Laced with Poison (15 page)

Emma pushed open the door of Angel Cuts. Warm air redolent with the scent of hair
spray and shampoo and overlaid with undertones of chemicals hit her in the face.

The shop was humming as always. Angel did a brisk business and was even considering
expanding. The girl at the reception desk had the telephone receiver sandwiched between
her shoulder and her ear, and was talking to two other women who were standing by
the desk. Emma waited patiently until the woman had dealt with everyone else, then
gave her name and found a seat in the reception area.

She thumbed halfheartedly through some dog-eared magazines, listening to the chatter
around her. The monotonous hum of the dryers made her feel sleepy, and she let her
head fall back against the chair cushion. The spot was warm from the sun coming in
the window, and she was soon dozing off.

“Emma? Emma, wake up.”

Emma woke to find Angel gently shaking her arm.

“You must be tired, girl.”

Emma yawned. “I am. We’ve been going nonstop since Sweet Nothings opened.”

“You need a spa day.” Angel led Emma to the washbasins at the back of the shop. She
wrapped a strip of paper around Emma’s neck then swirled a plastic cape over her.
“We’re going to start doing spa days next week—hot stone massage, mani, pedi, facial
and a wash and blow-dry. You should book one for yourself.”

“It sounds heavenly,” Emma said as Angel ran warm water over her hair. “You must be
doing well.”

Angel shrugged and snapped her gum. “Can’t complain. Customer service is what people
want, I always say. And that’s what I give ’em. Not like the big chains where you’re
no more than a number.” She poured some shampoo into her hand and began to scrub Emma’s
head. “I know my customers. I know their names, their husband’s names, their kids’
names. Heck, more often than not I even know their pets’ names. You can’t tell me
the operators at that swanky place over at the mall can say the same thing.”

Emma mumbled something. She was feeling sleepy again thanks to the warm water and
Angel’s gentle massaging of her scalp. She was almost dozing off when she remembered
her true mission.

Angel wrapped Emma’s head in a towel and led her over to her station. All sorts of
cards and mementos were stuck in the frame of her mirror. Emma noticed some snapshots
of two blond children—a boy and a girl. They weren’t Angel’s; she knew that. Perhaps
they were a niece and nephew. There was a ticket to the Paris Fish Fry—billed as the
biggest in the world—and a prayer card from someone’s funeral, though Emma couldn’t
quite read the name on it.

“Just a trim today?” Angel swung Emma around to face the mirror.

Emma nodded. “How’s Tom?”

“Tom? Ancient history.” Angel pointed at the snapshot of a man in a baseball cap tucked
into her mirror. “Tyler. Tyler Johnson. Tom never did understand what I was trying
to do with the business. Tyler gets it, though.”

Emma smiled. “Nice-looking guy.”

“Smart, too.” Angel combed Emma’s hair forward and began snipping her bangs.

“Is Lotte Fanning possibly a client of yours?” Emma asked, as Angel pushed her head
forward and began trimming the hair at the nape of her neck.

“Lotte Fanning? Oh, I imagine you mean Charlotte Fanning. At least that’s what she
calls herself when she comes here. She’s so very la-di-da, it just about makes your
teeth ache, but she’s a good tipper and always has a little something for the girls
at Christmastime.”

“Someone told me that she really had it in for Jessica Scott, the girl who died at
our trunk show. I don’t know if you’ve heard about it.”

“I saw a piece on it in the paper this morning. Said there was something wrong with
the cupcakes?”

“Not the cupcakes, no. They were fine,” Emma said emphatically. “It was the flower
on the cupcake. Bitsy uses edible flowers for decoration, and someone swapped one
of those for a poisonous foxglove flower.”

“Oh my!” Angel stopped with her scissors in midair. “Who would ever do such a thing?”

“I have no idea,” Emma admitted. “But Charlotte Fanning was at the party, and someone
said she didn’t at all like Jessica, the murdered woman.”

“Really?”

“Yes. The thing is, we can’t imagine why. We were hoping you might have some information.”

