Murder Unmentionable (30 page)

The phone was on the third ring, and she let it ring one more time while she caught her breath and composed herself, then she grabbed the receiver and held it to her ear.

“Hello? You’ve reached Sweet Nothings. How can I help you?” Emma was pleased at how calm and measured she’d managed to make her voice sound despite the fact that her chest was still rising up and down like a bellows.

“Who is this?” the voice on the other end demanded.

“It’s Emma. Emma Taylor.”

It was a woman calling. What did she want? The voice was vaguely familiar, but Emma couldn’t place it.

“Emma, this is Deirdre Porter.” She sounded apologetic, as if she remembered and regretted their last encounter and the way she’d slammed the door on them.

“Deirdre. Hi.” Now Emma was really curious. Was Deirdre calling to tell her she was sorry to have missed the Sweet Nothings rehearsal?

“You know that picture you showed me?” Deirdre asked.

Emma was startled. That was the last thing she expected.

“Look at it again,” Deirdre commanded. “Your friend Guy did not take that picture.”

“What?”

“Just get the picture and look at it carefully. You’ll see what I mean.”

And she slammed down the phone.

“Who was that?” Kate stood in the doorway, her hand against the doorjamb.

How long had she been there?
Emma wondered. She shook her head. “No one.”

She didn’t know why, but she had the feeling that she ought to keep the information from Deirdre to herself.

EMMA had arranged for Lucy to provide refreshments for the women who had shown up to model. Lucy had made a batch of delicate, crustless sandwiches—butter and cucumber, chicken salad and ham salad—and arranged them on silver platters with lace doilies and lavish swirls of curly parsley. The ladies oohed and aahed when they saw the feast spread out in front of them. The setup was complete with a huge crystal punch bowl, tiny white napkins with
Sweet Nothings
printed on them in black—a real splurge by Emma—and silver forks and white china plates. And now they would have Bitsy’s cupcakes for dessert. Emma hoped the women would understand how much their help meant to her.

Emma ran around like a crazed sheep dog, rounding up all the garments for the opening and replacing the tags with the models’ names. Her system would only work if she stayed organized and on top of things.

She kept thinking about Deirdre’s phone call. She was dying to get out the photograph to see if she could spot whatever it was Deirdre was talking about, but there wouldn’t be time until the ladies left. They seemed inclined to linger, and she noticed both Arabella and Sylvia behind the counter showing off some of the garments in the new
lines. She supposed that was a good thing, but her curiosity was killing her.

Finally, they were closing the door on the last departing model, and the sounds of feminine chatter slowly faded down the street. Arabella groaned, sank into one of the armchairs, slid off her shoes and began to rub the balls of her feet. Sylvia was already collapsed in the other chair, her oxygen tank close by.

“I haven’t been that busy since the day after Christmas in 1999,” Sylvia said with satisfaction.

“Everything certainly went well. Let’s hope that bodes good fortune for our opening.” Arabella stuck her legs out and rotated her ankles.

Kate had retrieved the bottle of cleaner from behind the counter and was scrubbing at the mosaic of fingerprints on the glass. “I’m sure it’s going to be wonderful. But I’m guessing you won’t need me anymore when it’s over, so I’ve booked my flight home.”

“Oh!” Emma said. “Somehow I thought you’d be staying forever. But of course you have to get back to your life in the city.”

Kate nodded. “There’s a lot to do in relation to…” She hesitated. “Guy’s estate.”

Sylvia’s face had taken on the look of a fallen soufflé. “I’m really going to miss having you around.”

Emma thought she heard her sniff, but she wasn’t sure.

“Guess I’ll be going home.” Sylvia struggled to her feet, leaning on the arms of the chair.

“Me, too,” said Kate. “I should do some wash and then start packing.”

“I’m right behind you.” Arabella slipped on her shoes and got to her feet. “You need to get some rest, too.” She pointed at Emma.

