Murder Unmentionable (7 page)

Arabella sighed. “Just an accident. Nothing for everyone to get so worked up over.”

Angel looked at her watch and groaned. “Of all the days for me to have an early appointment. Gertrude Bloch is
coming in for a perm. She’s going to visit her daughter in Nashville and wants to get it done before she leaves.” Angel heaved another sigh. “See you all later,” she called over her shoulder. “I’ll be by as soon as I’m done with Gertrude.”

“Is that a threat or a promise?” Arabella muttered under her breath. She fell silent as Mabel approached with their coffee.

Mabel put the cups down with a bang, sending coffee sluicing over the sides. She pushed a mug of pale liquid toward Emma. “You’re in luck. Hank found that old box of green tea.” She tossed a stack of napkins on the table. “I got a quick look-see out the door while I was getting your coffee, and I swear the cops were wheeling a body out of Sweet Nothings!”

Arabella sighed again.

Mabel lingered by their table, adjusting and readjusting the packets of sugar in their ceramic holder. They all stared glumly into their cups until Hank shouted for Mabel, and she went running toward the counter.

“We’re not going to be able to keep this to ourselves.” Emma took a sip of her tea, trying to look normal, but her hand was shaking and her stomach revolted as soon as the hot brew hit bottom.

“You’re right, of course.” Arabella ripped open a packet of sugar and dumped it into her mug. “I just can’t stand gossip.” She took a sip and squared her shoulders. “It’s so destructive. Better to wait until the police know something and let them announce it to the public. Their people will know how to put the appropriate spin on things.”

As if on cue, the front door of The Coffee Klatch banged open, and Officer Kenny barged in, blinking against the lights like a mole. He caught sight of Emma and Arabella in the back booth and headed their way with obvious determination.

He was puffed up like a blowfish with self-importance,
his eyes popping. He didn’t waste any time. “Detective Reilly wants to speak to you. Stat!”

“Me?” Emma’s voice quavered in spite of herself.

“Yes.” He glanced at his watch. “Now.”

Emma followed Kenny out of the restaurant. All heads swiveled in her direction, and she had the urge to grab one of the brown paper bags from the stack by the takeout window and pull it over her head. She gave one last backward glance at her friends and let the door shut in back of her.

EMMA trotted down the street after Officer Kenny, trying to keep pace with his lumbering gait. Flanagan was standing outside Sweet Nothings, attempting to keep the crowd at bay. All heads swiveled toward Emma as she arrived, breathless and perspiring, in Kenny’s wake.

“Excuse me. Step aside, please.”

Kenny elbowed his way past the curious stares of Emma’s neighbors and fellow shopkeepers and shepherded her safely through the door and into the relative quiet of Sweet Nothings. Emma noticed a camera flash as Kenny led her past the scene of the crime, his broad shoulders partially blocking the view. She averted her eyes quickly. As it was, she doubted she’d ever get the image of Guy sprawled on the floor out of her mind.

The stockroom was in shadow, the only illumination coming from the small lamp on Arabella’s desk. A man was standing with his back to Emma. He was of medium height, wearing a boxy suit and had dark hair curling over his shirt collar in back. Something about his stance seemed familiar.

He turned around and Emma gasped.

“Chuck Reilly!”

“Emma Taylor,” he answered smoothly.

“What are you doing here?” they both asked simultaneously.

Chuck indicated for Emma to go first.

“I’m here helping my aunt with her store.” Emma realized she sounded defensive, which was ridiculous. She had every right to come back to Paris if she wanted to.

Chuck pulled out his wallet, flicked it open and held out his badge. “I’m a sergeant now. Made the CID, Criminal Investigation Division, that is, last year.”

“Oh” was all Emma could say. Last she’d heard, Chuck was still a patrolman chasing down jaywalkers and helping get cats out of trees. They’d dated briefly in high school, but she’d quickly broken it off. Chuck hadn’t taken it well. He had been Henry County High School’s star running back and wasn’t used to being rejected.

He’d made life miserable for Emma after the breakup. She hoped he was over it, because he was in a much more powerful position now. Just the thought made her palms sweat.

