Laced with Poison (26 page)

Emma was horrified when her voice came out several octaves higher than normal.

“I came to see Rosalind Newell. She’s a…”—she hesitated for a bare second—“friend
of the family.”

The woman’s fingers were already poised on the keys of her computer. She tapped for
several seconds, paused, then looked up from the monitor at Emma.

“No visitors. It says so right here.” She tapped the monitor with her knuckle.

Emma’s shoulders slumped. “Does it say when she’ll be
able to have visitors?” Maybe the orders were only for a day or two.

The woman peered at the screen, hit the down arrow and squinted some more. “Doesn’t
say. Probably not for a while. It’s best if you call first.” She plucked a business
card from the holder on her desk and handed it to Emma.

Emma tried to smile, but her mouth refused to cooperate. “Thank you.” She tucked the
card into her purse.

The elevator ride down felt twice as fast, and before she knew it, she was being spit
out into the lobby.

The sun was in Emma’s eyes as she walked back toward her car, but she thought she
saw something on her windshield, stuck under the wiper. It couldn’t be a ticket; she
was legally parked in the Sunny Days parking lot. Perhaps it was one of those annoying
flyers for car washes or detailing firms.

As she got closer, she could see that the item was a pale blue. It looked more like
an envelope than a flyer. Emma’s curiosity grew with each step.

Finally she reached her car. It was an envelope—stuck securely under her windshield
wiper blade. She eased it out carefully. It looked and felt expensive. She ripped
open the flap. Who on earth would have left a letter for her like this?

As Emma slid the piece of notepaper out of the envelope, a delicious perfume rose
from within. She inhaled deeply. She couldn’t identify the scent, although she knew
she had smelled it before. Now she was really curious. Not only had someone stuck
a note on her car, it was written on obviously expensive scented notepaper.

Emma removed the paper the rest of the way and opened it up. The top of the sheet
was cut off at a slight angle. And instead of elegant, delicate handwriting, the note
was printed in block capital letters.

Even more shocking was the message:

*   *   *

EMMA’S hands shook all the way back to Sweet Nothings. Who could have done such a
thing? Obviously, she’d alarmed the murderer. Was it Lotte Fanning? Had she somehow
discovered that Emma was the one who told the police about her car?

She pulled into the Sweet Nothings parking lot, kicking up gravel and nearly skidding.
She parked the car, and when she got out, she realized it was horribly crooked. Fortunately,
it didn’t matter. All she wanted to do right now was to show the note to Arabella
and down a big glass of her revivifying sweet tea.

“This is excellent paper,” Arabella said as she held Emma’s mystery note up to the
light. She pointed at a spot on the pale blue vellum. “Here’s the watermark.” She
showed Emma where
Tiffany & Co.
was pressed into the paper. Arabella grabbed the envelope from the counter. “It’s
here, too.” She pointed to the spot near the opening where the raised letters of
Tiffany & Co.
could be seen.

“I wonder why the paper’s been torn,” Emma said. “It’s not as if it’s been ripped
off a pad or something.”

Arabella smiled. “They had to cut off the monogram.” She rubbed the robin’s egg blue
paper between her fingers. “This is the kind of good stationery you would always have
monogrammed. Whose ever it is probably had a die made. Tiffany keeps them on file
so you can engrave your stationery, calling cards, invitations and the like.”

“What about the scent? Does Tiffany sell scented notepaper?”

Arabella shook her head. She held the sheet of vellum
up to her nose and sniffed. “Chanel No. 5.” She took another sniff. “Definitely Chanel
No. 5.” She shook her head again. “No. We used to perfume our own paper so that it
would carry our own signature scent. A few drops on a cotton ball placed inside the
box was enough to do the trick.”

Arabella’s face clouded over. “This scares me, though.” She waved the paper around
and Emma caught a hint of the perfume. “This is a threat, even if it is on scented
Tiffany notepaper.”

