A Fatal Slip (4 page)

John nodded. “He’s found some great pieces for us. Our latest acquisition”—he spooned up some soup—“is a Rothko painting. Although actually, it was Hugh’s son, Jackson, who found the painting for us. Gave us a wonderful price on it, too. It’s definitely the star of our collection.”

Waiters cleared away their soup plates and came back with dishes of rack of lamb, potatoes Dauphinoise and asparagus with sauce Maltese.

“Heavenly, don’t you think?” Arabella said as she studied her artfully arranged plate.

A small orchestra had assembled on a platform at the front of the room and began playing, drowning out the sounds of silverware clinking against china and the low murmur of conversation. Emma recognized several tunes from Broadway shows she had seen while living in New York. They were finishing up the last bites of their meal when Hugh’s voice came over the audio system again.

“Before dancing, and dessert, which I assure you will be spectacular, Mariel has organized a special treat.” Hugh paused. “Fireworks,” he said dramatically sweeping a hand toward the French doors that lined one wall of the ballroom. “On the lawn. The hotel staff has put heaters out on the patio. It’s a beautiful night; I suggest you go outside and enjoy them.”

A phalanx of waiters headed toward the French doors, opening them with a grand flourish.

A low murmur of excited voices floated up as soon as Hugh was finished speaking.

“The chap’s gone all out, I’ll say,” John said pushing his chair back. “Are you game?” he asked Lara.

She nodded and picked up the beaded evening bag she had slung from her chair.

“How about you?” Brian looked at Emma. “Want to go outside? I can loan you my jacket if you get too chilly.”

Emma pushed back her chair. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Arabella and Francis were also getting to their feet. By the time they made their way to the doors leading to the patio, the first fireworks were lighting the sky with brilliant colors. The accompanying thunderous boom rattled the crystal and silverware on the tables.

A large outdoor fireplace stood in the middle of the patio and had been stoked with fragrant-smelling wood. Smaller heaters were placed strategically around the perimeter along with tall, flaming torches.

Emma and Brian secured a place close to the fire, and, with Brian’s arms around her, Emma didn’t mind the cold. The fireworks display was magnificent—splayed against the black, star-studded sky. She leaned against Brian’s broad chest and watched as the colored lights streaked by overhead. They could hear the band playing in the background, and Emma thought it was one of the most enchanting evenings she could remember.

She glanced over toward Arabella, but her aunt wasn’t there. Emma raised a questioning brow at Francis, but he just shrugged and gestured toward the ballroom. Emma supposed Arabella had become cold or had taken the opportunity to powder her nose. She imagined that Arabella had already seen any number of incredible things in her life, and she wasn’t averse to missing a few fireworks.

Emma noticed a woman who had been sitting at Hugh’s table make her way through the crowd, back to the ballroom, her orange dress bright against the black of the men’s evening wear.

The finale had the crowd oohing and aahing, their heads tilted back, necks stretched, as they watched the brilliant lights illuminating the sky. Finally, the last rocket streaked silver and gold plumes, lighting up the darkness, the final boom sounded, and the crowd began to drift back toward the open doors to the ballroom.

Emma and Brian followed suit, Brian’s arm lingering around Emma’s bare shoulders. They were just stepping through the French doors into the candlelit ballroom when a woman’s high-pitched scream sounded above the low murmur of voices. It rose to a crescendo, trailed away and was replaced by abrupt silence that seemed to pulse in the room like a living thing.

Emma and Brian froze, glancing at each other in horror.

“Something’s happened.” Brian tightened his arm around Emma.

“What the—” Francis, who was behind them, muttered. “Excuse me, perhaps I’d better see to this.” He rushed past Emma and Brian and strode toward the point from which the scream had emanated.

Emma grabbed Brian by the hand. “Should we go see what’s going on?”

“I don’t—” Brian began, but Emma tugged him inside the room. The crowd was rushing toward the far corner of the ballroom, and Emma followed suit, Brian in tow.

Several women in the crowd screamed, some of the men groaned and the people at the back of the crowd jostled each other to see what was going on.