Angel shook her head emphatically. “Don’t tell me you’re up to your snooping again.
Didn’t it almost get you killed last time?”

Emma hung her head sheepishly. “It’s just that people might blame Bitsy because of
her cupcakes, and I can’t stand by and let that happen.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much of anything about Mrs. Fanning.” Angel smoothed some
product through Emma’s hair.
“But Flora always did her nails. Perhaps she knows something.”

“Can I get an appointment with her?” Emma examined her nails and came to the conclusion
that she needed a manicure.

“Check with Janellyn at the desk. Perhaps she can fit you in.”

Emma tried to relax through the rest of her appointment, but her entire focus was
on Flora, and what she might know about Lotte Fanning. As soon as Angel finished blow-drying
her hair, she hotfooted it to the reception desk.

Janellyn ran her finger down a long column of appointments while Emma held her breath.
She could always come back, of course, but like a child, she wanted the answer right
now.

Finally, Janellyn looked up. “If all you want is a plain manicure, nothing fancy,
no tips or acrylics, Flora should be able to fit you in.” She pointed toward a rack
of nail polish. “Why don’t you pick out your color while I go see if she’s ready.”

Emma stared at the rows and rows of nail polish hues until they all blurred together.
She finally grabbed a bottle off the shelf when she saw Janellyn gesturing to her.

Flora smiled at Emma and stuck her right hand in a dish of soapy water, all without
saying anything.

“Nice day today, isn’t it?” Emma said to break the ice.

Flora nodded.

“Have you worked here long?”

“Yes.”

Emma barely restrained from rolling her eyes, although Flora probably wouldn’t have
noticed since she was bent over Emma’s left hand and going at her nails with an emery
board. Emma felt slightly chagrined. She had been neglecting
her hands lately. Not like when she worked in New York and would skip lunch in order
to be able to afford a manicure.

“Do you know Charlotte Fanning?” Emma asked but then continued without waiting for
an answer. “Angel thought she was a client of yours. I saw her at a party the other
day, and she was going on and on about what a wonderful manicurist she had.”

Flora looked up and slowly smiled. “That would be me.” A flush rose from the neck
of her plain white blouse to the roots of her light brown hair.

Emma smiled back at her. “Mrs. Fanning was so complimentary about your work. Said
she wouldn’t have anyone else.” Emma crossed her fingers behind her back.

“She always chooses debutante pink for her nails. Says it’s the only appropriate color
for a lady.”

Emma glanced at the bottle of midnight blue polish she’d randomly grabbed off the
shelf and cringed.

“I imagine you’re a wonderful confidante to Mrs. Fanning as well.” Emma threw the
idea out much like a fisherman testing a new lure.

The expression on Flora’s face was one of confusion.

Emma was equally confused but then realized that Flora might have been stumped by
the word
confidante.

“I imagine Mrs. Fanning confided in you a lot…told you everything,” Emma added when
Flora still looked confused.

Flora’s face cleared, and she shook her head. “Yes, she talked about her daughter
all the time. Missy, her name is. Not sure if that’s short for something or not.”

“I imagine she’s very proud of her daughter.” Emma was digging, but she didn’t know
what else to do.

“Oh yes. She graduated UT with all A’s. She was supposed
to go work at that place for seniors, Sunny Days, but something happened. Mrs. Fanning
was that upset about it.”

Flora fell silent, and Emma realized she had probably gleaned all the information
she was going to. She stared at her newly painted midnight blue nails thoughtfully.
If Jessica had stood in the way of this Missy getting the job she anticipated having
at Sunny Days, would that have been enough to drive Lotte Fanning to murder?

ARABELLA arrived at Sweet Nothings the next morning looking even more cheerful than
usual. “Good morning,” she sang out as she unclipped Pierre’s leash and stowed it
behind the counter. “Isn’t it positively gorgeous out?” She had her long silver hair
piled on top of her head in an updo and was wearing a top Emma hadn’t seen before.

“New top?”

Arabella circled in front of Emma. “Like it?”

