A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 22




ARABELLA was extremely chipper when she arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning. Emma was putting out some new stock—she’d purchased a few racier things for Sweet Nothings, items their younger clientele had been asking for, like satin garter belts and lacy bustiers. They would be displayed discretely, of course, so as not to offend the sensibilities of their more mature customers.


“What did you say to your mother last night? She was looking decidedly more cheerful this morning.” Arabella poured herself a cup of coffee from the carafe sitting on the heated coil.

“It seems that this whole separation thing was her idea, not Dad’s. She’s been thinking twice about it, but she’s afraid to call him. I convinced her to give it a go.”

“I’ve felt the whole thing was a mistake from the beginning. They’ve been together too long to split up now.”

Emma put the last of the new garter belts in one of the drawers behind the counter. She held up one of the satin-and-lace bustiers.

“Do we dare display this on a mannequin?” she asked her aunt.

Arabella frowned. “I don’t know. This is still a small town with small-town ways. Perhaps it’s best if we keep that under wraps, so to speak.”

Emma nodded. “That’s what I thought.” She found a spot for the bustier on one of the shelves in the armoire. If anyone asked, she could guide them to it.

A cacophony of horns blaring outside announced Sylvia’s arrival. She burst through the door with her usual verve, hung up her coat, stowed her purse and joined Arabella behind the counter.

“So what’s new?” Sylvia asked with a gleam in her eye.

Arabella nodded her head toward Emma. “Emma’s on the trail of a forged painting. Are you still going to call that gallery?” Arabella asked.

Emma nodded. “Potentially forged. I suppose I should give Jackson the benefit of the doubt.”

“Forged painting?” Sylvia asked eagerly.

Emma was filling her in on the latest when the door opened and a customer walked in. They scrambled like spilled marbles—Arabella approaching the customer and Emma and Sylvia busying themselves with straightening the stock.

A half hour later, Emma left Arabella and Sylvia in charge and went to sit at the desk in the stockroom, where it would be quiet and she could take notes if necessary. She had all the details about the painting on a slip of paper in her pocket. Her hand hovered over the telephone receiver. She’d thought out what she was going to say, but she was still nervous.

Finally she picked up the phone and without allowing herself to think about it any more, dialed the number in front of her.

“Hello, Wasserman Gallery,” a very cool voice intoned.

“Hello. This is Emma Andrews,” she said with what she hoped sounded like conviction. She’d decided to use her mother’s maiden name just in case anyone tried to trace the call back to her. She twined the phone cord around her finger nervously. “I’m with Granger Art here in Paris, and I have a question about the provenance of a painting that was purchased from you.” She tried to emulate the cool, slightly snooty tones of the woman answering the phone.

“I will transfer you to the gallery director. One moment, please.”

Emma clasped the phone tightly. So far, so good. But would the director be as easy to fool?

“Hello?” a cultured-sounding male voice drawled. “This is Henry Dubois. How can I help you?”

Emma identified herself, almost forgetting that, for the sake of this conversation, she was Emma Andrews and not Emma Taylor. “I have a question about the provenance of a painting that Granger Art in Paris purchased from your gallery.”

“I hope there isn’t a problem.”

“Oh, no,” Emma reassured him. “I’m just checking a few details.” She thought she heard a sigh of relief whisper over the phone wires.

“In that case, I’d be more than happy to help. Can you gave me the details, please?”

“It’s a Rothko painting.” Emma added the date, size and inventory number she’d copied down from the file on Jackson’s desk.

“One moment, please.” She heard the clicking of computer keys.

“Hmmm . . .” Henry said. “We don’t seem to have that painting in our records. Let me look for that title. Is it possible the inventory number is wrong?”

“It’s . . . it’s possible.”

More clicking of computer keys. “No, I’m sorry, that painting doesn’t come from us. There must be some mistake.”

“Yes, I imagine there is. Thank you for your time.” Emma hung up quickly.

So the Rothko hadn’t come from the Wasserman Gallery—which meant that Jackson had faked those papers she saw in that folder. Which meant the painting didn’t have a provenance—it originated with Granger Art.

