A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 10




“WELL that was something,” Liz whispered when she and Emma were back in the kitchen, their eavesdropping undetected. They both leaned against the island, panting slightly from their sudden dash.

Emma looked over her shoulder just in case Mariel was headed their way, but she must have gone off somewhere else in the house. “Yes, I find it very interesting that she refuses say where she was when Hugh was killed—especially since it would give her an alibi. Of course, it’s also quite possible she murdered her husband and then slipped away before the body was discovered.”

“Or”—Liz helped herself to one of the iced lemon cookies from the ceramic jar on the counter—“she didn’t murder him, but still can’t say where she went.” She leaned on her elbows and took a bite of her cookie. “She can’t say because she was with someone she shouldn’t have been—for instance, that dark-haired man we saw her with in the garden yesterday.”

Emma wasn’t convinced. “But this is murder. Wouldn’t you want to clear your name no matter what the consequences?”

“You’re forgetting that Paris is still a very small town,” Liz said, echoing Arabella’s earlier words. “I would imagine until the estate is settled, she doesn’t want anyone to know she was playing around. No gossip, no tongues wagging, no being the subject of back-fence chatter. If for some reason, someone decided to contest the will, why give him any ammunition?”

Emma took a sip of her tea, which was now barely lukewarm. She popped the cup into the microwave and hit the Start button. Sixty seconds later the timer pinged. Emma was retrieving it when Joy walked into the room.

“Oh,” she said, looking slightly flustered at the sight of Emma and Liz.

“Sorry,” Emma and Liz chorused. “We don’t want to get in your way. We’re just getting something to drink.”

“Please, help yourselves.” Joy waved a hand toward the provisions set out on the counter. Her face was still flushed from the outdoors, her cheeks pink and her eyes bright. She opened the refrigerator and pulled out a pitcher of sweet tea. She smiled shyly at Emma and Liz. “Riding always makes me thirsty,” she said, filling a tall glass to the brim. “Would you like some?”

Emma and Liz shook their heads. The house was always slightly chilly, and Emma was grateful for the warmth of the cup in her hands.

“I saw you riding earlier.” Emma tested her tea. It was now too hot so she blew on it briefly, sending ripples across the surface like tiny waves. “I’m always impressed when someone can ride well. I’ve never gotten the hang of it myself.”

Joy’s plain face flushed with pleasure, and Emma realized Joy was pretty. It was her habitual expression of bitterness that obscured the beauty of her large blue eyes, fine cheekbones and chiseled nose.

“I love riding,” Joy said. “My mother had me on a horse by the time I was three years old. I still remember his name—Maximillian. Mother was an expert horsewoman herself.” She dashed at the tears that had formed in her eyes. “That was before . . .” She gestured toward her leg. “On a horse, I can forget that I’m . . . crippled.” Bitterness twisted her mouth, and the flash of beauty Emma had noticed earlier faded like the setting sun.

Joy turned her back to them and fiddled with the top to the cookie jar. “When I’m riding, the horse becomes my legs, and I can move like the wind, unhampered and . . . free,” she said slightly breathlessly. She spun around. “You have no idea how tiresome it is to drag this thing”—she held out her leg—“around all the time.”

Joy took a long swallow of her tea and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Riding has many therapeutic properties—it’s not just for cripples.” Again the bitter half smile, which didn’t reach her blue eyes. “Disabilities come in all flavors. It’s beneficial for autistic children, those with learning disabilities or with mental health issues.” She ducked her head. “Sorry; I’ll get off my soap box now.”

“No, that’s very interesting,” Emma said and meant it.

“I’d love to start a therapeutic horseback riding program here at the farm.” She shrugged. “It costs a lot of money though. Teachers have to be certified, the horses have to be trained. As I said”—she rubbed two fingers together—“it’s expensive.”

“It’s such a worthwhile project though,” Emma said.

“Yeah, well, tell that to the judge,” Joy said enigmatically. She picked up her glass of iced tea and headed toward the door. “Please help yourselves to anything you want. I know Molly keeps the fridge well stocked,” she called over her shoulder.

