“I’m sure it’s not that,” Emma said trying to convince Arabella as much as herself. She, too, had noticed Arabella becoming more forgetful—little things that she had put down to stress. “I think the first order of business is to see Dr. Baker.”
Arabella gave a brave smile and wiped a hand across her eyes. “You’re right, dear. I probably need a good checkup. It’s most likely just stress. Probably nothing at all to be concerned about.”
“That’s right,” Emma said consolingly.
Neither of them sounded convinced.
EMMA
wasn’t sure if Liz would be there when she got to the Grangers’, but her station wagon was parked in the driveway as usual.
“You look terribly glum,” Liz said when Emma stuck her head into the office to say hello. “I hope you’re not worrying about Brian. The doctor was quite positive that everything is going to be fine.”
“It’s not Brian. It’s Aunt Arabella.” Emma leaned against the wall and watched as Liz adjusted the lens on her camera. “She’s afraid her memory is going. I think it’s just stress, but unfortunately, she’s told Detective Walker three different stories about where she was during the fireworks when Hugh was killed.”
Liz now looked as concerned as Emma felt. “The stress must be getting to your aunt. We have to figure out who did murder Hugh and put an end to all this,” Liz said in a near whisper. “Personally, I’d like to know where Mariel was when Granger was killed. That dark-haired fellow was here again today—the one we saw her sneaking around with on the terrace the other night. I was pulling into the driveway when I noticed him walking across the field toward the barn, where she was checking on her horse.”
“It seems strange to me that he never comes into the house.”
“Not if they’re having an affair. He’s probably keeping his distance until everything is settled.” Liz stretched her arms overhead. “I could do with some hot coffee. How about you?” She shivered. “It’s awfully chilly in here today. Or maybe it’s because I’m tired.”
“I’ll grab some tea before I get started.”
The hall was silent, and the foyer was empty. Mail was stacked neatly on the foyer table alongside a vase of fresh flowers. Emma made another mental note to clean off the table in her own entryway. She paused for a moment to enjoy the scent of the flowers as she and Liz went by on their way to the kitchen.
Molly was in the kitchen, vigorously wiping down the counter with a sponge. She was putting some real elbow grease into it, as Emma’s grandmother would have said. She nodded at Emma and Liz. “Good afternoon to you.”
Emma grabbed a mug, filled it with water and put it in the microwave.
Molly put down her sponge and leaned closer to the kitchen window. She pointed outside. “I think I see a robin. Sure sign that spring is around the corner.”
“That would be great. I’ve had enough of winter.” Emma joined Molly at the window and looked out. She didn’t notice any birds, but she did spy the man they’d seen with Mariel the other night, picking his way across the rutted and frozen field. The wind blew his dark hair around his face, and he held the collar of his coat closed with one hand.
“Who is that?” Emma pointed toward the fellow, trying to sound completely guileless. “He looks familiar, but I can’t place him.”
Molly took the bait. She stood on tiptoe and looked out the window again. “Oh, that’s Dr. Sampson. He’s been treating Mrs. Granger ever since she fell from her horse last year. Apparently the pain still hasn’t gone away. Something with her back.” Molly put a hand to her own back.
“He certainly seems very attentive,” Emma said.
Molly laughed. “Very attentive, indeed.” She turned to face Emma, and the look and the wink she gave her said it all.
• • •
EMMA
and Liz took their drinks back to the office where Liz was working.
“What do you think she was trying to tell us?” Liz asked, taking a tentative sip of her hot coffee.
Emma snorted. “I’m pretty sure her message was that Dr. Sampson is a lot more than just Mariel Granger’s doctor.”
“It would certainly give her a motive for wanting to be rid of her husband to pave the way for Lover Boy.” Liz blew on her coffee. “Of course, she’s not the only one with a motive. The daughter, Joy, had a good reason to hate her father—her mother is killed, she’s left crippled, and the only person left in her world, her father, rejects her. I can’t imagine what it must have been like for her.” Liz wiped away a tear that was dribbling down her cheek. She clenched her fists. “Makes me feel like killing him myself, and I never even knew him.”
“I know. Joy was one of the people whose contact information the police were missing, according to Francis’s sources in the department. Along with Mariel’s, and Jackson’s, of course.”
“Jackson seems to have the least reason for wanting his father dead. He does inherit the business, and now he can run it the way he wants, but I can’t see that moving him to . . . murder. Can you?”