Therefore it must be a fake. She wondered how long it would be before the FBI discovered the same thing and made a return trip. She was surprised it hadn’t happened already, but then they obviously had more than just one case to work on at any given time.

Arabella pounced as soon as Emma emerged from the stockroom. “So what did you find out?”

“It’s a fake,” Emma said bluntly.

Arabella bit her lip. “I can’t believe that of Hugh. I don’t believe it! He would abhor forgeries on principle—the same way he hated ugly, or as his daughter called them, broken things.”

“I’m putting my dollar on the son.” Sylvia came over and leaned on the counter. “I’m betting his father found out about the fakes and that’s why he had to kill him.” She drew a finger across her throat dramatically.

“I don’t like it.” Arabella shook her head, and her bun quivered as if with indignation. “It makes me nervous, you being there. If this Jackson finds out you’ve been snooping . . .” Arabella let the rest of the sentence hang.

Emma gave her aunt a quick hug. “I’m heading over there now.” She looked at her watch. “And don’t worry. I’ll be careful.”

? ? ?



EMMA felt slightly uneasy as she headed toward the Grangers’. She hoped Jackson was out—she felt as if her newfound knowledge was written on her forehead. She’d never been particularly good at keeping a poker face. She was relieved to see Liz’s station wagon already pulled up in front of the house. At least she wouldn’t be alone.

Emma opened the car door and shivered as the brisk wind snaked its way down the back of her neck and up the sleeves of her coat. Despite the bitter weather, someone was out riding. She was far out in the field and heading toward the house. From this distance she was a mere speck, and Emma couldn’t tell whether it was Mariel or Joy.

Emma supposed the horses needed exercise no matter what the weather. She’d never cared for riding herself. Her grandfather had sat her on a pony once when she was around four years old. It was one of Emma’s earliest memories. The pony had reared up for some reason, and Emma had promptly fallen off. She’d never been particularly keen to try it again.

Emma found Liz in the office, as usual. Emma perched on the edge of the desk.

“Have you seen Jackson?”

Liz shook her head, and her blond hair swished back and forth. “Not yet.”

Emma looked around then leaned her head close to Liz’s and whispered, “I called that gallery that was listed in the papers in that folder—the Wasserman Gallery—and found out that the Rothko painting sold to the Jaspers is a fake.”

Liz looked startled. “Really?” she squeaked.

“The gallery knew nothing about it.”

“That means that Jackson . . .” Liz sank into the nearest chair and put her head in her hands. “I don’t know if I can keep working on this knowing that . . .”


“You have to,” Emma pleaded. “He can’t know what I’ve discovered.”

“But it’s . . . it’s criminal.”

“Murder is even worse. I think Jackson may have killed Hugh. Arabella is convinced his father wouldn’t condone selling forged paintings. My guess is that Hugh found out, they argued and Jackson plotted to kill him. Francis said Jackson wasn’t on the list of names collected by the police after the murder. He must have fled right afterward.”

Liz shivered. “This whole thing is giving me the creeps.”

“I know.” Emma slid off the desk and headed toward the door. “I’d better get to work. Believe me, I wouldn’t stay on if I weren’t trying to find out who was responsible for killing Hugh Granger. I have to, for Aunt Arabella’s sake.”

“Be careful,” Liz whispered after her.

Emma headed toward the kitchen. She wanted to take some tea back to the storage room with her since it was always slightly chilly back there. The kitchen was empty but as she was heating up her water, Molly bustled in with a grocery bag in each arm. Her cheeks were bright red from the cold, making her look more like a gnome than ever.

She clunked the bags down onto the kitchen table and pulled off her gloves. “Oooh, that wind would skin you alive, it’s that cold out.” She unbuttoned her tweed coat. It had large buttons up the front and looked as if it had been in style forty years ago.

“Someone was out riding,” Emma said, taking her mug out of the microwave. “She must be freezing.”