Emma and Liz looked at each other for a moment after she was gone.

“She’s a very odd girl,” Liz said, taking the last sip of her coffee. She rinsed the cup and started to open the dishwasher.


“Oh, please, let me do that for you.” Molly bustled into the room, a plain white apron already tied around her waist.

“Thanks.” Liz put the cup and saucer down by the sink.

“Did you find everything you need?” Molly asked. She picked up a sponge and began wiping down the counter. Her hands were small but capable-looking, with short square nails.

“Yes,” Emma and Liz chorused.

“How long have you been working for the Grangers?” Emma asked.

Molly frowned and put her hands on her hips. She blew out a gust of breath that sent the fine gray hairs around her forehead flying. “Oh, it’s been a long time, I can tell you that. How many years though, I’m afraid I’ve forgotten. Can you believe it?” She chuckled. “I was here when Miss Joy was born, that I know. I’ll never forget it; such a pretty baby, and so good, too. She hardly ever fussed, which was a wonderful thing because it was me and Miss Elizabeth alone with her most of the time. Mr. Granger was traveling all over the world, and Miss Joy went from crawling to walking while he was away. Sometimes he hardly recognized her when he got home.”

A frown crossed her face. “Some men don’t take to babies, and Mr. Granger was one of them. Which was a terribly sad thing when Miss Elizabeth died and Miss Joy had to spend all those months in the hospital, crying for her mother, while they did one surgery after another trying to fix her leg. They did the best they could.” Her lips snapped together briskly.

“It was different when Mr. Jackson came along. Mr. Granger doted on him something fierce. It’s made Miss Joy a little bitter, if you know what I mean. Not that anyone can blame her. Losing her mother like that, and with a father who took no interest whatsoever. When he married the second Mrs. Granger, I had hopes that she would be like a mother to Miss Joy, but they took an almost instant dislike to each other.”

Emma and Liz were quiet, not wanting to possibly staunch the flow of information.

“Recently, Mr. Granger had begun to make an effort. Maybe it was because he was getting on in years and knew his time was limited.” Molly gasped and put a hand to her mouth. “Not to say he knew what was coming. I didn’t mean that. May he rest in peace.”

Molly was quiet for a moment, and Liz and Emma waited with bated breath.

“He tried to take an interest in Miss Joy and what she was doing. It’s just too bad that . . .” Molly stopped abruptly and wrung her hands.

“Just too bad that what?” Emma asked in her most persuasive voice.

Emotions skittered across Molly’s face while Emma nearly stopped breathing.

Molly twisted her apron between her hands as if she were trying to wring it out. She gave a deep sigh. “It was right before the big party planned for Mr. Granger’s birthday on Saturday night. He and Miss Joy were in the library, talking. I brought them a tray with some sherry. It made me happy to see them sitting there together.”

She looked down at the floor, and Emma imagined she was picturing the scene.

She looked up, her eyes large and wet with tears. “I passed the library later on my way to turn down the beds for the night, knowing everyone would come back from the party too tired to do more than slip between the covers. I heard raised voices coming from the library—Mr. Granger’s deep voice bellowing out like the preacher’s in church at Sunday service, and Miss Joy’s louder than I’ve ever heard it.”

“What a shame,” Emma said. “What were they arguing about?”

Molly stuck her hands into the pockets of her apron, and Emma could see her clenching the fabric, her fingers curled into fists. “I don’t know. I didn’t stop to listen. I didn’t want to know.”

Molly dashed a hand across her eyes where the tears threatened to spill over the rims and cascade down her wrinkled cheeks. “It just makes me so sad, you know?” She looked from Emma to Liz.

Emma put on her most sympathetic look, and she could see that Liz was doing the same.

“I really thought that father and daughter were becoming close, and then this horrible argument on the night he died. I feel terrible for poor Miss Joy. Here the poor man’s gone to his grave, and her last conversation with him was filled with anger and strong language. Can you imagine how she must feel, the poor thing? The guilt must be eating her alive,” Molly finished with a final wrench of her apron.