Murder Unmentionable Read online

  Little shop of horror…

  Emma closed her eyes, clenched her fists and forced herself to stop screaming. Deep breaths. Like yoga class. In…out…in…out. Her heartbeat slowed and steadied in time to the measured rhythm. When she opened her eyes, everything looked perfectly normal—morning sun streaming through the dusty front windows; Arabella dressed for work in a long black-and-white batik-print dress, her hair pinned into a knot on top of her head; the interior of the shop silent and smelling faintly of fresh sawdust. Everything was perfectly normal. She looked down.

  Except for the body at their feet…

  MEG LONDON

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME, NEW YORK

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  MURDER UNMENTIONABLE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2012

  Copyright © 2012 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Cover illustration by Nathalie Dion.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  Interior text design by Laura K. Corless.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-58956-4

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  ALWAYS LEARNING

  PEARSON

  Acknowledgments

  First I would like to thank Lieutenant Tom Lankford of the Paris, Tennessee Police Department for kindly answering my many questions. Any mistakes in police procedure are strictly my own.

  I would like to thank Katelynn Lacopo, who worked tirelessly with me to perfect my proposal and first three chapters.

  I would also like to thank my agent, Jessica Faust, for her guidance, and my editor, Faith Black, for showing me how to make my manuscript considerably better. And a thank-you to the Berkley Prime Crime copyeditor Megan Gerrity who worked so hard and saved me from some really embarrassing errors!

  I apologize to the people of Paris, Tennessee, for adding in a number of stores and restaurants that don’t actually exist in your charming town, among them, the Sweet Nothings vintage lingerie shop.

  And finally, a big thank-you to my family and friends who have been so supportive of me on my writing journey!

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  EMMA Taylor stifled a gasp as she pulled the garment out of the drawer at Sweet Nothings, her aunt’s lingerie shop. “Aunt Arabella,” she said, dangling the questionable piece of lingerie in the air. “What on earth is this?” She already knew her aunt’s stock was hopelessly out-of-date—did anyone even wear half-slips these days?—but she didn’t realize it was going to be this bad.

  “Coming, dear, just a second.” Arabella pushed aside the curtain from the back room. She was carrying a tray with a sweating pitcher of iced sweet tea and several glasses. Her French bulldog, Pierre, trotted obediently at her heels. He had one black ear and one white one, and he was getting quite round in the middle. Arabella claimed she didn’t have the heart to put him on a diet. She set the tea and glasses on the counter and went over to where Emma was standing.

  “This.” Emma dangled the undergarment in front of her aunt. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  Her aunt laughed and ducked her head. “Oh, that. Just a little hobby of mine. I got interested in it when Sally Dixon of La Tour Eiffel Antiques dragged me to some estate sales.”

  Emma’s brows rose even higher. “But this looks like some kind of…of…” She couldn’t bring herself to use the word fetish in front of her aunt.

  “It’s vintage, dear. Vintage. Early 1950s Maidenform. It’s called a bullet bra. It’s their Chansonette model. See”—her aunt pointed to the circular stitching—“this is what gave the famous sweater girls their shape. You know, like Marilyn Monroe, Lana Turner. That crowd.”

  Emma examined the reinforced stitching. “Did you wear—?”

  “Of course. We all wore them. We actually used to iron them to get the shape just right. Some girls were known to stuff the tips of theirs.” Arabella sniffed. “Then in the 1960s we all burned our bras and started going au naturel.” She laughed as she poured a tall glass of tea. “I bet they don’t serve sweet tea like this in New York.” She handed Emma the glass.

  Emma closed her eyes as the cool, sweet liquid slid down her throat. She held the glass to the back of her neck. She was glad she’d cut her hair short. She’d forgotten how muggy Tennessee could be in the summer.

  Her aunt wore her long silver hair in a single braid down her back. She was dressed for the heat in a gauzy looking tunic and flowing pants. The all-white of the ensemble was relieved by
a splash of color from an enormous coral necklace—the kind of piece that Emma had often heard called “important.”

