A Fatal Slip (18 page)

Emma found herself driving more slowly than necessary in order to prolong arriving at the Grangers’ horse farm. She was relieved to see Liz’s car in the driveway when she got there. Joy was back on her horse—Emma could see her out riding in the field just beyond the house, putting Big Boy through his paces. Emma hoped no one would try to spook the horse again, but if someone really determined to hurt Joy and not just warn her, then what was to stop him? She shivered as she made her way up the front steps.

The foyer and front rooms were empty, and when Emma peeked into the kitchen, it was empty as well. The house was eerily quiet, and she was loath to head to the storage room, which was at the end of the back hallway and far from the rest of the house.

A light was on in the office, and she imagined Liz was in there working. Emma decided to procrastinate, and she headed in that direction, wincing at the noise her footsteps made on the wood floor.

“Hey.” Liz spun around when she heard Emma. She gave her friend a hug. “Brian told me about . . . your conversation last night. I’m really sorry.”

Emma was surprised to feel renewed tears flooding her eyes. She dashed a hand across them impatiently. “I’m more surprised than anything. I never expected my parents. . .” She shrugged. “I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

Liz nodded sympathetically.

“Have you seen Jackson today?” Emma asked.

“No. It’s been strangely quiet, which is fine with me. It lets me get on with my work. I found a babysitter to pick Ben and Alice up from school and watch them for the afternoon.”

Emma lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I did a little snooping yesterday.”

Liz raised her eyebrows and inclined her head.

Emma explained about researching the Rothko painting, Jackson’s bank statement and his nearly catching her out.

Liz drew in her breath and put a hand on Emma’s arm. “Be careful okay? Someone’s already been killed. I don’t want you to be the next victim.”

“I will, don’t worry,” Emma assured her friend. “How is Brian?” she asked changing the subject.

“Much better, although he’s still in some pain. He denies it, of course, but I can see it on his face. And he’s getting a little frustrated with moving around on crutches. He can’t wait till he can graduate to a walking cast. He was actually wondering if he could drive! Said he wanted to go check on one of his renovations.”

“I hope you told him not to.”

“I most certainly did. He did manage to persuade Bobby Fuller from the hardware store to come by and take him out to one of his sites. I just hope he doesn’t do anything foolish and get even more hurt. He gave us a bad enough scare as it was.” Liz rolled her eyes.

Emma could certainly agree to that.

“I guess I’d better get to work.” Emma wasn’t at all anxious to leave the warm, well-lit office. The thought of encountering Jackson creeping about gave her goose bumps.

She reluctantly left Liz to her work and headed down the bare hallway to the storage room.

Emma began working and really got into it—it took her mind off of her parents’ impending separation—and was surprised when she glanced at her watch and two hours had gone by. The room was chilly, and she felt cold and cramped from sitting at the computer for so long. Perhaps a cup of tea was in order.

Emma was headed toward the kitchen when she heard the front door open. She stopped and listened. A male voice. Was it Jackson’s? She wasn’t taking any chances. She walked as silently as possible back down the hall toward her desk.

An hour later, and the house was quiet. Emma was thoroughly chilled by now and longing for some hot tea. She decided to chance it. She was crossing the foyer when the front door opened, sending a frigid breeze through the entranceway. A couple of curling, dried leaves blew in on the wind and skittered across the floor.

Emma stood stock-still for a moment, her heart beating hard and fast, but it was only Sabina Roberts. As usual, she looked comfortably warm in her impressive fur coat. She smiled at Emma as she peeled off her long, leather gloves. She was wearing a scarf that was similar in color to the dress she had worn to Hugh’s birthday party.

“It’s cold out. Feels like snow,” she said in her slightly accented voice. She took off her coat and draped it over her arm.

Emma agreed then scooted into the kitchen. Delicious and tantalizing smells filled the air. Molly was in the middle of putting together a stew—peeling carrots and potatoes and dicing an onion with her small but capable hands. She smiled when she saw Emma.

“I imagine you’re after something to warm you up. A nice cup of tea, maybe? That storage room gets mighty chilly after a while. I told Mr. Jackson that, but he said it was better for the paintings.” She turned toward the stove, where cubes of meat were spitting and sizzling in a large pot.

It might be better for the paintings, but it was freezing her hands and feet, Emma thought. “A cup of tea does sound good.”

Molly gestured with her head toward the kitchen island. “Help yourself. You know where things are by now.” She laid a bunch of parsley leaves on her cutting board, chopped them and scooped them into a small bowl.

