A Fatal Slip by Meg London Page A

clipped on Bette’s leash, and they bounded downstairs to her VW Beetle.
    Arabella’s driveway was empty when Emma got there. Emma was relieved that her mother hadn’t yet arrived; she wanted to be there to greet her. Pierre was already by the front door barking when Emma mounted the front steps. The front door was open, as usual. No amount of warnings was able to persuade Arabella that times had changed and she ought to keep the house locked up.
    Her aunt was nowhere to be seen when Emma entered, but familiar noises were coming from the kitchen. “I’m here,” she called out, bending down to unsnap Bette’s leash. Untethered, Bette made a beeline for the kitchen, rounding the corner on her two left paws. Emma followed at a more sedate pace.
    Arabella was at the kitchen counter. She had a platter of cut-up chicken pieces in front of her and a paper bag that Emma knew was filled with flour and the spices that Arabella put into her fried chicken. Arabella was as secretive as the Colonel about what went into her special recipe. According to her, it had been handed down verbally from generation to generation. It would be passed to Emma when she married.
    Emma kissed her aunt on the cheek and opened the refrigerator, where she knew a pitcher of sweet tea would be waiting.
    “Oooh, you’ve made your chess pie,” she said, closing the door and opening the cupboard where the glasses were kept.
    “It’s not every day my younger sister comes to visit.” Arabella dropped a chicken leg into the paper bag and began to shake it. “Although what all the fuss is about, I don’t know. I’m perfectly all right.”
    “You know how Mom is when she gets a bee in her bonnet.”
    “Do I ever,” Arabella exclaimed. “Sometimes I think she ought to have been the older sibling, not me.”
    Emma thought Arabella was looking considerably better—she was less pale and the sparkle had returned to her blue eyes.
    Emma was setting the table when the doorbell rang. Pierre and Bette launched themselves onto their feet and skidded together down the long front hall. Arabella dried her hands on her apron and scurried after them.
    “Priscilla,” Emma heard her aunt say as Emma rounded the corner to the front hall.
    Despite more than eight hours of car travel, Emma’s mother’s blond hair looked as if she had just left the salon, her makeup was perfect and her clothes were as fresh as they had no doubt been when she’d left that morning. Emma thought of all the car trips she’d taken where they were barely out of the state before she’d dribbled a blob of ketchup from a fast food hamburger on her top or had a grease stain on her pants from a dropped French fry. Her mother was as slim as ever in a pair of perfectly creased khakis, white blouse and brown leather driving shoes.
    “Emma,” Priscilla called, holding her arms out.
    Emma hugged her mother while Priscilla offered her cheek for a kiss.
    “So good to see you, darling. It’s been too long.” She stood back and held Emma at arm’s length. “Are you going to leave your hair like that? Men don’t like women with such short hair, you know.”
    “I think she looks adorable,” Arabella said, rolling her eyes behind her sister’s back.
    “How was your trip?” Emma asked, anxious to change the subject.
    “Rather tedious, I’m afraid. I hit a patch of bad weather outside of Birmingham, which slowed me down. Very annoying.”
    “I imagine you’d like to freshen up before dinner. I’ve put you in the guest room at the back of the second floor.”
    “Wonderful,” Priscilla cooed. “Last time you had me in the front and the traffic kept me up nearly all night.”
    Emma and Arabella looked at each other. The only sounds Emma had ever heard at Arabella’s at night were the chirping of crickets and the sighing of the wind in the tree branches.
    Priscilla grasped her rolling bag by the handle and headed toward the stairs.
    “Do you want me to help you with that?” Emma