A Fatal Slip (20 page)

“Anyway, the FBI were there today.”

“So the Jaspers have made a fuss about the painting. That must mean that the son refused to give them their money back.”

“I think he’s insisting it’s real.” Emma finished her last sip of tea. “He showed the FBI something in a folder, and afterward I managed to sneak a peek at what it was. It was a collection of letters, e-mails and even an invoice for the painting along with a black-and-white photograph with a certification on the back from the Wasserman Gallery.”

Francis shrugged. “Don’t know it.”

“It sounds familiar,” Arabella said. “Out of my price range though, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to call the gallery tomorrow and see what I can find out about the Rothko. If they sold it to the Grangers then Jackson or Hugh must have bought it in good faith, and that’s the end of that trail.”

“What about this Jackson?” Arabella asked. She got up and began getting place mats and napkins out of the cupboard. “I should imagine he’s going to come into a lot of money now that his father has died. Could he have been tempted to hasten it along? Maybe he has debts, or gambles?”

“Their housekeeper loves to talk,” Emma said. “I’ll see what she can tell me.”

“Just be careful.” Francis wagged a finger at Emma. “A lot is at stake for the Grangers. And someone has killed already.”

• • •

WHEN
the last of the chicken divan had been scraped from their plates, and the last drop of the Tennessee Tea drunk, Emma collected the dishes and offered to do the cleaning up. As she loaded the dishwasher, she heard Arabella bidding Francis good night followed by the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. Pierre was asleep on the rug under the table, and Bette was curled up at Emma’s feet, occasionally twitching and making little mewling noises. Emma wondered what she was dreaming about. She hoped it was a good dream and not a nightmare.

She wiped down the counters, checked that everything was in its place and turned out the lights. She woke Bette, who immediately sprang to her feet as if she had never even closed her eyes.

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash and headed down the hall toward the front door. She glanced into the living room and was surprised to see her mother sitting there alone with the light from a small lamp across the room barely piercing the darkness. She wasn’t reading or knitting and didn’t have the television on. She seemed to be simply sitting and staring at . . . nothing.

Emma unclipped Bette—who made an immediate beeline for the kitchen—dropped her leash on the foyer table and stood in the entrance to the living room. She cleared her throat, and her mother spun around.

“Are you going?” she asked.

“Soon.” Emma walked into the room and took a seat opposite Priscilla. “What are you doing in here all alone?”

Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up tissue. “Thinking.” She looked at Emma. “Trying to figure out what I’m going to do. Where I’m going to go.”

“What happened between you and Dad?” Emma asked softly.

Priscilla shrugged. “I guess you could say we grew apart. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true. We were both used to working hard, and then all of a sudden, that was over, and we had time to spend together. Unfortunately, we didn’t know each other anymore. We’re like polite strangers inhabiting the same house.”

“But couldn’t you”—Emma twisted her hands in her lap— “get to know each other again?”

Her mother didn’t answer.

“Was this . . . Dad’s idea?”

Priscilla shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m afraid it was mine. I don’t know what got into me or why I did it. I wish I hadn’t.” She pressed the tissue to her eyes, and Emma could see her shoulders heave.

She touched her mother’s arm. “Maybe if you called him?”

“It’s too late now,” Priscilla sobbed. “He was so . . . hurt. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try,” Emma said, quoting a saying she had heard dozens of times from Priscilla herself. “Why don’t you try?”

Priscilla raised her chin. “Maybe I will. You’re right. I won’t know unless I try.”

ARABELLA
was extremely chipper when she arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning. Emma was putting out some new stock—she’d purchased a few racier things for Sweet Nothings, items their younger clientele had been asking for, like satin garter belts and lacy bustiers. They would be displayed discretely, of course, so as not to offend the sensibilities of their more mature customers.

“What did you say to your mother last night? She was looking decidedly more cheerful this morning.” Arabella poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe sitting on the heated coil.

“It seems that this whole separation thing was her idea, not Dad’s. She’s been thinking twice about it, but she’s afraid to call him. I convinced her to give it a go.”

“I’ve felt the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. They’ve been together too long to split up now.”

Emma put the last of the new garter belts in one of the drawers behind the counter. She held up one of the satin-and-lace bustiers.

“Do we dare display this on a mannequin?” she asked her aunt.

Arabella frowned. “I don’t know. This is still a small town with small-town ways. Perhaps it’s best if we keep that under wraps, so to speak.”

Emma nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She found a spot for the bustier on one of the shelves in the armoire. If anyone asked, she could guide them to it.

A cacophony of horns blaring outside announced Sylvia’s arrival. She burst through the door with her usual verve, hung up her coat, stowed her purse and joined Arabella behind the counter.

“So what’s new?” Sylvia asked with a gleam in her eye.

Arabella nodded her head toward Emma. “Emma’s on the trail of a forged painting. Are you still going to call that gallery?” Arabella asked.

Emma nodded. “Potentially forged. I suppose I should give Jackson the benefit of the doubt.”

