A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 16




EMMA left Angel Cuts feeling like a new woman. She swiped a hand across the back of her neck and was relieved that all the straggly ends were gone. She also ran a hand through her hair to loosen the viselike grip of the hair spray Angel had used. Emma liked her hair to be soft and touchable. That thought made her think of Brian, and she could feel the color rising to her face.

Arabella had asked her to stop in at the Meat Mart and pick up some pork chops. Emma pushed open the door to the butcher shop. Willie was standing behind the counter, his white apron as pristine as ever. Meat was arrayed neatly on trays inside a glass counter, the aged and well-marbled steaks each splayed out exactly one-quarter inch apart, the crown roast of pork sporting frilly paper crowns on the ends of the Frenched bones, the lamb chops pink and delectable.

“Miss Emma.” Willie greeted Emma with a big smile. His round face was almost the color of the huge roll of butcher paper by the counter. “How have you been? I heard from Miss Arabella that you’ve been doing some work for the Grangers. They’re something like celebrities in town. Everyone knows who they are, but they’re rarely spotted out and about, traveling as much as they do, but when they are, it’s an occasion to be sure.” He crossed his arms and stuck his hands in his armpits. “Of course that young ’un, Jackson, we always know when he’s around, roaring up and down our quiet country roads in that fancy sports car of his.”

Emma smiled and listened patiently. It seemed everyone had an opinion on the Grangers—good or bad.

“Jackson Granger was set to be a real star on the UT lacrosse team, and he was, too, until his grades brought him down. Some people got real mad at his professors for failing him. Thought they lacked school spirit and all that. Apparently Jackson had quite the flair for art, but other subjects like math and history . . .” Willie rolled his round, blue eyes. “Well, they were his downfall.” He gave a chagrined smile. “But I don’t suppose you came in here to hear me talk. What can I get for you?” Willie’s hand hovered over the counter.

“Arabella would like about five nice loin pork chops.”

“You’ve come to the right place.” Willie stuck his chest out with pride as he plucked several beautiful specimens from the counter and put them on the scale. “Think that will do her?”

Emma nodded. “Looks good to me.”

Willie pulled off a long sheet of waxed butcher paper and stacked the chops on it carefully. He folded the paper just so, fastened it with twine and tucked the package into a brown paper bag. He pushed it across the counter at Emma. “Just be careful, okay? The Grangers always get what they want . . . no matter what they have to do to accomplish it.”

Emma left the Meat Mart with Arabella’s pork chops as well as very strange feelings. Had Willie been trying to warn her about the Grangers? Certainly it was normal for people of great wealth to think they were entitled to get what they wanted. She didn’t anticipate getting in their way, so why should she worry?

? ? ?



MARIEL’S car was in the driveway when Emma arrived later that afternoon at the Grangers’. Another car, a dark, late-model BMW was pulled up behind it. Emma let herself in, as was her custom, and was crossing the foyer when she heard raised voices coming from the living room. She stopped abruptly. One of the voices sounded like Mariel’s. The other was a man’s. She didn’t think she’d ever heard it before. They both sounded angry.

The word police caught Emma’s ear, and she edged her way closer to the living room.

“That Detective Walker has been around twice now, insisting I tell him where I went the night of Hugh’s murder.” Mariel’s voice softened slightly. “You’ve got to tell him I was with you. You’re my alibi.”

Emma heard a rustling sound. “I can’t. Not after what happened before.”

Mariel gave a high, tinkling laugh that sounded on the verge of hysteria. “We don’t have to tell them the truth. We’ll tell them we were having an affair and we agreed to meet somewhere.”

Emma stared at the sunbeam that was coming through the window and lighting up the jewel tones in the Oriental rug on the foyer floor.

The man snorted. “And what will my wife say to that?”

“She doesn’t have to know. Or, better yet, you can tell her the truth. I’m sure she wouldn’t want the police to know that you are back in the business of prescribing narcotics.” Mariel’s voice had taken on a threatening tone.

The man must be Dr. Sampson, Emma realized. She heard his sharp intake of breath.

“I just can’t do it. You’ll have to come up with something else.”

Emma heard footsteps heading toward the door and quickly ducked into the kitchen.

She didn’t think Dr. Sampson had seen her; she hoped not.

She heard the front door slam and scurried down the hall toward the storage room, where she quickly set to work.

After two hours Emma was ready for a break. There was one more painting left in the row she’d started earlier that afternoon. She’d plug in that information, and then go out to the kitchen to make another cup of tea.

She lifted the painting from the rack. It was a small Cézanne still life—nothing elaborate, but utterly stunning nonetheless. Emma could almost feel the fuzziness of the blush-colored skin on the peaches and the rough texture of the sharp yellow and green lemons and limes. She stood and admired the painting for a moment. It really was a thrill to be working so closely with so many beautiful things.

She turned the painting over reverently and entered the data into her computer—Cézanne, Paul, 1890, Still Life. She added the measurements, took one last lingering look at the work then replaced it in the rack.

She was picking up her mug when she noticed a smudge of green on her finger. She looked at it more closely. It wasn’t ink. She hadn’t been using any pens, and even if she had, they would most likely be blue or black. She dabbed at the spot. It was damp and looked like . . . paint.