  “I have several drawers full of vintage lingerie that I’ve cleaned and repaired, and lots more at home ready to be worked on.” Arabella pulled open another drawer. “What intrigues me about vintage things is that they’re a glimpse of another era—an era when women strove for feminine glamour instead of wanting to look like…like…” She waved a hand in the air. She turned and opened a cupboard and sorted through the padded white hangers. “This”—Arabella pulled out a garment—“would have been the crowning jewel of any woman’s trousseau.” She laid the nightgown and peignoir set out on the counter carefully. “Early 1940s. Silk charmeuse,” she said, fingering the peach fabric lovingly. “And Point de Venise lace.”

  The bodice of the nightgown was indeed lace, and touches of the same lace graced the cuffs and collar of the matching peignoir.

  “It’s beautiful,” Emma said as she took in the meticulous detailing on the matching set. The gown had a circular skirt and was made with only one seam running up the back.

  “Would you like me to save it for you?” Arabella’s eyes twinkled as she looked at her niece.

  “Save it for me?” Emma repeated blankly.

  “For your trousseau, dear. You’re twenty-nine. I’m sure that any minute now you’ll—”

  Emma shook her head vehemently.

  “Don’t tell me there isn’t someone…?”

  Emma shook her head again. “Nope. I’m as free as a bird.” Emma thought about Guy and crossed her fingers behind her back. “Besides, women don’t really have trousseaus anymore, do they?”

  “True. What a shame. I remember reading an old Emily Post etiquette book that detailed everything the modern woman of the 1930s needed in her trousseau—from day dresses and evening dresses to sports clothes to the right number of sets of monogrammed towels for her bathroom.”

  Arabella opened another cabinet and took out a gown. “Look at this.” She carefully smoothed out the fabric. “It’s a 1930s peach Satin Dasche slip gown.” Arabella pointed to the lace at the throat. “With beige Alençon lace. It needed a slight repair here,” she pointed to a spot under the arm, “but I think I’ve managed it very nicely. You can’t even tell.”

  “This is just what we need!” Emma exclaimed so suddenly her aunt jumped and even Pierre paused in his attempts to hoist his considerable bulk onto the padded bench by the window.

  “For what, dear?”

  “To put your shop back on the map! We’ll specialize in vintage lingerie! People will come out from Memphis and Nashville just to shop at Sweet Nothings!”

  “Do you really think so, dear?” Her aunt pulled her braid over her shoulder and fiddled with the ends. “The way things are going, I’ll have nothing but my social security when I retire. And we know what they’re saying about that.” She made a face.

  “I know this will be a success!”

  She had to make this happen for her aunt, Emma thought. She owed Arabella. Arabella was her mother’s older sister. She’d never had children or even married, and when Emma was born, she had taken a real interest in her, sending gifts from whatever port of call she was calling home at the time. The summer between Emma’s sophomore and junior years in college, Arabella had used some of her connections to secure Emma an internship at Vera Wang. It had changed Emma’s life. Before that, she’d assumed she would have a career, eventually get married and settle down in Tennessee. New York had opened her eyes to a much bigger world.

  She still thought she would like to be married someday, but she wasn’t so sure about staying in Tennessee. She did have to stay long enough to help Aunt Arabella get back on her feet, and then she planned to return to New York and her old life.

  Everything hinged on making Sweet Nothings the success Arabella deserved.

  Emma looked around at the shop and her heart sank slightly. The decor had been new in the 1970s, the last time her aunt had renovated the shop. The floors were swathed in pea-green shag carpeting that must have been all the rage back then. The bright orange, yellow and hot pink accents had faded over time to slightly less horrific pastel hues, but they added nothing. The stock wasn’t in much better shape. It wasn’t new enough to be saleable, but it wasn’t old enough to be vintage, either. But if her aunt already had a significant amount of vintage lingerie, they could add some new lines to round things out. She thumbed through the BlackBerry in her mind. Chantelle DeLang was a buyer for a very exclusive shop in SoHo and always found the most unique things. Emma knew she’d be happy to share her sources. She felt a sharp tingle of excitement. What a fun challenge to turn around Sweet Nothings for her aunt! They’d combine vintage lingerie with one-of-a-kind pieces from Italy and France.

  But first they’d have to redecorate.

  “About the shop…” Emma began, and took another sip of her tea.

  “I’ve already thought of that,” Arabella said, pouring herself a glass of sweet tea. “As a matter of fact, Brian should be here any minute. He’s agreed to do the renovations for us.”

  “Brian?”

  “Brian O’Connell. Your friend Liz’s brother. You remember him, don’t you? Tall fellow, brown hair?”