“Yes.” Emma admired the oversized white linen blouse with the embroidery on the front.
“What’s the occasion?”

Arabella’s cheeks turned a becoming pink. “Francis is coming for dinner.”

“Aha,” Emma said.

“Maybe later you can run down to Sprinkles and get me some cupcakes, okay?” Arabella
said.

“You’re not making your famous chess pie?”

Arabella shook her head. “As much as Francis loves it, I thought it was time for something
different. Besides, I’m trying my hand at a
bastilla
—I had it several times when I was in Morocco. Of course I’m not going to make it
with pigeon, which is traditional. A nice chicken from the Meat Mart will have to
do. It’s a huge undertaking, so dessert will have to be store-bought.”

“What else goes into it?”

Arabella thought for a moment. “If I had to describe it, I would say it’s a sort of
chicken pot pie but with a phyllo dough crust that is dusted with powdered sugar,
cinnamon and ground almonds. It has all sorts of exotic ingredients like orange water,
but I’ll have to do the best I can with what I can find.”

“It sounds more like a dessert than a main course.”

Arabella laughed. “Oh, I must tell you about the dinner party I attended in New York
one time. I was invited by the Moroccan ambassador, and I was so naïve!” Arabella
put both hands against her cheeks. “Dinner was served—a
bastilla
—and I was positive that the cook had made a terrible mistake and had served the dessert
instead of the main course. Fortunately I didn’t say anything, because I soon learned
that this pigeon pie, despite its powdered sugar and cinnamon, is dinner for many
people from that part of the world.”

“I’d be glad to run and get some of Bitsy’s cupcakes for you and Francis. But promise
to save me a piece of this…What did you call it?”

“
Bastilla
. I certainly will. I think you’ll like it.”

*   *   *

LATER that afternoon when there was a lull in customers, Emma grabbed her purse from
behind the counter. “I’ll head over to Sprinkles now,” she called to Arabella who
was
sitting at the desk in the stockroom working on the invitations to the trunk show
at Marjorie Porter’s. “What flavors do you want?” Arabella looked up. “You decide,
dear. All Bitsy’s things are so delicious.”

The wind had picked up, and a tsunami of dust and leaves was blowing down Washington
Street. Emma lowered her head and narrowed her eyes against the debris. She turned
the corner onto Market Street and was grateful that the turn put the wind at her back.
A splash of red in the Gallery caught Emma’s eye—a pile of pretty silk pillows mounded
on a neutral-colored sofa. One of them would look great on Emma’s couch. She was about
to go in, but then decided she didn’t want to leave Arabella alone too long in the
shop. She could come back another day.

Emma pushed open the door to Sprinkles and was taken aback to find it empty. It must
be a momentary lull, she thought. Usually people were three and four deep at the counter
all day long. She glanced into the glass cabinet where cupcakes marched in unbroken
rows. Emma was surprised to note that none of them had been embellished with Bitsy’s
signature edible flowers.

The curtain to the back room swished open, and Bitsy emerged. Emma was shocked to
see that her eyes were all red and swollen. She must have been crying.

“What’s wrong?” Emma said in alarm.

Bitsy sniffed and pulled a tissue from her sleeve. She dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, Emma,
I don’t know what to do.” She glanced toward the display cases crammed with cupcakes
of every flavor.

“What’s wrong?” Emma asked again.

Bitsy opened her mouth but all that came out was a sob.

Emma put her arms around her friend. “Whatever it is, it can’t be that bad.”

Bitsy gave a loud sniff that turned into a hiccup.

“Is it something to do with the shop?”

Bitsy nodded. “No one has been in all morning.”

“Maybe it’s an off day?” Emma tried to think of a reason why fewer people would be
buying cupcakes on that particular Friday.

“No. You don’t understand. Not a single person has come in today. Not even one.”

“But why—”

“It’s because of that article in the
Post-Intelligencer
yesterday.” Bitsy finished with a sob quickly followed by another hiccup. “I’m ruined.
I’ve put everything I have into this shop. I don’t know what I’ll do.”