A Fatal Slip (25 page)

EMMA
let Brian lead her back inside the house. Mariel still hadn’t returned, but Molly was in the kitchen staring out the window. She gasped when she saw Emma. “What’s happened? You look terrible. I saw the police cars and the ambulance. I couldn’t imagine what was going on.”

Emma looked down at the mud on her knees. There was a small hole in her right pant leg, and the elbows of her sweater were equally dirty.

“A cup of tea—that’s what you need.” Molly bustled about the kitchen, retrieving a mug from the cupboard and the tea bags from the pantry. Her forehead was creased in worry, and she made soft
tut-tutt
ing sounds under her breath as she filled the mug and placed it in the microwave. When the microwave pinged, she added a tea bag and a heaping spoon of sugar and handed it to Emma. “Drink this. It’ll do you good. I put plenty of sugar in it.”

Emma wrapped her hands around the warm cup. The shivering had finally stopped, and now she just felt unbearably weary. Brian watched her, his eyes narrowed in concern.

Molly twisted her apron between her hands. Finally she could no longer contain her curiosity. “What is going on? Why are the police here?”

Emma took a deep breath and began to explain about Sabina and the painting. Molly stared at her, her mouth open in a round O.

“Well, I’ll be,” she said when Emma had finally finished. “I did tell you I heard Mrs. Roberts and Mr. Granger arguing that day. It must have been about the painting.”

“Yes.” Emma took a sip of her tea. “You said she said something like ‘give it back.’ ’’

“It makes all the sense in the world now.” Molly took another mug from the cupboard and began to fill it. “But what about Miss Joy? She had that big blowup with her father shortly before he—”

Her words were cut off by the sound of the back door opening. Joy came into the room bringing with her the scent of cold, fresh air mingled with horse and hay. Despite the chill, her hair was damp with perspiration around her temples, and she had her jacket open and her scarf undone.

“I can tell you what the argument was about.” Joy shot Molly a sharp look.

Molly looked down at her feet.

“I told him I wanted to start a therapeutic horseback riding program here on the farm. I’ve been saving up the money for it. Riding has done so much for me; I wanted to help other people, too.” Joy’s eyes filled with tears. “But he wouldn’t hear of it. He said he didn’t want all these cripples crawling all over the farm. I told him that riding also helps people with mental problems, and he said that was even worse.”

“Are you going to do it now?” Emma asked.

Joy lifted her chin. “Yes. Mariel is fine with it and so is Jackson. I’ve been in touch with a certified instructor. Gordon said he would do anything to help me get things off the ground.”

A very becoming blush rose from Joy’s collar to her hairline, and she turned away abruptly. Emma looked at her curiously. It seemed as if Gordon might be a little bit more than simply a riding instructor.

Suddenly Emma just wanted to go home. She caught a flash of light as the ambulance made its way back down the driveway.

Emma turned to Joy. “Was Sabina badly hurt?”

“She was regaining consciousness. They’ll run a million tests, of course, but I think she’s going to be okay.”

“You saved my life.” Emma put her hand on Joy’s arm.

Joy looked embarrassed. “It was nothing. Besides, I never could stand that woman. She’s contributed very nicely to my new enterprise, though.” Joy grinned. “I saw her go up the balcony stairs after my father the night he was killed. I didn’t follow them—I assumed it was some planned rendezvous. But then when the police discovered my father had been shot, I put two and two together. Sabina was desperate to keep me quiet. When spooking Big Boy didn’t work, she resorted to giving me money. I knew the police would figure things out in the end with or without any help from me.”

“But they almost didn’t,” Emma protested. “And Sabina almost killed me.”

“I am sorry about that. I never meant for that to happen.”

Emma was shocked. Was it the background of immense privilege she’d been surrounded by her whole life that made Joy think that was morally acceptable?

Emma wasn’t going to stick around to find out. She put her mug down on the counter and turned to Brian. “I’m ready to go now if you are.”

“Will you be okay driving or do you want to ride with me and Bobby and come back tomorrow for your car?”

Emma didn’t want to go back to the house . . . ever. “I’ll drive. I’ll be fine.”

“Okay.” Brian put his free arm around Emma, and they made their way to the door and out into the cold air.

• • •

EMMA
loved lazy Sundays. This one was cold, but the skies were clear and a brilliant blue. She bundled up, snapped on Bette’s leash and they set off for a long walk through town. Emma peered into the window of the Toggery, where there was a mannequin sporting a baby blue cashmere sweater. It would look good on Brian, Emma thought. Bette tugged on her leash as if to say
let’s get moving
.

Emma continued down the block past Angel Cuts, where the flowery odor of hair spray and the chemical smell of hair dye lingered in front of the shop even though it was closed. Finally Bette began to tire, and they headed back home.

Arabella had invited Emma, and Bette, too, of course, for brunch. Bette jumped into the car and took up residence in the front passenger seat as soon as Emma opened the door. Emma made a mental note to clean the window—Bette’s nose and paws had left a collage of prints all over the glass.

The door was unlocked when they got to Arabella’s house. Emma stepped into the foyer, where a welcome rush of warm air greeted them, and took off Bette’s leash. Bette went flying down the hall to find Pierre, Emma following behind.

Francis was at the stove managing to look completely masculine despite the frilly apron tied around his waist. His sleeves were rolled up, and he was flipping pancakes on a hot griddle.

Brian was seated at the table, his leg stretched out in front of him. His face broke into a smile when he saw Emma. “Pardon me if I don’t get up.”

