A Fatal Slip (6 page)

PROMPTLY
at five o’clock, Emma closed the door to Sweet Nothings behind their last customer and flipped the
open
sign to
closed
. Her mother was due to arrive in Paris shortly. She was heading straight to Arabella’s house, where she would be staying in the guest room.

Emma slipped on her coat and took Bette for a quick sprint around the block, then they both dashed up the stairs to Emma’s apartment. She wanted to wash her face and hands and run a comb through her hair before going to Arabella’s. She hadn’t seen either of her parents in over a year. She was sorry her father had decided not to come along, but apparently he was playing in a golf tournament he didn’t want to miss.

The last time Emma had seen her parents had been in New York, when they visited her there. Her mother had complained about the dirt, the noise and the cost of their hotel, but they had enjoyed the restaurants and several Broadway shows.

Emma tipped some food into Bette’s bowl and refreshed her water. Bette gobbled down her dinner, and by the time Emma had turned on the tap in the bathroom, was sound asleep on the fluffy throw rug in front of the bathtub.

Emma freshened her makeup, ran some product through her hair to revive it and changed her black pants for a pair of skinny jeans and her leather boots for some ballet flats.

“Come on, Bette, we’re going to Pierre’s house.”

In one swift movement, Bette rolled from her back to her feet and galloped toward the front door as if she hadn’t just been sound asleep. Emma wished she could wake up that quickly—instead it took her fifteen minutes of yoga stretches, a hot shower and at least one cup of green tea to join the living every morning.

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash, and they bounded downstairs to her VW Beetle.

Arabella’s driveway was empty when Emma got there. Emma was relieved that her mother hadn’t yet arrived; she wanted to be there to greet her. Pierre was already by the front door barking when Emma mounted the front steps. The front door was open, as usual. No amount of warnings was able to persuade Arabella that times had changed and she ought to keep the house locked up.

Her aunt was nowhere to be seen when Emma entered, but familiar noises were coming from the kitchen. “I’m here,” she called out, bending down to unsnap Bette’s leash. Untethered, Bette made a beeline for the kitchen, rounding the corner on her two left paws. Emma followed at a more sedate pace.

Arabella was at the kitchen counter. She had a platter of cut-up chicken pieces in front of her and a paper bag that Emma knew was filled with flour and the spices that Arabella put into her fried chicken. Arabella was as secretive as the Colonel about what went into her special recipe. According to her, it had been handed down verbally from generation to generation. It would be passed to Emma when she married.

Emma kissed her aunt on the cheek and opened the refrigerator, where she knew a pitcher of sweet tea would be waiting.

“Oooh, you’ve made your chess pie,” she said, closing the door and opening the cupboard where the glasses were kept.

“It’s not every day my younger sister comes to visit.” Arabella dropped a chicken leg into the paper bag and began to shake it. “Although what all the fuss is about, I don’t know. I’m perfectly all right.”

“You know how Mom is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”

“Do I ever,” Arabella exclaimed. “Sometimes I think she ought to have been the older sibling, not me.”

Emma thought Arabella was looking considerably better—she was less pale and the sparkle had returned to her blue eyes.

Emma was setting the table when the doorbell rang. Pierre and Bette launched themselves onto their feet and skidded together down the long front hall. Arabella dried her hands on her apron and scurried after them.

“Priscilla,” Emma heard her aunt say as Emma rounded the corner to the front hall.

Despite more than eight hours of car travel, Emma’s mother’s blond hair looked as if she had just left the salon, her makeup was perfect and her clothes were as fresh as they had no doubt been when she’d left that morning. Emma thought of all the car trips she’d taken where they were barely out of the state before she’d dribbled a blob of ketchup from a fast food hamburger on her top or had a grease stain on her pants from a dropped French fry. Her mother was as slim as ever in a pair of perfectly creased khakis, white blouse and brown leather driving shoes.

“Emma,” Priscilla called, holding her arms out.

Emma hugged her mother while Priscilla offered her cheek for a kiss.

“So good to see you, darling. It’s been too long.” She stood back and held Emma at arm’s length. “Are you going to leave your hair like that? Men don’t like women with such short hair, you know.”

“I think she looks adorable,” Arabella said, rolling her eyes behind her sister’s back.

“How was your trip?” Emma asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Rather tedious, I’m afraid. I hit a patch of bad weather outside of Birmingham, which slowed me down. Very annoying.”

“I imagine you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ve put you in the guest room at the back of the second floor.”

“Wonderful,” Priscilla cooed. “Last time you had me in the front and the traffic kept me up nearly all night.”

Emma and Arabella looked at each other. The only sounds Emma had ever heard at Arabella’s at night were the chirping of crickets and the sighing of the wind in the tree branches.

Priscilla grasped her rolling bag by the handle and headed toward the stairs.

“Do you want me to help you with that?” Emma asked.

“Of course not. I can manage.”

Emma and Arabella retreated to the kitchen where they could hear the thump of the wheels as Priscilla bumped the suitcase up the stairs.

“Some things never change,” Arabella said as she placed the last of the chicken pieces in the bag and shook it.

Emma laughed. Arabella was right.

Arabella poured oil into a pan on the stove and hesitated, her hand on the burner. She looked over her shoulder at Emma. “This is the part I hate.”

Emma knew exactly what she meant. It had been a pan of oil that had started the fire that had nearly destroyed Arabella’s kitchen.

Arabella finally turned the burner, and the flame sprang to life. A few minutes later, she began adding the chicken pieces, one by one, to the pan.

Light footsteps sounded down the hall, and Priscilla reappeared with Pierre and Bette right on her heels. She’d exchanged her blouse for a cream-colored sweater.

