A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 20




ONCE again, Emma was glad to leave the Grangers’ house behind. Arabella had invited her for dinner again since Priscilla was still visiting. Emma was grateful—left to her own devices, she was either too lazy or too tired to cook for herself and often made do with something in the microwave or a takeout dish.

Emma thought about what she’d discovered as she drove to her aunt’s house. What role, if any, might Sabina’s supposed affair play in Hugh’s death? Always assuming Molly was right. Emma got the impression Molly enjoyed embellishing her stories with just a wee bit of Irish blarney.

As she pulled into Arabella’s driveway, Emma could hear Bette’s excited bark and Pierre’s deeper one. She smiled to herself. She could always count on the dogs for a passionate greeting.

Emma had to shoo them both away from the front door so that she could slip inside. She still had to be careful about Bette getting out. She hadn’t yet learned to come when called, and Emma was considering enrolling her in the local puppy training classes.

“Hello?” she called from the foyer. The house was strangely silent. Emma stood listening, staring at the dust motes dancing in the light coming in the window.

For once, Arabella didn’t bustle down the hall offering a drink of sweet tea before they even reached the kitchen. Emma sniffed. No tantalizing smells coming from the kitchen, either. That was strange. Usually Arabella had dinner going by the time Emma arrived.

She walked out to the kitchen and was surprised to find it empty. The lights were out, nothing was on the stove and the table wasn’t set. Perhaps Arabella was planning on a late dinner?

Emma walked back to the hallway and peered into the living room. No sign of either Priscilla or Arabella. Now she was beginning to worry.

“Hello. Anybody home?” she called up the stairs.

Priscilla appeared on the landing. She looked surprised to see Emma.

“Hello, dear,” she said as she came down the stairs. “I was just sitting in my room reading. I didn’t expect you.”

“But . . .” Emma said, looking around. “Where is Aunt Arabella?”

“I think she’s getting ready. At least she was, twenty minutes ago.”

Emma was more confused than ever. “Arabella invited me for dinner tonight. If that’s not convenient, I can . . .”

Now Priscilla looked confused. “Tonight? But Francis is taking her out to dinner tonight. I planned to heat up some soup for myself. I’ve been eating way too much good food lately.” She patted her stomach. “Are you sure Arabella said today?”

“Yes, I’m positive.” Emma thought back to that morning, when she’d talked to Arabella. She was certain she didn’t have it wrong.

Emma followed Priscilla into the living room. Priscilla perched on the edge of the needlepoint chair she favored, and Emma plopped on the sofa.


“This is very worrisome, coming on top of those other instances where Arabella couldn’t remember where she was or what she had been doing. I think the stress of this whole situation is getting to be too much for her.”

The front doorbell pealed, and both Pierre and Bette jumped to their feet and ran toward the foyer. Emma followed them.

She pulled open the front door to find Francis standing there. He smiled when he saw Emma. She held the door wider, grabbing Bette’s collar in the nick of time. “Come in. Mother said you’re taking Arabella out to dinner tonight.” Emma took Francis’s coat and hung it in the hall closet.

“Yes. I’ve got a reservation at Ruggero’s Italian Bistro at the Paris Winery.” Francis was wearing gray slacks, a navy blazer and a crisp white shirt. He glanced at his watch. “We’d better get going. Is your aunt ready?”

Just then Arabella came down the stairs. She was wearing a pair of old, stretched-out yoga pants Emma knew she kept to clean the house in, and a tattered white shirt with stains on the front.

“I’m sorry. I must have fallen asleep. Emma, Francis, what are you doing here? Not that I’m not glad to see you . . .”

“You invited me for dinner,” Emma said.

“I’m taking you out to dinner,” Francis said almost at the same time.

Arabella looked utterly bewildered. She sat down on the stairs and rubbed her forehead. “That’s strange because I don’t remember either.” She looked up with troubled eyes. “What’s wrong with me?”

Francis joined her on the step, putting his arm around her. “I’m sure it’s something that’s easily fixed. When is your appointment with Dr. Baker?”

“Tomorrow. At least I think so. It seems I can’t trust my memory for anything anymore,” Arabella said sharply, sounding almost like her normal self.

“No harm done,” Francis said consolingly. “What say we all order a pizza? I saw some cold beer in the fridge.”