“I will. I’m going to have to get this place cleaned up before the big day.” She looked around at the crumpled
napkins scattered everywhere and the trail of crumbs across the new carpeting.

Emma waited while the others got their things together and left. For some reason, she didn’t want to tell them about Deirdre’s call and the photograph yet. Finally, the door shut behind Kate, and Emma locked it securely. She’d already kicked off her shoes, and she didn’t want to know what she looked like. More than once she had run her hands through her hair in exasperation.

She had tucked the photograph and Guy’s memory card into a cardboard mailer and put it in Arabella’s desk drawer. Emma plopped into the swivel chair and eased open the drawer. A pad of paper had become stuck, the cardboard backing catching and keeping the drawer from opening. Emma eased her hand inside and managed to retrieve the pad and open the drawer.

The photograph should have been right on top, but she didn’t see them. She sifted through the next layer, but there was still no sign of the bright yellow cardboard mailer. She methodically emptied the contents of the drawer, but finally she was down to the last piece of paper, and there was still no sign of them. Maybe Arabella had moved them? Emma opened the drawer on the right and started digging through it. Then the drawer on the left. The photograph wasn’t there. Emma started to run her hands through her hair but then stopped. She’d likely already done enough damage in that department.

She couldn’t remember moving the photos, but it was always possible she had done just that. She would check the apartment as soon as she closed up Sweet Nothings.

A rush of warm air greeted Emma when she pushed open the door to her apartment above Sweet Nothings. She dropped her handbag by the front door and went to turn up the air conditioner.

She’d made herself a pitcher of sweet tea, and it was waiting in the refrigerator. She poured a tall glass and held it to her neck, shivering slightly at the ice-cold contact. First stop, the small desk in the corner of her bedroom.

Five minutes later she’d emptied the contents of the small desk onto the floor—there wasn’t all that much in the drawers, and the photograph was obviously not there, although she did run her hand under the top of each drawer just to be sure they hadn’t become wedged. She checked the basket on the kitchen table where she corralled the mail, but no luck there, either. She hadn’t tossed them on the coffee table or the end tables. They weren’t on the bathroom or kitchen counters. This time Emma did run her hands through her hair. Where on earth could they have gone?

Emma decided to call Arabella. She dug her cell out of her purse and stood in front of the open refrigerator door as the phone rang once, twice. Arabella answered as Emma was popping the top off a container of blueberry yogurt.

Unfortunately, Arabella had no idea where the photograph was, either. She was certain she hadn’t moved the envelope.

Emma hung up, puzzled.

Then she wondered if maybe Deirdre was right. The photograph did somehow contain proof that Guy hadn’t shot it. Which meant someone else had used his camera.

And that someone was most likely the murderer.

Had they stolen the photograph right out from under her nose?

EMMA glanced at the glowing face of her alarm clock. The numbers read 5:45 a.m. The last time she’d checked, it had said 3:55 a.m. and the time before that was 2:12 a.m. She pulled the pillow over her head and lay there, indecisive. Should she get up now, or try to catch another forty-five minutes of sleep? Right now, sleep seemed as elusive as a multimillion dollar lottery win. She ought to be tired—they’d worked till almost ten o’clock on Friday getting everything ready for today.

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed. She felt as stiff as if she’d run a marathon the day before, but it was from tossing and turning all night. She’d wanted to be especially well rested for the big day at Sweet Nothings, but it seemed that wasn’t to be. She’d just have to fake it.

She showered and dressed quickly and filled a thermos with fresh green tea. She wanted to get down to Sweet Nothings early and do a last-minute check before everyone arrived.

*   *   *

Emma put her key in the lock and pushed open the front door, her hand automatically reaching for the light switch. She hesitated when she realized that there was already a light on in the back room.

“Hello?” Emma called out tentatively.

A flashback to Guy’s murder and then Nikki’s made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. The thought of calling Brian flashed through her mind, but her footsteps were already taking her toward the pool of light spilling through the doorway.

