Laced with Poison (2 page)

Arabella shook her head. “No, but we did catch a wonderful movie, although I’ve already
forgotten the name of it, and had a great steak dinner at that place, whatever it’s
called. We even had a picnic yesterday!” she finished triumphantly. She looked at
Emma over the rims of her reading glasses. “And don’t worry. Francis made a reservation
for me at the loveliest bed-and-breakfast.”

Emma smiled to herself. Arabella had obviously fallen hard for Francis. She was glowing
and walked around in a perpetual haze, unable to remember names, places or much of
anything else.

Emma straightened a peach 1930s negligee on one of the mannequins. “So, no shopping?”

“Not with Francis, no. He’s not much of a fan, I’m afraid. But I did stop at a wonderful
estate sale on my way back yesterday. Wait till you see what I bought!” She reached
for the nearest of the shopping bags.

Emma felt her stomach clench. They really couldn’t afford to purchase more stock at
the moment. The figures she’d been perusing earlier that morning swam before her eyes
in a dismal sea of red.

Arabella must have noticed the look on her face. “Don’t worry, dear Emma.” She put
a hand on Emma’s arm. “We’ll sell these things in no time. Besides, I’ve had the most
wonderful idea.”

“What is that?”

Arabella winked and shook a finger at her playfully. “Let me show you what I’ve got
first.”

She pulled a beautiful flowered peignoir set from the first shopping bag. It looked
brand-new, although Emma could tell by the style that it was vintage. Arabella arranged
it carefully on the counter and stood back with the air of a parent presenting a clever
child’s best trick.

“It’s early 1950s,” Arabella said, running the fabric through her fingers. “Crepe
de Chine, bias cut and pleated all around. The skirt on the robe has a sweep of one
hundred and two inches!” She finished triumphantly. “It has French seams throughout
and they’re all pinked.”

Emma admired the print of tiny roses and other multicolored flowers. It was beautifully
delicate and feminine. “Oh, look.” She fingered the three Lucite buttons that closed
the robe at the waist. “These are so perfect.”

Arabella nodded as if to say
I told you so
. “And you won’t believe what else. The ensemble was made in-house at Henri
Bendel, the exclusive New York City department store. It’s really one of a kind.”

Arabella put a hand inside the shopping bag. “But that’s not all.” She pulled out
an off-white robe and nightgown set. The robe had cream-colored lace from the neck
to the waist and also around the waist, and a sweeping skirt. The negligee had matching
lace creating a V under the bust. “This set is from the 1940s,” Arabella said as she
spread the two pieces out on the counter. “It was made by Tula, but the rayon crepe
de Chine is by Narco—the North American Rayon Corporation. The fabric was highly prized
during the World War Two era for its exotic feel.”

Emma held the luxurious fabric reverently in her hands. She could imagine how wearing
a gown and peignoir set like this would make any woman feel glamorous.

“There’s more.” Arabella dove back into her two shopping bags and pulled out several
additional nightgowns, another peignoir and negligee set and a gorgeous bed jacket.

“These things look almost brand-new,” Emma said as she helped Arabella fold the garments
up and put them back in the bags.

“They do, don’t they?”

Emma slid the last of the garments in. “Okay, now that we’ve looked at your purchases,
are you going to tell me what your wonderful idea is?”

Arabella clapped her hands. “I think you’re going to love it!”

Emma raised her eyebrows and waited.

“A trunk show!” Arabella declared with all the vigor of a game show host announcing
the winner. “What do you think?”

“A trunk show?”

Arabella nodded. “Yes. It’s like a party—like the ones
where your friends try to sell you jewelry or makeup or things for the kitchen that
you don’t even recognize. The hostess invites all her friends and provides refreshments,
and we show off our wares.”

“But who would we get to host it?” Emma ran through her mental list of friends.

“That’s the best part!” Arabella was nearly bouncing in her excitement. “Deirdre Porter
has agreed to host it for us! I called her on the way back here on my cell. She’s
going to e-mail an invitation to all her friends today. It’s perfect.”