“Forged painting?” Sylvia asked eagerly.

Emma was filling her in on the latest when the door opened and a customer walked in. They scrambled like spilled marbles—Arabella approaching the customer and Emma and Sylvia busying themselves with straightening the stock.

A half hour later, Emma left Arabella and Sylvia in charge and went to sit at the desk in the stockroom, where it would be quiet and she could take notes if necessary. She had all the details about the painting on a slip of paper in her pocket. Her hand hovered over the telephone receiver. She’d thought out what she was going to say, but she was still nervous.

Finally she picked up the phone and without allowing herself to think about it any more, dialed the number in front of her.

“Hello, Wasserman Gallery,” a very cool voice intoned.

“Hello. This is Emma Andrews,” she said with what she hoped sounded like conviction. She’d decided to use her mother’s maiden name just in case anyone tried to trace the call back to her. She twined the phone cord around her finger nervously. “I’m with Granger Art here in Paris, and I have a question about the provenance of a painting that was purchased from you.” She tried to emulate the cool, slightly snooty tones of the woman answering the phone.

“I will transfer you to the gallery director. One moment, please.”

Emma clasped the phone tightly. So far, so good. But would the director be as easy to fool?

“Hello?” a cultured-sounding male voice drawled. “This is Henry Dubois. How can I help you?”

Emma identified herself, almost forgetting that, for the sake of this conversation, she was Emma Andrews and not Emma Taylor. “I have a question about the provenance of a painting that Granger Art in Paris purchased from your gallery.”

“I hope there isn’t a problem.”

“Oh, no,” Emma reassured him. “I’m just checking a few details.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief whisper over the phone wires.

“In that case, I’d be more than happy to help. Can you gave me the details, please?”

“It’s a Rothko painting.” Emma added the date, size and inventory number she’d copied down from the file on Jackson’s desk.

“One moment, please.” She heard the clicking of computer keys.

“Hmmm . . .” Henry said. “We don’t seem to have that painting in our records. Let me look for that title. Is it possible the inventory number is wrong?”

“It’s . . . it’s possible.”

More clicking of computer keys. “No, I’m sorry, that painting doesn’t come from us. There must be some mistake.”

“Yes, I imagine there is. Thank you for your time.” Emma hung up quickly.

So the Rothko hadn’t come from the Wasserman Gallery—which meant that Jackson had faked those papers she saw in that folder. Which meant the painting didn’t have a provenance—it originated with Granger Art.

Therefore it must be a fake. She wondered how long it would be before the FBI discovered the same thing and made a return trip. She was surprised it hadn’t happened already, but then they obviously had more than just one case to work on at any given time.

Arabella pounced as soon as Emma emerged from the stockroom. “So what did you find out?”

“It’s a fake,” Emma said bluntly.

Arabella bit her lip. “I can’t believe that of Hugh. I
don’t
believe it! He would abhor forgeries on principle—the same way he hated ugly, or as his daughter called them,
broken
things.”

“I’m putting my dollar on the son.” Sylvia came over and leaned on the counter. “I’m betting his father found out about the fakes and that’s why he had to kill him.” She drew a finger across her throat dramatically.

“I don’t like it.” Arabella shook her head, and her bun quivered as if with indignation. “It makes me nervous, you being there. If this Jackson finds out you’ve been snooping . . .” Arabella let the rest of the sentence hang.

Emma gave her aunt a quick hug. “I’m heading over there now.” She looked at her watch. “And don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

• • •

EMMA
felt slightly uneasy as she headed toward the Grangers’. She hoped Jackson was out—she felt as if her newfound knowledge was written on her forehead. She’d never been particularly good at keeping a poker face. She was relieved to see Liz’s station wagon already pulled up in front of the house. At least she wouldn’t be alone.

Emma opened the car door and shivered as the brisk wind snaked its way down the back of her neck and up the sleeves of her coat. Despite the bitter weather, someone was out riding. She was far out in the field and heading toward the house. From this distance she was a mere speck, and Emma couldn’t tell whether it was Mariel or Joy.

Emma supposed the horses needed exercise no matter what the weather. She’d never cared for riding herself. Her grandfather had sat her on a pony once when she was around four years old. It was one of Emma’s earliest memories. The pony had reared up for some reason, and Emma had promptly fallen off. She’d never been particularly keen to try it again.

Emma found Liz in the office, as usual. Emma perched on the edge of the desk.

“Have you seen Jackson?”

Liz shook her head, and her blond hair swished back and forth. “Not yet.”

Emma looked around then leaned her head close to Liz’s and whispered, “I called that gallery that was listed in the papers in that folder—the Wasserman Gallery—and found out that the Rothko painting sold to the Jaspers is a fake.”

Liz looked startled. “Really?” she squeaked.

“The gallery knew nothing about it.”

“That means that Jackson . . .” Liz sank into the nearest chair and put her head in her hands. “I don’t know if I can keep working on this knowing that . . .”