Liz looked at Emma, and Emma shook her head. “No, not really. It’s terribly . . . extreme.”
Emma chewed on a nail. “What about his partner, Tom Roberts?”
“Tom?” Liz tilted her head to the side, considering. “Other than that I think he’s kind of creepy and has a beautiful wife, I don’t see him in the role.” She was quiet for a moment. “I wish there was a way to find out if Mariel left the party before the fireworks started. Maybe she went to meet this Dr. Granger somewhere and that’s why she won’t admit it?”
“It seems awfully risky considering the party was for her husband, and she was the hostess.” Emma had a sudden idea. “What kind of car does she drive?”
“I’ve seen her running around in a red Porsche Boxster. Why?”
“If she planned on leaving the party for some reason—to meet her lover or to get away after she’d murdered her husband—she probably took her own car to the Beau. They had valet parking that night. And I doubt a lot of people pulled up in a Porsche Boxster, especially a red one. Maybe one of the valets will remember when he brought the car back around for her.” Emma stood up. “Do you think you’d have time to run over there after work? Arabella is going to watch Bette for me, and I’ll still have time to stop by to visit Brian.”
Liz’s face broke into a grin. “I wouldn’t dream of letting you go alone. I’ll give Matt a call and see if he can throw some hamburgers on the grill and get the kids started on their homework.”
• • •
EMMA
worked her way through another section of paintings; glancing at her watch, she realized it was five o’clock. She saved her work, powered off the computer and gathered her things together. She stuck her head into the office. “Will Matt be able to take care of the kids if we go over to the Beau?” Liz looked up, startled. “Five o’clock already?” She turned off her photography lights and began to disassemble them. “Yes, he said it was no problem.”
Emma had always been impressed with Liz and Matt’s marriage. Their mutual give-and-take kept both of them happy and things running smoothly.
“I’ll meet you there.” Emma said after Liz had packed up her gear and they were each heading toward their cars.
Emma kept Liz in her rearview mirror on the drive to the Beau. They pulled into the circular drive in front of the hotel, parking just beyond the entrance, where they wouldn’t be in the way. The driveway was empty and the valet was not in sight. The tall, ornamental grasses in front of the hotel were wheat-colored now, with feathery fronds on top. They swayed back and forth in the chilly winter breeze.
Emma approached Liz’s car. “I don’t see anyone. Maybe we should ask inside?”
She had barely finished speaking when she noticed a young man approaching them. He was wearing black pants, a ruffled white shirt and a short white jacket, and was obviously a hotel employee.
“Can I help you?” he asked when he reached Liz’s car.
“Are you the valet?” Emma asked.
“Yes. Want me to park the cars for you?”
Emma shook her head. “No. We actually wanted to ask you some questions.”
A wary look came over his face, and he smoothed an index finger over his dark mustache. “I suppose that’s okay.”
“Were you here Saturday night for the big party given by the Grangers?”
“Yeah. Me plus Ricky and Steve. I don’t usually work Saturdays. The wife wasn’t happy about it. She likes to go out for a drink and maybe a bite to eat on Saturdays, but it was all men on deck for the party.” He ran a hand across the back of his neck. “I’m Manny, by the way.”
“Are Ricky and Steve here, too?”
“Nah. Weeknights are quiet. I can handle it all by myself.” He looked from Emma to Liz. “What is it you want with them? I can give them a message. If there was some damage to your car or something stolen though, you’ll have to talk to the hotel manager.” He tipped his head toward the entrance to the Beau.
Emma took a deep breath. “We were wondering if any of you remember parking a red Porsche Boxster that night.” Emma looked to Liz for confirmation, and Liz nodded.
The valet whistled. “We don’t get a lot of cars like that. Plenty of expensive ones, mind you, but usually dark-colored, late-model BMWs, Mercedes, Audis. Nothing too sporty, you know what I mean.”
Emma nodded.
“So yeah, the Boxster really stood out. Ricky parked it. He was really jazzed about driving a Porsche even if he didn’t go more than a couple hundred feet in it. He couldn’t stop talking about it.”
Emma smiled at Manny. “That’s very helpful. Now, do you happen to remember when the owner left? Did Ricky bring the car back out?”
