A Fatal Slip(Sweet Nothings)

Chapter 6




PROMPTLY at five o’clock, Emma closed the door to Sweet Nothings behind their last customer and flipped the open sign to closed. Her mother was due to arrive in Paris shortly. She was heading straight to Arabella’s house, where she would be staying in the guest room.

Emma slipped on her coat and took Bette for a quick sprint around the block, then they both dashed up the stairs to Emma’s apartment. She wanted to wash her face and hands and run a comb through her hair before going to Arabella’s. She hadn’t seen either of her parents in over a year. She was sorry her father had decided not to come along, but apparently he was playing in a golf tournament he didn’t want to miss.

The last time Emma had seen her parents had been in New York, when they visited her there. Her mother had complained about the dirt, the noise and the cost of their hotel, but they had enjoyed the restaurants and several Broadway shows.

Emma tipped some food into Bette’s bowl and refreshed her water. Bette gobbled down her dinner, and by the time Emma had turned on the tap in the bathroom, was sound asleep on the fluffy throw rug in front of the bathtub.

Emma freshened her makeup, ran some product through her hair to revive it and changed her black pants for a pair of skinny jeans and her leather boots for some ballet flats.

“Come on, Bette, we’re going to Pierre’s house.”

In one swift movement, Bette rolled from her back to her feet and galloped toward the front door as if she hadn’t just been sound asleep. Emma wished she could wake up that quickly—instead it took her fifteen minutes of yoga stretches, a hot shower and at least one cup of green tea to join the living every morning.

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash, and they bounded downstairs to her VW Beetle.

Arabella’s driveway was empty when Emma got there. Emma was relieved that her mother hadn’t yet arrived; she wanted to be there to greet her. Pierre was already by the front door barking when Emma mounted the front steps. The front door was open, as usual. No amount of warnings was able to persuade Arabella that times had changed and she ought to keep the house locked up.

Her aunt was nowhere to be seen when Emma entered, but familiar noises were coming from the kitchen. “I’m here,” she called out, bending down to unsnap Bette’s leash. Untethered, Bette made a beeline for the kitchen, rounding the corner on her two left paws. Emma followed at a more sedate pace.

Arabella was at the kitchen counter. She had a platter of cut-up chicken pieces in front of her and a paper bag that Emma knew was filled with flour and the spices that Arabella put into her fried chicken. Arabella was as secretive as the Colonel about what went into her special recipe. According to her, it had been handed down verbally from generation to generation. It would be passed to Emma when she married.

Emma kissed her aunt on the cheek and opened the refrigerator, where she knew a pitcher of sweet tea would be waiting.

“Oooh, you’ve made your chess pie,” she said, closing the door and opening the cupboard where the glasses were kept.

“It’s not every day my younger sister comes to visit.” Arabella dropped a chicken leg into the paper bag and began to shake it. “Although what all the fuss is about, I don’t know. I’m perfectly all right.”

“You know how Mom is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”

“Do I ever,” Arabella exclaimed. “Sometimes I think she ought to have been the older sibling, not me.”

Emma thought Arabella was looking considerably better—she was less pale and the sparkle had returned to her blue eyes.

Emma was setting the table when the doorbell rang. Pierre and Bette launched themselves onto their feet and skidded together down the long front hall. Arabella dried her hands on her apron and scurried after them.

“Priscilla,” Emma heard her aunt say as Emma rounded the corner to the front hall.

Despite more than eight hours of car travel, Emma’s mother’s blond hair looked as if she had just left the salon, her makeup was perfect and her clothes were as fresh as they had no doubt been when she’d left that morning. Emma thought of all the car trips she’d taken where they were barely out of the state before she’d dribbled a blob of ketchup from a fast food hamburger on her top or had a grease stain on her pants from a dropped French fry. Her mother was as slim as ever in a pair of perfectly creased khakis, white blouse and brown leather driving shoes.

“Emma,” Priscilla called, holding her arms out.

Emma hugged her mother while Priscilla offered her cheek for a kiss.

“So good to see you, darling. It’s been too long.” She stood back and held Emma at arm’s length. “Are you going to leave your hair like that? Men don’t like women with such short hair, you know.”

“I think she looks adorable,” Arabella said, rolling her eyes behind her sister’s back.

“How was your trip?” Emma asked, anxious to change the subject.

“Rather tedious, I’m afraid. I hit a patch of bad weather outside of Birmingham, which slowed me down. Very annoying.”