Emma grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it with water.

“I see herself is here,” Molly said as she added the diced onion to the meat browning in the pot.

Emma pushed the button on the microwave and turned around. “You mean Mrs. Roberts.”

Molly nodded her head, and her gray bun quivered. “Yes, Mrs. Roberts. Thinks she’s such a fancy lady when she’s really just a fancy lady, if you know what I mean.”

Emma didn’t. “I’m sorry, what—”

“Back in my day, a man’s mistress was called his fancy lady.”

“But I thought they were married . . . Mr. and Mrs. Roberts.”

“It’s not him I’m talking about.” Molly winked at Emma, looking more like a character in a fairy tale than ever.

Was she Jackson’s mistress?
It was possible. Jackson was in his mid-twenties, and Emma gauged Sabina to be in her late thirties. An age gap in the other direction wasn’t unheard of. The movie
The Graduate
suddenly came to mind. Was Sabina playing Mrs. Robinson to Jackson’s Benjamin?

Molly stood over the sizzling pot, pushing the cubes of stew meat around with a wooden spoon. She turned to face Emma, the wooden spoon in midair. “It’s a wonder Mrs. Granger never found out. Not very discreet, they were.”

“Mrs. Granger?” Now Emma was thoroughly confused.

Molly nodded and turned back to the pot on the stove. “Of course, I don’t know what all she’s doing with that Dr. Sampson. Maybe she didn’t care. You know what they say, ‘what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’”

Did Molly mean that Sabina had been having an affair with
Hugh
?

“You mean Mrs. Roberts and Hugh . . .” Emma asked.

“Well of course. What did you think I meant?” Molly scooped up the chopped vegetables and added them to the pot. “And poor Mr. Roberts turns a blind eye to everything she does, he’s that taken with her. Well . . .” She paused with her hands on her hips. “Why wouldn’t he be? She’s a beautiful woman. And accomplished, too. Not like some floozy off the streets. That’s probably what attracted Mr. Granger to her in the first place.”

Emma finished making her tea. Molly had certainly given her something to think about, she realized as she headed back to her desk, mug of tea in hand.

ONCE
again, Emma was glad to leave the Grangers’ house behind. Arabella had invited her for dinner again since Priscilla was still visiting. Emma was grateful—left to her own devices, she was either too lazy or too tired to cook for herself and often made do with something in the microwave or a takeout dish.

Emma thought about what she’d discovered as she drove to her aunt’s house. What role, if any, might Sabina’s supposed affair play in Hugh’s death? Always assuming Molly was right. Emma got the impression Molly enjoyed embellishing her stories with just a wee bit of Irish blarney.

As she pulled into Arabella’s driveway, Emma could hear Bette’s excited bark and Pierre’s deeper one. She smiled to herself. She could always count on the dogs for a passionate greeting.

Emma had to shoo them both away from the front door so that she could slip inside. She still had to be careful about Bette getting out. She hadn’t yet learned to come when called, and Emma was considering enrolling her in the local puppy training classes.

“Hello?” she called from the foyer. The house was strangely silent. Emma stood listening, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light coming in the window.

For once, Arabella didn’t bustle down the hall offering a drink of sweet tea before they even reached the kitchen. Emma sniffed. No tantalizing smells coming from the kitchen, either. That was strange. Usually Arabella had dinner going by the time Emma arrived.

She walked out to the kitchen and was surprised to find it empty. The lights were out, nothing was on the stove and the table wasn’t set. Perhaps Arabella was planning on a late dinner?

Emma walked back to the hallway and peered into the living room. No sign of either Priscilla or Arabella. Now she was beginning to worry.

“Hello. Anybody home?” she called up the stairs.

Priscilla appeared on the landing. She looked surprised to see Emma.

“Hello, dear,” she said as she came down the stairs. “I was just sitting in my room reading. I didn’t expect you.”

“But . . .” Emma said, looking around. “Where is Aunt Arabella?”

“I think she’s getting ready. At least she was, twenty minutes ago.”

Emma was more confused than ever. “Arabella invited me for dinner tonight. If that’s not convenient, I can . . .”

Now Priscilla looked confused. “Tonight? But Francis is taking her out to dinner tonight. I planned to heat up some soup for myself. I’ve been eating way too much good food lately.” She patted her stomach. “Are you sure Arabella said today?”

“Yes, I’m positive.” Emma thought back to that morning, when she’d talked to Arabella. She was certain she didn’t have it wrong.