“You have to,” Emma pleaded. “He can’t know what I’ve discovered.”

“But it’s . . . it’s criminal.”

“Murder is even worse. I think Jackson may have killed Hugh. Arabella is convinced his father wouldn’t condone selling forged paintings. My guess is that Hugh found out, they argued and Jackson plotted to kill him. Francis said Jackson wasn’t on the list of names collected by the police after the murder. He must have fled right afterward.”

Liz shivered. “This whole thing is giving me the creeps.”

“I know.” Emma slid off the desk and headed toward the door. “I’d better get to work. Believe me, I wouldn’t stay on if I weren’t trying to find out who was responsible for killing Hugh Granger. I have to, for Aunt Arabella’s sake.”

“Be careful,” Liz whispered after her.

Emma headed toward the kitchen. She wanted to take some tea back to the storage room with her since it was always slightly chilly back there. The kitchen was empty but as she was heating up her water, Molly bustled in with a grocery bag in each arm. Her cheeks were bright red from the cold, making her look more like a gnome than ever.

She clunked the bags down onto the kitchen table and pulled off her gloves. “Oooh, that wind would skin you alive, it’s that cold out.” She unbuttoned her tweed coat. It had large buttons up the front and looked as if it had been in style forty years ago.

“Someone was out riding,” Emma said, taking her mug out of the microwave. “She must be freezing.”

“Probably Miss Joy. She goes out in all kinds of weather. I think it’s the only time she’s truly happy.” Molly opened the pantry and began stacking cans on the shelves. “Mrs. Granger has been going out in all kinds of weather, too,” Molly said, her voice slightly muffled with her head in the closet. “I suppose it’s her way of coping with Mr. Granger’s death.” She turned around, her hands on her hips and her lower lip stuck out defiantly. “The police were around again, asking questions, but no nearer are they to solving the case. It’s a crime—someone getting away with murder.”

Molly shook her head and
tsk-tsk
ed under her breath. “That Detective Walker even came around asking me questions, as if I would know anything about it. I wasn’t even at the party. Mr. Granger did ask me, but what on earth would I do at an event like that? I’d only be comfortable if they let me help wait tables or peel the vegetables for dinner. Besides, my only good dress isn’t fancy enough—it’s fine for Sunday morning at church but the ladies would all be in long gowns, not a ten-year-old polyester shirtwaist.”

Emma stirred some sweetener into her tea. “What did Detective Walker want to know?” She looked away so Molly wouldn’t see how eager she was for the information.

“He wanted to know how everyone in the house got along and who might have had a fight with whom.” She folded up one of the grocery bags and tucked it into a corner of the pantry. “I had to tell them the truth. Miss Joy argued with her father, like I told you, and Mrs. Roberts did, too.”

“Sabina?” Emma paused with her mug of tea halfway to her mouth.

Molly put her finger alongside her nose. “Lovers’ quarrel, I should imagine. And terribly fierce it was. Mr. Granger was rather quiet, but I could hear herself all the way out to the kitchen, she was that mad.”

“Maybe he was ending the affair?” Emma suggested. “Or had found someone else?” Would that have made Sabina mad enough to kill? Emma didn’t think so.

“I only heard the few words—something about
give it back
. What, though, I can’t imagine.”

That was more food for thought. Emma headed back to the storage room, her mind whirling with possibilities. Although she doubted Sabina and Hugh’s lovers’ quarrel had anything to do with his death.
Give it back
—that didn’t make any sense. Probably Molly had heard wrong.

Joy’s quarrel with her father, on the other hand, made her a very good candidate for her father’s murder. She had good reason to hate him—he was responsible for the car accident that crippled her and killed her mother. And he’d taken little interest in her—unlike Jackson whom he had taken under his wing and brought into the art business. That must have further cemented Joy’s hatred.

• • •

EMMA
had been working for two hours when her computer froze. She tried every trick she knew—admittedly not many—to get it going again. She crossed her fingers—hopefully she wasn’t going to lose the afternoon’s work. She tapped several keys, but the screen didn’t change. Maybe Liz would know what to do. As a web site designer, she probably knew a lot more about computers than Emma.

Emma was crossing the foyer when she heard raised voices coming from outside. She peered through the glass alongside the front door, which gave her a partial view of the driveway. She could see the back end of Mariel’s red Porsche and Mariel herself, her ash-blond hair blowing across her face, which was red from the cold. She was gesturing at the car and yelling, her expression clearly indicating that she was angry about something. Emma couldn’t hear what she was saying nor could she see the person Mariel was yelling at.

The front door opened, startling Emma. She backed away from the window quickly. The open door let in a blast of wintery air along with the deep tones of a masculine voice. Jackson’s?

Joy moved awkwardly into the room. She slapped her gloves and riding helmet down on the foyer table and unbuttoned her red, quilted paddock jacket. She was wearing black and tan boots and khaki breeches with suede patches at the knee. To Emma, she looked far more comfortable in these clothes than the long, burgundy satin dress she had worn to her father’s birthday party.