“I imagine you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ve put you in the guest room at the back of the second floor.”


“Wonderful,” Priscilla cooed. “Last time you had me in the front and the traffic kept me up nearly all night.”

Emma and Arabella looked at each other. The only sounds Emma had ever heard at Arabella’s at night were the chirping of crickets and the sighing of the wind in the tree branches.

Priscilla grasped her rolling bag by the handle and headed toward the stairs.

“Do you want me to help you with that?” Emma asked.

“Of course not. I can manage.”

Emma and Arabella retreated to the kitchen where they could hear the thump of the wheels as Priscilla bumped the suitcase up the stairs.

“Some things never change,” Arabella said as she placed the last of the chicken pieces in the bag and shook it.

Emma laughed. Arabella was right.

Arabella poured oil into a pan on the stove and hesitated, her hand on the burner. She looked over her shoulder at Emma. “This is the part I hate.”

Emma knew exactly what she meant. It had been a pan of oil that had started the fire that had nearly destroyed Arabella’s kitchen.

Arabella finally turned the burner, and the flame sprang to life. A few minutes later, she began adding the chicken pieces, one by one, to the pan.

Light footsteps sounded down the hall, and Priscilla reappeared with Pierre and Bette right on her heels. She’d exchanged her blouse for a cream-colored sweater.

Priscilla bent and scratched Pierre behind the ear. “You’ve put on some weight haven’t you, darling.”

Emma noticed Arabella bristle slightly.

“And who is this?” Priscilla held out a hand toward Bette, who approached her with unusual caution.

“That’s Bette. She’s Pierre’s puppy.”

Priscilla studied Bette, her head tilted to one side. “I see elements of Pierre—certainly the ears—but she’s obviously not a French bulldog.”

“Pierre had a”—Arabella cleared her throat—“liaison with a dachshund.”

“Pierre, you scamp. I’m surprised you allowed it, Arabella.”

“I didn’t,” Arabella said, frowning.

Again, Emma thought it might be best if she changed the subject. She glanced at her mother. “I thought you would be tanner.”

“You should see your father! I keep telling him sunscreen, sunscreen, but he doesn’t listen. And he’s out on that golf course all day. Well, no matter. It gives me time for my ceramics.”

Emma noticed a strange look cross her mother’s face.

“How is that going?” Arabella turned away from the stove briefly.

“Very well. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m having a showing at the Belmont Arts and Cultural Center in May.”

“That’s wonderful. You’ll have to send me some pictures,” Emma said.

“There’s a small arts and crafts store over on Market Street,” Arabella said, swiping at her nose and leaving it dusted with flour. “You might put some of your pieces up for consignment.”

“I hardly think of my work as arts and crafts.” Priscilla walked over to the stove, where the chicken was now spitting and crackling in the pan. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, this will be a treat. I love your fried chicken, Arabella. Mine never comes out quite as flavorful and crisp as yours.”

Arabella’s face glowed with pleasure. She removed the chicken pieces from the pot and placed them on a white platter.

“Emma, if you could put this on the table . . .” She handed Emma the dish, then opened the oven and took out a cast iron pan of cornbread and a green bean casserole.

Finally, everything was on the table, and they were all seated around it.

Emma looked from her mother to her aunt and back again. There was a slight resemblance—the vivid blue eyes and the shape of the nose—but otherwise they were as unalike as two sisters could be.

“So tell me about this murder of yours, Arabella. You two have been getting up to some awfully unsavory things.”

Arabella bristled again. “What on earth do you mean by that?” Arabella said.

“You told me that you actually had a detective here, questioning you. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Priscilla took a bite of her chicken. “Mmm, you do make the most divine fried chicken.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “But I don’t understand why the police questioned you, Arabella. The wife is always the logical suspect, isn’t she?”

Emma stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “She certainly is, in books and the movies.”

“Actually, it’s a fact.” Priscilla put down her fork and swiveled in her chair to face Emma. “I’ve read studies that show the spouse is usually the culprit when someone has been murdered.” She waved a hand. “I forget the percentage but it’s quite high.” She picked up her fork again and pointed it at Emma and then at Arabella. “So what do you know about the wife of this Hugh Granger?”

Emma and Arabella shrugged in unison.

“Almost nothing,” Emma answered.

“Very little,” Arabella said at almost the same time.