  “The last I heard he was in Nashville working for that architecture firm.”

  Arabella shook her head. “Their father isn’t doing well—had a triple bypass last year—so Brian came home to help him with the hardware store.”

  Emma’s glance strayed toward the front window of Sweet Nothings. She could see O’Connell’s Hardware diagonally across the street. Was that Brian in the window rearranging the display?

  When she turned around, Arabella had a strange, smug look on her face. “What?”

  Arabella shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing at all.”

  “I figured you more for the Paris, France, type but now here you are, back in Paris, Tennessee.” Brian O’Connell threw his arms around Emma and all but crushed her in a big bear hug.

  Emma felt flutters starting in her stomach, like tiny bubbles of champagne. She’d always been a little in love with Liz’s older brother. She’d been a freshman in high school when he was a senior and captain of the soccer team. He’d always been friendly—saying hi when they passed in the hallway and stopping by to say hello when she visited Liz. But he treated her like he treated Liz—a kid sister to tease. She remembered the time she and Liz were huddled under the covers watching a scary movie, and Brian and his friends decided to climb the tree outside Liz’s window. They’d pressed their faces to the pane of glass and sent both Liz and Emma screaming downstairs. Another time when Emma and Liz decided to camp out, Brian had snuck a plastic snake into each of their sleeping bags. Once again, they’d been sent off screaming. Liz had insisted that these pranks meant he liked Emma, but Emma didn’t think that was the case.

  Then Brian went off to study architecture at the University of Tennessee, and Emma didn’t see much of him again until she was there herself working toward a degree in art history. But by that time, he was a senior, and their paths hardly ever crossed.

  He was even better looking than Emma remembered. Tall and broad-shouldered with strong-looking forearms visible beneath the rolled-up cuffs of his light blue shirt. His brown hair had gold streaks in it, and there were now crinkles around his blue eyes. Looking at him, Emma felt like a tongue-tied adolescent again.

  “So what brings you home?” Brian stepped back and looked at Emma, holding her at arm’s length.

  “My mother called to say that Aunt Arabella needed help with her shop. It seemed like the perfect time to make a change.” Emma glanced away so Brian wouldn’t see the look in her eye.

  “I remember your mom. Is she still making those…those…things?”

  “Ceramics?” Emma nodded. “Dad built her a studio at their place in Florida. And she’s teaching at the local community college. It keeps her busy while Dad perfects his golf game.”

  Arabella bustled over
just then. Always the perfect Southern hostess, she had a pitcher of homemade lemonade ready. “Tell Brian about your job in New York.” She turned toward Brian. “Emma was a stylist at Femme magazine. She’s worked with some very famous photographers and models.”

  Emma thought of Guy and felt her face getting warm.

  “Pardon my ignorance,” Brian said, laughing self-deprecatingly, “but what does a stylist do?”

  Emma explained how she was in charge of creating the look, feel and theme for magazine photo shoots by choosing the clothes and accessories, the background props and sometimes even the model’s hair and makeup.

  Brian looked impressed. “I thought you wanted to be an artist or something.”

  “I majored in art history—which is still a passion. But museum jobs are few and far between and pretty much require you to have an independent income if you hope to live anywhere near New York City. Besides, I fell in love with the art of fashion.”

  “So, what are you two planning?” Arabella poured out glasses of lemonade and handed them around. Pierre hovered near her feet, sensing that food might be in the offing.

  “I’m thinking something along the lines of shabby chic,” Emma said. “Whitewashed armoires for displays, soft pastel accent colors, lacy window treatments.” She turned toward Arabella.

  Arabella clapped her hands. “I love it.” She looked at Brian. “What do you think? Can you manage it?”

  Brian shook his head. “No problem. There’s nothing major involved structurally. But you will have to close for a few weeks.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ve been planning on it.” Arabella turned toward Emma. “What are you thinking for colors?”

  Emma furrowed her brow. “I’m not sure. Maybe the palest pink for the walls?”

  Arabella nodded. “I know just the shade you’re thinking of.” She opened a drawer and began rummaging through the contents. She pulled out a puddle of silk satin and spread it out on the counter. It was the barest whisper of pink.

  “This is what they call a teddy. Sort of like a full slip but with a tap pant bottom.”