A Fatal Slip (5 page)

Arabella got to her feet. “What can I do for you?” Her voice quavered slightly on the last words, and Emma looked at her in alarm.

“Ms. Arabella Andrews?” Walker asked.

“Yes.” Arabella put a hand to her throat and fiddled with the collar of her blouse.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Please come in and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

She gestured toward the pot sitting on the table.

“That’s very kind of you, but no, thank you.” Walker’s eyes met Emma’s, and he smiled.

Walker was all Southern gentleman with dark hair and dark eyes. Emma had met him before, and he had made it quite plain he found her attractive. The look in his eyes said he still did.

Francis went to stand behind Arabella, his hands on her shoulders. She glanced up at him, a frightened look in her eyes. Walker perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on his knee.

“I understand you were at the party last night given by Mr. Hugh Granger.”

Arabella nodded curtly.

“I also understand”—he consulted his notes—“that you are an old friend of Mr. Granger’s.”

Arabella nodded again. “That’s true. Although we haven’t been in communication for years,” she clarified. “There were plenty of people at the party who knew him much better than I.”

Walker nodded and jotted something in his notebook.

“But you were invited to the party.” It was a statement not a question.

“Hugh and I did an admirable job of avoiding each other for close to forty years,” Arabella said somewhat sharply, “when he suddenly appeared at my lingerie shop the other night.”

Walker raised a thick dark brow. “Avoiding each other? Why?”

Arabella took a deep breath. “If you must know, in our youth we had a romantic liaison that ended badly.” She clamped her lips together.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but why all these questions?” Francis interjected in his most authoritative voice. “The man fell from the balcony. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Walker looked up slowly. “It wasn’t an accident. When we turned the body over, we discovered a bullet wound. He had been shot.”

“What!” Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth.

Walker nodded. “It was murder.”

EMMA,
Arabella and Francis sat in stunned silence.

“What do you mean he was shot?” Arabella asked.

Walker looked up from his notebook again. He ignored Arabella’s question. “Do you own a gun, ma’am?”

“A gun? Me? Absolutely not. What on earth would I do with a gun?”

“It appears that Mr. Granger was shot during the fireworks. That would explain why no one heard the report from the revolver. Can you tell me where you were during that time?”

Two bright spots of color had appeared on Arabella’s cheeks. She raised her chin, and her precariously seated bun wobbled threateningly. “I was outside with Francis and Emma and Emma’s friend Brian,” she said with a defensive edge to her voice. “I’ve seen plenty of fireworks in my day. Once even in Paris, France, over the Eiffel Tower with Hugh . . .” A faraway look crossed Arabella’s face, and she shook herself abruptly. “All that to say, that I decided not to stay and watch but to go inside to . . . to powder my nose.”

“Did you see anyone? Did anyone see you?” Walker didn’t look up this time, all his concentration on his notebook.

“Well I suppose I saw lots of people, but I didn’t know anyone else at the party so I can hardly give you their names.”

“How about in the ladies’ room? Was there anyone in there with you? Can you describe them?”

Arabella gave a hiss of impatience. “I was alone. Everyone was on the patio or by the French doors watching the fireworks.”

Walker slapped his notebook shut. “Thank you for your time, Ms. Andrews. I’m sorry to have disturbed your Sunday morning.” He gestured toward the coffee and croissants on the table.

Francis dropped his hands from Arabella’s shoulders. “I’ll see you out.”

Pierre and Bette scrambled to their feet and followed the men out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

Emma and Arabella were quiet while they waited for Francis to return.

“He almost sounded as if he suspected me,” Arabella said as soon as Francis had taken his seat again.

“I’m sure it’s just routine,” Francis said, but Emma thought the look on his face said something quite different.

“It’s very upsetting.” Arabella put her head in her hands.

“I’m sure we won’t hear another thing about it,” Francis said reassuringly as he put his arms around her.

• • •

WHEN
Emma got back to her apartment, she noticed that she had missed three calls on her cell phone. One was from her mother. Emma’s parents had retired to Pensacola, Florida, where her father was perfecting his golf game, and her mother, Arabella’s younger sister, was devoting much of her time to her ceramics, a hobby she had dabbled in before leaving Paris, but as the hospital administrator of the Henry County Medical Center, hadn’t had much time for.

She dialed her parents’ number in Florida but got their voice mail so she left a message.

The second call was from Brian checking up on her and making sure she was okay. Emma smiled as she listened to the message.

The third call was from Liz, who was home when Emma dialed her. Liz was Emma’s oldest friend and Brian’s younger sister.

Liz sounded happy to hear from her. “I can’t wait to get the lowdown on your big night at the dinner dance. Did I tell you, I’m doing some work for Hugh Granger?”

“No,” Emma answered warily. She doubted Liz had heard the news of Hugh’s death yet. It obviously hadn’t made the Sunday papers.

“He’s hired me to create a web site for his art business. I can’t believe he’s been operating without one this long. I gather his son—what’s his name?—Jackson, I think, convinced him that it was time to enter the twenty-first century. Plus I’ll be taking pictures of a lot of the works so we can have them on the web.” Liz took a breath. “But I’m rambling on when I want to hear all about your evening.”

Emma didn’t know where to begin. The end seemed the logical place. “It would have been wonderful, but there was a terrible accident.” Even as she said the word
accident
, she realized it was the wrong word. Detective Walker had called it “murder.”

“Oh no, what happened? Is everyone okay? Arabella?”