Emma noticed Priscilla’s lip curl ever so slightly, but she didn’t say anything.

“That’s done then. Let’s not worry anymore. Dr. Baker will undoubtedly be able to sort things out.”

? ? ?



EMMA was relieved to see that Arabella was in her usual good spirits when she arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning. It was almost as if the previous evening hadn’t happened. Was that because she had put it out of her mind or because she just didn’t remember it? Emma wondered.

They had a slow morning and had been open for business for an hour when Priscilla walked in.

“I just wondered,” she said to Arabella, “if you want me to come with you to see Dr. Baker.”

Emma saw Arabella’s spine stiffen. “That’s very kind, but I’m perfectly capable of getting myself there and back. There’s no need to worry.”

“But I do worry,” Priscilla said. “I can’t help it. It’s just the way I am.” She smiled sadly at her sister. “If you’re absolutely sure . . .”

“I’m positive,” Arabella said with conviction.

“Well, then, I’ll be going. I’m having coffee with a woman I worked with at the hospital. It will be fun catching up.”

She left, closing the door quietly behind her.

Arabella blew out a puff of air. “I’m sure she means well, but sometimes . . .” She let the sentence hang in the air.

The rest of the morning went by quickly, and just before noon Sylvia arrived. They heard, rather than saw, her Cadillac pulling into the parking lot in back of Sweet Nothings. Eloise Montgomery had come with her, and she looked slightly shaken up as they entered the shop. Her hat was askew, and her eyes were wide.

“Stupid cop,” Sylvia said to no one in particular as she took off her coat.

“You did run a red light,” Eloise remarked.

“So maybe I did.” Sylvia turned around to face them. “We didn’t hit anything, did we? It was an honest mistake. Forgive and forget, that’s what I always say.”

“I don’t think that policeman is going to forget anytime soon,” Eloise said, taking off her hat and putting it behind the counter.

“Did you get a ticket?” Arabella asked, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Yeah. I tried to charm him out of it, but he was having none of it. Never mind there’s not a single blemish on my record. You’d think that would count for something.”

Emma supposed it did, but it was only by sheer luck that Sylvia hadn’t been ticketed before. She had ridden with Sylvia once and that was enough. She was beginning to wonder if from now on she shouldn’t offer to pick Sylvia up and then deliver her safely back to Sunny Days when her shift was over. Certainly she doubted Eloise would relish riding with her again anytime soon.

Arabella came out of the back room with her coat on. “I’ll be off now to Dr. Baker’s,” she said as she pulled on her gloves and wound her scarf around her neck. “Wish me luck. I’m a little nervous. It’s one thing to be told you need to take pills for your cholesterol or your blood pressure and another to think that you might be going . . . ” She didn’t finish the sentence.

“I’m sure everything will be fine,” Emma said, but she crossed her fingers behind her back just to be sure. “Maybe you should have let Priscilla go with you?”

“No. I can manage on my own. She would make me even more nervous.” She gave Emma a quick hug, said, “Wish me luck,” and disappeared out the door.

Sylvia looked at her watch. “I guess you’d better get going, too, kiddo. Eloise and I can hold down the fort while you’re gone. No need to worry.”

Emma quickly ran up to her apartment to eat a container of yogurt and run a comb through her hair. She dreaded going back to the Grangers’—what if Jackson was there?—but she had to see this through. She pulled on her coat and sprinted down the stairs to her car.

The wind had picked up, and Emma could feel the Bug rocking from side to side. The sprinkling of snow they’d gotten the other day had melted, but there were still icy patches here and there on the road.

She pulled up in front of the Grangers’ house and got out. Jackson usually pulled his car around back to their enormous five-car garage, so she had no idea if he was at home or not. Liz’s station wagon was there along with a strange black car. Emma glanced at it as she walked by—some sort of official shield was propped in the front window. That was curious.

Emma opened the front door and stepped into the foyer, glad to get out of the cold. She peeked into the kitchen. Molly was peeling a pile of potatoes, and good smells were coming from the stove. Perhaps she could persuade Molly to tell her what was going on.

“It’s freezing out there,” Emma said, rubbing her hands together. “I thought I’d make myself a cup of tea to start.”