“I want to ask you a few questions,” Chuck said quietly. Too quietly.

Emma’s mouth went dry. “Okay.”

He had her walk through the whole thing again—hearing Arabella scream, running down to Sweet Nothings, finding Guy’s body. All familiar territory now.

Emma felt herself sag with fatigue. Chuck pointed toward the desk chair, and Emma sank into it gratefully. He pulled an armless folding chair toward him, spun it around and straddled it. “This was your ex-boyfriend, you say? What was he doing here?”

Emma cleared her throat. She wouldn’t lie—she couldn’t. Her face would get as scarlet as Rudolph’s nose, and she’d be busted immediately. “He was here to…to try to make up with me.”

Chuck gave a slow smile. Emma’s palms got slicker.

“Another one of your victims?”

Emma jerked as if she’d been jolted by an electrical current. “What do you mean—one of my victims?”

Chuck gave a nasty laugh. “I mean another victim who felt the sting of your rejection.”

“Look…” Emma began.

Chuck held up a hand. “How about you let me do the talking, okay?”

Emma sank back down into her seat. Chuck held all the cards in this round. It wasn’t fair. Why wasn’t he still giving out speeding tickets and directing traffic?

He was a good-looking man—even better looking than he’d been in high school. Maturity had added to his attractiveness, along with the ice blue eyes and cleft chin that had drawn Emma to him in the first place. But Emma had soon discovered that Chuck’s attractiveness wasn’t more than skin deep. He oozed fake charm, but as Abraham Lincoln had so famously said, you can’t fool all the people all the time. Emma had come to her senses quickly.

Chuck rested his hands on the back of the chair. “So, the boyfriend tracked you down in order to try to get you back?”

Emma flashed back to the scene at L’Etoile and Nikki St. Clair draped around Guy’s shoulders. Guy had certainly chosen a strange method of trying to win her back.

“And you met the boyfriend in the shop and had it out?” Chuck began a thorough examination of his fingernails.

“No!” Emma protested.

Chuck raised an eyebrow in disbelief. “Really?”

“Look,” Emma held her hands out, palms up. “If I’d killed Guy, wouldn’t it have been the other way around?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” Emma took a deep breath, trying to calm the sledgehammering of her heart. “If I’d hit Guy over the head, wouldn’t it make more sense if I’d been the one trying to get him back?”

Chuck raised an eyebrow.

Emma sighed in exasperation. “It’s like this. Imagine that I wanted Guy to take me back. He refuses. So I”—she clenched her fists—“grab Aunt Arabella’s walking stick and clobber him over the head.” She swung her arms in an arc as if wielding a deathly blow.

“So, that’s what happened,” Chuck declared over his steepled fingers.

He leaned back with a smug expression on his face.

LATER that afternoon, Arabella sat in a pool of light from the gooseneck lamp that was trained on the bundle of silk in her hands. She was repairing a slight tear in a section of lace with silk thread ordered especially from a shop in New York City. Emma noticed her hands shook slightly, although Arabella insisted she was fine after the shock of that morning.

“The police can’t possibly think you had anything to do with it!” Arabella eased her needle into the garment in her lap.

“That’s ridiculous,” said Liz. As soon as news of the murder had reached her, she had come running to Sweet Nothings, double-parking her station wagon in her haste. She was now perched on a stool in front of the counter, one eye trained on the street outside.

Emma shrugged and tilted the lid of her laptop slightly. Chantelle DeLang had sent photos of several wonderful
lingerie lines. “I get the impression I’m Chuck’s only suspect. He kept pointing out how I didn’t have any alibi.”

“Lots of other people don’t either.” Brian put down the block of wood he was sanding. “Why pick on you?”

“Think about it.” Emma bookmarked the site she was exploring and powered down her laptop. “Who else had any reason to kill Guy? No one knew him before he arrived here. Except me,” she added glumly.

“That may be true, but what’s more important,” Arabella said, knotting the end of her thread, “is what are we going to do about it?”

“What do you mean?” Emma ran a hand through her hair. She rolled her shoulders forward and back. She was so tired. She couldn’t wait to crawl into bed and put this day behind her.