“Maybe Lotte Fanning got wind of the fact that I was the one who told Detective Walker
about the dent in her car.”

“I think you should show this to him.” Arabella pointed to the note. “He needs to
know about this. If Lotte is the murderer, and she’s gotten a bee into her bonnet
about you…” Arabella shivered.

They’d been careful to handle the paper by the edges, and Emma now wrapped it in some
Sweet Nothings tissue and put it in a bag.

Emma pulled her cell phone from her pocket and dialed the police station. Walker was
out, but the secretary said Emma ought to be able to catch him if she came by early
the next morning.

*   *   *

EMMA was up early Wednesday morning. She wanted to be sure to catch Walker before
he was called out of the office or decided to go out for some breakfast.

Washington Street was quiet. Most of the shops were dark and shuttered, although a
light was on in Let Us Cater to You, and the Coffee Klatch was already open for patrons
needing that early morning cup of coffee.

A number of Crown Vics were still in the parking lot at the police station when Emma
arrived. She hoped that meant
that Walker would be there and not out investigating a case somewhere.

Walker was almost hidden by a stack of folders and papers when Emma arrived in his
office. She couldn’t tell if they were the same papers as last time or different ones.
It didn’t look as if Walker would dig himself out before the next century.

He jumped up immediately when he saw Emma, a hopeful look crossing his face like a
sudden ray of sunshine.

“Have a seat,” he mumbled around a bite of granola bar. He waved it toward Emma. “Sorry,
haven’t had a chance to eat so I grabbed this from the vending machine. To what do
I owe this pleasure?”

Emma put the Sweet Nothings bag on Walker’s desk. He glanced at the label, and Emma
could have sworn he blushed slightly. She removed the tissue-wrapped note from within
and handed it to Walker.

He raised his thick dark brows.

“It’s a note I found under the windshield wiper on my car.”

“A note?” he said somewhat indistinctly, having just taken a bite of his snack.

Emma nodded. “A threatening note.”

“Ah,” Walker said with relish. “A threatening note.”

He carefully unwrapped the tissue and, holding the note with the tips of his fingers
by its very corners, began to read the printing on the robin’s egg blue stationery.

His dark brows drew together. “Do you have any idea what this means?” He brandished
the paper, and Emma got a slight whiff of Chanel No. 5. “Why would someone leave this
on your car?”

She tried not to squirm under his direct gaze. “I have no idea.”

Walker’s eyes narrowed slightly. He didn’t believe her. Emma raised her chin and leveled
her glance at his. He sighed and looked away.

“Can you dust it for fingerprints?”

Walker shrugged. “Sure, but chances are the person who owns this fancy notepaper doesn’t
have their prints on file. Most felons aren’t partial to scented stationery. At least
in my experience.”

He steepled his fingers and looked over their tops at Emma. “Could this”—he gestured
toward the note he had rewrapped in the tissue—“be some kind of love triangle? You
stole someone’s boyfriend, and this is her way of getting back?”

Emma’s spine stiffened. “Certainly not!”

“Okay, okay, just asking.” Walker held up a hand. “No need to get so upset. It’s only
that in these cases, it’s usually personal, you know?”

Emma relaxed slightly. She twisted a lock of hair around her finger. “I don’t suppose
you’ve heard anything about that car with the dented fender…”

Walker looked confused for a moment, and then his face cleared. “I have the file here
somewhere.” He began sifting through the masses of paperwork on his desk. Finally
he held a manila folder triumphantly. He paged through it.

“Seems the car was involved in a fender bender. Flecks of paint from another car were
found, but no traces of anything that would lead us to believe it had been involved
in a hit-and-run.”

“What kind of traces…”

Walker glowered at Emma. “Hair, skin, blood…traces like that.”

Emma shuddered. She was sorry she’d asked.

“So there’s no chance it could have been the car that was involved in that hit-and-run.”

Walker shook his head vigorously and tapped the folder. “Nope. At least not according
to this report.”

