A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 19




EMMA spent the rest of the afternoon looking over her shoulder. She was five minutes away from calling it a day when she heard footsteps in the hallway. They stopped just shy of the door to the storage room. Emma hesitated then swung around in her seat.

Jackson stood there watching her. “Mind if I come in?” he asked politely.

Emma wanted to scream no, but instead she smiled and said, “Please do.”

Jackson perched on the edge of the worktable and smiled at Emma. She pushed her chair back to increase the distance between them. His hands were spread out on his knees—large hands capable of . . . Emma shook her head. Her imagination was beginning to run away with her.

“I hope you’re enjoying the job, and that it hasn’t been too difficult for you. I’m afraid I’ve left you alone. There’s been so much to do with my father’s funeral, meetings with lawyers and, well, I’m sure you can imagine.”

Emma nodded. What was he getting at? Had he seen her snooping in the library? She tried to read the answer in his face, but his expression was bland.

After a few more pleasantries, he went, leaving Emma to wonder . . . had his visit been meant as a warning?

Talking with Jackson had made Emma late. When she checked her phone there was a message from Arabella saying that she was taking Bette to her house, and Emma could pick the dog up there. Emma turned off the computer, slipped into her coat and turned out the lights. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as she crossed the foyer to the front door. She sprinted to her car and slammed the door shut. Her hands were shaking slightly as she put the car in gear and drove away, churning up gravel in her wake.


Bette was asleep in a sunbeam by the front door when Emma got to Arabella’s, but she immediately jumped to her feet to lavish great quantities of affection on Emma, which included licking her face, hands and nearly knocking her over.

“Hello, dear.” Arabella came out of the kitchen drying her hands on a towel. “How was your—” she started then stopped abruptly. “Is everything okay? You look as if you’ve seen a ghost. Come out to the kitchen and get a glass of tea.”

Emma followed Arabella to the kitchen, where Priscilla was busy peeling potatoes and Francis was seated at the table thumbing through the newspaper.

“You haven’t told me what happened,” Arabella said as she retrieved a glass from the cupboard.

“Something’s happened?” Priscilla whirled around with the potato peeler in her hand. She had tied one of Arabella’s aprons over her tweed slacks and black turtleneck.

“Not really,” Emma said, taking a grateful sip of the tea Arabella handed her. “I just did a little . . . snooping, and I’m not sure if Jackson saw me or not.”

“Oh dear.” Arabella wrung her hands. “Do you really think he might have seen you?”

“I don’t know.” Emma sank into a chair at the table.

Francis closed his newspaper and folded it up. He smiled encouragingly at Emma. “I hope you found out something for your troubles.”

“Oh yes. I tried to find the provenance for the Rothko painting they sold to Jasper. It wasn’t in the database I was working on, so I checked one of the other computers. There was a complete inventory on it—except, of course, for the pieces I was cataloging—and the Rothko wasn’t there, either.”

Francis stroked his mustache. “That’s a shame. It would really help to know where the painting came from originally.” He absentmindedly ruffled the pages of the newspaper. “Forged art is a tricky business. The FBI may go after the forgers, but, unfortunately, there’s no protocol for dealing with the works of art—Jasper will probably be welcome to keep the painting if he wants. And there’s nothing to stop him from passing it off as an original a decade or two from now.”

“I don’t think he would do that,” Emma said.

Francis shrugged. “It’s happened before.”

“But that’s not all. Jackson had left his personal bank statement sitting out on the desk. I took a peek at it. The total in the account was astounding, and there were some recent, big deposits.”

“To his personal account?” Francis fiddled with his mustache. “That sounds as if his father didn’t know what was going on and Jackson had a little side business of his own going.”

Arabella bustled over and put a plate of cheese and crackers on the table. “Now, don’t eat too many.” She shook her finger at them. “There’s pulled pork and coleslaw for dinner.”

Emma took a cracker and topped it with a piece of cheese. “The other day when I was working, I picked up a painting—a Cézanne—and it was slightly tacky. I got paint on my hand.”

Francis’s eyebrows rose toward his hairline.

“I mentioned it to Jackson, and he said it had been sent to the restorer and that the restorer had probably sent it back before it was completely dry. Now I’m wondering if it’s a fake as well. If it is, it’s a very good one. Whoever did it has a lot of talent.”

Emma finished her cracker and turned to her aunt, who was standing at the stove. “Have you seen Dr. Baker yet, Aunt Arabella?”

“Not yet, but I have made my appointment. I’m sure it will turn out to be nothing.”

