A Premonition of Murder (12 page)

I saw Laura Howard's mouth twist into a frown. She caught me staring and quickly rearranged her features into a look of polite interest. She seemed irritated at Sophie's remarks, and I wondered why. Did she feel that Sophie was acting like the “lady of the manor,” when she was really only a distant relative in town for a short visit? Of course, if Abigail really
had
changed her will, all bets were off, and Sophie would inherit Beaux Reves. It was hard to believe that this magnificent estate could go to a stranger, someone who might be an imposter.

“I only reconnected with dear Abigail recently,” Sophie went on. Sunlight was slanting through a gap in the navy tent, glinting off her thick strawberry blond hair. She rambled on for quite a while, speaking fondly about Abigail's influence on her, how Abigail had taught her to appreciate art, music, and traveling.

She said Abigail had introduced her to the pleasures of crossing the Atlantic on grand old ships like the
Queen Elizabeth
and the
Queen Mary
. I thought of how Lucinda had described the beautiful mystery woman in her dream, “She was standing at the dock, holding a suitcase.” The implication was that she had just disembarked from a ship. Ali would say it was a slam dunk. The woman in Lucinda's dream was Sophie. Only one question remained: who was Sophie Stanton and what did she really want?

“If Sophie was so close to Abigail, then why has she stayed out of sight all this time?” Sara muttered. “That's what I'd like to know.”

“So would I.” I lifted my hair off the back of my neck for a moment. It really was dreadfully hot inside the tent. “I never understood how she suddenly reconnected with Abigail after all these years. We need to talk to Lucy Dargos again.”

After a few more minutes, Sophie nodded her head in a little bow—almost like a benediction—and left the podium. Laura stepped back up and waited a moment to see if anyone wanted to add anything. No one did. I was gasping for air and longing for a cold drink before we headed home.

I accepted a glass of lemonade from a passing server when a dark-haired man accidentally nudged me. The lemonade sloshed over the rim of the glass onto my hand.

“Sorry,” he said sheepishly. He was tall and well built but had dark shadows under his eyes and a haggard appearance. He was wearing chinos and a white golf shirt. I couldn't decide if he was part of the catering crew or he worked at the mansion. He certainly wasn't dressed for a “memorial” cocktail party. I had the sneaking suspicion that he might be hungover, and I thought I detected a trace of alcohol on his breath.

Lucy Dargos called out to him. “Hey, Jeb, could you give us a hand? I want to pack up these dishes from Chablis so Gideon can take them back to the shop.” Her tone was brusque, impatient.

Jeb?
It had to be Jeb Arnold, the estate manager. The one player in the drama I hadn't met. I was eager to talk to him, hoping he might have some information that could unlock the mystery of Abigail's death. I knew he claimed to have been out of town when she'd died, and I hoped Noah had checked out his alibi. I remembered Lucy's son, Nicky, had
made some crack about Jeb playing the ponies. Did he have a gambling problem?

“Are you Jeb Arnold?” I said quickly. I flashed a smile and rested my hand lightly on his arm as he tried to move away.

He hesitated for just a second, and I thought I saw a flicker of fear dance across his face. One of those micro expressions that are so fast they're almost subliminal. He swiftly recovered, gave me a broad smile, and we shook hands. “Yes, that's right. I'm the estate manager here. Do we know each other?”

“No, but I was a friend of Abigail's. She mentioned how helpful you were to her,” I said, improvising quickly. “She told me she never could have kept this place going without you.”

“Really? She said that?” He rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. “I'll miss the old girl. She wasn't the easiest person to work for, and we butted heads a few times, but her heart was in the right place. It won't be the same without her.”

I wanted to ask him why they had “butted heads” and what his plans were. With Abigail's death, he was out of a job, wasn't he? Or did he plan on staying around, hoping the new owner—whoever it was—would hire him?

I couldn't get anything more out of him because Lucy Dargos called to him again, this time in an even more peremptory voice. She was standing with her hands on her hips, frowning at him. I wondered if Lucy had taken on more responsibility now that Abigail was gone and was single-handedly running Beaux Reves. She seemed to be in command, and I had the feeling Jeb wasn't going to defy her.

“Sorry, duty calls,” he said with a sheepish smile as he hurried away.

14

“You could have invited Noah to the extra meeting of the Dream Club tonight,” Ali said later that evening.

“I thought we had a rule about guests,” I reminded her.

“Noah isn't exactly a guest. I wish we could persuade him to join. This club could use a little testosterone.”

We'd come home from Abigail's memorial service a couple of hours earlier, changed into shorts and tank tops, and gone over our notes on the case. So far, we had more questions than answers.

Ali had just set out pitchers of sweet tea and snacks for the club members. I'd kept the food simple again. I was sure everyone had stuffed themselves with the delicious hors d'oeuvres at Beaux Reves and wouldn't be hungry.