“Her name is Mariel,” Arabella said. “She looks to be a good twenty years younger than Hugh. They’ve been married quite a while—their son, Jackson, is in his early twenties.”

“Well,” Priscilla said in a very chipper tone of voice. “We’ll just have to get some more information on her then.” She looked from Emma to Arabella and back again. “It will be fun.”

Arabella rolled her eyes as she picked up the empty dishes and stacked them on the counter. “Why don’t you two go on into the living room. We can have our pie and coffee in there.”

Priscilla put her napkin on the table and stood up. Emma followed suit and walked with her mother down the hallway to the living room.

Priscilla settled herself in an armless chair, back straight, knees together and legs tucked to the side. Emma sat on the couch and tucked one leg underneath her, causing her mother’s eyebrows to draw together slightly and her lips to pucker almost imperceptibly.

“Now that I’m here,” Priscilla said, “I’d love to know what your plans are.”

“Plans?”

“Yes. For the future. You can’t leave things to chance.”

Emma stared at her mother blankly. “What do you mean?”

“Well, you can’t stay here running Arabella’s dusty old lingerie shop forever.”

Emma’s lips tightened. “It’s not dusty. We’ve redone the whole shop. You’ll see it tomorrow.”

“But there’s nothing here for you. I was lucky that my career allowed me to advance at the hospital, and of course your father had his law practice. But I can’t imagine what kind of career you could forge in such a small town.”

Emma thought of Brian but bit her lip.

Before Priscilla could say anything more, Arabella came back into the room with the chess pie and a stack of plates. Emma breathed a sigh of relief.

“Oh, chess pie,” Priscilla exclaimed. “Arabella, you’ve outdone yourself.”

Arabella looked slightly mollified as she passed around plates.

“You know,” Emma said suddenly, “I talked to Liz.” She turned to Priscilla, “You remember Liz O’Connell, don’t you? She’s Liz Banning now.”

Priscilla nodded. “You two were inseparable. How is Liz?”

“She’s fine. She has a boy and a girl—Alice and Ben.”


“Yes, I remember you were asked to be the little girl’s godmother, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “But get this, before he died, Hugh Granger hired her to design a web site for his art business.”

“That’s wonderful,” Priscilla declared. “You’ll have someone right on the spot, so to speak.”

“She’s not sure what the status of the project is now that he’s dead. We’re hoping the son will want to continue with the web site.”

“Let’s hope he does. It will give Liz a chance to keep her ear to the ground.” Priscilla rubbed her hands together. “We can’t let that detective continue thinking that your aunt is a murderess.”

? ? ?



EMMA lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep. Her mother’s words echoed nonstop in her head. What did the future hold for her? She’d abruptly left her big-city, New York life behind when she found out her boyfriend was cheating on her. It seemed perfect that Arabella needed help renovating Sweet Nothings. The shop had been dying . . . now it was thriving. And Emma’s broken heart had not only healed, but she’d found a new love in Brian.

But how long would she be content behind the counter of Sweet Nothings selling vintage lingerie? She flung herself onto her left side. Bette grunted and moved down toward the end of the bed. Emma didn’t know the answer to that. Right now her life seemed perfect, but would it pale in another year or two?

And if she married Brian—the thought brought a rush of pleasure—would she eventually long for something more challenging than running Sweet Nothings? And would she be able to find it in her small hometown?

Emma did eventually fall asleep, but she woke up the next morning without any of the answers having magically revealed themselves to her. She was brushing her teeth and thinking about her previous night’s conversation with her mother when she remembered she wanted to call Liz. Perhaps Liz had had word as to whether or not the web site project for Hugh Granger’s business was still on. Emma dried her hands and went out to the kitchen to get her phone.

She took it over to the window seat, where she had a wonderful view of Washington Street. She noticed Mr. Zimmerman walking past on the other side of the street with Bertha, his dachshund, and Fritz, one of Bette’s siblings. Bette jumped onto the window seat and began barking furiously, her breath fogging the glass.

Emma waited until Mr. Zimmerman had passed and Bette had calmed down before punching in Liz’s number. Liz answered on the third ring. Emma could hear the sounds of children squabbling in the background.

“Hello,” Liz said, then, “Ben, leave your sister alone, and both of you go brush your teeth. You’re going to be late. Sorry about that,” she said to Emma.

“No, I’m sorry. I’m obviously calling at a bad time—you’re trying to get the kids off to school. I just wondered if you’d heard from Jackson about the web site.”

