A Premonition of Murder (14 page)

“I must give it to you in person,” he said flatly. “Both you and your sister will need to be here. I can't say any more at the moment. Please just be at my office at nine sharp. I apologize for any inconvenience. I will certainly reprimand my secretary.”
He'll probably dock her a week's wages
, I thought glumly. I doubted Osteroff believed in the adage “To err is human; to forgive, divine.”

“My sister has already left for an appointment, but I'll be there,” I said. “And please don't worry about—” Before I could say another word, he'd rung off. Norman Osteroff was clearly not a man who cared about social niceties.

I showered quickly, gulped two cups of coffee, and raced downstairs to help Dana. As it turned out, she didn't need my help at all. She had everything under control. The shop was spotless, the counters gleaming, the candy bins neatly stocked. She was standing on a ladder, redecorating the shop window with a selection of white wicker baskets hanging from the ceiling at various heights. Each basket held a selection of candy and a wicker wheel barrow was overflowing with jelly beans.

“I found them on eBay,” she said proudly. “The wicker wheelbarrow was really a plant stand but I think it looks great filled with penny candy. What do you think?”

“I think you're a genius. Make sure you reimburse yourself
out of petty cash, and if you need me to write you a check, just let me know.”

“It's colorful, isn't it?” she said happily. She stepped down off the ladder to admire her work and I stepped back into the shop.

An enticing aroma of hazelnut coffee wafted through the room, and I detected a whiff of cinnamon. “And it looks like you've already gotten things started for the breakfast and lunch crowd.”

She nodded. “All taken care of. I made that recipe for baked French toast last night and popped it in the oven a few minutes ago. It smells good, doesn't it? I added extra cinnamon and some candied pecans to the recipe Ali gave me. I think it's going to be a hit.”

She'd already started pots of tea brewing for our early morning visitors and pulled out trays of goodies from the freezer. Cinnamon rolls were thawing on the counter, ready to be slid into the oven, and the soup of the day was already simmering in a stockpot. I lifted the lid to take a peek. Potato and leek, one of my favorites. Fresh croissants and apple cider donuts—a new item—were arranged on trays and covered with clear plastic wrap.

“I need to go out early, and I was so afraid I was leaving you in the lurch. I was feeling a bit guilty.”

“No need to feel guilty,” she said with a grin. She hopped onto a stool to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Ali has all the sandwich spreads made and labeled in the refrigerator, and she showed me how to use the new panini maker. And we still have some of Caroline's cheese straws left over, so I thought I'd serve them as freebies with soup orders. We should probably think of some signature item we could serve, something with our logo on it.”

“Good idea.” I nibbled on a croissant and tried the new ginger-peach jam that Ali had made. It was delicious. The candied ginger raised it to a new level. Did I dare have a second croissant? I debated for a moment and then grabbed a small one. After all, I had to keep up my strength for my meeting with the dour lawyer Norman Osteroff.

16

“Good morning,” Osteroff said formally, half an hour later, ushering me into his office. He was dressed in a black suit with a gray tie, either in honor of Abigail's passing or as a nod to his own somber personality. “My assistant has taken the
entire
week off, so I'm afraid I can't offer you a beverage.” He pursed his lips in disapproval and made a faint rattling noise in his throat, as if she'd committed an unthinkable act.

“That's fine,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was linger over coffee with him. I decided to get straight to the point. “I can only stay a few minutes—you mentioned a letter from Abigail?” I slid into one of the upholstered leather chairs while he settled himself at his massive desk. He looked pale and tired, I noticed, with dark circles under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. Had he been genuinely fond of Abigail and mourning her death? The man seemed so cold and devoid of emotion, it was hard to tell. As Minerva Harper once said,
The man has about as much warmth as a wet flounder
.

“I discovered that a letter has already been mailed to you,” he said slowly, “but I wanted to meet with you and put it in context.” I waited while he tapped his fingers on the desktop. I had the feeling he was weighing his words carefully. He picked up an envelope and fingered it as if debating whether to open it. “This is a copy of the letter Abigail wrote, and it contains a most unusual request. In fact, in all my years practicing law, I don't think I've ever seen anything quite like it.”

He paused and stared out the window at his view of the Historic District. It was a beautiful day in Savannah, the air soft and balmy, and I wondered why he never opened the windows. The office, with its heavy furniture and dark colors, made me feel claustrophobic. The air was stifling, and I couldn't wait to get back outside into the warm Georgia sunshine.

