A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 4




“EVERYONE, go back to your seats,” Francis commanded the crowd that had gathered around the body. He stuffed his cell phone back in his pocket. “An ambulance is on the way.”

A fussy-looking man in a dark suit and shiny black hair in a comb-over hastened to where Francis was standing.

“Must be the hotel manager,” Brian said, as he put his arm around Emma’s waist and began to steer her away from the scene. “I imagine he’ll know what to do.”

People continued to mill around, the men shaking their heads, the women uttering small cries of dismay, until several waiters bustled over and formed a ring around Hugh’s fallen body. Discouraged, the guests drifted back toward their tables. Emma heard a stout woman in an emerald gown ask her companion whether or not he thought they would still be served dessert.

It was surely not the finale poor Hugh had been anticipating. Emma shivered, and Brian tightened his arm around her.

Their table had been cleared of the dirty plates and used silverware and set with cups and saucers and dessert forks and spoons. Emma and Brian slid into their seats. The Jaspers were still milling in the crowd somewhere.

“Where is Arabella?” Emma looked at her aunt’s empty seat.

Brian shrugged. “I saw her leave during the fireworks, but that was quite a while ago. I imagine she’s gone to the restroom. You ladies always take so long in there.” He grinned at Emma.

Emma gave the ghost of a smile before turning serious again. “Do you think I should go look for her? Perhaps she’s been taken ill or something.”

“I’m sure she’ll be along any minute, but if it would make you feel better . . . ”

Emma was about to get up when she noticed Arabella crossing the ballroom toward them. She sat back down with a feeling of relief.

“Arabella,” Emma said as soon as her aunt reached their table, “we were worried about you.”

“I’m sorry, dear. I didn’t mean to alarm you.”

“Where were you?”

“Where was I?” Arabella looked flustered. Her hands fluttered around her face, which, Emma noticed, was suddenly drained of color.


Just then the Jaspers returned to their seats.

“This is horrible,” John said as he collapsed into his chair. “We were just getting to know Hugh—had dinner with him and Mariel only last week. It’s hard to believe.”

Lara nodded her head in confirmation, and put her hand over her husband’s.

“Poor Mariel must be devastated.” He shuddered. “And the kids. I hope they didn’t have to see their father . . . just lying there like that.”

“Children?” Arabella said. “We met the one daughter, Joy.”

“Yes.” John shook his head vigorously. “There’s Joy, of course. Her mother died in the accident that . . . that . . . left her crippled.”

“Was that Elizabeth?” Arabella asked.

John shrugged and wiped a hand across his brow. Emma noticed Lara’s hand tighten on his. “I don’t know. He didn’t mention her name. There’s also the boy, of course—Jackson. Although I don’t suppose I can call him a boy.” He gave a loud guffaw. “Shows how old I’m getting.” He glanced at Lara and she gave him a tolerant-looking smile. “He’s already twenty-five, following in his father’s footsteps in the business. He played an aggressive game of lacrosse for UT for a bit, but college wasn’t for him. It doesn’t suit everyone.” He glanced around the table as if seeking confirmation. “He’s working hand in hand with his father. He’s got quite an eye, too. I wonder what will happen now . . .” he trailed off.

A waiter appeared at their table with a tray of plated desserts. He slid a piece of chocolate volcano cake in front of each of them while another waiter circled the table pouring steaming-hot coffee into their cups.

John gave a nervous laugh and gestured at his dessert. “The show must go on, eh?” He picked up his fork.

Emma pushed her plate away. The cake looked delicious, but she had lost her appetite. She noticed that Arabella left hers untouched as well. She turned to her aunt.

“Arabella, would you like us to take you home? You’re looking rather . . . tired.” Emma chose her words with care. Her aunt didn’t like to be reminded of her age.

“That would be lovely, dear, but do you suppose they will let us go?”

“I don’t see why not.” Brian took the last bite of his cake. “It was just a terrible accident.”

Emma nodded. “And we didn’t see anything, so there isn’t much we can tell anyone.”

They heard the shrill sound of sirens in the distance. The wail got louder and louder until it ended abruptly in a whimper.

“Sounds like the ambulance is here,” Brian said, turning toward the entrance.

Several minutes later, a man and a woman in black pants and crisp, short-sleeved white shirts rushed in carrying red emergency kits. Emma couldn’t see what they were doing, and she was grateful. She tried to keep the conversation going, to help take Arabella’s mind off of what was happening, but Brian and John answered every gambit with monosyllables, and Lara didn’t contribute a word.