“Yes, and he’s going ahead with the project. He said you can hardly do business in this century without a web site. And get this,” Liz said, her voice bubbling with excitement. “He told me they need someone to work for them part-time taking an inventory of the works in their collection. They’ll need it for the IRS and to settle the estate. I could mention your name to him. It would give you the chance to do some snooping.”

Emma felt a burst of excitement, but then she thought of Arabella, and it fizzled like a wet firecracker. What would her aunt do without her?

Emma chewed on the thought as she got dressed. It would be a shame not to take advantage of such a perfect opportunity. Perhaps she could enlist Francis’s support? He had mentioned wanting to get close to Hugh Granger and his operations. This would put someone on the inside.

Emma clipped on Bette’s leash, and they hurried down to Sweet Nothings. Sylvia and Arabella arrived just as Emma was starting a pot of coffee. Emma was too excited to wait, and the words tumbled out before Arabella had even gotten her coat off.

“Liz says there’s a part-time job available with the Grangers—cataloging their collection. If I took it, it would put me on the spot. And it’s only part-time. If you think you could manage . . .”

“You should definitely take the job,” Arabella said. “Detective Walker came by with some more questions this morning. I’m beginning to feel the noose tightening.” She tugged at the black-and-white print scarf tied around her neck.

“We can ask Eloise Montgomery to come back and help,” Sylvia said from her post behind the counter.

Eloise was a fellow resident of Sunny Days, the retirement community where Sylvia lived. She had helped out in the shop when Arabella had been recovering after her house fire.

“Do you think she would do it?” Emma looked up from measuring water into the coffeepot.

Sylvia nodded her head vigorously, and her gold chandelier earrings spun to and fro. “Yeah, she said she loved working here and to call her anytime. I know I’m grateful I’ve got somewhere to go besides bingo and the movies at old Sunny Days.”

Emma grinned. “Sounds like a plan, then. I’ll tell Liz to throw my hat into the ring.”

As Emma went about her day at Sweet Nothings, a thought occurred to her—one that left her feeling decidedly unsettled. Was she anxious to get close to the Grangers and possibly pick up some clues, or was she in reality dissatisfied with her current life, as her mother had suggested?

? ? ?



LATER that afternoon, the door to Sweet Nothings opened and Priscilla stood on their doorstep. “I’ve come to see what you’ve done with the shop.”

Emma was surprised to find herself feeling nervous. She very much wanted her mother to like what they’d accomplished with the store.

Arabella bustled over to Priscilla and took her by the arm. “Come on in and look around. What do you think?” She waved a hand around the interior. “Quite a change, isn’t it?”

Priscilla walked over to the wall of cabinets and ran her hand down the glossy white finish. “These are beautiful.” She opened one of the doors. “And so clever. You can hang the longer gowns, and they won’t wrinkle.” She turned to Emma. “Was this your idea?”

Emma nodded.

“Brilliant.”

Emma felt a sense of warmth wash over her.

Priscilla trailed her fingers along the row of colored silk and satin gowns. “Such beautiful things.” She gave a smile that Emma thought was almost impish. “I might have to do some shopping while I’m here.”

She closed the cabinet door and went over to one of the two distressed shabby chic armoires Emma had ordered. “These, too, are terribly clever. They’re perfect for the space.” She looked around. “And the lovely pink paint makes me feel as if I’m on the inside of a fancy chocolate box.” She turned to Arabella. “Was it hard to let go of the old things?”

“No, not once Emma described her plans to me. I was ridiculously sentimental about the décor for way too long as it was. That pea green shag rug . . .” She shuddered. “And Emma encouraged me to include the vintage items I’d been collecting along with some new stock.”

“It gives a unique twist to the shop,” Priscilla said approvingly. “Something the chain stores don’t have.” She glanced around again. “It’s lovely. Just lovely. Hard to believe it’s the same place. You did a wonderful job.” She smiled at Emma.


“Brian helped,” Emma said. “He did all the carpentry and painting.”

“He’s a very talented young man.”

Emma felt a frisson of pride.

“It’s just too bad,” Priscilla added, “that he’s wasting his time in this tiny little town.”

Arabella rolled her eyes behind Priscilla’s back.

“I’ll be off then.” Priscilla waved good-bye as she headed out the door. “Lucy invited me to her shop for a cup of coffee and some pastries.”

