A Premonition of Murder (17 page)

“Paintings, antiques.” Gideon fluttered his hands. “Apparently, he brought in some photos of the items he was selling.”

“They must be items from Beaux Reves,” I said. “Maybe he's been stealing for years. The inventory is so huge, it would be hard to tell if a few things were missing here and there.” I wondered how the police would handle this. If it was just hearsay, how would they ever prove it? If only we could get our hands on those photos.

Jeb didn't seem like the kind of guy who would crack under pressure, but I planned on mentioning his antique shop visits to both Detective Sam Stiles and Noah. “I don't suppose he had the items with him?” If there were security cameras in the shop, the police could nail him. Once he was faced with the evidence, he might admit to the thefts and then maybe confess to Abigail's murder. Or was I getting ahead of myself?

“No, he was too smart for that, and he didn't leave the photos with the dealers,” Gideon said. “So there's no evidence trail to follow. I guess we can't assume the items were from Abigail's estate, but I think they must be.” He gave a little sniff. “I can't really picture Jeb Arnold as a collector, can you?”

“I certainly can't,” I said grimly.
Interesting
. All this time, I was sure that Angus or Nicky—or possibly both—were responsible for thefts from the mansion
.
But maybe I'd been on the wrong track all along. “Do you remember any specifics?”

Andre and Gideon exchanged a look. “There was that crystal ball that he tried to peddle to one of our friends,” Andre said excitedly. “It was supposed to be vintage, and I bet it was worth a pretty penny. We didn't see the photo, of course, but Kevin from Forgotten Treasures said it was fabulous. He's actually thinking of making an offer on it.”

“The crystal ball is from the mansion,” I said. “I'm sure of it. Be sure to tell your friend he'd be buying stolen goods.”

“We'll warn him,” Andre said soberly. “That's the last thing he wants to get involved in.”

I remembered the lady's slipper orchid I'd noticed on the hall table. According to the book from the Harper sisters, a crystal ball once sat there. Was that the crystal ball Jeb Arnold was peddling? How many crystal balls could be floating around Savannah? The estate manager must surely be desperate for money to make such a brazen move. If gambling debts were involved, Jeb Arnold might decide it was a matter of life and death. Namely, his own.

19

“Are you sure you can't stay for the meeting? Everyone will be so disappointed.” It was nearly seven in the evening, and Sam Stiles was standing at our kitchen counter, nibbling on a homemade cracker. Ali was experimenting with a recipe for pumpkin crackers with chia seeds that she planned on serving with baked Brie tonight. The baked Brie is always a hit; she tops it with cranberries and almonds before wrapping it in flaky pie crust. We serve it downstairs on toasted baguette rounds and always sell out before the lunch crowd leaves.

But Ali's “Chia Nibblers” were another story. They had an odd taste, and I noticed Sam swallowed the cracker quickly before taking a large swig of coffee. She coughed twice and gave me an apologetic glance. Not all of Ali's culinary adventures are wildly successful, but she enjoys dreaming up new recipes and tweaking old ones.

“I can't stay,” she said. “I'm on duty tonight, and I've got
to get right back to the precinct house. I just stopped by to give you a photo of something we found in one of the crime scene photos.” She opened an envelope and passed me a shot of the upper landing at Abigail's. “It's a little hazy, but my tech guy enlarged it as much as he could. I don't know how the CSIs missed it when they swept the scene, but somehow they did.” She shook her head in dismay. Sam runs a tight ship and doesn't tolerate any slipups. “Take a look and see what you think.”

Sam was right. The photo was grainy, a poor-quality shot of the second-floor landing at Beaux Reves. A shiny object about the size of a dime was peeking out from under a bookcase, and someone had circled it with a Magic Marker. This was the photo Noah had mentioned at lunch.

“What is it?” I asked. I stared hard at the object but couldn't identify it. Something stirred in my brain. It looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn't quite place it.

“I wish I knew,” Sam said wryly. “Everyone seems to have a different idea.”

“Did it fall off something? Could it be a button?”

“I don't think so. It's not the right shape; it looks more like a rectangle than a circle. It might be a piece of jewelry. I suppose it could have been pulled off in a struggle,” Sam said grimly.

“Does it match anything Abigail was wearing that night?”

