A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 3




EMMA was on pins and needles until Saturday night finally arrived. Brian had once taken her to a friend’s wedding at the Beauchamp Hotel and Spa, or the “Beau” as the locals called it, and it had been a spectacular event with elegant décor and delicious food.

The question of what to wear immediately reared its head. As a stylist in New York Emma had amassed a decent wardrobe, although here in Paris she found herself reaching for the same basic garments over and over again. The back of her closet had become unexplored territory. Emma plunged into the mass of skirts, dresses, pants and blouses and managed to unearth a dress she’d once worn to a charity ball in New York with her then-boyfriend, photographer Guy Richard. She’d scored it at a sample sale, and it hadn’t been out of her closet since.

It was no longer the height of fashion but considering that she was in Tennessee and not New York, she was certain it would do. Besides, Arabella had loaned her some magnificent jewelry to go with it.

Emma stood in front of her bathroom mirror and fastened the clasp on the exquisite ruby-and-diamond necklace. It felt heavy and cold against her bare skin. She slipped on the matching chandelier earrings and turned this way and that, admiring the sparkle of the gems in the overhead light. Had the set been a gift from Hugh Granger, she wondered? Or had there been someone else as well, and Arabella was keeping more than one secret from them?

Brian’s eyes lit up when he arrived an hour and a half later to pick Emma up. He looked her up and down and gave a long, low whistle. “Wow, am I going to have to hire a Brinks guard to protect you?” he said, indicating her necklace and matching earrings.

“I’m sure I’m not going to be the only one at the party resplendent in fine jewels. From what Arabella has said, this Hugh runs with a pretty rich crowd.”

“I’m certain that no one there will be wearing them nearly as well as you do.” Brian took Emma in his arms and kissed her in a way that left her breathless and nearly made her toes curl up. “Do we really have to go to this party tonight?” he asked, his voice husky in her ear.

Emma laughed and pulled away. “We promised Aunt Arabella, remember?”

Brian made a comically sad face, and Emma laughed.

She had never seen him in dinner clothes before. Jeans and work shirts were more his usual attire. He managed to look as if he wore black tie every day. He’d slicked his hair down just a bit, and Emma caught the faintest whiff of cologne.

“Shall we go?” he asked.

Emma picked up her gown with both hands to keep it from trailing on the stairs as they headed to the ground floor. She glanced at the dust in the corners and made a mental note to sweep the very next day.

“The way you look tonight, I feel like you deserve a limousine and not my sister’s station wagon,” Brian said indicating the car parked outside the back door to Emma’s apartment.

“At least it’s not a pumpkin.”

Brian laughed as he slid behind the wheel. “Yes, and let’s hope it doesn’t turn into one at midnight, or we’ll be riding brooms back to your place.” He laughed again. “I think I’m mixing up my fairy tales.”

The Beau was located about fifteen minutes out of town, and the drive went quickly. They passed miles of dark and shadowy open fields, prickly with matted, frozen vegetation. Suddenly they rounded the corner and Emma gasped as the Beau came into view. It glowed from stem to stern, like a great ship ablaze against the inky darkness of the night. Several sleek, black cars were pulled up to the entrance where white-jacketed valets quickly whisked them away. Men in dinner jackets and women in fur coats and elegant gowns mingled around the entrance.

Emma felt the stirrings of excitement. This was going to be a very glamorous evening indeed.

Brian pulled up to the curb with a flourish, put the car in park and went around to help Emma out. She made what she hoped was a reasonably graceful exit considering the width of her skirt. Arabella and Francis were already waiting for them by the door. Arabella was resplendent in a midnight blue, long-sleeved gown that set off her white hair, and Francis looked just as distinguished in his evening wear.

Hugh Granger greeted them as soon as they entered. “I’m so glad you changed your mind.” His practiced smile was aimed at Arabella.

She nodded stiffly and gave a brief smile.

“This is my wife, Mariel.” Hugh gestured to the woman standing next to him, her lips set in a thin line.

She was considerably younger than Hugh—around fifty—and what Emma supposed would be called handsome rather than pretty. She was tall and trim but with broad shoulders and large, capable-looking hands. Her thick, dark blond hair was swept back off her forehead, the ashy color hiding a sprinkling of gray. She greeted them somewhat disinterestedly and immediately turned to talk to an older couple who had come in after Emma and Brian.

