A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 2




EMMA was about to ask Arabella what on earth she meant and who the man was anyway, when Les approached her.

“Can you help me?” he asked plaintively.

Emma gritted her teeth, and forced a stiff smile onto her face. “Certainly.”

Les led her over to one of the mannequins. “I’m very interested in this.” He fingered the marabou trim on the robe of the Lucie Ann ensemble.

“This is a very special set,” Emma said. “Very special indeed. It’s a Lucie Ann from 1950. Lucie Ann founded her lingerie line in 1949, and sold the items from her shop in Beverly Hills where Hollywood stars like Elizabeth Taylor purchased them. Do you remember the show Green Acres?”

Les nodded, fingering the thin mustache he’d recently begun sporting.

“Lucie Ann designed all the peignoir sets Eva Gabor wore on that show.”

“It’s certainly a beautiful set.”

Emma continued, “Lucie Ann was known for using bold color and glamorous details like rhinestones, pompons and marabou trim.” Emma indicated the feather tipped sleeves on the robe.

“I imagine it’s very expensive.” Les gave a thin laugh.

Emma nodded and whispered a price in Les’s ear.

Les stood back and looked the ensemble over again. He fingered the button on his tweed sport coat nervously. “I’m going to take it, I think. Blue is Sally’s favorite color.”

“Do you think it will fit?” Arabella had sidled over and was standing behind Emma.

Emma gave Arabella a stern look. Whatever had gotten into her aunt? It wasn’t like her to be spiteful. And Emma couldn’t help but notice how she was dodging the gray-haired gentleman who had recently entered the shop. He looked like he had money to spend—Arabella ought to be wooing him instead of ignoring him.

Emma removed the Lucie Ann negligee and peignoir set from the mannequin and took it to the counter, where she carefully wrapped each piece in tissue. It really was a beautiful outfit. She wouldn’t mind having one like it herself. She wondered what Brian would think, and the idea brought a blush of heat to her face.

“Here you are.” She placed the tissue-wrapped bundles into a glossy, black-and-white Sweet Nothings bag and handed it to Les.

He gave a courtly bow and, after shooting a last glance at Arabella, left Sweet Nothings.

Emma edged her way over to where Sylvia was standing. “Have you noticed anything funny about Arabella tonight?”

Sylvia held a pencil between her fingers like a cigarette and nearly brought it to her lips before she realized what she was doing. She shrugged. “You mean like how she’s avoiding that man in the fancy coat who just came in?”

Emma nodded.

“Then, yes, I have noticed something funny about her. He looks like he has money to burn. You’d think she’d be all over him.”

“Has she said anything to you?”

“Nah, not a word.”

Sylvia went off to wait on a young man in jeans and a worn leather jacket, and Arabella joined Emma behind the counter. Suddenly, the mysterious gray-haired gentleman began to approach them. Arabella looked panicked, as if she wanted to flee, but before she could sidle out from behind the counter, he was upon them.

“Arabella,” he said in a deep, smooth voice.

Arabella’s face registered a wide array of emotions—part alarm, part defiance and part disgust. “Hugh,” Arabella said curtly. She held her head high, her chin raised.

The man turned toward Emma and held out his hand. “Hugh Granger.”

Emma returned the firm handshake. “Emma Taylor.”

“Is this your daughter?” Hugh looked at Arabella, his thick brows raised.

Arabella shook her head. “My niece.”

“But you married?”

She shook her head again. “No. I chose not to.” The look she gave him would have turned a lesser man into an ice sculpture. “What are you doing here?” Arabella asked. “I would have thought you’d have done all your shopping in Paris or London.”

Hugh smiled. “It was time for me to come home—to stop roaming the globe like a nomad. As a matter of fact, I’m giving a dinner dance on Saturday night at the Beauchamp Hotel and Spa to celebrate my birthday and our return to Paris. I do hope you lovely ladies will come and bring your . . .” He looked at Emma questioningly.

“Boyfriend,” she supplied, feeling a rush of contentment at being able to apply that word to Brian.

“No,” Arabella said abruptly. “Thank you, but we already have other plans.”

Emma stared at her aunt, open-mouthed.

Arabella turned toward Emma with a strange look on her face. “You and Brian are coming to my house for dinner, remember?” she prompted.

“Oh, but surely—” Hugh began.

“I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.” Arabella turned her back on him and began to fiddle with the contents of one of the drawers.

Emma gave Hugh an apologetic look. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. I’m interested in getting something for my sister, Georgina. She’s in a nursing home, I’m afraid.” He tapped his head. “Dementia. The staff has told me that things from the era of their youth are very comforting to patients with memory loss. Do you have any gowns from the early 1960s? She would have been a young woman then.”

