Murder Unmentionable Page 15

“How was your date with Francis?”

  “Are you trying to change the subject?” Arabella smiled at her niece. “It was a wonderful evening, actually.”

  “You’re blushing.”

  “No, I’m not.” Arabella insisted as her face continued to pink up. “First tell me about Sylvia’s car and the brakes. Then I’ll tell you everything you want to know about my date with Francis.”

  “OKAY,” Emma said later, after Brian had left and she and Arabella were alone, “now I want to hear all about your evening with Francis.”

  “My, my, you are like a dog with a bone,” Arabella said, but she smiled to take any sting out of her words.

  “Well?” Emma raised her brows.

  Arabella sank into the chair next to the counter. “It was a lovely evening. It was almost as if we were old friends. The conversation just…flowed.”

  “What about Les?”

  Arabella shrugged, but Emma did notice she looked slightly chagrined. “I like Les.”

  “But?”

  “Are you reading my mind?” Arabella laughed. “Yes, there is a but. I’m afraid Les is slightly more…serious…about our relationship than I am. Believe it or not, we dated briefly in high school, but Les graduated two years ahead of me and was drafted into the army.” Arabella was quiet for a moment, and Emma noticed the shadows that crossed her face. “He was sent to Vietnam. When he came home,” she shrugged, “like so many other young men, he was never quite the same again. He tried various careers, even moved out to California at one point, but he couldn’t escape the things he’d seen and that haunted him day and night. He came back to Paris eventually and opened his own store, but that didn’t quite work out either. Finally he took the job at The Toggery, and it seems to suit him. He’s been there ever since.” She turned toward Emma suddenly. “It’s not that I don’t care about him. I do. But I’m not ready to take on the responsibility.”

  Emma nodded her understanding.

  “Meanwhile, we continue to go out and, while I appreciate his company, I’m afraid nothing more will ever come of it.”

  “And Francis? He seems to be more your type.”

  Arabella gave a grin that Emma could only describe as wicked. “I keep telling myself I don’t want to get involved in a long-distance romance—Francis does spend most of his time in Jackson—but on the other hand…”

  Arabella didn’t have to finish the sentence. Emma knew exactly what she meant.

  There was a loud thump against the front door of Sweet Nothings. Emma listened. Had someone knocked? She hesitated, then made her way toward the door and slowly opened it. She peered around the edge. No one was there.

  She glanced down. A brown-paper parcel lay on the black mat. That was strange. The mailman had already come, and the UPS delivery woman always knocked and came in to shoot the breeze and enjoy a glass of Arabella’s sweet tea.

  Emma picked up the box and brought it inside. There was no return address. There was no address at all. Just Sweet Nothings scrawled across the front in black marker. Odd. Maybe it was from one of the local shopkeepers and Arabella was expecting it.

  “Aunt Arabella?”

  “Yes, dear?”

  “I found this outside on the mat.” Emma held the box out. “Is this from one of your suitors?” She smiled.

  “Let me see.” Arabella settled her glasses on her nose and stared at the strange package. “The writing doesn’t look familiar, I’m afraid.” She shrugged. “Should we open it?” She looked at Emma with her eyebrows raised.

  “Why not?” Emma looked around. “I’ll get the scissors.”

  “Never mind, it’s just tape.” Arabella slipped her finger under a flap of the paper and loosened it. She did the same on the other side and whipped the brown wrapping off.

  Underneath was a glossy white box. There was nothing written on top, and the two longer sides were taped shut. Arabella slit the tape and took off the lid. A cloud of delicate pink tissue paper puffed out. She and Emma exchanged glances.

  “Whatever it is,” Arabella said, “it must be expensive to warrant such wrapping.” She peeled back the layers of tissue and gasped.

  “What is it?” Emma peered over her shoulder.

  “Oh” was all Arabella could say for a moment. Her fingers floated reverently above the silk garment folded into the box. “It’s a Michelene—early or perhaps mid-1940s, although I can’t say for sure until I get it out of the box.”

  “Is it very valuable?” The pink peignoir looked exquisite, but so did so many of the pieces Arabella had shown her.