Emma followed Priscilla into the living room. Priscilla perched on the edge of the needlepoint chair she favored, and Emma plopped on the sofa.

“This is very worrisome, coming on top of those other instances where Arabella couldn’t remember where she was or what she had been doing. I think the stress of this whole situation is getting to be too much for her.”

The front doorbell pealed, and both Pierre and Bette jumped to their feet and ran toward the foyer. Emma followed them.

She pulled open the front door to find Francis standing there. He smiled when he saw Emma. She held the door wider, grabbing Bette’s collar in the nick of time. “Come in. Mother said you’re taking Arabella out to dinner tonight.” Emma took Francis’s coat and hung it in the hall closet.

“Yes. I’ve got a reservation at Ruggero’s Italian Bistro at the Paris Winery.” Francis was wearing gray slacks, a navy blazer and a crisp white shirt. He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going. Is your aunt ready?”

Just then Arabella came down the stairs. She was wearing a pair of old, stretched-out yoga pants Emma knew she kept to clean the house in, and a tattered white shirt with stains on the front.

“I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Emma, Francis, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you . . .”

“You invited me for dinner,” Emma said.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” Francis said almost at the same time.

Arabella looked utterly bewildered. She sat down on the stairs and rubbed her forehead. “That’s strange because I don’t remember either.” She looked up with troubled eyes. “What’s wrong with me?”

Francis joined her on the step, putting his arm around her. “I’m sure it’s something that’s easily fixed. When is your appointment with Dr. Baker?”

“Tomorrow. At least I think so. It seems I can’t trust my memory for anything anymore,” Arabella said sharply, sounding almost like her normal self.

“No harm done,” Francis said consolingly. “What say we all order a pizza? I saw some cold beer in the fridge.”

Emma noticed Priscilla’s lip curl ever so slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

“That’s done then. Let’s not worry anymore. Dr. Baker will undoubtedly be able to sort things out.”

• • •

EMMA
was relieved to see that Arabella was in her usual good spirits when she arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning. It was almost as if the previous evening hadn’t happened. Was that because she had put it out of her mind or because she just didn’t remember it? Emma wondered.

They had a slow morning and had been open for business for an hour when Priscilla walked in.

“I just wondered,” she said to Arabella, “if you want me to come with you to see Dr. Baker.”

Emma saw Arabella’s spine stiffen. “That’s very kind, but I’m perfectly capable of getting myself there and back. There’s no need to worry.”

“But I
do
worry,” Priscilla said. “I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.” She smiled sadly at her sister. “If you’re absolutely sure . . .”

“I’m positive,” Arabella said with conviction.

“Well, then, I’ll be going. I’m having coffee with a woman I worked with at the hospital. It will be fun catching up.”

She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Arabella blew out a puff of air. “I’m sure she means well, but sometimes . . .” She let the sentence hang in the air.

The rest of the morning went by quickly, and just before noon Sylvia arrived. They heard, rather than saw, her Cadillac pulling into the parking lot in back of Sweet Nothings. Eloise Montgomery had come with her, and she looked slightly shaken up as they entered the shop. Her hat was askew, and her eyes were wide.

“Stupid cop,” Sylvia said to no one in particular as she took off her coat.

“You did run a red light,” Eloise remarked.

“So maybe I did.” Sylvia turned around to face them. “We didn’t hit anything, did we? It was an honest mistake. Forgive and forget, that’s what I always say.”

“I don’t think that policeman is going to forget anytime soon,” Eloise said, taking off her hat and putting it behind the counter.

“Did you get a ticket?” Arabella asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Yeah. I tried to charm him out of it, but he was having none of it. Never mind there’s not a single blemish on my record. You’d think that would count for something.”

Emma supposed it did, but it was only by sheer luck that Sylvia hadn’t been ticketed before. She had ridden with Sylvia once and that was enough. She was beginning to wonder if from now on she shouldn’t offer to pick Sylvia up and then deliver her safely back to Sunny Days when her shift was over. Certainly she doubted Eloise would relish riding with her again anytime soon.

Arabella came out of the back room with her coat on. “I’ll be off now to Dr. Baker’s,” she said as she pulled on her gloves and wound her scarf around her neck. “Wish me luck. I’m a little nervous. It’s one thing to be told you need to take pills for your cholesterol or your blood pressure and another to think that you might be going . . . ” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Emma said, but she crossed her fingers behind her back just to be sure. “Maybe you should have let Priscilla go with you?”