Manny nodded his head. “Yeah. There was no way he was going to let anyone else have a chance to drive it.” He looked over toward the entrance to the hotel, as if judging whether or not anyone could hear him. He lowered his voice and gave Emma and Liz a conspiratorial look. “Just between you and me—because I can tell you ladies are cool—Ricky said he gave it a little spin around the block. Handled like a dream, he said.”
“So Ricky was the one who brought the car back to its owner?” Emma asked.
Manny laughed. “You bet. As I said, he wasn’t going to let anyone else drive it.”
“Do you happen to have any idea when the owner left the party?” Emma crossed her fingers behind her back.
“Sure. Ricky was about to punch out when the lady who owned the car came out of the hotel. I’ve never known Ricky to stay even a minute overtime, but he didn’t hesitate. Strolled right up and told her he’d be back in a second with her car.”
“This would have been around . . . ?”
“Nine o’clock. Ricky was due to leave at nine, and Chuck was taking the nine to midnight shift. He works at Tom Mulligan’s garage days, but he likes to pick up a little extra cash when he can, and he doesn’t mind the late hours so Dan—that’s our boss—always schedules him for that shift.”
Emma and Liz looked at each other.
“You’ve been really helpful, Manny. Thanks so much.”
“Hey, whatever I can do to help out a couple of pretty ladies.” He winked at them and strolled, whistling, toward the entrance of the hotel.
Emma and Liz watched him walk away. They remained silent until the revolving door at the entrance to the hotel had swallowed him up.
Emma frowned. “If Manny is telling the truth, Mariel is in the clear. The fireworks didn’t start until nearly ten o’clock, and she had already gone by then.”
“Looks like she had a rendezvous with someone. And I think I can guess who.”
“The good-looking Dr. Sampson,” Emma said.
BRIAN
was sitting up in bed when Emma got to the hospital later that evening. His leg was in a cast and had been propped on a pillow. A bedside tray with the remains of dinner was pushed to one side, and he had a paperback book splayed open on the bed beside him.
“You are a sight for sore eyes,” he said, his face lighting up as Emma entered the room.
She sat on the edge of his bed, and Brian gathered her into his arms. Emma put her head on his shoulder and tried not to let the tears that were pricking the backs of her eyelids escape. They stayed like that for several minutes.
“I’ve brought you some things,” Emma said, pulling away slightly. “I’ve got Monday’s
Post-Intelligencer
, the latest issue of
Sports Illustrated
”—she brandished the cover at him—“and some fresh fruit.”
“You’re here. That’s what I care about.” Brian gave her a big grin. “Tell me what’s going on. I hate being trapped here like this.” He pointed at his leg. “It’s very frustrating.”
“You’ll be up and around in no time, I’m sure.”
Brian laughed. “They had me on crutches today to practice. It’s not easy getting the hang of those things.” He pointed to the newspaper. “I feel so out of it—getting clonked on the head and losing a couple of days. Has anything happened in the Granger case? Do the police know who pushed Hugh Granger off the balcony at his own party?”
“No . . .”
“The way you said that doesn’t sound good.”
Emma sighed and Brian took her hand in his. A feeling of contentment washed over her. So what if Brian didn’t feel the same urge to travel that she did, or was beyond certain that he’d never grow tired of the small town they’d grown up in? Being with him was all that really mattered. Everything else could be worked out.
Emma wound a loose thread from her sweater around her finger. “Liz and I were convinced that Mariel Granger was guilty. After all, isn’t the spouse always the first one the police suspect?”
“It is in the movies.”
“She wouldn’t tell the police where she’d gone when she left the party, and that alone is suspicious.”
Brian raised an eyebrow, and Emma felt her face grow hot.
“Liz and I managed to . . . overhear . . . her conversation with Detective Walker. We think she may have had a rendezvous with her lover—twice Liz and I saw her meeting this Dr. Sampson. They looked very furtive.” Emma’s words came out in a rush, tumbling over each other. “It seemed obvious there was more to their relationship than just doctor and patient.”
“Sampson?” Brian tilted his head to the side, thinking. “The name sounds familiar.” He drew his brows together. “Greg Sampson?”
“I don’t know his first name.”
“This was before you came back to Paris,” Brian said, easing himself up higher on his pillows.
“Do you need help . . .”