“Probably Miss Joy. She goes out in all kinds of weather. I think it’s the only time she’s truly happy.” Molly opened the pantry and began stacking cans on the shelves. “Mrs. Granger has been going out in all kinds of weather, too,” Molly said, her voice slightly muffled with her head in the closet. “I suppose it’s her way of coping with Mr. Granger’s death.” She turned around, her hands on her hips and her lower lip stuck out defiantly. “The police were around again, asking questions, but no nearer are they to solving the case. It’s a crime—someone getting away with murder.”

Molly shook her head and tsk-tsked under her breath. “That Detective Walker even came around asking me questions, as if I would know anything about it. I wasn’t even at the party. Mr. Granger did ask me, but what on earth would I do at an event like that? I’d only be comfortable if they let me help wait tables or peel the vegetables for dinner. Besides, my only good dress isn’t fancy enough—it’s fine for Sunday morning at church but the ladies would all be in long gowns, not a ten-year-old polyester shirtwaist.”

Emma stirred some sweetener into her tea. “What did Detective Walker want to know?” She looked away so Molly wouldn’t see how eager she was for the information.

“He wanted to know how everyone in the house got along and who might have had a fight with whom.” She folded up one of the grocery bags and tucked it into a corner of the pantry. “I had to tell them the truth. Miss Joy argued with her father, like I told you, and Mrs. Roberts did, too.”

“Sabina?” Emma paused with her mug of tea halfway to her mouth.

Molly put her finger alongside her nose. “Lovers’ quarrel, I should imagine. And terribly fierce it was. Mr. Granger was rather quiet, but I could hear herself all the way out to the kitchen, she was that mad.”

“Maybe he was ending the affair?” Emma suggested. “Or had found someone else?” Would that have made Sabina mad enough to kill? Emma didn’t think so.

“I only heard the few words—something about give it back. What, though, I can’t imagine.”

That was more food for thought. Emma headed back to the storage room, her mind whirling with possibilities. Although she doubted Sabina and Hugh’s lovers’ quarrel had anything to do with his death. Give it back—that didn’t make any sense. Probably Molly had heard wrong.

Joy’s quarrel with her father, on the other hand, made her a very good candidate for her father’s murder. She had good reason to hate him—he was responsible for the car accident that crippled her and killed her mother. And he’d taken little interest in her—unlike Jackson whom he had taken under his wing and brought into the art business. That must have further cemented Joy’s hatred.

? ? ?



EMMA had been working for two hours when her computer froze. She tried every trick she knew—admittedly not many—to get it going again. She crossed her fingers—hopefully she wasn’t going to lose the afternoon’s work. She tapped several keys, but the screen didn’t change. Maybe Liz would know what to do. As a web site designer, she probably knew a lot more about computers than Emma.

Emma was crossing the foyer when she heard raised voices coming from outside. She peered through the glass alongside the front door, which gave her a partial view of the driveway. She could see the back end of Mariel’s red Porsche and Mariel herself, her ash-blond hair blowing across her face, which was red from the cold. She was gesturing at the car and yelling, her expression clearly indicating that she was angry about something. Emma couldn’t hear what she was saying nor could she see the person Mariel was yelling at.

The front door opened, startling Emma. She backed away from the window quickly. The open door let in a blast of wintery air along with the deep tones of a masculine voice. Jackson’s?

Joy moved awkwardly into the room. She slapped her gloves and riding helmet down on the foyer table and unbuttoned her red, quilted paddock jacket. She was wearing black and tan boots and khaki breeches with suede patches at the knee. To Emma, she looked far more comfortable in these clothes than the long, burgundy satin dress she had worn to her father’s birthday party.

The red jacket brought some color to her face, and her light brown hair was becomingly tousled by the wind. Once again Emma thought that with very little effort she could be an attractive woman.

“I saw you out riding,” Emma said, trying to be friendly. “You must have been freezing.” Emma wrapped her arms around herself. Just the blast of cold air from the open door had sent the temperature in the foyer plummeting.

Joy looked at Emma, a quizzical expression on her face. “Cold? No, I didn’t really notice it. I never do when I’m out on Big Boy. I let him have his head, and we galloped across the back fields. It’s exhilarating. I don’t notice much except his motion, the sound of his hooves and the scenery speeding past. I guess I concentrate on the ride and don’t notice how I’m feeling, one way or the other.” She gave a tiny half smile.

