perfume shortly before noon. Emma remembered her grandmother wearing that scent. Eloise’s gray hair was perfectly coiffed—it had remained remarkably thick even though she was in her seventies—and she was resplendent in a purple pantsuit, pale gray shell and paisley shawl thrown over her shoulder like a matador’s cape.

Emma left the shop somewhat reluctantly at eleven forty-five. Arabella, Sylvia and Eloise were having a wonderful time playing
remember when
and although she felt decidedly de trop, she wished she could have stayed and enjoyed the laughter and the fun.

But she had a more important mission. Emma consoled herself with that thought as she freshened up and got ready to head to the Grangers’ horse farm. Fortunately Liz would also be there, meeting with Jackson about the creative direction for the firm’s new web site.

Liz’s station wagon was already parked in the gravel drive when Emma arrived. She pulled in behind it and was about to get out when she heard the pounding of hooves, and the Bug was enveloped in an enormous cloud of dust.

Mariel, dressed in jodhpurs, a black velvet jacket, expensive leather boots and a white stock tie blouse, blew past on a well-lathered horse, which kicked up a tsunami of dust and gravel in its wake. She pulled up short in front of the house and dismounted, throwing the reins to a young boy who had magically appeared at just the right moment.

She and Emma met on the broad steps leading to the porch.

Mariel smiled and put a hand to her back. “I’ve overdone it, I’m afraid. I’m going to feel this tomorrow.”