A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 15




BRIAN was sitting up in bed when Emma got to the hospital later that evening. His leg was in a cast and had been propped on a pillow. A bedside tray with the remains of dinner was pushed to one side, and he had a paperback book splayed open on the bed beside him.

“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, his face lighting up as Emma entered the room.

She sat on the edge of his bed, and Brian gathered her into his arms. Emma put her head on his shoulder and tried not to let the tears that were pricking the backs of her eyelids escape. They stayed like that for several minutes.

“I’ve brought you some things,” Emma said, pulling away slightly. “I’ve got Monday’s Post-Intelligencer, the latest issue of Sports Illustrated”—she brandished the cover at him—“and some fresh fruit.”

“You’re here. That’s what I care about.” Brian gave her a big grin. “Tell me what’s going on. I hate being trapped here like this.” He pointed at his leg. “It’s very frustrating.”

“You’ll be up and around in no time, I’m sure.”

Brian laughed. “They had me on crutches today to practice. It’s not easy getting the hang of those things.” He pointed to the newspaper. “I feel so out of it—getting clonked on the head and losing a couple of days. Has anything happened in the Granger case? Do the police know who pushed Hugh Granger off the balcony at his own party?”

“No . . .”

“The way you said that doesn’t sound good.”

Emma sighed and Brian took her hand in his. A feeling of contentment washed over her. So what if Brian didn’t feel the same urge to travel that she did, or was beyond certain that he’d never grow tired of the small town they’d grown up in? Being with him was all that really mattered. Everything else could be worked out.

Emma wound a loose thread from her sweater around her finger. “Liz and I were convinced that Mariel Granger was guilty. After all, isn’t the spouse always the first one the police suspect?”

“It is in the movies.”

“She wouldn’t tell the police where she’d gone when she left the party, and that alone is suspicious.”

Brian raised an eyebrow, and Emma felt her face grow hot.

“Liz and I managed to . . . overhear . . . her conversation with Detective Walker. We think she may have had a rendezvous with her lover—twice Liz and I saw her meeting this Dr. Sampson. They looked very furtive.” Emma’s words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. “It seemed obvious there was more to their relationship than just doctor and patient.”

“Sampson?” Brian tilted his head to the side, thinking. “The name sounds familiar.” He drew his brows together. “Greg Sampson?”

“I don’t know his first name.”

“This was before you came back to Paris,” Brian said, easing himself up higher on his pillows.

“Do you need help . . .”

“No, I’m fine.” Brian settled down again with a slight grimace. “An old fraternity brother of mine did a number on his back playing a game of touch football at a family barbecue. He went to this Dr. Sampson, who recommended the usual stuff—heat then physical therapy followed by an exercise regimen, but he also gave my friend . . . Zack . . . something for the pain. Zack was really hurting so he was glad to have the pills. The only problem was that he became addicted to them. And this Dr. Sampson was more than willing to continue to write prescriptions long after Zack should have stopped taking the stuff. Finally Sampson was busted. It seems Zack wasn’t the only one getting pills from him. It was a three-day wonder in the newspaper. He lost his license for a while—obviously he’s gotten it back again.”

Emma was thinking, putting all the pieces together in her mind. “Mariel hurt her back after a fall from her horse. She made a big show of telling me how she didn’t want to take any painkillers because they could be addictive. What if she was lying and this Dr. Sampson is supplying her?”

“Sounds like you’ve hit the nail on the head. But you said she’s already been eliminated as a suspect.”

Emma nodded. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It does explain where she probably went the night of the party—to beg Sampson for another prescription. I remember when we got there that she looked rather . . . pained.”


Brian was fidgeting a bit, plucking at the bedcovers, and moving his head back and forth.

“Speaking of pain, are you okay?”

Brian gave a weak smile. “I think it’s time for my pain pills, and I’m not turning them down.” There was a slight sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.

“Do you want me to call the nurse?”

Brian shook his head. “I’ll be okay. She should be along any minute now anyway.” He picked up Emma’s hand again and squeezed it. “So, now tell me what’s bothering you.”

Emma was startled. How did Brian know?

“I can tell by the way your eyebrows are scrunched together—just a bit—that something is bothering you.”

Now Emma felt contentment seep down to her very core. Brian really got her. “Okay,” she admitted. “It’s Aunt Arabella.”

“No.” Brian struggled to sit upright. “Nothing’s happened to her, has it? Aside from you and Liz, she’s my most favorite lady.” He gave Emma a lopsided grin that segued into a grimace.

“She’s okay,” Emma reassured him, “physically anyway. It’s just that she’s been forgetting things, which is odd. And when Detective Walker asked her where she was during the fireworks the night of the Grangers’ party, she gave him three different answers.” Emma’s fingers found the loose thread on her sweater again, and she began wrapping it around her thumb. “That’s not like Arabella.”

“You’re right. That’s not.” Now Brian looked concerned. “Your aunt is usually so sharp. What are you going to do?”

“She’s agreed to make an appointment with Dr. Baker. He’s known her for ages. Hopefully he can figure out what’s wrong.”

“Let’s hope so.” Brian was silent for a moment. “But enough of all that. How about giving me a kiss?”

? ? ?



“DARLING, you’re looking a little . . .” Arabella paused, searching for the right word. “A little like a ragamuffin. Don’t you think it’s time to pay Angel a visit?”

Emma ran her hand through her short, dark hair, disheveling it even more. “I think you’re right. I’ve been putting it off. I’ve been so busy.”

“It’s quiet right now, and Sylvia ought to be along at any moment. Why don’t you call Angel and see if she has anything open?”