Priscilla bent and scratched Pierre behind the ear. “You’ve put on some weight haven’t you, darling.”

Emma noticed Arabella bristle slightly.

“And who is this?” Priscilla held out a hand toward Bette, who approached her with unusual caution.

“That’s Bette. She’s Pierre’s puppy.”

Priscilla studied Bette, her head tilted to one side. “I see elements of Pierre—certainly the ears—but she’s obviously not a French bulldog.”

“Pierre had a”—Arabella cleared her throat—“liaison with a dachshund.”

“Pierre, you scamp. I’m surprised you allowed it, Arabella.”

“I didn’t,” Arabella said, frowning.

Again, Emma thought it might be best if she changed the subject. She glanced at her mother. “I thought you would be tanner.”

“You should see your father! I keep telling him sunscreen, sunscreen, but he doesn’t listen. And he’s out on that golf course all day. Well, no matter. It gives me time for my ceramics.”

Emma noticed a strange look cross her mother’s face.

“How is that going?” Arabella turned away from the stove briefly.

“Very well. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m having a showing at the Belmont Arts and Cultural Center in May.”

“That’s wonderful. You’ll have to send me some pictures,” Emma said.

“There’s a small arts and crafts store over on Market Street,” Arabella said, swiping at her nose and leaving it dusted with flour. “You might put some of your pieces up for consignment.”

“I hardly think of my work as
arts and crafts
.” Priscilla walked over to the stove, where the chicken was now spitting and crackling in the pan. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, this will be a treat. I love your fried chicken, Arabella. Mine never comes out quite as flavorful and crisp as yours.”

Arabella’s face glowed with pleasure. She removed the chicken pieces from the pot and placed them on a white platter.

“Emma, if you could put this on the table . . .” She handed Emma the dish, then opened the oven and took out a cast iron pan of cornbread and a green bean casserole.

Finally, everything was on the table, and they were all seated around it.

Emma looked from her mother to her aunt and back again. There was a slight resemblance—the vivid blue eyes and the shape of the nose—but otherwise they were as unalike as two sisters could be.

“So tell me about this murder of yours, Arabella. You two have been getting up to some awfully unsavory things.”

Arabella bristled again. “What on earth do you mean by that?” Arabella said.

“You told me that you actually had a detective here, questioning you. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Priscilla took a bite of her chicken. “Mmm, you do make the most divine fried chicken.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “But I don’t understand why the police questioned
you
, Arabella. The wife is always the logical suspect, isn’t she?”

Emma stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “She certainly is, in books and the movies.”

“Actually, it’s a fact.” Priscilla put down her fork and swiveled in her chair to face Emma. “I’ve read studies that show the spouse is usually the culprit when someone has been murdered.” She waved a hand. “I forget the percentage but it’s quite high.” She picked up her fork again and pointed it at Emma and then at Arabella. “So what do you know about the wife of this Hugh Granger?”

Emma and Arabella shrugged in unison.

“Almost nothing,” Emma answered.

“Very little,” Arabella said at almost the same time.

“Her name is Mariel,” Arabella said. “She looks to be a good twenty years younger than Hugh. They’ve been married quite a while—their son, Jackson, is in his early twenties.”

“Well,” Priscilla said in a very chipper tone of voice. “We’ll just have to get some more information on her then.” She looked from Emma to Arabella and back again. “It will be fun.”

Arabella rolled her eyes as she picked up the empty dishes and stacked them on the counter. “Why don’t you two go on into the living room. We can have our pie and coffee in there.”

Priscilla put her napkin on the table and stood up. Emma followed suit and walked with her mother down the hallway to the living room.

Priscilla settled herself in an armless chair, back straight, knees together and legs tucked to the side. Emma sat on the couch and tucked one leg underneath her, causing her mother’s eyebrows to draw together slightly and her lips to pucker almost imperceptibly.

“Now that I’m here,” Priscilla said, “I’d love to know what your plans are.”

“Plans?”

“Yes. For the future. You can’t leave things to chance.”

Emma stared at her mother blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t stay here running Arabella’s dusty old lingerie shop forever.”

Emma’s lips tightened. “It’s not dusty. We’ve redone the whole shop. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

“But there’s nothing
here
for you. I was lucky that my career allowed me to advance at the hospital, and of course your father had his law practice. But I can’t imagine what kind of career you could forge in such a small town.”

Emma thought of Brian but bit her lip.

Before Priscilla could say anything more, Arabella came back into the room with the chess pie and a stack of plates. Emma breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, chess pie,” Priscilla exclaimed. “Arabella, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Arabella looked slightly mollified as she passed around plates.

“You know,” Emma said suddenly, “I talked to Liz.” She turned to Priscilla, “You remember Liz O’Connell, don’t you? She’s Liz Banning now.”

Priscilla nodded. “You two were inseparable. How is Liz?”

“She’s fine. She has a boy and a girl—Alice and Ben.”

“Yes, I remember you were asked to be the little girl’s godmother, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “But get this, before he died, Hugh Granger hired her to design a web site for his art business.”

“That’s wonderful,” Priscilla declared. “You’ll have someone right on the spot, so to speak.”

“She’s not sure what the status of the project is now that he’s dead. We’re hoping the son will want to continue with the web site.”

“Let’s hope he does. It will give Liz a chance to keep her ear to the ground.” Priscilla rubbed her hands together. “We can’t let that detective continue thinking that your aunt is a murderess.”

• • •

EMMA
lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Her mother’s words echoed nonstop in her head. What did the future hold for her? She’d abruptly left her big-city, New York life behind when she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. It seemed perfect that Arabella needed help renovating Sweet Nothings. The shop had been dying . . . now it was thriving. And Emma’s broken heart had not only healed, but she’d found a new love in Brian.