Lucy had pressed a large package of leftover cheese straws on me as we left, insisting they would go to waste at the mansion. Ali arranged a simple cheese-and-cracker tray on the coffee table, keeping a sharp eye out for Barney and
Scout, who are great fans of cheese in any form. Since we have a couple of chocoholics in the group, I pulled a package of Kahlúa brownies out of the downstairs freezer and placed them on a tray.

“I thought we were going to keep this simple.” Ali glanced at the brownies and raised her eyebrows.

“You can never have too much chocolate,” I told her.

Ali looked like a teenager in a white tank top, khaki shorts, and Crocs. She flopped down on the sofa, pulled Barney into her lap, and tucked her legs under her. He immediately walked in circles several times before finally settling down. I'm always intrigued when cats do that, and a vet once told me it goes back centuries, to a time when cats were wild and lived in the forest. They would walk in circles to flatten down the leaves before settling down, and this habit stayed with them. I have no idea if this story is apocryphal, but it's the only explanation I've heard. “Where are we with this case?” she asked.

I was sitting in an armchair flipping through my notes. “I wish I knew. There are some huge holes we need to fill,” I told her. “Without certain facts, we can't go forward.”

“Like what?”

“The crime scene photos, for one thing.”

“Crime scene photos,” she said in a low voice. She shuddered slightly and bent down to kiss the top of Barney's head. Ali doesn't do well with disturbing images because they tend to haunt her for a long time. I've told her to try to “compartmentalize,” but it's just not in her nature. So for the moment, I'm the one who views anything gory or upsetting. I give her a recap of the findings and she offers me her interpretation, so it works out well.

“You don't have to look at them, you know. I'll do that.”
I paused as a text message came in from Noah. I read the message, texted back a quick reply, and turned to Ali. “Well, this is interesting. “

“Noah?” she asked.

“How did you know?”

“You always give a little smile when you hear from him. I don't think you know you're doing it.”

“I wasn't aware of it,” I said crisply. Ali was right. I always feel a warm little glow inside me that starts in my toes when I hear from Noah.

“He says the crime scene photos are ready and there's a big surprise there.”

“What kind of surprise?” Scout wandered over, tried to sniff the cheese tray, and Ali gently pushed him away.

“No idea. I think they found something at the crime scene that they're holding back from the media. Whatever it is, it's not going to be in the papers.”

“It will if Sara gets her hands on it.” Ali gave a rueful smile.

“We'll have to make sure she doesn't, or insist that she not use it,” I said. “Sara knows the drill on this.”

Sometimes it's difficult having a best friend who's a reporter. It's in Sara's nature to ask questions and to dig for details; that's why she'll be such a great investigative reporter some day. She's “paying her dues” as a freelancer with the
Savannah Herald
, but she has her sights set on a full-time reporting job. The newspaper business is going through some major changes, but Sara is so talented and such a hard worker, I think she'll make it to the top.

“Can we touch base with Noah tomorrow?” Ali asked. We heard the first members of the Dream Club trooping up the stairs, and she sprang up to meet them.

I nodded. “We have to. I'll text him tonight and set up lunch.”

*   *   *

“What did you
think of Abigail's service?” Sybil Powers asked a few minutes later. The Dream Club members had snared their favorite spots in the living room. Etta Mae, Sybil, and Persia were sharing the sofa, Lucinda was perched on an armchair, and the Harper sisters were sitting on a love seat. Dorien was the last to arrive; she pulled over a kitchen chair after helping herself to some lemonade. Sam Stiles was missing, and I was disappointed. I really wanted to hear her take on the case and decided to catch up with her the next day.

Sara had begged off, saying she needed to spend the evening working on a piece about Abigail's memorial service. It was going to run in the Sunday Lifestyle section of the
Savannah Herald
, and she wanted to give it her best shot. She was disappointed that she wasn't allowed to take photographs at the service, but she managed to dig up some photos of Beaux Reves from the files, and the paper was going to run them along with her article.

The newspaper was playing down the murder aspect of Abigail's death—at least for the moment—and Sara was concentrating on the tributes from high-profile residents of Savannah. She had told me privately that she found the simple words offered by Lucy Dargos to be the most compelling, and I agreed with her.

“I thought it was a lovely service,” Etta Mae Beasley piped up. “I had no idea Abigail lived like that. I'd heard about Beaux Reves, but it was better than anything I could have imagined.”

“Doesn't it seem odd,” Lucinda Macavy said, “for one person to live in such solitary splendor? I think I would be lonely living like that. She rarely left Beaux Reves and hardly ever opened up the place to guests.”

“I think that's why it meant so much when she discovered she had a relative from France,” Minerva Harper said. “She was at a vulnerable point in her life, I believe.”
Very perceptive.
If Abigail was lonely and at loose ends, it would be easier for an imposter to infiltrate her life, posing as a long-lost relative. With her sister Desiree gone and no heirs, Abigail must have longed for a family. Abigail might have been so happy to have found Sophie that she'd put her usual caution and good sense aside and welcomed the woman into the fold. It was certainly something to consider.