“No.” Her tone was flat, resigned. “And Lucy Dargos insists that Abigail didn't own anything like that.”

“What's your best guess?” I'd learned in the past that Sam's instincts are usually right on target and she has a keen sense of intuition. Her first guess is usually the right one.

“I'm not sure,” she said, tilting her head to one side, peering at the photo. “It could be a medallion or a pendant,
I suppose. Maybe it was attached to a chain and when Abigail pulled at her attacker, it broke off.” She shook her head and finished her coffee. “It's driving me crazy.”

I took a closer look at the shiny object, which seemed to be winking back at me. Was it an earring? Possibly. But Lucy had said it didn't belong to Abigail, so did that mean her attacker was a woman?

“What's
your
best guess?” Sam asked.

I thought for a moment. It looked like an enameled piece of jewelry and appeared to have a fish design etched in black on a tan background. Only half of it was visible, but it struck a chord with me. There was an immediate sense of recognition. “Is that a fish?” I saw two rounded lines intersecting to form a caudal fin, or tail.

Sam nodded. “Yes. You have a good eye. It's a primitive design, a line drawing.” She pulled out a sketch. This is what one of our CSIs thinks the whole image would look like.” When I glanced at it, I felt a sudden jolt of recognition and gave a little gasp of surprise. “What do you see, Taylor? Do you recognize it?”

“Not exactly,” I said slowly, “but I know I've seen that fish design somewhere before.” I squinted my eyes and tried to concentrate. Nothing came to mind.
A fish, a fish. Where have I seen a fish?

“Of course, we have no way of knowing how long it was under the bookcase. And it might not be connected to the case at all. It's just one of those loose ends that nags at me.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Noah told me he gave you the crime scene photos. Did you take a look at them?” She leaned down to pet Barney, who was winding himself around her legs. “I know Ali doesn't want to see them.”

“No, she doesn't,” I agreed. “I looked them over, but I didn't say much to Ali because she gets so upset.” I hesitated.
“From what I gather, you think Abigail was pushed because of the position of her body at the bottom of the stairs?”

“Yes, she was splayed out on the floor in the foyer, on her back. That's significant. It looks like there was a struggle on the stairs and she managed to turn to face her attacker on the landing.” I nodded, imagining the scene. “So she fell down the stairs backward. She was pushed. If she'd tripped over the hall rug she would have fallen headfirst. In any case, the killer was too strong for her, although she did put up a struggle. The bruises on her arms match stains and tissue samples from the wall.” I must have blanched because she said quickly, “Sorry, I shouldn't have been so graphic.”

“That's all right,” I said. I have a stronger stomach than Ali, but I find these images disturbing, too. “How does the hall rug come into this? I don't remember hearing about it.”

Sam gave a short laugh. “The housekeeper, Lucy Dargos, tried to convince us that Abigail must have tripped on a little area rug on the landing. I didn't buy it. The rug was at the top of the stairs, looking a bit rumpled, but something about the scene just didn't seem right.”

“You think the area rug was a cover-up?”

Sam shrugged. “I suppose it could be. Or maybe Lucy just couldn't accept the fact that someone murdered Abigail. It might have seemed so shocking that she was grasping for another explanation.”

I grabbed the photo. “Is this the rug?” I pointed to a small burgundy Oriental at the top of the stairs. It was rumpled, just as Sam had described. “Because I don't remember ever seeing that rug there before. And I've been upstairs twice in the mansion and walked right past that landing. I think I would have noticed it.”

“Interesting,” Sam said as we heard the Dream Club members trooping up the stairs. “Another piece of the
puzzle,” she said softly. “I'd better go; let me know what else you find out tonight.”

“I will,” I promised. “Wait, just one more thing,” I said as she turned to leave. “What did you think of the love letter Desiree had squirreled away in her bedroom? Noah said he'd drop it off at the station house for you.”

Sam gave me a thumbs-up. “Excellent detective work.” She grinned. “We may have to hire you and Ali as consultants.”

“Did you go back and check to see what else was hidden in the wall?” I'd managed to grab the letter and replace the picture before Lucy caught me. I had the feeling there were more papers stashed away inside, but I'd had only seconds to spare. I could still see Lucy standing in the hall with her hand vacuum cleaner and boom box.