Arabella kept her back to them, but Emma could tell by the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe what she was saying—she was worried. Emma glanced at Francis, and she could tell by the look on his face that he was worried, too.

? ? ?



LATER, after dinner, Arabella and Francis went into the living room. Francis was going to read his book, and Arabella had her sewing basket and a Lucie Ann negligee she had picked up at a garage sale that needed some mending.

Emma offered to do the dishes. She expected Priscilla to join Francis and Arabella in the living room, but her mother lingered behind, putting away the place mats and wiping off the table.

Emma had the distinct impression that her mother wanted to tell her something but for some reason, she was reluctant. It wasn’t like Priscilla to confide in her so Emma was surprised. They made small talk about the weather, which was completely unremarkable, as Emma rinsed the dishes and silverware and put them in the dishwasher.

Priscilla pulled out a kitchen chair and sat down. She twisted her wedding ring around and around, the light over the table reflecting off the diamonds set in the gold band. Emma wondered if she ought to ask if anything was wrong.

Finally, Priscilla cleared her throat. “There’s something I have to tell you,” she began. “And I just don’t know how.” She was twisting the ring faster and faster like a person fingering worry beads. “I didn’t come up here just because of Arabella.”

Emma stopped with a fork halfway to the dishwasher. “Oh?”

“Of course I was worried about your aunt. I feel it’s my . . . duty to look out for her. I’ve always been the stable one—the settled one—taking the traditional path in life.” She was quiet for a moment. “But now all that seems to be coming . . . unraveled.” She choked back a sob.

“Mother, what’s wrong?” Emma went over and put her arms around her mother.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed in me . . . in us. Your father and I both love you very much, and nothing will ever change that. We want the best for you, I’m sure you know that.”

“I do. But please tell me what is going on.” Emma felt dread settle in the pit of her stomach like an overly heavy meal. Was her father ill? Was that why he hadn’t come along?

“Your father and I have decided that it might be best if we . . . separate for a bit. Nothing final, of course. Just to see how things go.” She looked up at Emma with tears in her eyes.

Emma didn’t know what to say. It was the last thing on earth she had expected. Her parents were . . . her parents. They couldn’t separate. They went together like peanut butter and jelly. George and Priscilla. Emma couldn’t imagine it any other way.

Priscilla grabbed Emma’s hand. “We’ll get through this, don’t worry.”

“Does Aunt Arabella know?”

Again, Priscilla fiddled with her wedding band. “I haven’t told her yet. I wanted you to be the first to know.” She pulled the ring off, slipped it onto the ring finger of her right hand, then put it back on her left hand. “I’ll tell her after you’ve gone.”

“I just can’t believe it.” Emma felt hot tears pressing against the back of her eyelids. Other people’s parents got divorced . . . not hers.

“As I said, nothing is final. It’s just a trial . . . to see how we feel.”

“Yes. Sure. I understand.” Emma turned away, poured soap into the dishwasher dispenser and turned the machine on. She took off her apron, wadded it up and tossed it on the counter. “I think I’d better go back to my apartment. It’s getting late.”

“Darling, please don’t blame me,” Priscilla called after her.


Emma stopped in the doorway. “I don’t blame you. I just need time to . . . think, okay?”

She grabbed her coat from the closet, and managed to corral Bette and clip on her leash.

She stuck her head into the living room. “Good night, all. Thank you for dinner, Aunt Arabella.”

“You’re going already?” Arabella started to get up from her seat.

“Please,” Emma said, “don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

She managed to make it out the front door and to her car before the tears that had been threatening spilled out and ran down her cheeks.

Emma dialed Brian’s number as soon as she got home. When anything happened—good or bad—he was the first person she thought to call. Bette sensed that something was wrong and curled up in Emma’s lap. Emma found her warmth and steady breathing soothing.

Brian was sympathetic. “I know when my mother died, I felt as if my world had ended. I’m sure having your parents separate must feel something like that.”

“It’s not as bad as if one of them had died,” Emma said, “but it still feels as if my life is falling apart. My parents have always just been there.”

“You have your own life to live now,” Brian said softly. “A life that I hope we will someday build together.”

Emma’s breath caught in her throat. Brian wasn’t exactly proposing, but he was obviously thinking along those lines. Emma realized he was right—she needed to live her own life now. If her parents divorced, it would be sad. But she had reached the point where she could look forward to building her own family.

By the time she hung up, she was feeling considerably better. She would have to make the best of things no matter what happened.

? ? ?



