garment in front of the woman like a conjurer performing a magic trick.
Even from across the room, Emma could see the woman’s eyes light up. It looked as if the sale was in the bag.
Sylvia sidled up next to Emma and whispered to her. “So what’s up with your aunt?”
Emma explained about the dinner dance, Hugh’s death and the visit from Detective Walker. Sylvia’s mouth set more firmly with each word Emma spoke.
“There’s no way anyone is hanging this on your aunt. No way.” Her voice rose, and Arabella shot her a warning look. “No way,” Sylvia whispered a final time for emphasis.
Emma picked at a piece of loose cuticle. “I’m a little worried though. Arabella seemed . . . confused . . . about where she’d been at the time of the murder. She said she went to the ladies’ room, but claims she was alone. Something about it just didn’t ring true.”
“Seriously?” Sylvia frowned. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and rubbed at a smudge on the glass case.
“Don’t get me wrong. I know my aunt had nothing to do with Hugh’s death. But I do think she’s hiding something.” Emma sighed. “I just don’t know what it is.”
“Maybe she’ll spill the beans to her sister while she’s here.”
Emma pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Arabella and Priscilla don’t always see eye to eye. Mother has never really approved of Arabella.”
“Why on earth not? Your aunt is a marvelous woman.”
“Mother is just very . . . different. While Arabella was traveling around the world, my mother spent her trust fund on college. She had her whole life mapped out from the time she was twenty—she graduated from UT a year early, married my father, had me—more than one child might have interfered with her work. So far, everything has gone according to her plan. Her career goals were met right on schedule, she retired at sixty as she had intended and now she’s concentrating on her other passion, ceramics.”
“But you know what they say: blood is thicker than water.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely right. Arabella and Mother may not be close, but they are sisters. That doesn’t mean, however, that there aren’t going to be fireworks of a very different sort when she gets here.”
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
Even from across the room, Emma could see the woman’s eyes light up. It looked as if the sale was in the bag.
Sylvia sidled up next to Emma and whispered to her. “So what’s up with your aunt?”
Emma explained about the dinner dance, Hugh’s death and the visit from Detective Walker. Sylvia’s mouth set more firmly with each word Emma spoke.
“There’s no way anyone is hanging this on your aunt. No way.” Her voice rose, and Arabella shot her a warning look. “No way,” Sylvia whispered a final time for emphasis.
Emma picked at a piece of loose cuticle. “I’m a little worried though. Arabella seemed . . . confused . . . about where she’d been at the time of the murder. She said she went to the ladies’ room, but claims she was alone. Something about it just didn’t ring true.”
“Seriously?” Sylvia frowned. She pulled a tissue from her pocket and rubbed at a smudge on the glass case.
“Don’t get me wrong. I know my aunt had nothing to do with Hugh’s death. But I do think she’s hiding something.” Emma sighed. “I just don’t know what it is.”
“Maybe she’ll spill the beans to her sister while she’s here.”
Emma pursed her lips. “I don’t know. Arabella and Priscilla don’t always see eye to eye. Mother has never really approved of Arabella.”
“Why on earth not? Your aunt is a marvelous woman.”
“Mother is just very . . . different. While Arabella was traveling around the world, my mother spent her trust fund on college. She had her whole life mapped out from the time she was twenty—she graduated from UT a year early, married my father, had me—more than one child might have interfered with her work. So far, everything has gone according to her plan. Her career goals were met right on schedule, she retired at sixty as she had intended and now she’s concentrating on her other passion, ceramics.”
“But you know what they say: blood is thicker than water.”
“Oh, you’re absolutely right. Arabella and Mother may not be close, but they are sisters. That doesn’t mean, however, that there aren’t going to be fireworks of a very different sort when she gets here.”
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
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