“No. I can manage on my own. She would make me even more nervous.” She gave Emma a quick hug, said, “Wish me luck,” and disappeared out the door.

Sylvia looked at her watch. “I guess you’d better get going, too, kiddo. Eloise and I can hold down the fort while you’re gone. No need to worry.”

Emma quickly ran up to her apartment to eat a container of yogurt and run a comb through her hair. She dreaded going back to the Grangers’—what if Jackson was there?—but she had to see this through. She pulled on her coat and sprinted down the stairs to her car.

The wind had picked up, and Emma could feel the Bug rocking from side to side. The sprinkling of snow they’d gotten the other day had melted, but there were still icy patches here and there on the road.

She pulled up in front of the Grangers’ house and got out. Jackson usually pulled his car around back to their enormous five-car garage, so she had no idea if he was at home or not. Liz’s station wagon was there along with a strange black car. Emma glanced at it as she walked by—some sort of official shield was propped in the front window. That was curious.

Emma opened the front door and stepped into the foyer, glad to get out of the cold. She peeked into the kitchen. Molly was peeling a pile of potatoes, and good smells were coming from the stove. Perhaps she could persuade Molly to tell her what was going on.

“It’s freezing out there,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together. “I thought I’d make myself a cup of tea to start.”

“Help yourself.” Molly jerked her head toward the tea canister. “I’m putting together a nice shepherd’s pie for dinner. On a bitter day like today, they’ll be wanting something warm and comforting in their bellies.” She deftly cut each of the potatoes into quarters. “There’s a show I want to see on the telly tonight, so I’m getting things ready now. All that will be needed will be to pop it in the oven for half an hour.”

Emma took her time selecting a tea bag and filling a mug with water. “I saw a strange car outside,” she began, hoping Molly would take the bait.

“The black one pulled up just beyond the front door?”

Emma nodded. She slid her mug of water into the microwave and pushed the Start button.

“They showed up about an hour ago. Two men in black suits. Looked like undertakers but they said they were with the FBI. What the FBI could be wanting with Mr. Jackson, I can’t imagine.”

“They didn’t say what they wanted?” The microwave pinged, and Emma retrieved her mug.

“No, but I’ve heard raised voices coming from the library. And here Mr. Jackson is usually so even-tempered. It took me by surprise.”

“I don’t suppose you heard what they were saying.”

“I did indeed. I didn’t like the way they were talking to Mr. Jackson so I stopped outside the door to listen. Something about a forged painting.” She shook her head as she filled a large pot with cold water and dropped in the potato quarters. She set the pan on the stove and turned the burner to high. “The Grangers have been in the art business for decades and not a whisper of scandal, and now this. I’m sure they’ll soon discover it’s all a big mistake.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Emma picked up her tea and headed down the corridor. At least Jackson was occupied with his visitors. Hopefully their paths wouldn’t cross. She stuck her head into the office to say hello to Liz. She was staring through the lens of her camera at a spectacular Renoir painting.

Emma didn’t want to scare her so she cleared her throat. Liz turned around.

“Hi, when did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“Can you believe it?” Liz whispered. “The FBI is here. They showed up over an hour ago and have been in the library with Jackson ever since.”

“I talked to Molly, and she said it had to do with a forged painting. I wonder if the Jaspers called them about their Rothko.”

“I don’t know, but Jackson did come in here at one point. He was frantically going through some files and muttering under his breath. Something about ‘an impeccable provenance,’ I think he said.”

Emma took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he’s trying to prove that some work is real. Or at least that he got it from a reliable source.”

“You’re probably right.”

Liz had just finished talking when they heard the squeak of a door opening and footsteps, muffled by the Oriental runner, coming down the hall. The two men in black suits, who Molly claimed were with the FBI, passed by the open door to the study. Jackson was trailing them and had a file folder under his arm. His expression was serious but not necessarily worried.

They could hear voices coming from the foyer, then the door closing and finally footsteps heading back down the hall. They stopped outside the door to the study.

Jackson walked in, nodded at Liz and Emma and tossed the folder he’d been carrying onto the other desk. Emma looked at it longingly, dying to know what was inside.

Jackson ran his hands over his face and rubbed his temples. “Long day,” he said curtly before walking out again.

Liz and Emma looked at each other and, without a word Liz went to stand guard at the door while Emma approached the desk and the folder Jackson had left sitting out. She touched it tentatively with the tips of her fingers, pulling it closer until she could see the writing on the tab. It read “Rothko, 1950, oil on canvas.” It had to be the Jaspers’ painting.