Free A Fatal Slip by Meg London Page A

comfortable-looking living room off to one side. Bookshelves lined one wall and a huge, stone fireplace filled the other. A colorful, modern painting hung over the mantel.
    “I imagine you’ve come about the job. Mr. Jackson tried to get Miss Joy to take it, but she wanted no part of it.” She shook a finger at Emma. “Spent her whole life trying to win her father’s approval. I imagine now that he’s gone, she can’t be bothered. Spends most of her time out with those horses.” She paused to take a breath. “Now, if you’ll just wait here.”
    She disappeared down the hallway, her slippered feet making a soft shuffling sound. Moments later, Emma heard footsteps striking the polished wood floors, and a young man appeared around the corner. He had dark hair that flopped onto his forehead, and, despite his strong brows and a chiseled nose, overall he had a slightly soft appearance. Emma thought perhaps it was the slackness of his jaw line combined with a rather weak chin. His appearance was at odds with John Jasper’s description of him as an aggressive lacrosse player.
    He held out his hand to Emma. “I’m Jackson Granger. So glad you could come. Liz has told us about you, and we hope you’ll be able to find the time to take on our little project.”
    His handshake was firm enough. Emma wondered if she ought to offer her condolences on the death of his father, but Jackson had already turned around and obviously expected Emma to follow him. They went down a short hall and into a room that had been turned into an office. Two partner’s desks faced each other across a softly worn Oriental carpet and a wooden filing cabinet, disguised somewhat unsuccessfully as a piece of furniture, was pushed against one wall.
    Jackson flung himself into the cracked-leather swivel chair behind one of the desks, and indicated that Emma should take the armless one placed strategically in front of it.
    “I imagine you’ve heard about my father’s death,” Jackson began. “I understand you were there.”
    Emma nodded. “I’m terribly sorry—” she began.
    “That’s very kind of you,” Jackson interrupted.
    Emma could see his eyes were red-rimmed, and his hand shook a little as he played with the glass paperweight on the desk, turning it over and over again. He immediately dispensed with small talk and began to explain what the project entailed—basically taking an inventory of the works of art in their collection.
    “There might be a little research involved as well,” he said, swiveling back and forth in the chair. “Looking up the provenance, or the history, of certain paintings. Things like that. Nothing we couldn’t show you how to do.”
    “It certainly sounds very interesting.”
    “Could you start tomorrow?” Jackson said suddenly, plunking down the paperweight he’d been toying with.
    Emma hesitated. She had been expecting more questions and had even brought along her resume. She still had to talk to Eloise about taking her place at Sweet Nothings, but she didn’t want to lose this opportunity. “Certainly.”
    “Great.” A brief smile whispered across Jackson’s face. “Would one o’clock work for you? Liz did tell you it was part-time?” he said with a sudden frown.
    “Yes, she did. And that’s fine.”
    As if by magic, the wizened old woman in the apron appeared in the doorway. Jackson turned toward her.
    “If you will please see Miss Taylor out.”
    She nodded and waited silently while Emma shook hands with Jackson and collected her coat and purse.
    Emma followed the woman back down the hall. She looked about her as they walked. The house wasn’t particularly grand—at least not in the way that she expected. It was more comfortable than pretentious, but the walls were lined with artwork worthy of a museum. Emma glimpsed a few pieces she recognized as they went past—a Giacometti drawing, a sketch she thought was a Lucien Freud and a fanciful Chagall watercolor. She was looking forward to