Emma managed to wiggle her way through the crowd to the front. “Oh,” was all she could say when she got there. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to erupt. She heard Brian’s sharp intake of breath behind her.

Hugh Granger’s lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the balcony that encircled the room, his elegant dinner jacket barely ruffled, his starched shirt as pristine as ever. His blue eyes were open but sightless, his body motionless on the polished parquet floor.

Francis had already made his way through the crowd, which fell back slightly in response to his air of authority. He knelt and felt Hugh’s neck with one hand while he dug his phone from his pocket with the other. He shook his head. “No pulse, I’m afraid.” He quickly punched in 9-1-1 on his cell.

Emma stepped forward and touched Francis on the arm. “He fell?” She asked looking up at the narrow balcony that encircled the room.

Francis shrugged. “I don’t know. He must have.”

“EVERYONE,
go back to your seats,” Francis commanded the crowd that had gathered around the body. He stuffed his cell phone back in his pocket. “An ambulance is on the way.”

A fussy-looking man in a dark suit and shiny black hair in a comb-over hastened to where Francis was standing.

“Must be the hotel manager,” Brian said, as he put his arm around Emma’s waist and began to steer her away from the scene. “I imagine he’ll know what to do.”

People continued to mill around, the men shaking their heads, the women uttering small cries of dismay, until several waiters bustled over and formed a ring around Hugh’s fallen body. Discouraged, the guests drifted back toward their tables. Emma heard a stout woman in an emerald gown ask her companion whether or not he thought they would still be served dessert.

It was surely not the finale poor Hugh had been anticipating. Emma shivered, and Brian tightened his arm around her.

Their table had been cleared of the dirty plates and used silverware and set with cups and saucers and dessert forks and spoons. Emma and Brian slid into their seats. The Jaspers were still milling in the crowd somewhere.

“Where is Arabella?” Emma looked at her aunt’s empty seat.

Brian shrugged. “I saw her leave during the fireworks, but that was quite a while ago. I imagine she’s gone to the restroom. You ladies always take so long in there.” He grinned at Emma.

Emma gave the ghost of a smile before turning serious again. “Do you think I should go look for her? Perhaps she’s been taken ill or something.”

“I’m sure she’ll be along any minute, but if it would make you feel better . . . ”

Emma was about to get up when she noticed Arabella crossing the ballroom toward them. She sat back down with a feeling of relief.

“Arabella,” Emma said as soon as her aunt reached their table, “we were worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“Where were you?”

“Where was I?” Arabella looked flustered. Her hands fluttered around her face, which, Emma noticed, was suddenly drained of color.

Just then the Jaspers returned to their seats.

“This is horrible,” John said as he collapsed into his chair. “We were just getting to know Hugh—had dinner with him and Mariel only last week. It’s hard to believe.”

Lara nodded her head in confirmation, and put her hand over her husband’s.

“Poor Mariel must be devastated.” He shuddered. “And the kids. I hope they didn’t have to see their father . . . just lying there like that.”

“Children?” Arabella said. “We met the one daughter, Joy.”

“Yes.” John shook his head vigorously. “There’s Joy, of course. Her mother died in the accident that . . . that . . . left her crippled.”

“Was that Elizabeth?” Arabella asked.

John shrugged and wiped a hand across his brow. Emma noticed Lara’s hand tighten on his. “I don’t know. He didn’t mention her name. There’s also the boy, of course—Jackson. Although I don’t suppose I can call him a boy.” He gave a loud guffaw. “Shows how old I’m getting.” He glanced at Lara and she gave him a tolerant-looking smile. “He’s already twenty-five, following in his father’s footsteps in the business. He played an aggressive game of lacrosse for UT for a bit, but college wasn’t for him. It doesn’t suit everyone.” He glanced around the table as if seeking confirmation. “He’s working hand in hand with his father. He’s got quite an eye, too. I wonder what will happen now . . .” he trailed off.

A waiter appeared at their table with a tray of plated desserts. He slid a piece of chocolate volcano cake in front of each of them while another waiter circled the table pouring steaming-hot coffee into their cups.

John gave a nervous laugh and gestured at his dessert. “The show must go on, eh?” He picked up his fork.