“Help yourself.” Molly jerked her head toward the tea canister. “I’m putting together a nice shepherd’s pie for dinner. On a bitter day like today, they’ll be wanting something warm and comforting in their bellies.” She deftly cut each of the potatoes into quarters. “There’s a show I want to see on the telly tonight, so I’m getting things ready now. All that will be needed will be to pop it in the oven for half an hour.”

Emma took her time selecting a tea bag and filling a mug with water. “I saw a strange car outside,” she began, hoping Molly would take the bait.


“The black one pulled up just beyond the front door?”

Emma nodded. She slid her mug of water into the microwave and pushed the Start button.

“They showed up about an hour ago. Two men in black suits. Looked like undertakers but they said they were with the FBI. What the FBI could be wanting with Mr. Jackson, I can’t imagine.”

“They didn’t say what they wanted?” The microwave pinged, and Emma retrieved her mug.

“No, but I’ve heard raised voices coming from the library. And here Mr. Jackson is usually so even-tempered. It took me by surprise.”

“I don’t suppose you heard what they were saying.”

“I did indeed. I didn’t like the way they were talking to Mr. Jackson so I stopped outside the door to listen. Something about a forged painting.” She shook her head as she filled a large pot with cold water and dropped in the potato quarters. She set the pan on the stove and turned the burner to high. “The Grangers have been in the art business for decades and not a whisper of scandal, and now this. I’m sure they’ll soon discover it’s all a big mistake.”

“I’m sure you’re right.” Emma picked up her tea and headed down the corridor. At least Jackson was occupied with his visitors. Hopefully their paths wouldn’t cross. She stuck her head into the office to say hello to Liz. She was staring through the lens of her camera at a spectacular Renoir painting.

Emma didn’t want to scare her so she cleared her throat. Liz turned around.

“Hi, when did you get here?”

“Just now.”

“Can you believe it?” Liz whispered. “The FBI is here. They showed up over an hour ago and have been in the library with Jackson ever since.”

“I talked to Molly, and she said it had to do with a forged painting. I wonder if the Jaspers called them about their Rothko.”

“I don’t know, but Jackson did come in here at one point. He was frantically going through some files and muttering under his breath. Something about ‘an impeccable provenance,’ I think he said.”

Emma took a sip of her tea. “Perhaps he’s trying to prove that some work is real. Or at least that he got it from a reliable source.”

“You’re probably right.”

Liz had just finished talking when they heard the squeak of a door opening and footsteps, muffled by the Oriental runner, coming down the hall. The two men in black suits, who Molly claimed were with the FBI, passed by the open door to the study. Jackson was trailing them and had a file folder under his arm. His expression was serious but not necessarily worried.

They could hear voices coming from the foyer, then the door closing and finally footsteps heading back down the hall. They stopped outside the door to the study.

Jackson walked in, nodded at Liz and Emma and tossed the folder he’d been carrying onto the other desk. Emma looked at it longingly, dying to know what was inside.

Jackson ran his hands over his face and rubbed his temples. “Long day,” he said curtly before walking out again.

Liz and Emma looked at each other and, without a word Liz went to stand guard at the door while Emma approached the desk and the folder Jackson had left sitting out. She touched it tentatively with the tips of her fingers, pulling it closer until she could see the writing on the tab. It read “Rothko, 1950, oil on canvas.” It had to be the Jaspers’ painting.

Emma eased the folder open carefully. She looked up at Liz for confirmation, and Liz gave her a thumbs-up. The coast was clear.

Emma glanced through the papers—letters, copies of e-mails, an invoice and a black-and-white photograph of a painting. She turned the photograph over. The painting’s details were written on the back in black ink in a strong hand. Also written on the back were the words, This certifies that this is an original work by the hand of Mark Rothko.

Emma quickly glanced at Liz again, and once again Liz signaled to go ahead.

Emma scanned the letters and e-mails. They all related to the sale of the painting. She flipped over the invoice and nearly gasped when she saw the price. She thought she saw something out of the corner of her eye and looked up to find Liz waving at her frantically. She shut the folder and pushed it back to its original position.

She had seen enough—the papers indicated the painting had come from the Wasserman Gallery in Memphis. Emma planned to call them the next day to see if they were willing to verify the sale.