Free A Fatal Slip by Meg London

thanks, Liz. This is a wonderful opportunity.”
    “It will be fun working together.” Liz giggled and suddenly Emma felt as if they were back in middle school, heads bent over some romance novel that was sending them into fits of laughter.
    Emma clicked off the call, slipped her shoes back on and went out to the shop to talk to Arabella.
    “Good news,” she announced. “I have an interview with Jackson Granger and Hugh’s partner at five o’clock.”
    Arabella’s face lit up. “Wonderful!”
    “Good work,” Sylvia said gruffly.
    Just then the front door to Sweet Nothings opened, and Francis stepped in. “Hope I’m not disturbing you ladies. I was just over at the Meat Mart picking up some lamb chops for our dinner.” He nodded at Arabella. “My night to cook.”
    “I told you that I could make dinner,” Arabella protested.
    Francis shook his head. “No, no; fair is fair. It’s time I took a turn. You’ve been feeding me very well”—he patted his stomach, which was still as flat as a teen’s—“and now it’s up to me to return the favor. I do a mean grilled lamb chop, and I think I’m capable of tackling some baked potatoes and a green salad.”
    Arabella smiled. “You are a dear. As it is, we’ve been terribly busy, and I’ll definitely relish the chance to put my feet up and be catered to.”
    Sylvia cleared her throat. “Aren’t you going to tell him your news, kid?” She gestured toward Emma encouragingly.
    “Liz told me that Hugh Granger’s son and his partner are looking for someone to help catalogue their collection. I’ve got an interview with them in an hour.”
    “Oh,” Francis said quietly.
    “I thought you would be pleased,” Arabella said. “Emma will be on the spot and can glean all sorts of information.”
    Francis took a deep breath and let it storm out his nose. “I don’t know how I feel about that.” He looked at Emma. “It could be dangerous. If they
are
hiding something, they’re not going to appreciate having someone poking around in their affairs.”
    “I’ll be careful,” Emma reassured him. “Honest.”
    Francis made a sound like a grunt. “All right. But if you sense anything going wrong, get out of there immediately, okay?”
    “Okay,” Emma agreed.
    • • •
     
    A half hour later, Emma pulled onto the hard dirt road leading to the Grangers’ house. Pastures, no longer green but shriveled and brown, sloped down on either side of the road. They were bordered by at least a mile of white picket fence—the kind that was synonymous with horse country. The house, when it came into view, was surprisingly modest—long and low with white clapboard siding and green shutters. Doric columns flanked the front door, and the large porch had two rockers set off to one side. Emma imagined it would be beautiful to sit in those chairs in the summer and enjoy the scents of just-mown grass and fresh hay wafting on the breeze.
    A gravel drive wound around in a semicircle in front of the house. Emma pulled up just beyond the house, parked and got out of the car. She stood for a moment looking at the house and the field beyond then started up the broad steps leading to the porch. Warm, yellow light spilled from the narrow windows on either side of the front door.
    Emma hesitated, rang the bell and waited, her heart thumping slightly. A very tiny older woman answered the door almost immediately. She had a white apron around her waist, and her steel gray hair was pulled back into a bun. Her weather-beaten face was crisscrossed with deep wrinkles, and she looked like something out of an illustration for Grimm’s Fairy Tales. Emma half expected her to produce a wand and turn them both into pumpkins.
    “Well don’t just be standing there,” she said with an Irish lilt to her voice, “come on in out of the cold.” She led Emma into the foyer—a large, open space with polished wood floors dotted with worn Oriental rugs. Emma caught a glimpse of a