  Arabella nodded. “Yes. And also quite hard to come by. It looks to be in excellent condition.”

  “Shall we take it out?”

  “Of course.” Arabella put the box down on the counter, grasped the garment by the shoulders and lifted it out. She found herself holding the top six inches of what once must have been an exquisite negligee. The rest had been cut into strips no wider than an inch. Arabella dropped the piece of silk. “Who would do something like this?” She jerked toward Emma, knocking the box to the floor.

  Ribbons of silk floated this way and that like airborne confetti.

  Emma thought she saw something amidst the pink strips of fabric. She knelt down and teased out a piece of paper. It was white, and looked like something torn off a cheap pad. Emma picked it up by its edges.

  On it was written a word in bold black strokes. Just one word.

  A very naughty word. One that was only socially acceptable when referring to female dogs.

  “WHO would do such a thing?” Arabella said over her shoulder. She grabbed a wooden spoon from a blue and white enamelware pitcher she used as a container for her kitchen utensils and stirred a quarter of a cup of honey into the mixture in her ceramic bowl.

  Emma noticed Arabella’s hand shake slightly. She suspected that the mysterious package had unnerved Arabella more than she was willing to admit. When Arabella had invited her to dinner, she had agreed immediately. She wanted to keep an eye on her.

  Arabella reached for a canister marked Flour and scooped several cups into a brown paper bag. She then shook in some salt, pepper, a dash of green herbs and a smidge of something Emma didn’t recognize.

  “What’s that?” Emma gestured toward the spice jar in Arabella’s hand.

  “My secret ingredient.” Arabella smiled and handed Emma the container. “You have to promise not to tell anyone what it is. Especially Sally Dixon. She’s been after my recipe for years.”

  Emma glanced at the label. “You put curry powder in your fried chicken?”

  Arabella nodded as she shook the mixture in the bag. “Just a pinch. It gives real depth to the flavor.”

  “Well I doubt Sally Dixon would ever think of that.”

  Arabella pulled a tray of chicken pieces from the refrigerator.

  “The package and that nasty note must be connected to Guy’s murder somehow, don’t you think? Someone knows we’ve been snooping, and they’re getting nervous,” Emma said.

  “Do you think Angel sent it? She’s the one you’ve been following.”

  “Not very successfully,” Emma said with a laugh. “Besides we know what she was doing on Wednesday and Thursday nights—going to school.”

  “And I say, good for her.” Arabella opened the oven door, and a blast of heat caught Emma around the knees. Arabella slid a cast-iron pan of corn bread into its depths and shut the door again. “But what about this Tom fellow?”

  “Brian is still trying to find out whether or not he was at that poker game the night Guy was killed.”

  “If Chuck Reilly and the rest of the police department would do their job—” Arabella stopped. “I think that’s the doorbell.”

  Pierre scrambled to his feet and made a mad dash for the front door, stopping midway and sliding the last five feet. He pounced at the door, barking furiously.

  Emma slid down the hall right behind him. She remembered doing the same thing when she was little and Arabella would bab
ysit her while her parents went out. It didn’t happen often—Arabella was usually off someplace exotic herself—but Emma had always loved when her aunt was home.

  Emma grabbed the handle and yanked it open.

  Kate stood on the doorstep, a bottle of wine in her hands. Her light brown hair hung in limp strands on either side of her face, and her glasses were smudged and slightly askew.

  “Come on in.” Emma ushered Kate into Arabella’s foyer. “You look like you could use a nice cold drink of something.”

  Kate followed Emma out to the kitchen, where Arabella was shaking the pieces of chicken in the flour mixture in her paper bag.

  “I’ve brought a chilled sauvignon blanc.” Kate handed the bottle to Emma. “We can open this if you like.”

  “Sounds good.” Emma rummaged in the drawer next to the oven and pulled out the corkscrew. “How’s your head? I still think I should have taken you to the doctor.”

  Kate touched the spot on her head experimentally. “It hardly hurts at all anymore. I’m fine. You need to stop worrying.” She smiled at Emma.

