A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 21




EMMA and Liz had both scooted back to their original positions by the time Jackson walked into the room. Emma’s heart was pounding furiously, and judging by the color in Liz’s cheeks, hers was doing the same.

Jackson didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

“Emma,” he said suddenly, and she tried not to jump or look too guilty. “I’m wondering if you’d be willing to do me an enormous favor?” He turned his most persuasive look on her. He was an attractive young man, and Emma supposed he often used that to his advantage. He was obviously used to getting his way.

“Yes . . .” she said somewhat tentatively.

“Sabina’s painting has come back from the restorer. She really wanted to have it today for an important dinner party she’s giving tonight.” He smiled apologetically. “Would it be too much of a bother for you to run it over to her? She’s only about ten minutes from here. I’d do it myself, but I have an appointment in twenty minutes.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t mind at all.”

“I’ll just get the painting then.” And he bolted from the room as if he was afraid Emma would change her mind.

He returned moments later with a bubble-wrapped package. Emma was relieved to see it was relatively small—there wasn’t much room in the Bug for hauling anything very large.

“Here’s the address.” Jackson handed her a slip of paper. “Do you have GPS?”

Emma shook her head. “No, but I know where this street is so it’s not a problem.”

Emma tucked the slip of paper into her purse and put on her coat. Jackson thanked her profusely once again and left the room.

“I’ll see you later,” she said to Liz.

Liz leaned her elbows on the desk and propped her chin in her hands. “How about coming over for dinner soon? It would cheer Brian up. He’s been moping about and driving me crazy. I guess not being able to get around is driving him crazy.”

“Of course.” Emma felt a pang of conscience. She should have stopped in by now to see Brian. “Call me, okay?”

“Will do.” Liz bent her head over her laptop.

The kitchen was empty and clean when Emma went past. Molly must have finished her dinner preparations.

She carried the wrapped painting out to her car and stowed it carefully in the backseat. She put the slip of paper with the address on the passenger seat next to her so she could refer to the house number. The street was the same one that an acquaintance of hers and client of Sweet Nothings, Deirdre Porter, lived on. It was an exclusive, gated community with large houses on even larger plots of land.

After slightly more than ten minutes, Emma turned onto the street Jackson had indicated. She stopped at the redbrick gatehouse and gave her name to the attendant. He picked up the phone, dialed a number and spoke briefly.

“You can go on through.”

The wrought-iron gates swung open and Emma entered the prestigious enclave, where everything was perfect and nothing was out of place. She scanned the house numbers until she came to Sabina’s house. It was in a contemporary style, low and sprawling, with enormous windows along the front.


Emma shivered as she stood on the front step and rang the bell. It pealed melodically inside the house. The painting was tucked securely under her arm. She didn’t know what it was, but it was bound to be expensive.

A maid in a light gray uniform opened the door and led Emma into a two-story, cathedral-ceilinged foyer. Emma immediately felt dwarfed by the enormity of the space. There was a dining room on one side with a modern-looking glass table. On the other side was the living room decorated with contemporary furniture including an orange Eero Saarinen chair Emma recognized from the Museum of Modern Art in New York. Vivid and colorful modern paintings adorned the all-white walls.

The maid spoke briefly into an intercom next to the front door.

“If you’ll come this way.” She led Emma into the vast living room and indicated she should have a seat. “Would you care for a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you,” Emma said knowing she wasn’t there on a social visit—she was merely acting as Jackson’s gofer.

“Mrs. Roberts will be with you shortly,” the maid said and left the room.

Emma looked around in wonder. It was like sitting in a museum. There was a spare white table along one wall covered in silver-framed photographs. Curiosity got the best of her, and she went over to examine them.

Most were family photographs—Sabina or her husband posed against various exotic backdrops: beaches with impossibly blue water, snow-capped mountains or foreign-looking cities. There was one black-and-white photograph among them. Emma looked around, but Sabina had yet to appear. She picked the photo up for a better look.

Pictured were a couple sitting together on an old-fashioned, wood-framed velvet sofa in what looked like a formal living room. The woman had closely permed gray hair and was wearing a plain dress with stout, black lace-up shoes. The man was balding and had on a tweed suit and a pipe clenched between his teeth. Next to the sofa was a round draped table with a stained glass Tiffany lamp.

Behind them, and just visible, was part of a colorful painting of the blue sea seen through open shutters. It looked like a work by Matisse—Emma had seen very similar paintings in her art history textbook in college.

She was about to put the photograph back when a voice came from behind her.

“My grandparents,” Sabina said. “That was taken before the war, in their house on Friedrichstrasse in Berlin. They had to leave it all behind when they fled to England.”

Emma jumped, and her face flushed crimson. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“Don’t be silly. The photographs are out in order to be seen.”

Sabina was as elegant as usual in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a long, cashmere turtleneck, her dark hair flowing around her shoulders.

Emma handed her the painting.

“Thank you for bringing this. I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother. Its absence left a space on the wall in the dining room. I didn’t want to rearrange all the paintings to cover it. Too tedious.” She started to pull off the bubble wrap. “I hope the restorer has done a decent job.”