Emma pushed her plate away. The cake looked delicious, but she had lost her appetite. She noticed that Arabella left hers untouched as well. She turned to her aunt.

“Arabella, would you like us to take you home? You’re looking rather . . . tired.” Emma chose her words with care. Her aunt didn’t like to be reminded of her age.

“That would be lovely, dear, but do you suppose they will let us go?”

“I don’t see why not.” Brian took the last bite of his cake. “It was just a terrible accident.”

Emma nodded. “And we didn’t see anything, so there isn’t much we can tell anyone.”

They heard the shrill sound of sirens in the distance. The wail got louder and louder until it ended abruptly in a whimper.

“Sounds like the ambulance is here,” Brian said, turning toward the entrance.

Several minutes later, a man and a woman in black pants and crisp, short-sleeved white shirts rushed in carrying red emergency kits. Emma couldn’t see what they were doing, and she was grateful. She tried to keep the conversation going, to help take Arabella’s mind off of what was happening, but Brian and John answered every gambit with monosyllables, and Lara didn’t contribute a word.

A waiter was pouring second cups of coffee when several more sirens could be heard approaching the front entrance of the hotel.

“Hopefully, we’ll be able to go home soon,” Brian whispered to Emma. He yawned. “Sorry, but it’s been a long day. I was on a job early this morning. The owners want the place done ASAP, so we’re working six days a week.”

“I wonder where Francis is?” Arabella fiddled with the napkin in her lap. She stood up suddenly and looked around. “I do wish he would come back.”

“Can you see him?” Emma got to her feet as well.

Arabella shook her head. “Unfortunately not. There’s still a crowd gathered around the—around Hugh.”

Emma glanced in the direction of the balcony. The emergency medical technicians had been joined by several uniformed policemen. She thought she caught a glimpse of Francis’s dark hair among them, but she wasn’t sure.

Emma sat down and was finishing her second cup of tea when she looked up to see Francis striding toward their table.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, kissing Arabella on the check. “The hotel manager proved useless in handling the situation so I felt I needed to stick around and get things under control. The local team is finally here. I don’t want to appear to be stepping on their toes.”

“Does that mean we can go?” Arabella asked hopefully, gathering up her purse and shawl.

“I’m afraid not. The police will want to question us. Or at least take our names and contact information.”

“But why?” Arabella said somewhat petulantly. “It was just a terrible accident. We can’t tell them anything.”

Emma noticed that Arabella’s hands were shaking. Her face was really white now, and she seemed smaller, as if she had shrunk.

“Surely, you can convince them to let Arabella go,” Emma said to Francis. “This has obviously been very difficult for her.”

“I know.” Francis took one of Arabella’s hands in his. “You’re freezing,” he said, his black brows drawn together in concern. He took both her hands in his and began to rub them.

“But if it’s an accident, I don’t see why they need to talk to us,” Brian said.

“It’s still a sudden death,” Francis explained. “We don’t know that he wasn’t pushed.”

Arabella gasped. “But surely you don’t mean that. Who would do such a thing?”

“I’m not saying that someone did.” Francis put an arm around Arabella, who had started to shake. “But there will have to be an investigation. It’s just routine when there’s an accidental death like this.”

“I do hope they hurry up.” Arabella’s lower lip quivered.

Just then, a uniformed policeman approached their table. “If I could get your names and contact information,” he asked politely, his pen poised above a pad of paper.

“Finally!” Arabella exclaimed.

• • •

EMMA
slept late on Sunday. It had been after midnight by the time they’d left the Beau, and, as tired as she had been, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep right away—especially not after a brisk walk in the chilly night air with Bette, who had been waiting not so patiently for Emma’s return. In the end, she had stayed up watching reruns of
Friends
until two o’clock in the morning.

Bette was exceptionally playful on her morning walk although Emma wasn’t so sure who was walking whom as Bette dragged Emma down Washington Street past all the darkened and shuttered shops. She spent a good five minutes sniffing a trash container before Emma urged her along.