He put his elbows on the desk and leaned his chin on his clasped hands. He leveled
a stern gaze at Emma. “I certainly hope”—he glanced at the note on his desk—“that
you will leave the detective work to the police.” His voice took on a husky tone.
“Who knows what this crackpot letter writer might do? I’d hate for anything to happen
to you. Even if you won’t let me take you out.” He made a comically sad face.

“If I find out anything, I promise to come right to you,” Emma reassured him.

“That’s not quite what I had in mind.” Walker gave an exasperated sigh. “I don’t want
you to go around poking your nose into things. It could be dangerous. Despite the
fancy stationery, despite the high-class-smelling perfume, this person”—he tapped
the note—“might mean business.”

Emma shuddered. The same thought had occurred to her.

She thanked Walker and made her way down the hall back to the front door. Emma felt
a deep sense of disappointment as she left the Paris police station. If Lotte wasn’t
responsible for the hit-and-run, then who was?

WHEN Emma got back to Sweet Nothings, the shop was perfumed with the scents of vanilla,
lemon, strawberry and other delicious flavors.

Emma paused and took a deep breath. “It smells fabulous in here.”

Arabella pointed at a display of miniature cupcakes from Sprinkles. “Bitsy dropped
these off after you left.”

“They look heavenly.”

“The strawberry shortcakes are divine.” Arabella sighed. She leveled a glance at Emma.
“I had to taste one to be sure they were okay.”

“Of course.” Emma smiled. She knew Arabella loved her sweets.

“I’ve been offering them to customers along with Bitsy’s card. She phoned a few minutes
ago to say the shop was filling up for the first time in days.”

“That’s good news, at least.”

“And your news…” Arabella fiddled with a silk strap that had slipped over the shoulder
of one of the mannequins.

Emma made a face. “Not good. Walker said he’d try dusting the note for prints, but
he wasn’t optimistic.”

“Oh well.” Arabella took a pin from her pocket and shortened the offending strap.
“How about the dent in Lotte’s car?”

Emma made another face. “No luck there. According to Walker, the car was involved
in a fender bender, not a hit-and-run. No sign of…” She hesitated, not wanting to
offend her aunt.

“Blood or guts?” Arabella supplied.

Emma swallowed. “Exactly.”

“Disappointing, isn’t it?” Arabella brushed at the shoulders of the mannequin and
straightened the bodice on the aqua silk gown. “I was quite convinced Lotte was our
culprit. It’s easy to imagine a woman who is edging past her prime giving in to murderous
impulses when she finds her lover has taken up with a younger woman.”

Emma nodded glumly. “If not Lotte, then who?”

“We still don’t know where that Crystal woman has gone.” Arabella undid the buttons
on the bed jacket that graced their other mannequin and eased it off.

“The young guy who lived next door promised to call if she came back. It is odd that
she took off like that.”

The front doorbell jangled, and they both jumped. Pierre got up from his nap and sauntered
toward the door.

A man stuck his head around the edge of the open door. “Can I come in?”

“Brian!” Emma and Arabella exclaimed together.

Emma took a mental inventory of the state of her physical affairs—she hadn’t run a
brush through her hair since that
morning, but the benefit of short hair was that it tended to stay fairly neat. She
took a surreptitious swipe at her nose with a tissue to remove any shine and straightened
the slim belt that cinched the waist of her dress.

Instead of his usual work clothes, Brian had on gray slacks, a navy blazer and an
open-necked blue shirt. Emma felt her heart give an extra beat.

“Looks like you’re off to something important.” Arabella slipped a 1940s ecru satin
and lace gown over the denuded mannequin and gently eased it into place.

Brian shrugged, and Emma thought he looked uncomfortable. If she wasn’t mistaken,
she could have sworn his face turned slightly red. “Nothing much.” He looked down
at his well-polished shoes. “Don’t tell Liz I told you because she probably wants
to tell you herself, but Matt got that contract he was after.”