ARABELLA eyed Emma somewhat warily when Arabella arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning.

“Would you like something to drink?” Arabella dangled a tea bag in front of Emma.

“Sure.” Emma had done the vacuuming as soon as she arrived and hadn’t yet had the chance to make herself a cup of tea. She could tell that Arabella was worried about her, which was why she was being so overly solicitous. Emma thought perhaps it would be best if she broached the topic herself.

“Did Priscilla talk to you last night?”

Arabella jerked, and water spilled on the counter. She fussed about, grabbing a paper towel and cleaning it up, her back to Emma. “Yes, she did.” Her voice was muffled.

“It’s okay. I’m okay,” Emma said, and she realized she meant it.

“Are you really, dear?” Arabella put a hand on Emma’s arm. “I was so worried about you. It wasn’t an easy thing for you to hear.”

“I talked with Brian.” Emma leaned on the old upright Hoover they kept in the shop. “He helped me put things in perspective.” Emma couldn’t stop it; a grin spread across her face.

Arabella regarded her, her hands on her hips, head tilted to one side. “The last thing I expected was to see you smiling, so out with it.”

Emma ducked her head. “It’s nothing really. Just that Brian pointed out that someday we’ll be creating a family of our own so I need to look forward.”

Now Arabella was grinning, too. “I can see why you’re smiling. Do you think he’ll surprise you with a ring for your birthday?”

Emma shrugged. “I don’t know.” And she turned on the Hoover before her aunt could ask any more questions.

The morning went by quickly, and before Emma knew it, Eloise Montgomery had arrived to help out in the shop. She was wearing a beautifully tailored winter white suit with a scarlet, bow-tied blouse. Her white hair was elegantly coiffed as usual, and she wore black peep-toed heels and carried a red designer bag.

She and Arabella immediately put their heads together. Emma left them to it and went upstairs to her apartment to grab a sandwich and freshen up before heading to the Grangers’.

She was very nervous and seriously tempted to throw the whole job over. What if Jackson had seen her snooping? And what if he was the murderer? Maybe Hugh had discovered Jackson’s activities and wanted to put a stop to them? Or perhaps he had wanted in on the action? Jackson had expensive tastes and might not have wanted to share the bounty. Although he usually dressed casually, Emma recognized that his sweaters were cashmere and his shoes Italian leather—items he had obviously not purchased locally but in one of the big cities he visited on a regular basis.

Emma found herself driving more slowly than necessary in order to prolong arriving at the Grangers’ horse farm. She was relieved to see Liz’s car in the driveway when she got there. Joy was back on her horse—Emma could see her out riding in the field just beyond the house, putting Big Boy through his paces. Emma hoped no one would try to spook the horse again, but if someone really determined to hurt Joy and not just warn her, then what was to stop him? She shivered as she made her way up the front steps.

The foyer and front rooms were empty, and when Emma peeked into the kitchen, it was empty as well. The house was eerily quiet, and she was loath to head to the storage room, which was at the end of the back hallway and far from the rest of the house.

A light was on in the office, and she imagined Liz was in there working. Emma decided to procrastinate, and she headed in that direction, wincing at the noise her footsteps made on the wood floor.

“Hey.” Liz spun around when she heard Emma. She gave her friend a hug. “Brian told me about . . . your conversation last night. I’m really sorry.”

Emma was surprised to feel renewed tears flooding her eyes. She dashed a hand across them impatiently. “I’m more surprised than anything. I never expected my parents. . .” She shrugged. “I’ll get used to it, I guess.”

Liz nodded sympathetically.

“Have you seen Jackson today?” Emma asked.

“No. It’s been strangely quiet, which is fine with me. It lets me get on with my work. I found a babysitter to pick Ben and Alice up from school and watch them for the afternoon.”

Emma lowered her voice to a near whisper. “I did a little snooping yesterday.”

Liz raised her eyebrows and inclined her head.

Emma explained about researching the Rothko painting, Jackson’s bank statement and his nearly catching her out.

Liz drew in her breath and put a hand on Emma’s arm. “Be careful okay? Someone’s already been killed. I don’t want you to be the next victim.”

“I will, don’t worry,” Emma assured her friend. “How is Brian?” she asked changing the subject.

“Much better, although he’s still in some pain. He denies it, of course, but I can see it on his face. And he’s getting a little frustrated with moving around on crutches. He can’t wait till he can graduate to a walking cast. He was actually wondering if he could drive! Said he wanted to go check on one of his renovations.”

“I hope you told him not to.”