It was later that same afternoon when Liz called. Emma could tell by the excitement in her voice that she had good news.

“I talked to Jackson Granger, and Hugh’s partner, Tom Roberts. They’d love to chat with you about the part-time position. They seemed quite keen. Relieved, actually.”

“That’s wonderful.” Emma sank into Arabella’s desk chair in the stockroom and eased off her shoes. They’d been run off their feet all morning—a group of women from the local Newcomer’s Club in Memphis had made a special trip to the store, and the ladies had been enchanted with Sweet Nothings. The cash register had been ringing all morning, and the group had departed with plenty of black-and-white Sweet Nothings bags swinging from their arms.

“They wondered if you could stop by around five o’clock tonight for an interview? I know it’s short notice, but I think it’s just a formality.”

Emma glanced at her watch. It was almost four o’clock. Things in the shop had died down, and she ought to be able to sneak upstairs to freshen up. She was quite sure Arabella would watch Bette while she was gone.

“Tell them I’ll be there,” Emma said. “And thanks, Liz. This is a wonderful opportunity.”

“It will be fun working together.” Liz giggled and suddenly Emma felt as if they were back in middle school, heads bent over some romance novel that was sending them into fits of laughter.

Emma clicked off the call, slipped her shoes back on and went out to the shop to talk to Arabella.

“Good news,” she announced. “I have an interview with Jackson Granger and Hugh’s partner at five o’clock.”

Arabella’s face lit up. “Wonderful!”

“Good work,” Sylvia said gruffly.

Just then the front door to Sweet Nothings opened, and Francis stepped in. “Hope I’m not disturbing you ladies. I was just over at the Meat Mart picking up some lamb chops for our dinner.” He nodded at Arabella. “My night to cook.”

“I told you that I could make dinner,” Arabella protested.

Francis shook his head. “No, no; fair is fair. It’s time I took a turn. You’ve been feeding me very well”—he patted his stomach, which was still as flat as a teen’s—“and now it’s up to me to return the favor. I do a mean grilled lamb chop, and I think I’m capable of tackling some baked potatoes and a green salad.”

Arabella smiled. “You are a dear. As it is, we’ve been terribly busy, and I’ll definitely relish the chance to put my feet up and be catered to.”

Sylvia cleared her throat. “Aren’t you going to tell him your news, kid?” She gestured toward Emma encouragingly.

“Liz told me that Hugh Granger’s son and his partner are looking for someone to help catalogue their collection. I’ve got an interview with them in an hour.”

“Oh,” Francis said quietly.

“I thought you would be pleased,” Arabella said. “Emma will be on the spot and can glean all sorts of information.”

Francis took a deep breath and let it storm out his nose. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” He looked at Emma. “It could be dangerous. If they are hiding something, they’re not going to appreciate having someone poking around in their affairs.”

“I’ll be careful,” Emma reassured him. “Honest.”

Francis made a sound like a grunt. “All right. But if you sense anything going wrong, get out of there immediately, okay?”

“Okay,” Emma agreed.

? ? ?



A half hour later, Emma pulled onto the hard dirt road leading to the Grangers’ house. Pastures, no longer green but shriveled and brown, sloped down on either side of the road. They were bordered by at least a mile of white picket fence—the kind that was synonymous with horse country. The house, when it came into view, was surprisingly modest—long and low with white clapboard siding and green shutters. Doric columns flanked the front door, and the large porch had two rockers set off to one side. Emma imagined it would be beautiful to sit in those chairs in the summer and enjoy the scents of just-mown grass and fresh hay wafting on the breeze.

A gravel drive wound around in a semicircle in front of the house. Emma pulled up just beyond the house, parked and got out of the car. She stood for a moment looking at the house and the field beyond then started up the broad steps leading to the porch. Warm, yellow light spilled from the narrow windows on either side of the front door.

Emma hesitated, rang the bell and waited, her heart thumping slightly. A very tiny older woman answered the door almost immediately. She had a white apron around her waist, and her steel gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Her weather-beaten face was crisscrossed with deep wrinkles, and she looked like something out of an illustration for Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Emma half expected her to produce a wand and turn them both into pumpkins.

“Well don’t just be standing there,” she said with an Irish lilt to her voice, “come on in out of the cold.” She led Emma into the foyer—a large, open space with polished wood floors dotted with worn Oriental rugs. Emma caught a glimpse of a comfortable-looking living room off to one side. Bookshelves lined one wall and a huge, stone fireplace filled the other. A colorful, modern painting hung over the mantel.