Emma led him toward one of the armoires, casting a backward glance at Arabella, who was standing behind the counter, her arms crossed over her chest and a very mulish expression on her face.

? ? ?



BY nine o’clock, they had closed the door on their last customer. Sylvia already had her coat on and her purse over her arm. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll be heading out. My feet are killing me.”

“Mine, too.” Arabella had slipped out of her pumps and so had Emma.

Bette was chasing a tennis ball around the floor, rolling and tumbling like a pair of thrown dice while Pierre looked on from the comfort of his dog bed. Arabella bent down and scratched Pierre behind the ears. “I remember when you used to play like that, too.”

Emma still hadn’t been able to ask her aunt about the mysterious Hugh Granger. Arabella had managed to avoid her all evening, but Emma definitely planned to find out who he was.

Sylvia left through the back door and shortly afterward they heard the belch of her ancient Cadillac as she pulled out of the parking lot. Emma was about to lock the front door when someone pushed it open.

“Anybody home?” Francis stepped inside, shaking out his umbrella. “It’s raining now, but if it turns any colder, I think we’ll get some snow.” Moisture clung to his dark hair and his thick, black brows. He was normally based in Jackson, a little over an hour away, but had recently been assigned to a special case in Paris, much to his and Arabella’s mutual delight.

Arabella smiled when she saw him. He put his arm around her, and Arabella momentarily let her head drop against his broad chest.

She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “What do you say we all go to my house? I can put on a pot of coffee, and I have a pecan pie waiting that I baked this morning. We’ve been here all day. It’s time to go home. We can clean up tomorrow morning.”

Emma was hesitating—she didn’t want to intrude on Arabella’s time with Francis—when the door opened again, and Brian stuck his head in.

“I was hoping I hadn’t missed you ladies.” He brushed at the drops of rain on the shoulders of his raincoat. “I was at the hardware store going over some accounts, and I lost track of time. I was glad to see your lights were on.”


Arabella put up a hand to stop Brian as he began to unbutton his coat. “We’re all going to my house for some pie and coffee.”

“You don’t have to ask me twice.” Brian let his hand drop to his side. “I’ll drive you.” He looked at Emma. “As long as you don’t mind the pickup truck.”

“Not a bit.”

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash as Arabella, Brian and Francis went around turning out lights and checking that the front door was locked and the sign flipped to closed.

Bette had worn herself out playing, and fell asleep curled in Emma’s lap before they even pulled out of the parking lot. Emma stole a glance at Brian’s strong profile as they passed under a street lamp. His brown hair was neat but still slightly boyish-looking, with a lock that kept falling onto his forehead. Emma longed to reach out and brush it back. Brian had returned to Paris to help run his father’s hardware store while also getting his own home renovation business going. Like Emma, he was recovering from having his heart broken—in his case by a career-minded lawyer in Nashville who hadn’t wanted to move to what she referred to as “the sticks.” Her loss was Emma’s gain. She and Brian were now in a serious relationship.

“Here we are.” Brian pulled into the driveway of Arabella’s house with its huge, wraparound porch, where Emma had spent many hours as a child sitting on the swing, sipping endless glasses of sweet tea and listening to her aunt’s stories of her travels to exotic places around the globe.

Arabella and Francis already had their coats off and hung up, and Arabella was pouring water into the coffeemaker when Brian and Emma walked in. Bette, revived by her short nap, began running in circles, her nose to the ground, sniffing furiously, while Pierre watched disdainfully from the comfort of his dog bed.

Brian and Emma perched on stools around the center island of Arabella’s huge, old-fashioned kitchen. Emma found it hard to believe that a few short months ago, Arabella’s kitchen had been nothing but blackened timbers and twisted pieces of metal. Brian had masterminded the renovation and had done a wonderful job. Arabella had been devastated by the fire but extremely grateful that the rest of the house had been spared. Along with the kitchen renovation, some new wallpaper in the hallway and some fresh paint in the living room had returned things to normal, much to everyone’s relief.

Francis organized cups and saucers and poured coffee while Arabella cut slices of pecan pie. She slid an extra-large piece in front of Brian.

“I must look hungry,” he joked, the tips of his ears turning pink.

“I know you do like your pie,” Arabella responded.

“How did your sale go this evening?” Francis asked as he slid onto one of the stools.

“I think we did very well. We even sold that hideously expensive Lucie Ann ensemble I picked up at the Porter estate sale.” Arabella shivered. “Good riddance to it, if you ask me.”

Brian and Emma looked at each other. They could easily guess why Arabella felt that way.

Emma locked gazes with her aunt. “Now will you tell me who that man was?”