Emma went to him and brushed his lips with hers. She turned around to find Arabella smiling at them.

“I just had a call from your mother,” Arabella said brightly. “She and George are planning a vacation—it sounds more like a second honeymoon to me. Apparently their time apart has given them both a new appreciation for each other and a new perspective on things.”

Emma felt her heart lift at that news.

Francis carried a platter piled with golden brown pancakes to the table. “Do you have the bacon, dear?”

“I’m keeping it warm in the oven.” Arabella grabbed a pot holder, opened the oven door and pulled out a pan of crispy, fried bacon.

The kitchen table was already set and a sweating pitcher of orange juice was set out along with a beaker of warm maple syrup and a carafe of coffee. Emma slipped into the seat next to Brian. He reached out, grabbed her hand and held it, intertwining his fingers with hers.

Finally Arabella and Francis sat down, and they were ready to eat.

“Has there been any news about the Granger case?” Arabella asked.

“More like cases. Plural.” Francis poured syrup over his towering stack of pancakes and added two pats of butter. “Jackson Granger immediately hired some expensive New York lawyer in an Armani suit, and the lawyer is already making a racket about the charges. Claims that the paperwork from the Rothko painting came from the seller and how was Jackson to know they were false? Of course, Jackson has yet to produce the previous owner of the painting. But all the legal wrangling will keep the case going for years while Jackson’s out on bail making even more money.”

Francis shook his head. “Looks like the apple fell close to the tree. The father wasn’t above selling stolen paintings—the FBI found several works that had been taken from their rightful owners and which hadn’t been seen in years—and the son took it one step further and sold fake paintings.” Francis lowered his gaze and looked over the tops of his reading glasses. “Which he painted himself apparently. They found several works-in-progress in his house.”

“He was very good,” Emma said thinking of the faux Cézanne. “He could have been an artist in his own right.”

“Too much trouble,” Brian said. “He struck me as someone who wanted to take the shortest route to the most money.” He took a sip of his coffee. “Jasper is suing Jackson for the return of the money he paid for the fake Rothko. And he’s doing the right thing—he’s destroying the painting so that it doesn’t fall into some other unscrupulous hands and get passed off as real again.”

“Good for him,” Francis said.

“But what about Hugh’s murder?” Arabella said softly, and Emma had the impression that while Arabella had certainly stopped caring about Hugh a long time ago, his murder had brought back a lot of memories.

“Sabina Roberts has an extremely expensive lawyer, too.” Francis reached for the carafe and poured himself a cup of coffee. “But they found her gun in the field after they arrested her, and while Walker is still waiting on some tests from ballistics, he’s quite certain it will prove to be the one used to shoot Hugh Granger.”

Arabella shuddered. “She’s an evil woman.”

“Some good has come of all this at least.” Emma dipped a piece of her pancake in the syrup that had pooled on the side of her plate.

“I can’t imagine what that would be!” Arabella said with some asperity.

“Joy is starting her therapeutic riding school. It’s going to be a wonderful resource for a lot of people.”

“She ought to be locked up for withholding information and obstruction of justice,” Francis said, slamming his coffee cup down for emphasis. Some of the brew sloshed over the edge onto his place mat. “We’d never be able to prove it, of course. But if she had come forward with her information in the first place . . .”

“No harm has come of it, really,” Emma said trying to placate him.

“No harm?” Brian’s voice rose nearly to a squeak. “You could have been killed.” He turned toward Emma with a look of horror on his face.

“Thanks to Joy coming along when she did, I wasn’t.”

“If Joy had spoken up in the first place . . .” Francis sputtered to a stop. “That’s water under the bridge now, I guess.”

The conversation turned to other topics as they finished their meal. Emma helped Arabella clean up while Brian flipped through the paper.

Finally, Brian glanced at the clock above Arabella’s sink. “Liz will be here for me any minute now. She’s picking me up on her way back from church.” He reached for his crutches and struggled to his feet. He jerked his head toward the plaster encasing his leg. “I should be getting this off very soon and graduating to a walking boot. I have to tell you, I can’t wait.”

“I can imagine,” Arabella said, patting Brian on the back.

A car horn sounded in the driveway. “I told Liz she didn’t have to come to the door. No need to unbuckle Alice and Ben and then have to get them all situated again two minutes later.”

“I’ll walk you to the door.”

Emma held Brian’s hand as they made their way down the hall to the foyer. Emma glanced into the living room to see both Bette and Pierre asleep in a weak sunbeam that slanted through the bay window, both snoring softly. The sight made her smile.

Emma retrieved Brian’s coat from the closet. He had to lean his crutches against the wall and balance on one foot as Emma held it out for him.

He looked at Emma, suddenly quiet. “I have something to ask you,” he said finally.

“What?” Emma felt her heart beat faster.

Brian looked down at his feet, then looked around Arabella’s foyer. He shook his head as if saying
no
.

“This isn’t the right place. It should be somewhere more romantic—somewhere memorable—with candles and champagne.” His eyes were sparkling. “How about if I make a reservation at L’Etoile for Saturday night? If I get this thing off”—he gestured toward his cast—“I should be able to drive. I’m sure Liz will lend me her station wagon.”

Emma wasn’t sure if she could speak so she just nodded.

“I’ll see you then.” Brian bent his head toward Emma’s and gave her a soft, lingering kiss.

After Brian left, Emma leaned against the closed door and tried to catch her breath. She thought she knew what Brian was going to ask her, and she already knew what her answer would be.

How was she going to get through the whole week until Saturday night?