“The letter?” I prompted him. He passed it silently across the desk to me, and I quickly skimmed the lines. It was a request, all right, and I was taken aback.
Make an inventory of my belongings; I have designated certain items to be donated to specific charities
.
I am trusting you,
my dear friends, to make sure this is done according to my wishes
.

I recognized Abigail's spidery handwriting and the cream-colored stationery from Beaux Reves. I was certain the letter was legitimate. “Well,” I said, sitting back in my chair, “this is certainly unexpected. I have no idea why Abigail asked us to do this, but of course Ali and I will honor her wishes.”

“You do understand the request?” Osteroff had his elbows on the desk, his fingers steepled under his chin. I think he wondered if I understood the implications of what Abigail had asked of us. Maybe he considered it a slap in the face, a lack of confidence in his abilities? Shouldn't Osteroff be the person Abigail turned to for such an important task? Yet she had chosen us.
Interesting.

“Yes, of course. It's a little puzzling, though. She invited that young man Angus Morton to catalog the contents of Beaux Reves. Was there a problem with him?”

Osteroff cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable at the question. “I'm, uh, not at liberty to say.” He placed his hands flat on the desk. “I can tell you, though, that I have a fiduciary responsibility to make sure her wishes are carried out. I'm not sure why she chose you and your sister to take on this task”—he leaned across the desk, fixing me with his beady eyes—“but she must have had her reasons.” Never one to chat, he immediately stood up to escort me to the door.

“Two questions,” I said, stopping him in his tracks. “Does Lucy Dargos know that Mrs. Marchand instructed us to go through Beaux Reves? And will Angus Morton continue to live at the mansion?”

“The answer is yes to both questions,” he said curtly. “Angus Morton is there”—he hesitated—“for the moment.”
For the moment
?
Not exactly a vote of confidence
. “Angus Morton will not impede your progress. And I will call Lucy Dargos to make sure she understands that you have access to every room in the house. You won't have any problem with her.” He opened a file drawer and handed me a folder. “This is an inventory from a few years ago. I'm not entirely sure it's up-to-date, but it's a good place for you to start.”

“What do we do with the results of our inventory?” I asked.

“You will bring your findings back to me, and we will take it from there,” he said abruptly, and elbowed me into the waiting room. He gave me a ghoul-like grimace—his version of a smile—and that was it.

*   *   *

“I don't get
it,” Ali said an hour later. “That's all he had to say?” I'd texted her about my surprise meeting with
Osteroff, and we'd decided to meet at Forsythe Square and walk over to Beaux Reves together.

“It was a very brief conversation. He seemed to be scowling at me the whole time. Either he doesn't like me, or his breakfast didn't agree with him,” I said wryly.

“I think that's his permanent expression,” Ali said. “I bet he wasn't thrilled that she chose us.”

“I'm sure he wasn't,” I said, remembering those dark eyes and the tightness around his lips. “I can't figure out why Abigail reached out to us. After all, we only met her at lunch that one time. Why entrust us with such an important job? She must have known people who are more qualified.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Ali countered. “She trusted us, and in the end that's all that mattered.”

I paused to smile at a baby in a stroller holding one of our Oldies But Goodies helium balloons. Dana had come up with that promotional idea a few months ago, and the balloons were popular. As Dana says, the more times we get our name out there, the better.

My thoughts had been churning around Osteroff, and I'd completely forgotten about Ali's meeting with Angus. “How did your coffee date go?” I said teasingly.

Ali flinched at the word “date.” “Please don't call it that,” she said with a grin. “There's something seriously weird about Angus,” she added as we strolled along. The sunshine was filtering through the trees, and I longed to sit on one of the wrought iron benches with a lemon water ice and spend the morning people-watching.

“I think he's definitely interested in me,” she began, “but I managed to cool his jets by saying I have a boyfriend back in Atlanta.”

“Smart move. Did you get any information out of him?”

“Not much. He looked over the tea set that Gideon gave
us, and he pointed out how he knew it was a fake. He was very specific, and he took his time with it.”

“Really?” I raised my eyebrows. “So maybe he's the real deal after all. I guess I always wondered if he was an imposter and had somehow wormed his way into the estate for the summer.”