Emma turned around and retrieved the Cézanne from the rack. She held her finger up to the still life—the color of the paint on her finger matched the color of the limes in the painting. She touched the canvas gently and was shocked to find the paint was slightly tacky.

It couldn’t be. The piece had been painted in 1890. Emma was truly puzzled.

She wondered if Jackson was around. She headed toward the office, but the room was empty, as was the kitchen. She finally found him in the library, engrossed in a copy of Art International. He tossed it onto the tufted leather sofa when he noticed Emma standing in the doorway.

“Good article on the discovery of some paintings that had been snatched from their rightful owners by the Nazis.”

“I was reading an article about that online.”

Jackson gestured toward the magazine. “Please feel free to borrow any of our books or reading material if you like.”

“Thanks.”

“Was there something you wanted?” Jackson prompted when Emma didn’t say anything.

Emma wasn’t sure where to start. “I was cataloging a lovely Cézanne . . .” she finally began.

“They are beautiful, aren’t they?” Jackson jumped to his feet. He was wearing a dark blue shirt tucked into what Emma assumed were probably two-hundred-dollar jeans. “He’s a favorite of mine.” He frowned suddenly. “I hope there isn’t a problem?”

“Not a problem, exactly, no.” Emma cleared her throat. “But on one of the still lifes, the paint seems to be slightly . . . damp.” Emma held out her hand and pointed to the spot of green on her thumb. “See? Some of the paint rubbed off on my hand. I don’t know how that could be since the piece was supposedly done in 1890.”

For a moment a startled look crossed Jackson’s face to be replaced almost immediately by a bland expression. He smiled reassuringly and gave a half laugh.

“It must be one of the pieces that just came back from the restorer. It shouldn’t have been in that rack.” He frowned. “Sometimes those older works need a good cleaning, and sometimes even a bit of a touch-up. We send them to someone in New York. He’s supposed to be the best, but it seems he’s gotten careless sending back a painting that was still a bit tacky.” Jackson drummed his fingers on the desk. “Did you touch it?” he barked suddenly.

Emma jumped. “Touch it?”

“Yes.”

“Just barely. Just to see if that’s where this paint came from.” She brandished her thumb. “I don’t think I’ve done it any harm.”

She had a horrible thought. What if she’d somehow ruined the painting? Would they make her pay for it? It must be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars. Sweat broke out along the back of her neck.

But Jackson just gave another half laugh and waved a hand. “I’m sure you haven’t. If you don’t mind, could you put it to one side? I’ll take a look at it later and see if it needs to be sent back to New York.”

? ? ?



BY five o’clock, Emma was more than ready to go home. She turned off the computer, turned out the lights and let the door to the storage room slam shut behind her. She paused in the foyer to slip into her coat and wind her scarf around her neck. She could see forbidding gray skies through the window, and a few light flakes of snow were falling.

The front door opened as she was pulling on her gloves. Sabina bustled into the house, looking warm and comfortable in her fur coat and suede boots. She smiled when she saw Emma.

“How is your project going?” she asked as she pulled off her leather gloves and tucked them into her purse—a large, expensive leather bag that Emma thought might actually be Hermès.

“Very well, thanks.”

“I’ve come to collect my husband.” She glanced at her gold-and-diamond wristwatch. “We’ve got dinner guests tonight, and he’s going to need to change.” She smiled at Emma again. “When he’s among his precious works of art, he loses all sense of time.” She sighed. “I’m afraid Tom’s missing Hugh terribly. They’d been friends for decades. I’m hoping having some people over will cheer him up and take his mind off it.”

She glanced over her shoulder out the window. “Good thing you’ve got your scarf. The wind has picked up, and the snow’s started again.”

Suddenly the front door burst open so hard it slammed against the wall and nearly ricocheted back again. Both Emma and Sabina jumped. Sabina’s hand flew to her throat.

A young boy stood there—Emma thought he was the same one who had so conveniently appeared to take care of Mariel’s horse the other day. He looked to be around seventeen and had slightly shaggy, dark hair and large, brown eyes. His face was red from the cold, and flakes of snow were melting on the shoulders of his jacket. His boots were muddy and his jacket had a V-shaped tear near one of the elbows. He stared at Emma and Sabina, his eyes round. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

Mariel came out of the kitchen just then. She stopped short when she saw the boy. “Peter, what’s wrong? Has something happened? Do you need something?”

He looked down at his dirty feet. “I’m sorry about the mud, ma’am, but it’s . . . it’s . . . Miss Joy, ma’am,” Peter managed to stutter finally. “She’s hurt, ma’am.”

Mariel frowned, deepening the wrinkles in her forehead. “Hurt, how?”

“Thrown from her horse. She was riding Big Boy and something spooked him, ma’am.” He stared down at his worn boots.

“Spooked him? What do you mean? Big Boy is very even-tempered. That’s not like him.”

Sabina began to dig in her purse and pulled out her cell. “I’ll call nine-one-one.” She put the phone to her ear.

“I know what you mean, ma’am,” Peter continued. “But there was a noise, and next thing I know he’s throwing Miss Joy off like she was nothing more than a rag doll. She landed on the ground. It’s plenty hard right now on account of being frozen.”

“What kind of noise was it?”

“I don’t really know, ma’am. But it sure sounded like a gunshot.”