“I imagine you’ve come about the job. Mr. Jackson tried to get Miss Joy to take it, but she wanted no part of it.” She shook a finger at Emma. “Spent her whole life trying to win her father’s approval. I imagine now that he’s gone, she can’t be bothered. Spends most of her time out with those horses.” She paused to take a breath. “Now, if you’ll just wait here.”

She disappeared down the hallway, her slippered feet making a soft shuffling sound. Moments later, Emma heard footsteps striking the polished wood floors, and a young man appeared around the corner. He had dark hair that flopped onto his forehead, and, despite his strong brows and a chiseled nose, overall he had a slightly soft appearance. Emma thought perhaps it was the slackness of his jaw line combined with a rather weak chin. His appearance was at odds with John Jasper’s description of him as an aggressive lacrosse player.

He held out his hand to Emma. “I’m Jackson Granger. So glad you could come. Liz has told us about you, and we hope you’ll be able to find the time to take on our little project.”

His handshake was firm enough. Emma wondered if she ought to offer her condolences on the death of his father, but Jackson had already turned around and obviously expected Emma to follow him. They went down a short hall and into a room that had been turned into an office. Two partner’s desks faced each other across a softly worn Oriental carpet and a wooden filing cabinet, disguised somewhat unsuccessfully as a piece of furniture, was pushed against one wall.

Jackson flung himself into the cracked-leather swivel chair behind one of the desks, and indicated that Emma should take the armless one placed strategically in front of it.


“I imagine you’ve heard about my father’s death,” Jackson began. “I understand you were there.”

Emma nodded. “I’m terribly sorry—” she began.

“That’s very kind of you,” Jackson interrupted.

Emma could see his eyes were red-rimmed, and his hand shook a little as he played with the glass paperweight on the desk, turning it over and over again. He immediately dispensed with small talk and began to explain what the project entailed—basically taking an inventory of the works of art in their collection.

“There might be a little research involved as well,” he said, swiveling back and forth in the chair. “Looking up the provenance, or the history, of certain paintings. Things like that. Nothing we couldn’t show you how to do.”

“It certainly sounds very interesting.”

“Could you start tomorrow?” Jackson said suddenly, plunking down the paperweight he’d been toying with.

Emma hesitated. She had been expecting more questions and had even brought along her resume. She still had to talk to Eloise about taking her place at Sweet Nothings, but she didn’t want to lose this opportunity. “Certainly.”

“Great.” A brief smile whispered across Jackson’s face. “Would one o’clock work for you? Liz did tell you it was part-time?” he said with a sudden frown.

“Yes, she did. And that’s fine.”

As if by magic, the wizened old woman in the apron appeared in the doorway. Jackson turned toward her.

“If you will please see Miss Taylor out.”

She nodded and waited silently while Emma shook hands with Jackson and collected her coat and purse.

Emma followed the woman back down the hall. She looked about her as they walked. The house wasn’t particularly grand—at least not in the way that she expected. It was more comfortable than pretentious, but the walls were lined with artwork worthy of a museum. Emma glimpsed a few pieces she recognized as they went past—a Giacometti drawing, a sketch she thought was a Lucien Freud and a fanciful Chagall watercolor. She was looking forward to having a better look when she came back.

They had almost reached the foyer when Emma heard a strange thumping sound coming from behind. She turned around to see Hugh’s daughter, Joy, walking toward them surprisingly quickly despite her crippled leg. She nodded at Emma, but Emma got the impression Joy didn’t remember her from the dinner dance.

They were all standing in the foyer when the front door swung open, and a woman strode in. Emma recognized her as Hugh Granger’s widow, Mariel. She was wearing leather chaps over a pair of jeans, black riding boots and a quilted barn jacket. She slapped a pair of leather gloves down on the foyer table and plunked her riding hat on top of them.

“Molly,” she said to the old woman in the apron, “can you please put these things away for me?”

Joy continued moving forward awkwardly, her hips going up and down like a piston, until she came face-to-face with Mariel. Mariel stared at her coldly for a moment before sweeping past and continuing down the hall.

Emma was startled. What on earth was that all about? She was now more eager than ever to start her part-time job. She had a feeling there were a lot of secrets to be uncovered. Hopefully one of them would lead to the murderer.