“I most certainly did. He did manage to persuade Bobby Fuller from the hardware store to come by and take him out to one of his sites. I just hope he doesn’t do anything foolish and get even more hurt. He gave us a bad enough scare as it was.” Liz rolled her eyes.

Emma could certainly agree to that.

“I guess I’d better get to work.” Emma wasn’t at all anxious to leave the warm, well-lit office. The thought of encountering Jackson creeping about gave her goose bumps.


She reluctantly left Liz to her work and headed down the bare hallway to the storage room.

Emma began working and really got into it—it took her mind off of her parents’ impending separation—and was surprised when she glanced at her watch and two hours had gone by. The room was chilly, and she felt cold and cramped from sitting at the computer for so long. Perhaps a cup of tea was in order.

Emma was headed toward the kitchen when she heard the front door open. She stopped and listened. A male voice. Was it Jackson’s? She wasn’t taking any chances. She walked as silently as possible back down the hall toward her desk.

An hour later, and the house was quiet. Emma was thoroughly chilled by now and longing for some hot tea. She decided to chance it. She was crossing the foyer when the front door opened, sending a frigid breeze through the entranceway. A couple of curling, dried leaves blew in on the wind and skittered across the floor.

Emma stood stock-still for a moment, her heart beating hard and fast, but it was only Sabina Roberts. As usual, she looked comfortably warm in her impressive fur coat. She smiled at Emma as she peeled off her long, leather gloves. She was wearing a scarf that was similar in color to the dress she had worn to Hugh’s birthday party.

“It’s cold out. Feels like snow,” she said in her slightly accented voice. She took off her coat and draped it over her arm.

Emma agreed then scooted into the kitchen. Delicious and tantalizing smells filled the air. Molly was in the middle of putting together a stew—peeling carrots and potatoes and dicing an onion with her small but capable hands. She smiled when she saw Emma.

“I imagine you’re after something to warm you up. A nice cup of tea, maybe? That storage room gets mighty chilly after a while. I told Mr. Jackson that, but he said it was better for the paintings.” She turned toward the stove, where cubes of meat were spitting and sizzling in a large pot.

It might be better for the paintings, but it was freezing her hands and feet, Emma thought. “A cup of tea does sound good.”

Molly gestured with her head toward the kitchen island. “Help yourself. You know where things are by now.” She laid a bunch of parsley leaves on her cutting board, chopped them and scooped them into a small bowl.

Emma grabbed a mug from the cupboard and filled it with water.

“I see herself is here,” Molly said as she added the diced onion to the meat browning in the pot.

Emma pushed the button on the microwave and turned around. “You mean Mrs. Roberts.”

Molly nodded her head, and her gray bun quivered. “Yes, Mrs. Roberts. Thinks she’s such a fancy lady when she’s really just a fancy lady, if you know what I mean.”

Emma didn’t. “I’m sorry, what—”

“Back in my day, a man’s mistress was called his fancy lady.”

“But I thought they were married . . . Mr. and Mrs. Roberts.”

“It’s not him I’m talking about.” Molly winked at Emma, looking more like a character in a fairy tale than ever.

Was she Jackson’s mistress? It was possible. Jackson was in his mid-twenties, and Emma gauged Sabina to be in her late thirties. An age gap in the other direction wasn’t unheard of. The movie The Graduate suddenly came to mind. Was Sabina playing Mrs. Robinson to Jackson’s Benjamin?

Molly stood over the sizzling pot, pushing the cubes of stew meat around with a wooden spoon. She turned to face Emma, the wooden spoon in midair. “It’s a wonder Mrs. Granger never found out. Not very discreet, they were.”

“Mrs. Granger?” Now Emma was thoroughly confused.

Molly nodded and turned back to the pot on the stove. “Of course, I don’t know what all she’s doing with that Dr. Sampson. Maybe she didn’t care. You know what they say, ‘what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.’”

Did Molly mean that Sabina had been having an affair with Hugh?

“You mean Mrs. Roberts and Hugh . . .” Emma asked.

“Well of course. What did you think I meant?” Molly scooped up the chopped vegetables and added them to the pot. “And poor Mr. Roberts turns a blind eye to everything she does, he’s that taken with her. Well . . .” She paused with her hands on her hips. “Why wouldn’t he be? She’s a beautiful woman. And accomplished, too. Not like some floozy off the streets. That’s probably what attracted Mr. Granger to her in the first place.”

Emma finished making her tea. Molly had certainly given her something to think about, she realized as she headed back to her desk, mug of tea in hand.