She pulled the painting from its wrappings and held it up to look at it. It was an abstract with splashes of bright blues, reds and yellows. Emma didn’t recognize the artist.

Sabina was examining it closely when she suddenly looked up at Emma. “I’m sorry. Would you like a cup of tea to warm up? I can hear the wind even in here.”

Once again, Emma turned down the offer of a drink. “I should be going.”

Sabina walked her to the door. “Thank you again. It was very kind of you to make the trip. I’ve been up to my neck in preparations for tonight’s dinner party.”

Emma gave Sabina a last smile and headed toward her car. She thought about the photograph of Sabina’s grandparents as she headed back to the Grangers’. What must it have been like to have to flee, leaving everything you owned behind, in order to save your life? She couldn’t imagine it. She had sold a lot of her things before leaving New York—no point in paying to ship furniture she’d picked up in secondhand stores or found discarded on the edge of the sidewalk. Some of the things had been difficult to part with—the overstuffed armchair Guy had helped her wrestle up the stairs to her third-floor walk-up, the wobbly kitchen table where they’d shared many meals and bottles of wine, the lamp her next-door neighbor had kindly rewired for her. It had been hard enough leaving her old life in New York behind, but she had known she would have a warm welcome from Arabella. She couldn’t imagine arriving in a foreign country, knowing no one, possibly not even understanding the language. What strong people they must have been.

Emma decided not to go back to the Grangers’. Instead she ran some errands, and by shortly after five was heading to Arabella’s house. She was anxious to hear about her aunt’s appointment with Dr. Baker. She had hoped that Arabella would call her, but when she checked her phone there were no voice mail messages or texts. Arabella was very proud of her new iPhone and had even had Emma show her how to take photos and use the calendar function as well as how to text.

Francis’s car was in Arabella’s driveway when Emma got there. Bette and Pierre were making their usual racket before Emma even closed her car door. She smiled as she went up the walk. She could see the two of them in the glass alongside Arabella’s front door—glass that was now covered with dog nose prints.

The door was open, as it often was, so Emma walked in, stepping carefully to keep the excited dogs from tripping her. Bette wound in and out of Emma’s legs, wagging her tail so hard it almost disappeared. Pierre was slightly more sedate, rolling onto his back to invite a tummy scratch. Emma scratched Bette behind the ears with one hand and Pierre on the stomach with the other.

“Now that’s enough, you two,” she said, standing up and heading toward the kitchen. Both dogs galloped after her, sending the hall rug bunching up behind them.

“What smells so good?” Emma walked into the kitchen, where Priscilla was taking a turn at the stove, and Francis and Arabella were nursing drinks.

Priscilla turned around with a spoon in her hand. “I’m doing chicken divan. It’s always been your father’s favorite.” Her voice caught slightly, and she quickly turned back to the stove.

Emma bit her lip. It was hard to know how to comfort her mother when she felt in need of comfort herself.

“Is that sweet tea you’re drinking?” Emma pointed to the tall glass in Arabella’s hand.

“No, honey, Francis made his famous recipe for Tennessee tea. There’s more if you’d like some.”

“You know, I think I might.”

“We’re celebrating,” Arabella said, smiling at Francis.

“Celebrating what?”

“Good news from Dr. Baker. Get yourself a drink, and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m sorry I didn’t call you as soon as I got back from my appointment—I know you’ve been worried about me although you’ve been pretending not to be—but we were run off our feet this afternoon at Sweet Nothings. It seems the Junior League had decided to organize an excursion to our little shop. Very profitable for us.” Arabella raised her glass in a toast.

Emma retrieved the pitcher of Tennessee tea—a concoction of Jack Daniels, triple sec, sweet-and-sour mix and cola—and poured herself a glass. She perched on one of the stools around the island and had a big sip, savoring the taste as it slid down her throat.


“Just what I needed after a long day. And to top it off, Mom’s chicken divan. And”—she turned to Arabella—“good news, I gather?”

Arabella’s face was quite pink—whether from the warmth coming from the stove or from the drink in her hand, Emma didn’t know.

“Yes. Remember when Dr. Baker put me on that cholesterol medication?”

“And told you to cut out fried foods, if I remember correctly,” Francis added.

Arabella pretended to pout. “Give up fried chicken? Never. But I have cut back. I really have. But anyway, that’s not the point. The point is that one of the side effects of the medication is memory loss. Which explains why I can’t remember where I went during the party the night Hugh was killed,” she finished triumphantly. “I’m not losing my mind after all. Dr. Baker is switching me to another pill to see if that will lessen the side effects.”

Francis cleared his throat and looked at Arabella over his steepled fingers. “Unfortunately, it still doesn’t answer Detective Walker’s question. Rumor around the police station is that you’re still prime suspect number one.”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” Arabella burst out.

“How could anyone think Aunt Arabella would . . . murder someone?” Emma said.