“Do you mean we should do some of our own investigating?” Brian wiped his hands on a rag, balled it up and stuffed it into his toolbox.

Arabella arched an eyebrow as she deftly slid her needle through the periwinkle blue silk in her hands. “Why not? Surely among us we can muster a few more brain cells than that pathetic Chuck Reilly.”

Brian laughed, and Emma managed a small smile in spite of her worries.

“Sure, why not?” Emma shrugged and glanced at Brian.

“I’m in.” Brian gave Emma a big smile.

“Me, too, although I’ll have to work around Ben and Alice’s schedule.” Liz slid off her stool in her excitement.

Emma felt her spirits lift. “There’s Nikki St. Clair, although Chuck didn’t seem to think much of that angle.”

“Nikki?” Brian’s head swiveled in Emma’s direction. “Who’s Nikki?”

“She’s the blonde who was with Guy that night at the restaurant. When I arrived at L’Etoile.” Emma shuddered. “She was draped all over him.” Her lips curled in disgust.

“Oh, no!” Arabella exclaimed, dropping the peignoir she was working on.

“What’s the matter?” Emma, Brian and Liz all rushed to her side.

“It’s nothing. I just pricked my finger.”

“Do you want me to get—”

“No.” Arabella shook her head. “I was just afraid I might get blood on the fabric.” She examined the stretch of lace carefully. “Fortunately, I don’t seem to have done any damage.”

Emma thought of the blood pooling under Guy’s head and felt her stomach turn over.

“I think we need to track down this Nikki.” Brian began putting his tools away. “Was she someone local?”

“Uh, not exactly. She must have come down with Guy from New York. You’d know her if you saw her. She’s a rather well-known lingerie model.” Emma thought Brian’s eyes lit up, and she had a pang of what felt an awful lot like jealousy.

“Do you think she’s still here in Paris?” Arabella snipped the end of her thread.

“It’s possible. I know Guy’s return flight was for tomorrow. If she came down with him, she probably planned to leave with him as well.”

“I wonder where she’s staying?” Brian said.

“Probably the Beau. That’s the Beauchamp Hotel and Spa,” Liz explained, obviously noticing the confused look on Emma’s face. “It’s brand-new. And very swanky. Just the type of place a model would want to stay.”

“I think it’s time someone had a chat with this Nikki St. Clair,” Emma said.

“I’ll go with you,” Brian said quickly.

“I’ll—” Liz began at almost the same time, but she bit off what she was about to say, and Emma noticed her exchange a knowing glance with Arabella.

“Why don’t you call the hotel and see if Miss St. Clair is registered, and I’ll go get cleaned up.” Brian brushed at his jeans.

“Sure.” Emma pulled her cell phone from her pocket.

“And tomorrow I’ll start chatting with some of the other shopkeepers.” Arabella piped up. “Maybe someone saw something last night.” She folded the garment she’d been working on and turned off the lamp. “I know Angel lives over her shop, although how she can stand it with the smell of all those hair chemicals, I don’t know, but perhaps she just happened to be looking out the window.”

“Or someone might have been working late taking inventory,” Brian added.

Emma felt a flicker of hope. Maybe they could find some other suspects for Chuck to chase, and maybe then he’d leave her alone.

THEY got a later start than anticipated. Brian’s father needed help creating a new window display. While Emma waited, she made herself her favorite dinner, one that she hadn’t had since departing for New York—grilled cheese and tomato soup. She’d called the Beauchamp Hotel earlier and discovered that a Nikki St. Clair was, indeed, registered there.

Since Brian was going to be late, she ran through her evening yoga series. A few downward facing dogs, cobras and forward folds took the kinks out of her muscles and back, and five minutes in child’s pose helped restore her equilibrium. She felt almost cheerful when Brian knocked on her door. He led the way down the stairs and out to the parking lot, where he gestured apologetically toward the red pickup truck waiting in one of the spots. “I hope you don’t mind riding in the truck. It’s perfectly clean,” he reassured her, glancing at her dress.