“No, I’m fine.” Brian settled down again with a slight grimace. “An old fraternity brother of mine did a number on his back playing a game of touch football at a family barbecue. He went to this Dr. Sampson, who recommended the usual stuff—heat then physical therapy followed by an exercise regimen, but he also gave my friend . . . Zack . . . something for the pain. Zack was really hurting so he was glad to have the pills. The only problem was that he became addicted to them. And this Dr. Sampson was more than willing to continue to write prescriptions long after Zack should have stopped taking the stuff. Finally Sampson was busted. It seems Zack wasn’t the only one getting pills from him. It was a three-day wonder in the newspaper. He lost his license for a while—obviously he’s gotten it back again.”
Emma was thinking, putting all the pieces together in her mind. “Mariel hurt her back after a fall from her horse. She made a big show of telling me how she didn’t want to take any painkillers because they could be addictive. What if she was lying and this Dr. Sampson is supplying her?”
“Sounds like you’ve hit the nail on the head. But you said she’s already been eliminated as a suspect.”
Emma nodded. She caught her lower lip between her teeth. “It does explain where she probably went the night of the party—to beg Sampson for another prescription. I remember when we got there that she looked rather . . . pained.”
Brian was fidgeting a bit, plucking at the bedcovers, and moving his head back and forth.
“Speaking of pain, are you okay?”
Brian gave a weak smile. “I think it’s time for my pain pills, and I’m not turning them down.” There was a slight sheen of perspiration on his upper lip.
“Do you want me to call the nurse?”
Brian shook his head. “I’ll be okay. She should be along any minute now anyway.” He picked up Emma’s hand again and squeezed it. “So, now tell me what’s bothering you.”
Emma was startled. How did Brian
know
?
“I can tell by the way your eyebrows are scrunched together—just a bit—that something is bothering you.”
Now Emma felt contentment seep down to her very core. Brian really
got
her. “Okay,” she admitted. “It’s Aunt Arabella.”
“No.” Brian struggled to sit upright. “Nothing’s happened to her, has it? Aside from you and Liz, she’s my most favorite lady.” He gave Emma a lopsided grin that segued into a grimace.
“She’s okay,” Emma reassured him, “physically anyway. It’s just that she’s been forgetting things, which is odd. And when Detective Walker asked her where she was during the fireworks the night of the Grangers’ party, she gave him three different answers.” Emma’s fingers found the loose thread on her sweater again, and she began wrapping it around her thumb. “That’s not like Arabella.”
“You’re right. That’s not.” Now Brian looked concerned. “Your aunt is usually so sharp. What are you going to do?”
“She’s agreed to make an appointment with Dr. Baker. He’s known her for ages. Hopefully he can figure out what’s wrong.”
“Let’s hope so.” Brian was silent for a moment. “But enough of all that. How about giving me a kiss?”
• • •
“DARLING,
you’re looking a little . . .” Arabella paused, searching for the right word. “A little like a ragamuffin. Don’t you think it’s time to pay Angel a visit?”
Emma ran her hand through her short, dark hair, disheveling it even more. “I think you’re right. I’ve been putting it off. I’ve been so busy.”
“It’s quiet right now, and Sylvia ought to be along at any moment. Why don’t you call Angel and see if she has anything open?”
Emma was already pulling her cell from her purse. She punched in the number to Angel Cuts, Angel Roy’s hair salon. She clicked off the call with a smile. “She can squeeze me in now before her ten o’clock.”
“You go along then. I’ll be fine.”
Emma grabbed her purse, and Bette, who had been sleeping peacefully in a sunbeam, was suddenly at attention.
“I’m sorry, girl, I can’t bring you this time. You stay here with Pierre, okay?”
Pierre opened one eye and twitched his black ear before going back to sleep.
Emma pulled on her coat and gloves and said good-bye to Arabella. Sylvia was just pulling into the parking lot as she slipped out the front door—that made Emma feel better. After everything that had happened, she was a little nervous about leaving Arabella all alone for too long.
Tiny flakes of snow were falling as Emma walked down the sidewalk. She passed the Meat Mart, where Willie, the butcher, was waiting on a customer. Someone came out of the Taffy Pull and delicious smells wafted out with them. Sylvia used to have an apartment over the shop until her children thought it provident that she move to a retirement community. She had nearly burned the building down one time and flooded it another.
Emma pushed open the door to Angel Cuts and was assailed by the perfumed odor of hair spray mingled with the chemical smell of hair dyes. The girl at the reception desk looked up and smiled, motioning toward the sofa with her eyes.