“Arabella is fine.” But even as she said it, Emma wondered if that was really true. “We had dinner and then afterward there were fireworks. When we came back in from the patio we found Hugh’s . . . body . . . on the floor. It appeared he’d fallen from the balcony that encircles the ballroom.”

Liz gasped. “But that’s terrible. Was he—”

“Yes,” Emma said. “But that’s not the worst of it. Detective Walker stopped by Aunt Arabella’s house this morning and said that before he fell he’d been . . . shot.”

Stunned silence came over the line.

“And worse than that”—Emma swallowed hard and cleared her throat—“he seemed to insinuate that he thought Arabella had had something to do with it.”

“Arabella? Why on earth would he think that?”

Emma hesitated. She wasn’t sure Arabella wanted the world to know about her romance with Hugh. But Liz was Liz. Surely Arabella wouldn’t mind. She explained as succinctly as possible about Arabella and Hugh’s relationship and how he’d practically left her at the altar.

“The cad!” Liz exclaimed. “I wouldn’t blame Arabella one bit. Not that I think she had anything whatsoever to do with it.”

“I know.” Emma paced up and down her small living room. “I just hope Detective Walker will believe that.”

• • •

ARABELLA
was still pale when she arrived at Sweet Nothings on Monday morning.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Sylvia said when Arabella walked in a little later than usual.

“Yes, you do.” Emma said, biting her lower lip. She was becoming more and more concerned about her aunt. This kind of stress couldn’t be good for her.

Arabella pinched both her cheeks with her fingers, turning them pink. “There, does that satisfy the two of you?”

They laughed. Pierre scampered off to his dog bed for the first of many naps. Emma had arrived at the shop early, and Bette had had her fill of exploring and was already asleep in her crate.

“You’ll never guess who called me last night.” Arabella looked at Emma.

“Who?” Emma was straightening the contents of one of the armoires.

“Your mother.”

Her tone of voice made Emma spin around.

“She’s coming for a visit,” Arabella announced.

“When?” Emma asked, realizing that her mother hadn’t called her back the previous evening.

Arabella glanced at her watch. “In about eight hours. She ought to arrive around six o’clock. She said she was getting an early start, but what with stopping and traffic, it will probably take longer than the nine hours’ travel time she’s anticipating.”

“Tonight?” Emma squeaked.

“Yes.”

“But why . . . she didn’t say anything about—”

“Apparently, she’s worried about me.” Arabella’s voice broke.

Sylvia looked up sharply. “Is something wrong? Is there something you haven’t told me?”

Just then the bell over the front door jingled, and they all snapped to attention as a well-preserved blonde on the wrong side of forty walked into the shop. She sported a pair of diamond stud earrings the size of headlights; it was obvious she had money to spend.

“Can I help you?” Arabella gave the woman her most professional smile, her head tilted slightly to one said, her whole countenance inviting the woman to spill her innermost secrets.

The woman batted her enormous fake eyelashes at Arabella. “I need a little something that will get my husband”—she lowered her lashes shyly—“you know . . . going again?”

Arabella patted the woman’s arm comfortingly. “Now, now,” she said as she led her to one of the cupboards. “I’m sure we have just the thing to put the, er, fire back in your relationship.” She smiled at their new customer. “You’re a very beautiful woman, you know. You have a splendid figure. Just a little icing on the cake is all you need.”

The woman threw back her shoulders and preened like a peacock.

Arabella opened the cupboard and began clicking through the hangers. She pulled out a garment and hung it from a hook on the door.

“The baby doll nightgown has been the staple of the seductive woman’s wardrobe for decades.” Arabella waved a hand in front of the negligee, a chiffon peach confection with chocolate lace trim. “This is from the late 1950s, and was made by Glyndons of Hollywood. It is unusual in that it comes with a matching peignoir.” Arabella waved another garment in front of the woman like a conjurer performing a magic trick.

Even from across the room, Emma could see the woman’s eyes light up. It looked as if the sale was in the bag.

Sylvia sidled up next to Emma and whispered to her. “So what’s up with your aunt?”

Emma explained about the dinner dance, Hugh’s death and the visit from Detective Walker. Sylvia’s mouth set more firmly with each word Emma spoke.

“There’s no way anyone is hanging this on your aunt. No way.” Her voice rose, and Arabella shot her a warning look. “No way,” Sylvia whispered a final time for emphasis.

Emma picked at a piece of loose cuticle. “I’m a little worried though. Arabella seemed . . . confused . . . about where she’d been at the time of the murder. She said she went to the ladies’ room, but claims she was alone. Something about it just didn’t ring true.”

“Seriously?” Sylvia frowned. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and rubbed at a smudge on the glass case.

“Don’t get me wrong. I know my aunt had nothing to do with Hugh’s death. But I do think she’s hiding something.” Emma sighed. “I just don’t know what it is.”

“Maybe she’ll spill the beans to her sister while she’s here.”

Emma pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Arabella and Priscilla don’t always see eye to eye. Mother has never really approved of Arabella.”

“Why on earth not? Your aunt is a marvelous woman.”

“Mother is just very . . . different. While Arabella was traveling around the world, my mother spent her trust fund on college. She had her whole life mapped out from the time she was twenty—she graduated from UT a year early, married my father, had me—more than one child might have interfered with her work. So far, everything has gone according to her plan. Her career goals were met right on schedule, she retired at sixty as she had intended and now she’s concentrating on her other passion, ceramics.”

“But you know what they say: blood is thicker than water.”

“Oh, you’re absolutely right. Arabella and Mother may not be close, but they are sisters. That doesn’t mean, however, that there aren’t going to be fireworks of a very different sort when she gets here.”