  “We’ve been discussing Guy’s murder again.” Emma stood on tiptoe and eased three wineglasses off the top shelf with her fingertips.

  “Did you tell Kate about our mysterious package?” Arabella lowered a piece of chicken into the oil that was sizzling and spitting in a pan on the stove.

  “What package?” Kate took a sip of her wine. “Mmmm, this is just what I needed.”

  “Rough day?”

  Kate ducked her head, and a curtain of hair fell across her face. “I went to the police station today to pick up Guy’s things.” She looked up, and her eyes were brimming with tears. “It was sort of…difficult.”

  “I can imagine.” Emma put her arms around Kate. “And I really appreciate you doing that so that I didn’t have to.”

  Kate nodded. “When I saw his camera…” She made a gulping sound like a swallowed sob. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” She finished finally. “The police gave me all his clothes and that gold chain he used to wear around his wrist.” She looked at Emma. “I thought perhaps you ought to have it.” She put down her glass and began to forage in the large leather satchel she always carried.

  “Is that Guy’s camera?” Emma pointed to the Nikon in Kate’s bag.

  “Yes. I’m not quite sure what to do with it.”

  “Are there any pictures on it?”

  Kate found the chain and handed it to Emma. “Yes, there are. I think the card is almost full.”

  “Have you looked at them?”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t. I mean, they might be private or something.” Kate blushed.

  “I think we should look at them. Maybe there’s a clue to his murder on there somewhere.”

  Kate shrugged. “You never know.”

  “That’s a great idea, but right now, dinner is ready.” Arabella put a platter of golden brown fried chicken on the table.

  “And you haven’t told me about that package.” Kate tucked her napkin into her lap and took the basket of corn bread Arabella handed her.

  Emma explained about the mysterious box, the destroyed negligee and the nasty note.

  “Who would do something like that?” Kate said, echoing Arabella’s previous sentiments. “Sending the note was bad enough, but destroying that vintage gown.”

  Arabella put down her fork. “That’s the thing. Seeing that beautiful piece of lingerie…ruined…was more hurtful than anything.”

  “Do you think it’s the murderer who sent it?” Kate chose a piece of chicken and put it on her plate.

  “Who else?” Arabella buttered a piece of corn bread and took a bite.

  “Could it have been someone who had a grudge against you personally?” Emma pointed her fork at Arabella. “Cutting up that beautiful nightgown strikes me as being very spiteful.”

  “Oh, my gosh!” Arabella’s hand flew to her mouth. “You don’t think…”

  “Les?” Emma concluded.

  “But why?” Kate looked from one to the other, a puzzled expression on her face.

  Arabella turned that becoming shade of pink again. “Well, you see, Les might have been a little…upset…with me. Because of Francis.” Arabella finished vaguely.

  “Francis?”

  “Arabella’s other suitor.”

  “Oh.” Kate gave a somewhat mirthless laugh. “I can’t seem to find one boyfriend, let alone two.”

  “They’re not really boyfriends,” Arabella protested. “But I suppose you could be right. Les might have been upset when he saw me at L’Etoile that night with Francis.”

  “He saw you!” Emma declared.

  Arabella patted her lips with her napkin. “He was just leaving as we were going in. He’d taken his mother for her birthday dinner.”

  “And he didn’t invite you?” Emma was appalled.

  Arabella cleared her throat delicately. “It seems that his mother doesn’t exactly approve of me. She’s very suspect of the fact that I’ve traveled throughout Europe and have actually been to India and Asia.”

  “But Les is—”

  “Old enough. You’re right. But try telling him that.”

  Arabella changed the subject, and they chatted about a number of things for the next half hour until Arabella stood up and began collecting the empty plates. “Who’s up for some dessert? I’ve made a fresh peach cobbler.”

  “I’m going to gain so much weight living here.” Emma laughed and tugged at her waistband playfully.

  “I think I’ve already gained five pounds,” Kate confided. “Sylvia is continually plying me with food, and I can’t resist.”