“What man?” Francis said with his fork halfway to his mouth. “Not going around behind my back, are you, girl?” He reached over and gave Arabella’s hand a quick squeeze.

She made a face at him. “Hardly. Hugh is ancient history.”

“Well, tell us about it; don’t keep us in the dark.” Francis said encouragingly, helping himself to another cup of coffee.

“I’m not sure I know where to begin. For years I refused to talk about it, and now it really is ancient history.” Arabella turned thoughtful. “I met Hugh here in Paris. His family owned . . . owns . . . a big horse farm not far from here. But their real money came from a quarry at Crab Orchard Mountains on the Cumberland Plateau, not far from Knoxville. Crab Orchard stone, a rare type of sandstone, was used to build a lot of municipal buildings during the Depression. It made them very rich.” She paused and poked at the wedge of pecan pie on her plate. “Hugh’s first love had always been art. He studied business in college to please his father, but took every art history course he could squeeze in. After graduation, he enlisted in the air force and entered Officer Candidate School. You have to remember that the Vietnam War was in full swing at the time, and becoming an officer was a lot safer than waiting to be drafted and ending up as a GI in the trenches. He wasn’t the only young man to take that route at the time.” She took a sip of her coffee. “As it turned out, he wasn’t sent to the Far East but rather to an air force base in Germany. Thanks to his knowledge of art, he was assigned to the Air Police detachment to conduct an investigation into art stolen by the Nazis during the war.” Arabella absentmindedly forked up a piece of pie. “Eventually he returned to Paris to start his own art business. That’s when we started to go out.” Arabella stared into her coffee cup. “He was quite keen on me.”

“Were you keen on him?” Emma scraped the last bit of pie off her plate.

“I guess you could say I was,” Arabella admitted. “He was very handsome and very worldly. His business took him all over Europe and Asia, buying and selling paintings and sculpture worth millions of dollars. It also made him very rich in his own right.” A dreamy look settled on Arabella’s face. “I was traveling around Europe at the time myself, thanks to a small trust fund from my grandfather Parker, and he would catch up with me whenever he could. I remember our being at Wimbledon when Billie Jean King and Rosemary Casals won the women’s doubles title. Hugh flew over on Pan Am’s Boeing 747 maiden flight from New York to Heathrow.”

“What happened?” Emma asked. “Did you argue or did you eventually lose touch?”

“Neither, really.” Arabella looked down at the barely touched piece of pie on her plate. “We continued to see each other for several years . . . in Paris, Rome, once even in India. He pledged his undying love to me in front of the Taj Mahal.” Arabella gave a bitter smile.

“How romantic,” Emma breathed.

“I certainly thought so,” Arabella quipped. She rolled her eyes. “I continued to travel, and he continued to follow me whenever he could. Finally, he convinced me to come back to Paris and marry him.”

Emma gasped. “What happened?”

“I didn’t decide right away. I saw Hugh off on the SS France in Le Havre on his way back to New York. On board he met someone named Elizabeth. By the time I’d made my decision and had flown home a couple of months later, Hugh was married, and they were expecting a baby. Back in those days, people had to get married. Not like today.”

“How horrible for you.”

Arabella gave a sad smile. “I put all my energy, time and money into Sweet Nothings. I’d lost my desire to travel—all my memories were too wrapped up with Hugh.”

“What did he say when—”

Arabella laughed. “Oh, he tried to put the blame on me. I’d taken too long to make up my mind. I’d made him chase me for years when all he wanted to do was settle down. I didn’t believe a word of it. Fortunately, until tonight, our paths rarely crossed. Although he still owns the family horse farm here in Tennessee, he spent most of his time in New York or traveling through Europe buying and selling art. He must have come back for some reason. Perhaps he’s tired and has decided it’s time to settle down.”


Francis was looking thoughtful. “What is this fellow’s name again?”

“Hugh. Hugh Granger.”

“He invited us to a dinner dance at the Beau on Saturday night”—Emma glanced at Brian—“but Arabella turned him down.”

“I don’t really mind if you go,” Arabella said, “although I’d rather you didn’t. But still, a big party at the Beau is bound to be spectacular.”

“I’d like to go,” Francis said suddenly.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” Arabella pulled away and looked at him sternly.

He nodded. “Yes, if you think you can bear it. The Tennessee Bureau of Investigation has been looking into Hugh Granger for years. There have been whispers about some of his dealings. We’d love the opportunity to get closer to his operation. This is a chance to at least enter his orbit, rarified though it is.”

Arabella heaved a sigh. “If you really think it important.”

Francis gave her his most winning smile.

“Oh, all right. I’ll call him tomorrow and tell him we’ve changed our minds, and we’ll be attending his big, fancy party. Are you satisfied now?”