“I made notes on what he said, and I'll run them by Gideon to be sure, but I think Angus knows his antiques.” She paused. “But as far as him being an imposter, there's something I don't quite trust about him. I just can't put my finger on it.”

“Just a gut feeling?”

“Yes, a feeling that he's up to something.” She turned her gaze to me. “Won't this be a bit awkward at the mansion? Angus has been hired to catalog the inventory, and now we've been asked to sort through the same items. It sounds like we're going to get in each other's way.”

“It could be awkward. Especially if there's any funny business going on.” As soon as I said the words, Abigail's request made sense. I was positive she'd sensed something was amiss and she wanted us to prove it. I was more determined than ever to get to the bottom of what was going on at Beaux Reves.

*   *   *

Lucy Dargos was
more welcoming than I'd expected her to be. She offered us cups of coffee, and we sat at the kitchen table for a few minutes, going over the folder that Osteroff had given me. If she felt intimidated by us, she managed to hide it.

“I didn't know about this list,” she said. “How will you know if things have been added or sold since this list was written? Maybe there have been changes in the inventory.” A fair question, but she sounded a little defensive.

Ali gave her a level glance. “I thought Mrs. Marchand prided herself on keeping things exactly as they were when
her parents were alive, Lucy. You've been here thirty years. Can you remember any new acquisitions or any items being sold off during your time here?”

Lucy quickly shook her head, her dark eyes flashing. I think Ali had hit a nerve. “No, nothing that I can think of.” She saw Ali glancing toward the front hall, and a shrewd look crept into her eyes. I knew Ali was getting ready to ask her about the large daisy painting we'd seen in the Beaux Reves guide book.

“There was a painting out there once,” Ali began, gesturing toward the hall. “A large painting of a field of daisies.” Ali kept her voice low, nonthreatening. “It's not here now. Do you have any idea what happened to it?”

“A painting of daisies?” Lucy was stirring her coffee, stalling for time. The nervous twitch around her mouth was back, and I knew she was wondering how much to reveal. “I don't recall—” she began, but Ali cut her off.

“A huge painting,” she said in a sharper tone. “You must have seen it. It was hanging right between those two watercolors of the sailboats. The field of daisies was in the foreground, and there was a town in the background.”

“Oh yes,
that
painting,” Lucy said, licking her lips. She widened her eyes and raised her hands, palms up, in a classic gesture of innocence. “
Sí
, I do remember it. We sent it out to be cleaned.” She shrugged and placed her hands back on the kitchen table. Once again, I was struck by how strong her fingers looked. She was used to doing heavy housework around the mansion. She was easily strong enough to overpower a frail old lady like Abigail Marchand.

“I didn't know they cleaned oil paintings,” I said.

“Sometimes they do,” Lucy told me. She refused to make eye contact with me and was staring fixedly at the tiny violets on the tablecloth. The twitch around her mouth was
back.
Interesting
. “You know, no matter how hard I try to keep this place clean, there are little dust particles in the air. They settle on the paintings. And Mrs. Marchand was thinking of having it reframed,” she added.

“Really.” Ali's tone was incredulous.

“Yes, she was,” Lucy went on, speaking so rapidly the words were tumbling over one another. “You know, those very fancy gilt frames have gone out of fashion. People like simpler frames these days. And they are easier to clean.” She tilted her chin up, as if daring Ali to disagree with her.

“And the painting is . . .” I let my voice trail off and stared at Lucy until she was forced to look up at me.

“It's with a restorer and will soon be back in place,” she said flatly. Her tone had shifted. All traces of fear had vanished, and her tone was hostile as she stood up and started to clear the coffee cups. “And now I must get back to work,” she said abruptly. “If you need any help, just ask me. Where are you going to start?”

Ali and I exchanged a look. The last thing we wanted was Lucy Dargos trailing after us as we made our way through the mansion. The less she knew, the better. “I think we'll just start with the front hall and make our way upstairs,” I said politely. “I understand that your private apartment is on the top floor, and naturally, we won't go in there.”

Lucy swallowed and her eyes widened for a second. She obviously hadn't thought of that possibility. “Thank you,” she said, getting herself under control. “I can assure you there is nothing that belongs to the estate in there.”

“No, of course not,” I said soothingly. Ali and I turned toward the hall, and I could see Lucy had picked up a dishcloth and turned back to the sink. Her shoulders had slumped, probably in relief. “Just one more thing,” I called out. “Where was Desiree's room?”