  They took plates of cobbler and cups of freshly brewed coffee out to the porch. The setting sun left rosy streaks across the pale sky, and a soft breeze ruffled the grass.

  “I almost hate to think about going back to New York,” Kate said, idly pushing the swing back and forth with one foot. “This is heaven.”

  Emma finished the last bite of her cobbler and put down her fork. She hated to destroy the relaxed mood. “Do you think we should take a look at Guy’s camera now? Perhaps we’ll find some answers. Like where Guy went the night he was killed. Nikki claims to have left him by nine o’clock. Did he go somewhere after that?” She sighed in exasperation.

  “Fortunately, if Guy went somewhere, his camera went as well. I can’t remember any time when he wasn’t snapping away randomly,” Kate concluded.

  “I’d like to know how he got into Sweet Nothings that night.” Arabella set down her coffee cup. “The police said it wasn’t a forced entry.”

  “I think I might have the answer to that.” Kate slipped off the swing. “Let me get my purse. And I’ll take some dishes in while I’m at it.”

  Emma protested, but Kate insisted. They could hear the plates rattle as Kate put them in the sink, and her footsteps as she crossed the hall back toward the porch. She came out with her tan leather satchel slung over her shoulder.

  Kate sat down and began to dig in her handbag. “Here.” She pulled out a key that hung from a slightly worn-looking pink ribbon.

  “That’s our spare key.” Arabella held out her hand. “We always keep it in the back room by the door.”

  “Guy must have taken it when he was at the shop.” Emma leaned forward in her chair and looked at the key in Arabella’s hand. “But why? Why would he take the key? There was nothing to steal—”

  “Guy wouldn’t stoop to stealing,” Kate declared indignantly.

  “Maybe he thought it would get him into your apartment,” Arabella suggested, turning to look at Emma and dangling the key in the air tantalizingly.

  “Oh.” Emma collapsed against the back of her chair. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “He might have been afraid you wouldn’t keep your date with him.” Arabella pulled her braid over her shoulder and began to undo it.

  “We did have a big fight once—I can’t even remember now what it was about. But I refused to see Guy for several
days—didn’t answer his calls, wouldn’t open my door when he came by. Of course the minute I relented and met him for coffee, it was all over. I couldn’t stay mad. Not when he was being so charming.” Emma smiled at the memory. “Taking the key was probably his insurance that he would be able to work his usual magic on me.”

  Arabella pulled her fingers through her hair and then began to coil it on top of her head. She twisted the elastic around the makeshift bun. “Maybe it’s time we had a look at Guy’s camera?”

  They adjourned to the living room, a room Emma thought must once have been called a parlor—probably even the front parlor. The beautiful bay window was still there, with the deep window seat that just invited one to sit and spend lazy days watching the world go by. The fireplace was the centerpiece of the room, and Arabella had arranged the furniture—a huge overstuffed sofa and chair—in front of it. A carved wooden elephant from India held center stage on the coffee table, and a stone Buddha from Thailand had pride of place on the mantel.

  Emma had brought along her laptop to show Arabella some of Liz’s web designs. She set it on the coffee table and powered it up while Kate fiddled with the Nikon.

  “I can’t get this thing out.” Kate fumbled with the memory card, and Emma noticed that her hands were shaking.

  Kate finally wrested the chip from the camera, and Emma hooked it up to her computer. She was about to click the mouse when Kate put out a hand.

  “Maybe we shouldn’t do this.” Kate had a slick of perspiration on her upper lip. “Maybe we should give the camera to the police, and see what they think.”

  “The police had the camera.” Arabella scooted her chair closer to the computer screen. “And, as far as we can tell, they didn’t do a thing with it.”

  “True.” Kate sank back into her seat. “I suppose we might as well go ahead then.” She motioned toward the mouse in Emma’s hand.

  Emma pressed SLIDE SHOW and then PLAY and the first image appeared on the screen.

  It was a New York street scene so alive and vibrant that Emma thought she could smell the car exhaust and hear the horns honking. A wave of nostalgia washed over her—for the city, for Guy, for all the dreams she used to have. How naïve she had been!