Emma peered around the edge, unconsciously braced for what she might find.

It was the last thing she’d expected to see. Arabella was sitting in the office chair, legs stretched out in front of her, chin to chest, fast asleep. Pierre was curled protectively at her feet, snoring softly. Emma glanced at her watch. It was barely past six thirty a.m. What time must Arabella have gotten there? Obviously she hadn’t been able to sleep much, either.

Emma didn’t want to frighten her so she went back out to the showroom and began making some gentle noises—opening and closing cupboards and drawers, rattling papers and whistling softly. Emma was giving a final tweak to the blue Ro-Vel gown on the mannequin when Arabella appeared in the doorway, yawning.

“I must have fallen asleep.” She rubbed her eyes. “What are you doing here so early, dear? It’s going to be a long day.”

“Couldn’t sleep.” Emma took a sip of her tea. “I figured I might as well get the day started.”

“I didn’t sleep much, either,” Arabella admitted. She looked thoughtful for a moment. She cleared her throat and put her hand on Emma’s arm. “I don’t know if I’ve told you
or not, but your being here means the world to me. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

Emma felt sentimental tears pressing against the back of her lids. She dashed a hand across her eyes. “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”

“I have a little something for you.” Arabella walked toward the back room. “Just a second.”

She returned moments later with a small white box in her hand. She held it toward Emma. “I want you to have this. My mother gave it to me when I was around your age.”

Emma took the tiny box. The silver script on the top had been worn away, but she could make out the word
jeweler
. She lifted the lid.

“Oh, it’s lovely.” She stared at the pin inside.

“It’s vintage.” Arabella smiled. “Pins aren’t much in fashion these days, but I thought that would look lovely on you.”

Emma fumbled with the clasp as she removed it from the box.

“It’s made of platinum. They hardly ever use it anymore. Too expensive. My mother’s brother made it for her. He was a jeweler.”

Emma fastened the brooch to her dress and stood in front of the mirror to admire it. It was a spray of platinum flowers dotted with pearls and diamonds. “It’s exquisite. I love it. Thank you so much.” She hugged her aunt.

“I’m glad you like it.”

They heard a slight tapping sound at the front door.

“I’ll get it.” Emma started toward the front of the store.

“I’ll put some coffee on.” Arabella turned toward the back room.

Emma opened the door to find Sylvia and Kate on the doorstep.

She noticed that the sky was getting darker toward the west. She crossed her fingers and said a quick prayer that
any rain would hold off until later—much later. Preferably after they had all gone home and to bed.

Sylvia had had her hair done again and was wearing a simple black dress with a strand of pearls. Kate looked her usual self—charmingly disheveled in black pants, a black-and-white graphic T-shirt and high-heeled sandals. Her hair was clean and shiny, although her part was wildly askew and her bangs needed trimming.

Sylvia looked at Kate. “Give me your glasses. They’ve got a big smudge on them. It’s a miracle you can see.”

“They say that’s not good for your eyes,” Arabella added.

“I’ve got some lens cleaner in my purse.” Kate began pawing through the contents of the big, squishy tote bag she called a purse. She shook her head. “I’ve got so much stuff in here. I really need to clean it out.”

Sylvia gestured toward the wad of papers Kate had in her hand. “Do you need those? If you don’t, you can throw them out and make a start.”

Kate quickly glanced through the assortment of pages torn from various notebooks, restaurant receipts and other miscellaneous papers. “I don’t really need any of these.”

“There’s a garbage can next to the desk.” Arabella pointed toward the back room.

Kate had just disappeared into the back when there was a sharp rap on the front door. The brunette model was the first to arrive—the one who had had to bring up Guy’s murder at the rehearsal. She looked sheepish when Emma opened the door. Emma still felt slightly irritated, but she plastered a smile on her face and acted as if she had forgotten the incident. The brunette quickly relaxed and began chatting with Sylvia about the time she’d spent a week in New York City seeing the sights.