As soon as she got back to her apartment above Sweet Nothings, Emma reached for her phone to call Arabella, but then just as quickly put it down again. Her aunt would insist she was fine no matter what. Emma would drive over to Arabella’s instead and see for herself.

Emma bustled Bette into the car and headed out. Fortunately, Bette loved car rides and was always eager to tag along.

There were dark circles under Arabella’s eyes when she answered the front door, and her normally fastidious white hair was stuck on top of her head in a haphazard bun.

“Who’s that, dear?” Emma heard Francis call from the back of the house.

“It’s me,” Emma said as she followed Arabella out to the kitchen. She dumped her purse on one of the kitchen chairs and slipped off her coat, watching in amusement as Bette tried to cajole Pierre into playing. Woken from a nap lying in the warmth of the air blowing from the heating vent, Pierre was not amused.

“I’ve got some of that green tea you like.” Arabella rummaged in the pantry and came out holding an unopened box. The maneuver had unmoored her bun further, sending it slipping to just above her right ear. “If you’ll put the kettle on.”

Emma turned on the tap and swung the red enamel teakettle under the faucet and filled it.

“I picked up some croissants from Kroger’s.” Francis indicated a plate on the table. “And there’s some honey we bought at a local farm.”

“You have to try the honey,” Arabella said as she wrestled with the plastic wrapping on the box of tea. “You can actually taste the flowers and clover in it.”

Francis had the Sunday
Post-Intelligencer
spread open on the table, and his nearly empty coffee cup sat companionably next to Arabella’s. Emma suddenly felt as if she was intruding. She should have realized that Francis would have headed to her aunt’s first thing in the morning to check on her.

The kettle whistled, and Emma poured the hot water into the mug Arabella handed her. She added a tea bag from the box Arabella had finally managed to open and dunked it several times, sliding into a seat opposite Arabella and Francis.

“Last night certainly didn’t turn out as we expected, did it?” Arabella said, buttering a piece of her croissant. “I imagine with Hugh dead, there won’t be much of anything left for the TBI to investigate.” She turned toward Francis.

“Not necessarily. We know he has a partner, Tom Roberts, who will probably take over.”

“Did we meet this Mr. Roberts last night?” Arabella paused with a spoon of honey over her croissant.

Francis shook his head. “No. You might have noticed his wife though. A very beautiful woman, rather exotic, with dark hair. She was wearing an orange dress.”

“Tangerine,” Arabella corrected him. “Isn’t that what you’d call it?” she asked Emma.

“Yes. It sounds better than orange.”

“Looks the same to me,” Francis grumbled as he turned the page in his newspaper.

“I think I remember seeing her. You’re right. She is very beautiful. And she was the only woman there wearing that color.” Emma blew on her hot tea.

“Yes, I think I remember her, too,” Arabella nibbled on the end of her croissant. “Do you suppose the son knows what his father was up to? John said he had gone into the art business with Hugh.”

“Probably,” Francis said, taking the last sip of his coffee. He reached for the pot and helped himself to another cup. “But I doubt he’ll tell us.” He smiled.

“I should imagine you’re right.”

Emma was reaching for a croissant when the doorbell rang. This time Pierre and Bette were in tandem as they began a fit of barking and headed immediately toward the front door.

“Who on earth could that be?” Arabella wrinkled her brow. She wiped her hands on her napkin and pushed back her chair.

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to get it?”

“Perhaps you’d better.” Arabella sat down again.

Emma and Arabella listened as Francis made his way down the hall. “Quiet, you two,” they heard him call to the dogs. Then there was the sound of the front door opening.

Voices drifted toward the kitchen.

“Can you hear who it is?” Arabella kneaded the napkin in her lap.

“No. I think it’s a man.” Emma closed her eyes trying to make out the words coming from the hallway.

They heard footsteps heading toward the kitchen, and Arabella sat up straighter, putting a hand up to tidy her bun. “I must look a wreck,” she murmured as she struggled with a hairpin. “I can’t imagine who it is at this time of day. Everyone in town is probably in church.”

They looked up to see a man silhouetted in the door to the kitchen. Emma recognized him right away as Detective Bradley Walker of the Paris, Tennessee, police department.