A waiter was pouring second cups of coffee when several more sirens could be heard approaching the front entrance of the hotel.

“Hopefully, we’ll be able to go home soon,” Brian whispered to Emma. He yawned. “Sorry, but it’s been a long day. I was on a job early this morning. The owners want the place done ASAP, so we’re working six days a week.”

“I wonder where Francis is?” Arabella fiddled with the napkin in her lap. She stood up suddenly and looked around. “I do wish he would come back.”

“Can you see him?” Emma got to her feet as well.

Arabella shook her head. “Unfortunately not. There’s still a crowd gathered around the—around Hugh.”

Emma glanced in the direction of the balcony. The emergency medical technicians had been joined by several uniformed policemen. She thought she caught a glimpse of Francis’s dark hair among them, but she wasn’t sure.

Emma sat down and was finishing her second cup of tea when she looked up to see Francis striding toward their table.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, kissing Arabella on the check. “The hotel manager proved useless in handling the situation so I felt I needed to stick around and get things under control. The local team is finally here. I don’t want to appear to be stepping on their toes.”

“Does that mean we can go?” Arabella asked hopefully, gathering up her purse and shawl.

“I’m afraid not. The police will want to question us. Or at least take our names and contact information.”

“But why?” Arabella said somewhat petulantly. “It was just a terrible accident. We can’t tell them anything.”

Emma noticed that Arabella’s hands were shaking. Her face was really white now, and she seemed smaller, as if she had shrunk.

“Surely, you can convince them to let Arabella go,” Emma said to Francis. “This has obviously been very difficult for her.”

“I know.” Francis took one of Arabella’s hands in his. “You’re freezing,” he said, his black brows drawn together in concern. He took both her hands in his and began to rub them.

“But if it’s an accident, I don’t see why they need to talk to us,” Brian said.

“It’s still a sudden death,” Francis explained. “We don’t know that he wasn’t pushed.”

Arabella gasped. “But surely you don’t mean that. Who would do such a thing?”

“I’m not saying that someone did.” Francis put an arm around Arabella, who had started to shake. “But there will have to be an investigation. It’s just routine when there’s an accidental death like this.”

“I do hope they hurry up.” Arabella’s lower lip quivered.

Just then, a uniformed policeman approached their table. “If I could get your names and contact information,” he asked politely, his pen poised above a pad of paper.

“Finally!” Arabella exclaimed.

? ? ?



EMMA slept late on Sunday. It had been after midnight by the time they’d left the Beau, and, as tired as she had been, she hadn’t been able to fall asleep right away—especially not after a brisk walk in the chilly night air with Bette, who had been waiting not so patiently for Emma’s return. In the end, she had stayed up watching reruns of Friends until two o’clock in the morning.

Bette was exceptionally playful on her morning walk although Emma wasn’t so sure who was walking whom as Bette dragged Emma down Washington Street past all the darkened and shuttered shops. She spent a good five minutes sniffing a trash container before Emma urged her along.

As soon as she got back to her apartment above Sweet Nothings, Emma reached for her phone to call Arabella, but then just as quickly put it down again. Her aunt would insist she was fine no matter what. Emma would drive over to Arabella’s instead and see for herself.

Emma bustled Bette into the car and headed out. Fortunately, Bette loved car rides and was always eager to tag along.

There were dark circles under Arabella’s eyes when she answered the front door, and her normally fastidious white hair was stuck on top of her head in a haphazard bun.

“Who’s that, dear?” Emma heard Francis call from the back of the house.

“It’s me,” Emma said as she followed Arabella out to the kitchen. She dumped her purse on one of the kitchen chairs and slipped off her coat, watching in amusement as Bette tried to cajole Pierre into playing. Woken from a nap lying in the warmth of the air blowing from the heating vent, Pierre was not amused.


“I’ve got some of that green tea you like.” Arabella rummaged in the pantry and came out holding an unopened box. The maneuver had unmoored her bun further, sending it slipping to just above her right ear. “If you’ll put the kettle on.”

Emma turned on the tap and swung the red enamel teakettle under the faucet and filled it.

“I picked up some croissants from Kroger’s.” Francis indicated a plate on the table. “And there’s some honey we bought at a local farm.”

“You have to try the honey,” Arabella said as she wrestled with the plastic wrapping on the box of tea. “You can actually taste the flowers and clover in it.”

Francis had the Sunday Post-Intelligencer spread open on the table, and his nearly empty coffee cup sat companionably next to Arabella’s. Emma suddenly felt as if she was intruding. She should have realized that Francis would have headed to her aunt’s first thing in the morning to check on her.