Emma was already pulling her cell from her purse. She punched in the number to Angel Cuts, Angel Roy’s hair salon. She clicked off the call with a smile. “She can squeeze me in now before her ten o’clock.”

“You go along then. I’ll be fine.”

Emma grabbed her purse, and Bette, who had been sleeping peacefully in a sunbeam, was suddenly at attention.

“I’m sorry, girl, I can’t bring you this time. You stay here with Pierre, okay?”

Pierre opened one eye and twitched his black ear before going back to sleep.

Emma pulled on her coat and gloves and said good-bye to Arabella. Sylvia was just pulling into the parking lot as she slipped out the front door—that made Emma feel better. After everything that had happened, she was a little nervous about leaving Arabella all alone for too long.

Tiny flakes of snow were falling as Emma walked down the sidewalk. She passed the Meat Mart, where Willie, the butcher, was waiting on a customer. Someone came out of the Taffy Pull and delicious smells wafted out with them. Sylvia used to have an apartment over the shop until her children thought it provident that she move to a retirement community. She had nearly burned the building down one time and flooded it another.

Emma pushed open the door to Angel Cuts and was assailed by the perfumed odor of hair spray mingled with the chemical smell of hair dyes. The girl at the reception desk looked up and smiled, motioning toward the sofa with her eyes.

“Emma?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Angel will be with you in a minute. Would you like some coffee, tea or water with lemon?”

Angel had really gone upscale, Emma thought. It hadn’t been that long since her last haircut, but Angel had replaced the standard-issue chairs with a plush sofa bedecked with cushions. New, framed art decorated the walls. The magazines that were normally strewn across a scarred wooden table were tucked into woven baskets—although it looked to Emma as if the selection remained the same—plenty of gossip rags, one high-fashion magazine and several cooking titles.

Emma pulled a random issue from one of the baskets and settled on the sofa. Angel had made quite the success of her hair salon—managing to compete with the popular chain places at the mall. She had plans to expand, and had even taken some classes to get a handle on how to best run her business.

“Emma!” Emma had barely turned the first few pages in her magazine when Angel came rushing out to the waiting area. She uttered Emma’s name in a tone of rebuke, the way hairdressers do when you’ve waited too long for your trim or to have your roots touched up, or heaven forbid, had actually had the temerity to try another salon.

Angel’s hair had undergone a renovation much like the salon had. It was still her trademark fire engine red but instead of being teased high and wide, it was fashionably sleek and layered. Emma couldn’t help staring as Angel led her back to the washbasins.

It looked as if the interior of the salon had been redone as well—or at least it was in progress. Emma thought she detected the odor of fresh paint, and all the pictures on the walls had been taken down.

“What do you think of my renovations?” Angel asked as she lathered Emma’s hair with shampoo.

“It’s very nice. Very chic and elegant.”

Angel smiled, pleased. “Do you really think so? I was going for a more big-city, sophisticated look, and you having lived in New York and all, I value your opinion.”

Angel wrapped Emma’s head in a towel and led her over to her station. “Speaking of big-city, I heard from your aunt that you’re working part-time for the Grangers.”

Emma braced herself. Angel was undoubtedly going to pump her for information.

“I heard you were at that big do they had out at the Beau. That Saturday was a killer. I was busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. Everyone wanted to come in and get her hair done—even Mrs. La-di-da Granger herself.” Angel pulled a comb through Emma’s hair. “She told me how she was used to going to places . . . famous places . . . in cities like London, Rome and Paris.” A grin spread cross Angel’s face. “But she told me she was really pleased with the way I did her hair. I got to tell you, that made my day.”

“I can imagine,” Emma said as Angel pushed her head forward to trim the back.

“Who knows if she’ll come back . . . they’re always off somewhere, but of course, now with her husband gone, maybe she’ll stick around. That stepdaughter of hers comes in regularly.”

“Oh? Joy?”

“Yes. I feel sorry for her being stuck with a name like that. There seems to be so little joy in her life except for those horses of hers. She could be pretty, too, except she won’t do anything to bring it out. I’ve tried to get her to try a different hairstyle or some highlights, but all she ever wants is a trim.” Angel opened a drawer and pulled out a blow-dryer. “Then there’s the money, of course. She’s never been encouraged to go out on her own—her father keeps harping on the fact that she’s crippled. Heck, I’ve seen lots of people with crutches, in wheelchairs or wearing braces who have done just fine for themselves.”


“But I imagine she’s going to inherit some money now.”

Angel snorted and switched on the blow-dryer. She had to raise her voice to be heard above it. “Not according to her. Mariel gets the bulk of it, her brother gets the income from the business along with all the stock, and she keeps the allowance that she’s getting now, which, according to her, isn’t much. Wouldn’t surprise me if she did it herself.” Angel switched off the blow-dryer and reached for an industrial-sized can of hair spray. “She hated him that much. Blamed him for her mother’s death.” Angel lowered her voice. “Some people have said that the accident was his fault—he’d been drinking.” She sprayed Emma’s hair lavishly. “I’m too young to remember, but I do remember my mother and grandmother bringing it up occasionally and speculating about it—chewing it over like it was a piece of fat.”

She put down the spray, and Emma let out her breath.

“Of course the rules are different for the rich, you know. Wasn’t there something Hemmingway said to F. Scott Fitzgerald? Like Fitzgerald said the rich are different from you and me? And Hemmingway said ‘Yeah, they have more money.’”

Emma’s eyes widened. Angel certainly never failed to surprise, she thought, as she was spun around so she could see her reflection in the mirror.