Jeb had probably forgotten to buy a charger for her iPod—and Nicky couldn't be bothered—so Lucy had to lug the boom box from room to room and plug it in each time. Apparently she liked to listen to Latin music while she worked. Maybe it made the drudgery of caring for Beaux Reves easier to bear.

“Yes, I sent a couple of detectives back to Beaux Reves an hour ago,” Sam went on. “And they made sure Lucy stayed in the kitchen, so she wouldn't know what they were doing.” She paused to toss her paper cup in the wastebasket. “That was a great hiding place. You and Ali were clever to spot it. Not much was there, except for a few newspaper clippings and some theater ticket stubs. You found the only valuable item, as far as I can tell.”

“And the letter's not really valuable unless we can figure out who wrote it, is it?”

“Afraid not. Let me know if you come up with any hints.”

I heard Ali greeting the guests, and my mind was
whirring. Had Lucy deliberately tried to mislead the police? Had she placed the rug at the landing after the fact, in a clumsy attempt to cover up a murder?

“There's one other thing,” Sam said, “and I don't know what to make of it.” She leaned against the counter, and I could see she was tired. “The techs managed to lift a palm print off the hall banister.”

“No fingerprints?”

“No, just a palm print, and it was smudged with a greasy residue. But the important thing is the trace elements in the residue. There's no way to tell if they came from someone's palm or from the banister itself.”

“What kind of trace elements?” Sam had me intrigued.

“That's what's odd. The sample doesn't match any commercial cleaning product we can find. We ran the ingredients through a database.”

“That's because Lucy makes her own furniture polish,” I said quickly. “She's very proud of it. I remember her telling me fresh lemon juice was one of the ingredients. She keeps the polish in an antique bottle with a glass stopper on the kitchen counter.”

Sam raised her eyebrows. “We found the antique bottle, but the ingredients don't match up with the smudge on the banister. The residue mixed in with the palm print contains lanolin and saddle soap. The lanolin isn't a surprise, but the saddle soap certainly is.”

“Saddle soap?”
Saddle soap means horses
. I immediately flashed to Dorien's somewhat hazy dream about horses in a corral. But there were no horses at Beaux Reves, so we hadn't attached much importance to it.

“Yeah, weird, isn't it?” Sam muttered. “We're still working on it.”

*   *   *

“What's on the
menu tonight?” Persia asked, dropping onto the settee. Persia, who is a great cat lover, scooped up Barney and held him upright on her lap, looking straight into his eyes. Barney is a dignified cat who normally wouldn't stand for this sort of behavior, but Persia has such a winning way with cats, he tolerates it.

“Who's my handsome boy?” she crooned, gazing straight at him. Barney gave her a long, slow blink in return, which is a sign of affection in the feline world. Persia kissed him lightly on the forehead, placed him in her lap, and he immediately curled up nose to tail to take a snooze. People who think cats are standoffish and aloof should meet Barney. He melts into a love bug when he's around a cat lover like Persia.

“I'm still tinkering with that lemon squares recipe,” Ali said, placing a platter of delectable pastries on the coffee table. “I used a little more fresh lemon rind in these and just a touch of honey. I think they have a really nice, tart flavor. Tell me what you think.”

“Why would you tinker with the recipe, my dear?” Minerva Harper asked. “The last batch you made was sheer perfection. A touch of sweetness and that lemony tang.” She sighed happily, spread a napkin on her lap, and reached for one of the pastries.

“They were heavenly,” her sister Rose agreed. “In fact, I was going to order some for next month. I'll need enough to feed a crowd; we're planning a going-away party for the pastor. They'd be perfect for the Victorian tea we're hosting. Delicious and elegant.”

“I'm so glad you liked them,” Ali said, flushing a little. “But you know me, I love to experiment with recipes. I don't like to make the same thing twice.”

“Yes, my dear, we certainly
do
know that.” Minerva winked at Rose and I tried not to smile. Ali's “wheat germ sandies,” studded with chunks of candied tofu, were memorable—and not in a good way. I was relieved when that recipe was finally retired. In spite of Ali's best efforts, there was no way to make those cookies edible. Ali still insists they were one of the “healthiest” things she has ever cooked. I had to remind her that they could hardly be called “healthy” if no one ate them. Even Boris, the dog who lives next door, turned up his nose at them.