“Did she ever tell you how Sophie found her way to Beaux Reves after all these years?” Ali asked Minerva.

“Abigail was a bit vague about the details,” Minerva answered.

“Either that, or she was deliberately holding something back. She did that from time to time, you know.”

“Yes, she did,” Minerva said thoughtfully. “I always wondered if Norman Osteroff had cautioned her about being too trusting.”

“Why would trust come into it?” Etta Mae asked.

“Because Sophie Stanton might not be who she says she is,” Rose added bluntly. There was a brief silence while we digested this. The problem was, without concrete facts, it was all speculation.

“Well,” Persia said briskly, “who wants to go first tonight?”

“I suppose I could,” Etta Mae said uncertainly. “I had a dream about a love letter. The details are hazy, but it looked like it was written a long time ago. The paper was yellow and a little wrinkled.” I could see a pink flush creeping up her collarbone toward her neck, and I knew she was uncomfortable being the center of attention.

“Anything else?” Dorien said with a touch of impatience. “A wrinkled, yellowed love letter? That's it?”

Dorien's tone was dismissive as usual, and I could see Etta Mae shrinking back into her seat. Ali and I have discussed having a frank conversation with Dorien about the way she talks to people, but we've been putting it off. It's so ingrained and so much a part of Dorien's style that I'm not sure it would do any good. In spite of her brusqueness with others, Dorien is sensitive to criticism. She's easily offended, and it's an ongoing dilemma for us.

“Pretty much, I'm afraid.” Etta Mae shrugged. “It was written in navy blue ink, I remember. With beautiful handwriting. But I couldn't make out the words.”

“Not too many people have good handwriting these days,” Rose said. “All this texting and e-mailing. I think people have forgotten the joys of receiving a lovely handwritten note.”

“Can you recall anything else?” Ali prompted. It seemed that Etta Mae was at a loss to describe her dream. When Etta Mae shook her head, Ali said, “Try to remember the emotion you were feeling. Was it a joyful dream, a sad dream? That might help us interpret it.”

Etta Mae squeezed her eyes tightly shut as if she was trying to summon up the dream in her mind. “I felt a sense of sadness and loss,” she said finally. “I sensed that something had gone terribly wrong, but I don't know what I based that on. That's really all I can remember.” She blew out a little breath. “I'm afraid I'm not very good at this.”

“That's simply not true, my dear,” Rose said kindly. “This is a subjective field, and all of us proceed at our own pace. You will pick up on more and more details as time goes by, I promise you.”

“I guess I just don't understand, Etta Mae,” Dorien cut in. “Why couldn't you read the words?”

“A few of the words were a little blurry.” Etta Mae's tone
was hesitant. “As though water had washed over them. Or maybe it was tears. I just can't say.”

“The dream might have been related to an unhappy love affair,” Lucinda offered. “Perhaps it was a young couple in love and it ended badly.” Lucinda hadn't been lucky in love, and I wondered if her interpretation of the dream was colored by her own experience. Lucinda had been single all her life and not long ago, she signed up for an online dating service.

It was a disaster, and she was embarrassed when it came to light in the course of a murder investigation. All of us reassured her that there was nothing to be ashamed of; it just didn't seem like the right course for a cultured, very private person like herself to take.

Everyone seemed tired and listless, probably from the heat of the day and Abigail's memorial service. We decided to take two more dreams and then break up early. Persia dreamt about being trapped alone at night in a museum. She was smiling as she recounted walking down the hallways, inspecting all the exhibits, and it clearly wasn't an anxiety dream.

“I enjoyed every minute of it,” she said with a broad smile.

“I would have been a wreck,” Etta Mae said. “I think I have a touch of claustrophobia, and I can't stand being stuck in a place with no way out.” I have claustrophobia myself and I could certainly relate to her fears.

“I was happy as a clam,” Persia said. “It was like being trapped inside a giant treasure chest. I had the whole place to myself. There were so many beautiful things to look at—paintings, sculptures, antiques.” She smiled. “I was like a kid in a candy shop.”

“Do you suppose the dream is somehow connected to your anticipation of seeing Beaux Reves today?” I suddenly
remembered Persia telling me a couple of days ago how much she was looking forward to being inside the mansion. She hadn't realized the entire memorial service was going to take place outside on the lawn.

“You know, it could have been,” she said, her eyes sparkling. “That's a good point. I've been looking forward to seeing the inside of that place for years.”

“So it could be as simple as that?” Etta Mae asked. “The dream didn't have any deep significance? Don't all dreams mean something?”

“Not necessarily,” Ali told her. “Some dreams just deal with the residue of the day. Everything we see and hear, everything we wish for and desire, is imprinted on our brain during the day. At night, the brain has to make sense of it all, and store all the information, just like a computer does.”