A Fatal Slip by Meg London Page B

asked.
    “Of course not. I can manage.”
    Emma and Arabella retreated to the kitchen where they could hear the thump of the wheels as Priscilla bumped the suitcase up the stairs.
    “Some things never change,” Arabella said as she placed the last of the chicken pieces in the bag and shook it.
    Emma laughed. Arabella was right.
    Arabella poured oil into a pan on the stove and hesitated, her hand on the burner. She looked over her shoulder at Emma. “This is the part I hate.”
    Emma knew exactly what she meant. It had been a pan of oil that had started the fire that had nearly destroyed Arabella’s kitchen.
    Arabella finally turned the burner, and the flame sprang to life. A few minutes later, she began adding the chicken pieces, one by one, to the pan.
    Light footsteps sounded down the hall, and Priscilla reappeared with Pierre and Bette right on her heels. She’d exchanged her blouse for a cream-colored sweater.
    Priscilla bent and scratched Pierre behind the ear. “You’ve put on some weight haven’t you, darling.”
    Emma noticed Arabella bristle slightly.
    “And who is this?” Priscilla held out a hand toward Bette, who approached her with unusual caution.
    “That’s Bette. She’s Pierre’s puppy.”
    Priscilla studied Bette, her head tilted to one side. “I see elements of Pierre—certainly the ears—but she’s obviously not a French bulldog.”
    “Pierre had a”—Arabella cleared her throat—“liaison with a dachshund.”
    “Pierre, you scamp. I’m surprised you allowed it, Arabella.”
    “I didn’t,” Arabella said, frowning.
    Again, Emma thought it might be best if she changed the subject. She glanced at her mother. “I thought you would be tanner.”
    “You should see your father! I keep telling him sunscreen, sunscreen, but he doesn’t listen. And he’s out on that golf course all day. Well, no matter. It gives me time for my ceramics.”
    Emma noticed a strange look cross her mother’s face.
    “How is that going?” Arabella turned away from the stove briefly.
    “Very well. I couldn’t be more pleased. I’m having a showing at the Belmont Arts and Cultural Center in May.”
    “That’s wonderful. You’ll have to send me some pictures,” Emma said.
    “There’s a small arts and crafts store over on Market Street,” Arabella said, swiping at her nose and leaving it dusted with flour. “You might put some of your pieces up for consignment.”
    “I hardly think of my work as
arts and crafts
.” Priscilla walked over to the stove, where the chicken was now spitting and crackling in the pan. She clapped her hands together. “Oh, this will be a treat. I love your fried chicken, Arabella. Mine never comes out quite as flavorful and crisp as yours.”
    Arabella’s face glowed with pleasure. She removed the chicken pieces from the pot and placed them on a white platter.
    “Emma, if you could put this on the table . . .” She handed Emma the dish, then opened the oven and took out a cast iron pan of cornbread and a green bean casserole.
    Finally, everything was on the table, and they were all seated around it.
    Emma looked from her mother to her aunt and back again. There was a slight resemblance—the vivid blue eyes and the shape of the nose—but otherwise they were as unalike as two sisters could be.
    “So tell me about this murder of yours, Arabella. You two have been getting up to some awfully unsavory things.”
    Arabella bristled again. “What on earth do you mean by that?” Arabella said.
    “You told me that you actually had a detective here, questioning you. I’ve never heard of such a thing.” Priscilla took a bite of her chicken. “Mmm, you do make the most divine fried chicken.” She dabbed at her lips with her napkin. “But I don’t understand why the police questioned
you
, Arabella. The wife is always the logical suspect, isn’t she?”
    Emma stopped with her fork halfway to her mouth. “She certainly is, in books and the movies.”
    “Actually,