“You’re right.” Emma began to smile. “It is perfect.” Deirdre Porter was the daughter-in-law
of Alfred Porter, the mayor of Paris, Tennessee, and his wife Marjorie, who came from
one of Paris’s oldest and wealthiest families. Deirdre would attract the A-list to
their trunk show.

“We’ll make a fortune!” Arabella assured Emma, patting her on the arm. “Meanwhile,
let me put these bags in the back. Our first customers could be arriving shortly.”

An hour later, after a dark-haired, fortyish woman left with a glossy black-and-white
Sweet Nothings bag dangling from the crook of her arm, Arabella stood in the middle
of the shop and looked around.

“Some days I honestly cannot believe what you’ve done with the shop.” She turned and
smiled at Emma. “The pink walls, the black-and-white toile…it’s all perfect,” she
said with a slight catch in her voice.

“So you don’t miss your pea green shag? Or the fluorescent pink and orange accents?”
Emma had stripped the shop of everything that had screamed ’70s in exchange for shabby
chic décor.

“Not a bit!”

Arabella was straightening the gown on the mannequin and Emma was flipping through
a catalogue when they
heard a strange noise coming from outside. It sounded like someone yelling for help.
Arabella glanced at Emma with her eyebrows raised. Emma ran to the door and yanked
it open.

She stepped outside, stood under the black-and-white Sweet Nothings awning and looked
up and down Washington Street—the main shopping area in Paris, Tennessee. At first
things looked just as usual, but then she noticed someone coming down the sidewalk.
She squinted slightly. It looked like Sylvia Brodsky, who lived over the Taffy Pull
a few doors down and worked at Sweet Nothings as a saleswoman and bra-fitting specialist.
She’d moved with her son and daughter-in-law from New York where she’d spent several
decades working in lingerie at Macy’s department store. Emma had often heard the term
crusty New Yorker
, but she’d never quite understood what it meant before meeting Sylvia.

Emma looked again. It
was
Sylvia. She was waving her arms and calling for help. Emma couldn’t imagine what
the emergency was. Washington Street looked as peaceful as ever—no flames shooting
from any of the windows, and no one chasing Sylvia. Emma started down the street toward
her.

They met in front of the Meat Mart, where Emma occasionally went to treat herself
to a good steak or some loin lamb chops. Emma glanced at the window and saw Willie
Williams, the butcher, tip a figurative hat in her direction. She smiled in return
and turned her attention toward Sylvia.

Sylvia tended to cultivate a somewhat unusual style of dress, and today was no exception.
She was wearing a bandanna that had gone askew, leaving one eye nearly covered, like
a bizarre pirate’s patch. Her gray hair bristled out around the edges. She had a trench
coat over a pair of purple fleece pajama pants and was shuffling along in fuzzy pink
slippers. Something had obviously sent her fleeing to the street still in her nightclothes.

“What is it?” Emma asked.

“Help!” Sylvia gasped. “You’ve got to help me.” She grabbed Emma by the arm and began
to drag her down the street.

Shopkeepers were peering out their doors now, and some had come to stand on the sidewalk,
arms folded across their chests. Angel Roy stood in front of her beauty salon, a comb
in one hand and a can of hair spray in the other. Today her fire-engine-red hair was
teased high in front and gathered into an asymmetrical ponytail that complemented
her one-shoulder cotton top. She looked quizzically at Emma as she and Sylvia marched
toward her. Emma gave a quick shrug as they came to a halt just beyond Angel Cuts,
Angel’s salon.

A red truck was pulled up to the curb, the back doors yawning open.
We Move You
was written on the side in white block letters. Two men came out of the door next
to the Taffy Pull, which led upstairs to Sylvia’s apartment. They muscled a large,
floral-patterned recliner through the door, set it down on the pavement, tilted back
their ball caps and swiped a hand across their sweaty foreheads.

“What’s going on?” Emma asked again.

“It’s not fair,” Sylvia protested, plopping down onto the temporarily abandoned recliner.
“They didn’t even tell me. These men”—she gestured toward the two who were still breathing
heavily after their trip down the stairs with the enormous chair, and the one who
was waiting by the truck—“just showed up and started heaving my furniture around.”