“Well! Looks like he’s on wife number two,” Arabella said sharply as they moved away. “Or, number three or four, who knows? I only know that the first was called Elizabeth.”

Francis forged a path through the throng of guests, and the rest of them followed, Brian’s hand on Emma’s elbow gently steering her past the knots of people milling around the reception area. Their chatter drowned out the trickle of a waterfall and the soothing, Zenlike music in the background.

The ballroom was down a corridor lined with windows on one side. The glass reflected Emma’s image back at her, but she could just barely discern a courtyard beyond the mirrorlike windows.

“This is some place,” Emma heard Francis whisper to Arabella.

Double doors led into a magnificent ballroom. It was white and trimmed lavishly with gilt. A small balcony ran along the upper level. Two enormous chandeliers dripping with crystals were suspended over the tables below, covered tonight in white cloths with deep blue overlays. The tables were set with glittering silverware and crystal and white plates with a dark blue and gold rim.

Brian ran a finger around his collar. “This is quite the setup.”

“It sure is.” Emma looked around her, not even trying to pretend she was too sophisticated to be impressed.

Waiters in black tie and tails and white gloves carrying trays laden with flutes of champagne and elegant hors d’oeuvres made their way through the crowd. A waiter suddenly appeared at Emma’s elbow offering champagne.


“Thank you.” Emma selected a glass. She was tilting it toward her mouth when someone jostled her arm.

Emma whirled around to see a woman standing by her side.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “My leg makes me clumsy. Let me call for a waiter to get you a cloth.”

The woman wore a long dress, but judging by the slant of her hips, Emma suspected that her left leg was shorter than her right. And the shoes peeking out from under the swath of burgundy satin that made up the skirt of her gown were stout-looking ones with the sole built up on the left one. She was quite plain with pale skin, a sprinkle of freckles and only a dash of pink lipstick for makeup. Emma thought her to be in her late thirties or possibly early forties.

Emma glanced at her dress. “Oh, please don’t bother. It’s fine. It didn’t spill.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

“I’m Joy Granger, Hugh’s daughter.” She put a hand out, steadying herself by clutching the back of a chair with the other.

Emma took her hand. “What a lovely name.”

“Rather ironic, actually.” Joy gave a bitter smile. “Are you sure about your dress? I can easily have the waiter bring you a damp cloth.”

“Really, it’s fine.”

“In that case, I hope you enjoy the dog and pony show.” She moved away awkwardly.

“What an odd woman,” Francis said after Joy had disappeared into the milling crowd. “And that remark about her name was rather strange, don’t you think?”

“She might have been referring to the fact that her arrival hadn’t been particularly joyful—in which case, it would certainly be an odd choice for a name,” Arabella said.

Francis nodded his head. “You’re probably right.”

Arabella turned to Brian and Emma. “Did you get our place cards?”

Brian held up four folded pieces of heavy card stock with names handwritten on them in fancy script. He glanced at one of them. “We’re at table 14.”

“I don’t suppose we shall know the rest of our dinner partners,” Arabella said, adjusting the light shawl draped over her shoulders. “No matter. I’m sure we’ll get along.” Arabella plucked an hors d’oeuvre from the tray of a circulating waiter. “Mmmm, caviar.” She tapped the waiter on the arm and he spun around. “You must try one,” she said to Emma, Brian and Francis. “It’s divine. Osetra, if I’m not mistaken.”

“What on earth is Osetra?” Francis raised an eyebrow as he reached for the tray.

“Very, very expensive caviar,” Arabella said, taking his arm. “Savor it,” she cautioned. “Burst the delicious, little bubbles with your tongue and cherish the flavor.”

Francis raised both eyebrows. “I’m a country boy, Arabella. My pleasures are simple ones. Some good barbecue and a pitcher of Tennessee tea, and I’m a happy man.”

“Nonsense.” Arabella slapped him on the arm playfully. “Everyone loves caviar.”

Emma turned to Brian who was trying, as discretely as possible, to spit the hors d’oeuvre into his cocktail napkin. He laughed when he noticed Emma watching. “Sorry, I’m just not as sophisticated as you are.”