Emma darted a glance toward the window alongside the door. Mariel was still out in the cold, gesturing furiously at her car. Her companion moved slightly, and Emma caught a glimpse of Jackson. He wasn’t dressed for the outdoors—wearing only a turtleneck sweater and no jacket—and was staring stony-faced at his mother.

Joy jerked her head toward the door. “Mariel is absolutely furious with Jackson. That doesn’t happen often. I’m tempted to pull up a chair and watch the show.” Her lip curled sardonically.

“Why? What’s happened?” Emma looked openly out the window now. Mariel was pointing to a spot on the car. Jackson shrugged his shoulders.

“Mariel seems to think he scratched the front bumper of her Porsche. It’s barely visible—she only just now noticed it. But she’s mad for that car.” Joy shook her head. “I don’t see what difference it makes, but to each his own, I guess.” She joined Emma by the window.


“Doesn’t Jackson have his own car?”

“Yes, of course. A brand-new BMW Z4. His birthday gift.” Again her lip curled in what looked like a sneer. Her resentment of her brother was obvious.

“So why borrow his mother’s car? Was his already in the shop? A brand-new car?”

Joy shook her head. “No, he didn’t take his car. We all went over together. Father organized a limo to drive us.” She paused. “Except Mariel, of course. She went over early in her own car to check on things.”

“When was this?” An idea was forming in Emma’s mind, but it couldn’t possibly be right.

“The night of Father’s birthday party, of course. We’re not in the habit of all getting together on a regular basis. This was quite an exception.”

“So Jackson went with you in the limo . . .” Emma was quickly putting two and two together. “And then Jackson left in his mother’s car.”

Joy looked at her like a teacher whose slowest pupil has finally caught on. “Yes, and apparently he nicked the bumper or something. She’s only just noticed it, and she’s furious. It’s the only time she’s ever let him borrow the Porsche. And obviously the last.”

“Then how did Mariel get home? Did she ride back with you?”

“Yes. When the police finally let us go, Mariel was nowhere in sight. The driver waited a good fifteen minutes . . . it was awful . . . I was exhausted and horrified, as you can imagine. I just wanted to get home to a cup of tea and a hot bath. With Father . . . dead . . . and Jackson already off someplace, it was just me in the car. We were about to pull away from the hotel when Mariel suddenly appeared.”

“She came out of the hotel?” Emma asked, trying to picture the scene.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think that’s possible. I remember staring at the front door, willing her to appear. I would certainly have seen her. All of a sudden, she appeared out of the darkness and was banging on the car window demanding I let her in.”

Mariel hadn’t been in the ballroom when the police took down everyone’s contact information. Emma doubted she’d been inside the hotel at all or surely she would have been at her husband’s side. Unless she had murdered him, and had then arranged to disappear. Had Dr. Sampson been waiting to drive her away from the scene?

Joy looked at Emma with a peculiar expression on her face—one Emma couldn’t read. “I can see the wheels turning in your head,” Joy said dryly. “You’re wondering if my stepmother murdered my father.” She stared Emma straight in the face. “Frankly, so am I. Father was upset by her increasing drug use. It started with painkillers for her back when Roy threw her—and ended with addiction, as it so often does with those pills. Father wanted her to go to rehab—some swanky place in Arizona with a spa, yoga instructors and gourmet food. Sounds like a vacation to me.” She gave a bitter laugh. “But Mariel refused. Said it was all nonsense and that she could stop anytime she wanted to, and there was no harm in it. Of course she had Dr. Sampson wrapped around her finger, writing her prescriptions presumably against his better judgment.” Again, that bitter laugh.

Emma was hardly listening. All she could think about was the fact that Mariel didn’t have an alibi for Hugh’s death. She hadn’t left the Beau early in her very memorable red Porsche as Emma had thought. Jackson had been the one to collect the sports car from the valet. Jackson hadn’t been at the hotel when Hugh was killed, but Mariel had.