The kettle whistled, and Emma poured the hot water into the mug Arabella handed her. She added a tea bag from the box Arabella had finally managed to open and dunked it several times, sliding into a seat opposite Arabella and Francis.

“Last night certainly didn’t turn out as we expected, did it?” Arabella said, buttering a piece of her croissant. “I imagine with Hugh dead, there won’t be much of anything left for the TBI to investigate.” She turned toward Francis.

“Not necessarily. We know he has a partner, Tom Roberts, who will probably take over.”

“Did we meet this Mr. Roberts last night?” Arabella paused with a spoon of honey over her croissant.

Francis shook his head. “No. You might have noticed his wife though. A very beautiful woman, rather exotic, with dark hair. She was wearing an orange dress.”

“Tangerine,” Arabella corrected him. “Isn’t that what you’d call it?” she asked Emma.

“Yes. It sounds better than orange.”

“Looks the same to me,” Francis grumbled as he turned the page in his newspaper.

“I think I remember seeing her. You’re right. She is very beautiful. And she was the only woman there wearing that color.” Emma blew on her hot tea.

“Yes, I think I remember her, too,” Arabella nibbled on the end of her croissant. “Do you suppose the son knows what his father was up to? John said he had gone into the art business with Hugh.”

“Probably,” Francis said, taking the last sip of his coffee. He reached for the pot and helped himself to another cup. “But I doubt he’ll tell us.” He smiled.

“I should imagine you’re right.”

Emma was reaching for a croissant when the doorbell rang. This time Pierre and Bette were in tandem as they began a fit of barking and headed immediately toward the front door.

“Who on earth could that be?” Arabella wrinkled her brow. She wiped her hands on her napkin and pushed back her chair.

Francis raised an eyebrow. “Do you want me to get it?”

“Perhaps you’d better.” Arabella sat down again.

Emma and Arabella listened as Francis made his way down the hall. “Quiet, you two,” they heard him call to the dogs. Then there was the sound of the front door opening.

Voices drifted toward the kitchen.

“Can you hear who it is?” Arabella kneaded the napkin in her lap.

“No. I think it’s a man.” Emma closed her eyes trying to make out the words coming from the hallway.

They heard footsteps heading toward the kitchen, and Arabella sat up straighter, putting a hand up to tidy her bun. “I must look a wreck,” she murmured as she struggled with a hairpin. “I can’t imagine who it is at this time of day. Everyone in town is probably in church.”

They looked up to see a man silhouetted in the door to the kitchen. Emma recognized him right away as Detective Bradley Walker of the Paris, Tennessee, police department.

Arabella got to her feet. “What can I do for you?” Her voice quavered slightly on the last words, and Emma looked at her in alarm.

“Ms. Arabella Andrews?” Walker asked.

“Yes.” Arabella put a hand to her throat and fiddled with the collar of her blouse.

“I’d like to ask you a few questions, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course. Please come in and sit down. Would you like some coffee?”

She gestured toward the pot sitting on the table.

“That’s very kind of you, but no, thank you.” Walker’s eyes met Emma’s, and he smiled.

Walker was all Southern gentleman with dark hair and dark eyes. Emma had met him before, and he had made it quite plain he found her attractive. The look in his eyes said he still did.

Francis went to stand behind Arabella, his hands on her shoulders. She glanced up at him, a frightened look in her eyes. Walker perched on the edge of one of the kitchen chairs, a spiral-bound notebook balanced on his knee.

“I understand you were at the party last night given by Mr. Hugh Granger.”

Arabella nodded curtly.

“I also understand”—he consulted his notes—“that you are an old friend of Mr. Granger’s.”

Arabella nodded again. “That’s true. Although we haven’t been in communication for years,” she clarified. “There were plenty of people at the party who knew him much better than I.”

Walker nodded and jotted something in his notebook.

“But you were invited to the party.” It was a statement not a question.

“Hugh and I did an admirable job of avoiding each other for close to forty years,” Arabella said somewhat sharply, “when he suddenly appeared at my lingerie shop the other night.”

Walker raised a thick dark brow. “Avoiding each other? Why?”

Arabella took a deep breath. “If you must know, in our youth we had a romantic liaison that ended badly.” She clamped her lips together.

“I’m sorry, Detective, but why all these questions?” Francis interjected in his most authoritative voice. “The man fell from the balcony. It was an unfortunate accident.”

Walker looked up slowly. “It wasn’t an accident. When we turned the body over, we discovered a bullet wound. He had been shot.”

“What!” Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth.

Walker nodded. “It was murder.”