“What?”

Sylvia nodded so vigorously, her hoop earrings slapped
against the side of her face. “I told them I didn’t want to move, but they went ahead
and did it anyway.”

“Who is doing this?” For a moment Emma wondered if Sylvia hadn’t paid her rent and
was being evicted.

“My rotten kids. My son and that princess he’s married to. They’ve been trying to
get me to move to that old folks home, Sunrise or Sunset or something like that, over
on Harrison, near the cemetery, for a year now. Pretty convenient. First the home,
then a short trip to a plot and gravestone.” Sylvia crossed her arms over her chest
and set her jaw. “This is a sneaky, nasty, underhanded maneuver if you ask me.” Her
chin quivered, and she dashed a hand across her eyes. “They sent these moving men
without even telling me. I was making my tea when they barged in.”

The two men in ball caps looked at each other. One began to open his mouth, then closed
it again and shrugged.

“I’ve heard that place is actually quite nice.” Emma remembered one of their customers
talking about it.

“It’s for old people!”

“It’s called Sunny Days, isn’t it? And it’s not just old people. There’s independent
living as well. I’m sure that’s what your kids have arranged for you.”

“Yeah, could be.” Sylvia looked warily at Emma from under lowered brows. “Don’t you
go telling me to move there, too.”

“Well, it looks rather nice. I saw a copy of their brochure at the grocery store.
It’s a pretty place, and everyone looks like they’re having a good time.”

Sylvia snorted. “Doing what? Playing bingo?” She shuddered. “Please.”

“Maybe you could entertain them with your tarot reading.”

Sylvia fixed Emma with a beady stare. “The cards aren’t for entertainment, you know.
They’re a serious business. Besides, I’ve got my little side business going here.
Who’s going to come to Sunny whatever you said it was to have their cards read?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It’s a mile or two outside of town. Not that far for anyone with
a car.”

“Uh, lady?” The taller of the two men approached Sylvia. His T-shirt, like the truck,
was red, with
We Move You
screened onto the front. It stretched across an abdomen as round and big as a watermelon.
“We’ve got to get moving here, no pun intended. You going to let us put your stuff
into the truck or what?”

“Why don’t you give it a try?” Emma said. “If you don’t like it, you can always move
back. I doubt the landlord is going to rent that apartment anytime soon.” She sensed
Sylvia softening. “You might actually like it.”

Sylvia scowled. “It’s all on account of me forgetting I was running a tub. So a little
water overflowed and ran downstairs. What’s the big deal?”

“A couple of thousand dollars in repairs, that’s what’s the big deal.”

Emma hadn’t heard Angel come up behind her and whirled around when she heard her voice.

Sylvia looked at Angel, then at Emma, then back at Angel again. A look of defeat settled
on her face. “All right, all right, I’ll go. As my uncle always said, you can’t fight
city hall. Just bury me over at Sunny Poop or whatever it is you call it. Just close
the lid and dig me in. I’m done fighting.” She put her hands on the arms of the recliner
and shoved herself to a standing position.

“Come on.” Emma linked an arm gently through Sylvia’s. “Let’s go
back to Sweet Nothings, and I’ll make us both a cup of tea while the men load the
truck.”

“Not that green stuff you drink?” Sylvia shuddered.

“I’ve got some Lapsang souchong you’ll love.”

“Oh, all right.” She shook her finger at Emma. “But I’ll be back bright and early
tomorrow morning, don’t you worry.”

THE first Sweet Nothings trunk show was scheduled for the following Saturday afternoon.
Invitations had been sent, and Deirdre had already planned the menu—champagne punch
along with plenty of lemonade and sweet tea for the non-drinkers; a selection of cupcakes
from Sprinkles for dessert and some savory appetizers from Let Us Cater to You, including
Lucy Monroe’s cheese straws, without which, as Lucy often boasted, no party, special
event, wedding or christening could possibly take place in Paris.