Emma squeezed his arm. “It’s all a matter of taste. I knew some very sophisticated people who hated caviar.”

Brian took Emma’s hand as they wound their way among the tables, looking for number 14.

Suddenly Hugh’s amplified voice came from the front of the room.

“I want to welcome you all here tonight and thank you for coming. My dear wife, Mariel, arranged this lovely get-together to celebrate not only my upcoming birthday, but also the fact that we have moved back to Paris to stay. I’ve spent most of my life traveling the globe, truly the peripatetic traveler, but now at my age”—he paused and there was polite laughter from the audience—“I’m ready to settle down. If you will find your tables, please, Mariel has a spectacular dinner and evening planned for you all.”

A smattering of applause came from the audience, quickly dying away as people moved toward their seats, the ladies’ gowns rustling as they moved.

Brian found their table easily enough and held out one of the gilt chairs for Emma while Francis did the same for Arabella. The centerpieces dripped with luscious pink and blue hydrangeas, and a dozen tea lights glittered among the crystal, china and silver. The beauty of it all—the elegant ballroom, the twinkling lights, the flowers, the caviar . . . everything . . . nearly took Emma’s breath away.

“I think this is our table,” Emma heard someone say behind her. She twisted around in her seat. “Oh.”

Brian, meanwhile, had jumped to his feet. “John!” He pumped the other man’s hand enthusiastically. He turned to Emma. “Emma, you remember the Jaspers, don’t you? John and Lara?”

“Yes, certainly.” Brian and Emma had run into them one night while dining at L’Etoile, Paris’s most elegant restaurant. They were clients of Brian’s, having employed him to completely renovate the mid-century modern house they had recently purchased.

“I think we’re at your table.” John gave a big smile, his round face flushed from champagne and the warmth of the room.

Brian introduced Arabella and Francis as John pulled out a chair, and Lara slipped into it.

“My wife, Lara,” John said with a look of pride.

She was a beautiful young woman in her late twenties with long, golden brown hair and green eyes. Her low-cut, backless, sequined fishtail gown made the most of her figure, and Emma suspected it wasn’t something she had picked up at the local mall. Fortunately, Lara was warm and gracious, and Emma had really liked her the last time they met.

“So how do you know Hugh Granger?” John settled in his seat, tilting the chair slightly backward on two legs.

“He’s an old friend,” Arabella said succinctly. “And you?”

“He’s been my art dealer for a couple of years.” John looked at Lara as if for confirmation. “We collect art—although it’s not much of a collection yet.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Just the odd piece here and there.”

Lara was turning her knife over and over. She smiled at her husband.

“It started with this piece a young art student had done of Lara in Sao Paulo. She used to model for the class.” John glanced at his wife with a proprietary air. “It was a triptych—three panels—that was in the style of the portraits Andy Warhol used to do. Warhol did a lot of famous people—even Jackie Onassis and Marilyn Monroe. Lara showed me a picture of the student’s work, and I decided I had to have it. It took me three years to track him down and buy the piece.” John took a gulp of water from the glass next to his plate. “I guess I caught the collecting bug. Hugh has been helping us build our collection, as pitiful as it is.”

Waiters had begun circulating among the tables, and one of them slid bowls of lobster bisque in front of them.

“Looks like we’re in for some pretty impressive chow.” John chuckled.

“So you’ve been a client of Granger’s for a while,” Francis said as he unfurled his napkin and placed it in his lap.

John nodded. “He’s found some great pieces for us. Our latest acquisition”—he spooned up some soup—“is a Rothko painting. Although actually, it was Hugh’s son, Jackson, who found the painting for us. Gave us a wonderful price on it, too. It’s definitely the star of our collection.”


Waiters cleared away their soup plates and came back with dishes of rack of lamb, potatoes Dauphinoise and asparagus with sauce Maltese.

“Heavenly, don’t you think?” Arabella said as she studied her artfully arranged plate.

A small orchestra had assembled on a platform at the front of the room and began playing, drowning out the sounds of silverware clinking against china and the low murmur of conversation. Emma recognized several tunes from Broadway shows she had seen while living in New York. They were finishing up the last bites of their meal when Hugh’s voice came over the audio system again.