“Emma?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Angel will be with you in a minute. Would you like some coffee, tea or water with lemon?”
Angel had really gone upscale, Emma thought. It hadn’t been
that
long since her last haircut, but Angel had replaced the standard-issue chairs with a plush sofa bedecked with cushions. New, framed art decorated the walls. The magazines that were normally strewn across a scarred wooden table were tucked into woven baskets—although it looked to Emma as if the selection remained the same—plenty of gossip rags, one high-fashion magazine and several cooking titles.
Emma pulled a random issue from one of the baskets and settled on the sofa. Angel had made quite the success of her hair salon—managing to compete with the popular chain places at the mall. She had plans to expand, and had even taken some classes to get a handle on how to best run her business.
“Emma!” Emma had barely turned the first few pages in her magazine when Angel came rushing out to the waiting area. She uttered Emma’s name in a tone of rebuke, the way hairdressers do when you’ve waited too long for your trim or to have your roots touched up, or heaven forbid, had actually had the temerity to try another salon.
Angel’s hair had undergone a renovation much like the salon had. It was still her trademark fire engine red but instead of being teased high and wide, it was fashionably sleek and layered. Emma couldn’t help staring as Angel led her back to the washbasins.
It looked as if the interior of the salon had been redone as well—or at least it was in progress. Emma thought she detected the odor of fresh paint, and all the pictures on the walls had been taken down.
“What do you think of my renovations?” Angel asked as she lathered Emma’s hair with shampoo.
“It’s very nice. Very chic and elegant.”
Angel smiled, pleased. “Do you really think so? I was going for a more big-city, sophisticated look, and you having lived in New York and all, I value your opinion.”
Angel wrapped Emma’s head in a towel and led her over to her station. “Speaking of big-city, I heard from your aunt that you’re working part-time for the Grangers.”
Emma braced herself. Angel was undoubtedly going to pump her for information.
“I heard you were at that big do they had out at the Beau. That Saturday was a killer. I was busier than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. Everyone wanted to come in and get her hair done—even Mrs. La-di-da Granger herself.” Angel pulled a comb through Emma’s hair. “She told me how she was used to going to places . . . famous places . . . in cities like London, Rome and Paris.” A grin spread cross Angel’s face. “But she told me she was really pleased with the way I did her hair. I got to tell you, that made my day.”
“I can imagine,” Emma said as Angel pushed her head forward to trim the back.
“Who knows if she’ll come back . . . they’re always off somewhere, but of course, now with her husband gone, maybe she’ll stick around. That stepdaughter of hers comes in regularly.”
“Oh? Joy?”
“Yes. I feel sorry for her being stuck with a name like that. There seems to be so little joy in her life except for those horses of hers. She could be pretty, too, except she won’t do anything to bring it out. I’ve tried to get her to try a different hairstyle or some highlights, but all she ever wants is a trim.” Angel opened a drawer and pulled out a blow-dryer. “Then there’s the money, of course. She’s never been encouraged to go out on her own—her father keeps harping on the fact that she’s crippled. Heck, I’ve seen lots of people with crutches, in wheelchairs or wearing braces who have done just fine for themselves.”
“But I imagine she’s going to inherit some money now.”
Angel snorted and switched on the blow-dryer. She had to raise her voice to be heard above it. “Not according to her. Mariel gets the bulk of it, her brother gets the income from the business along with all the stock, and she keeps the allowance that she’s getting now, which, according to her, isn’t much. Wouldn’t surprise me if she did it herself.” Angel switched off the blow-dryer and reached for an industrial-sized can of hair spray. “She hated him that much. Blamed him for her mother’s death.” Angel lowered her voice. “Some people have said that the accident
was
his fault—he’d been drinking.” She sprayed Emma’s hair lavishly. “I’m too young to remember, but I do remember my mother and grandmother bringing it up occasionally and speculating about it—chewing it over like it was a piece of fat.”
She put down the spray, and Emma let out her breath.
“Of course the rules are different for the rich, you know. Wasn’t there something Hemmingway said to F. Scott Fitzgerald? Like Fitzgerald said the rich are different from you and me? And Hemmingway said ‘Yeah, they have more money.’”
Emma’s eyes widened. Angel certainly never failed to surprise, she thought, as she was spun around so she could see her reflection in the mirror.