“It is absurd,” Francis agreed. “But the police are floundering and want to grab on to something . . . anything. The murderer was extremely clever picking the time and place that he did. With so many people milling about, all he had to do was mingle with the crowd. From what I’ve heard, the police have questioned numerous people already, and no one seems to have noticed anyone going up the stairs to that balcony. Apparently no one even saw Hugh himself head up there.”

A flash of a memory streaked through Emma’s mind, but although she tried hard to grasp it, it eluded her as surely as a wisp of fog.

Priscilla turned around and paused with a whisk in her hand. “You know what they say, cherchez la femme. Look for the woman.”

Emma had another sip of her Tennessee tea and then put the glass down resolutely. It was beginning to make her head spin. “But Mariel has an alibi, so that rules her out.”

“Didn’t you tell me there was a mistress?” Arabella said.

“Yes, the wife of Hugh’s partner. Sabina Roberts.”

“The one in the orange . . . excuse me . . . tangerine gown?” Francis said with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes.” Arabella patted his hand.

“Maybe they had a falling-out? Or, he’d taken up with someone new.” Priscilla removed a box of frozen broccoli from the microwave and dumped the contents into a bowl. “Men like that often do. Women mean nothing to them.”

Emma glanced at Arabella. A shadow passed over Arabella’s face. Was she regretting the time she’d wasted on Hugh Granger, Emma wondered? Somehow she didn’t think so. Arabella wasn’t the type to regret things—even her mistakes.

“Anyway, the FBI were there today.”

“So the Jaspers have made a fuss about the painting. That must mean that the son refused to give them their money back.”

“I think he’s insisting it’s real.” Emma finished her last sip of tea. “He showed the FBI something in a folder, and afterward I managed to sneak a peek at what it was. It was a collection of letters, e-mails and even an invoice for the painting along with a black-and-white photograph with a certification on the back from the Wasserman Gallery.”

Francis shrugged. “Don’t know it.”

“It sounds familiar,” Arabella said. “Out of my price range though, I’m afraid.”

“I’m going to call the gallery tomorrow and see what I can find out about the Rothko. If they sold it to the Grangers then Jackson or Hugh must have bought it in good faith, and that’s the end of that trail.”

“What about this Jackson?” Arabella asked. She got up and began getting place mats and napkins out of the cupboard. “I should imagine he’s going to come into a lot of money now that his father has died. Could he have been tempted to hasten it along? Maybe he has debts, or gambles?”

“Their housekeeper loves to talk,” Emma said. “I’ll see what she can tell me.”

“Just be careful.” Francis wagged a finger at Emma. “A lot is at stake for the Grangers. And someone has killed already.”

? ? ?



WHEN the last of the chicken divan had been scraped from their plates, and the last drop of the Tennessee Tea drunk, Emma collected the dishes and offered to do the cleaning up. As she loaded the dishwasher, she heard Arabella bidding Francis good night followed by the sound of her footsteps on the stairs. Pierre was asleep on the rug under the table, and Bette was curled up at Emma’s feet, occasionally twitching and making little mewling noises. Emma wondered what she was dreaming about. She hoped it was a good dream and not a nightmare.

She wiped down the counters, checked that everything was in its place and turned out the lights. She woke Bette, who immediately sprang to her feet as if she had never even closed her eyes.

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash and headed down the hall toward the front door. She glanced into the living room and was surprised to see her mother sitting there alone with the light from a small lamp across the room barely piercing the darkness. She wasn’t reading or knitting and didn’t have the television on. She seemed to be simply sitting and staring at . . . nothing.

Emma unclipped Bette—who made an immediate beeline for the kitchen—dropped her leash on the foyer table and stood in the entrance to the living room. She cleared her throat, and her mother spun around.

“Are you going?” she asked.

“Soon.” Emma walked into the room and took a seat opposite Priscilla. “What are you doing in here all alone?”

Her mother dabbed at her eyes with a balled-up tissue. “Thinking.” She looked at Emma. “Trying to figure out what I’m going to do. Where I’m going to go.”

“What happened between you and Dad?” Emma asked softly.

Priscilla shrugged. “I guess you could say we grew apart. It’s such a cliché, but it’s true. We were both used to working hard, and then all of a sudden, that was over, and we had time to spend together. Unfortunately, we didn’t know each other anymore. We’re like polite strangers inhabiting the same house.”

“But couldn’t you”—Emma twisted her hands in her lap— “get to know each other again?”

Her mother didn’t answer.

“Was this . . . Dad’s idea?”

Priscilla shook her head vehemently. “No, I’m afraid it was mine. I don’t know what got into me or why I did it. I wish I hadn’t.” She pressed the tissue to her eyes, and Emma could see her shoulders heave.

She touched her mother’s arm. “Maybe if you called him?”

“It’s too late now,” Priscilla sobbed. “He was so . . . hurt. I don’t know if he’ll ever forgive me.”

“You won’t know if you don’t try,” Emma said, quoting a saying she had heard dozens of times from Priscilla herself. “Why don’t you try?”

Priscilla raised her chin. “Maybe I will. You’re right. I won’t know unless I try.”