“Before dancing, and dessert, which I assure you will be spectacular, Mariel has organized a special treat.” Hugh paused. “Fireworks,” he said dramatically sweeping a hand toward the French doors that lined one wall of the ballroom. “On the lawn. The hotel staff has put heaters out on the patio. It’s a beautiful night; I suggest you go outside and enjoy them.”

A phalanx of waiters headed toward the French doors, opening them with a grand flourish.

A low murmur of excited voices floated up as soon as Hugh was finished speaking.

“The chap’s gone all out, I’ll say,” John said pushing his chair back. “Are you game?” he asked Lara.

She nodded and picked up the beaded evening bag she had slung from her chair.

“How about you?” Brian looked at Emma. “Want to go outside? I can loan you my jacket if you get too chilly.”

Emma pushed back her chair. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

Arabella and Francis were also getting to their feet. By the time they made their way to the doors leading to the patio, the first fireworks were lighting the sky with brilliant colors. The accompanying thunderous boom rattled the crystal and silverware on the tables.

A large outdoor fireplace stood in the middle of the patio and had been stoked with fragrant-smelling wood. Smaller heaters were placed strategically around the perimeter along with tall, flaming torches.

Emma and Brian secured a place close to the fire, and, with Brian’s arms around her, Emma didn’t mind the cold. The fireworks display was magnificent—splayed against the black, star-studded sky. She leaned against Brian’s broad chest and watched as the colored lights streaked by overhead. They could hear the band playing in the background, and Emma thought it was one of the most enchanting evenings she could remember.

She glanced over toward Arabella, but her aunt wasn’t there. Emma raised a questioning brow at Francis, but he just shrugged and gestured toward the ballroom. Emma supposed Arabella had become cold or had taken the opportunity to powder her nose. She imagined that Arabella had already seen any number of incredible things in her life, and she wasn’t averse to missing a few fireworks.

Emma noticed a woman who had been sitting at Hugh’s table make her way through the crowd, back to the ballroom, her orange dress bright against the black of the men’s evening wear.

The finale had the crowd oohing and aahing, their heads tilted back, necks stretched, as they watched the brilliant lights illuminating the sky. Finally, the last rocket streaked silver and gold plumes, lighting up the darkness, the final boom sounded, and the crowd began to drift back toward the open doors to the ballroom.

Emma and Brian followed suit, Brian’s arm lingering around Emma’s bare shoulders. They were just stepping through the French doors into the candlelit ballroom when a woman’s high-pitched scream sounded above the low murmur of voices. It rose to a crescendo, trailed away and was replaced by abrupt silence that seemed to pulse in the room like a living thing.

Emma and Brian froze, glancing at each other in horror.

“Something’s happened.” Brian tightened his arm around Emma.

“What the—” Francis, who was behind them, muttered. “Excuse me, perhaps I’d better see to this.” He rushed past Emma and Brian and strode toward the point from which the scream had emanated.

Emma grabbed Brian by the hand. “Should we go see what’s going on?”

“I don’t—” Brian began, but Emma tugged him inside the room. The crowd was rushing toward the far corner of the ballroom, and Emma followed suit, Brian in tow.

Several women in the crowd screamed, some of the men groaned and the people at the back of the crowd jostled each other to see what was going on.

Emma managed to wiggle her way through the crowd to the front. “Oh,” was all she could say when she got there. She put a hand to her mouth to stifle the scream that threatened to erupt. She heard Brian’s sharp intake of breath behind her.

Hugh Granger’s lifeless body lay sprawled on the floor at the foot of the balcony that encircled the room, his elegant dinner jacket barely ruffled, his starched shirt as pristine as ever. His blue eyes were open but sightless, his body motionless on the polished parquet floor.

Francis had already made his way through the crowd, which fell back slightly in response to his air of authority. He knelt and felt Hugh’s neck with one hand while he dug his phone from his pocket with the other. He shook his head. “No pulse, I’m afraid.” He quickly punched in 9-1-1 on his cell.

Emma stepped forward and touched Francis on the arm. “He fell?” She asked looking up at the narrow balcony that encircled the room.

Francis shrugged. “I don’t know. He must have.”