A Premonition of Murder (3 page)

“It seems she took a tumble down the stairs,” Sam said. “Her housekeeper found her at the bottom of the landing this morning. She must not have called out for help, because the ME puts the time of death at sometime last night. Maybe between ten and midnight, and she'll know more after the autopsy.”
But she might have called for help. Lucy's apartment was way up on the top floor, and she might not have heard a thing.

There were muffled noises in the background, and I figured that crime scene techs were processing the scene. “Put on those booties,” I heard Sam snap at someone. “I don't want you trampling all over the evidence. We may get some footprints here.”

“You think you might get footprints?” I asked.

“Probably not.” Sam heaved a little sigh. “The whole place is covered in Oriental rugs.”

“And you're absolutely sure it wasn't an accident?” My mind was scrabbling for an explanation. “She was elderly and a little unsteady on her feet.”

“I think she had some help,” Sam said flatly. “I'm calling it a possible homicide, and the ME agrees. She has a handprint on her back.”

I flinched. “A handprint?”

“Her skin was very thin. We definitely have finger marks on the middle of her back. Someone pushed her, I'm sure of it. Gotta go,” she said abruptly. “We can talk later.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I began. She had already switched off the phone.

Ali sat down next to me, her eyes wide, her face pale. “Abigail?”

I nodded. “Someone pushed her down the stairs. They're calling it a homicide.”

“So the dream was true,” Ali said in a quivery voice. “She dreamt she was going to die.”

“Yes, she did,” I agreed.
Except she didn't know she was going to be murdered
.

3

My mind raced with possibilities, and I was too shocked and upset to even think about turning in for the night. I sank into a chair at the kitchen table, and after a few minutes, Ali wordlessly placed a cup of hot chocolate in front of me. I smiled my thanks. The drink was a symbolic gesture.

Ali and I are what are known as “adult orphans”; our parents were killed in a car crash ten years ago and ever since, it's been just the two of us against the world. When we lived at home, we used to gather around the family kitchen for a nightly cup of hot chocolate—even in the summertime. Hot chocolate always signifies home, comfort, and happier times for me.

“It's hard to believe, isn't it?” she said softly. She looked very young tonight with her streaky blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. She was wearing white capris with a tie-dyed shirt she'd ordered from an animal rescue group. “We just
saw Abigail . . .” she added helplessly. “How could this happen?”

I shook my head. I wished I'd asked Sam more questions, but she'd been stressed and busy at the crime scene. I wanted to know if they suspected an intruder. Had the door been tampered with? Didn't Abigail have an alarm system? It seems odd that anyone living in a mansion with all that valuable artwork and all those antiques wouldn't invest in a good security system. And were the wrought iron gates open or closed when the police arrived at the house?

I remembered the gates were open when we went to Beaux Reves for lunch, but that's because Abigail was expecting us. Was it possible that Abigail knew her killer? But why was someone calling on her so late at night?

“What shall we do?” Ali said, pulling out her cell phone. “Shall I call the Dream Club members and give them the bad news? They probably haven't gone to sleep yet.”

“No, let it go till morning,” I told her. “There's no sense in upsetting them. We can't settle anything tonight, and we might have more information tomorrow.”

Barney jumped onto her lap, and she buried her face for a moment in his soft fur. “I'm going to turn in,” she said, scooping him into her arms and standing up. “I feel just awful about poor Abigail.” She brushed my hand as she walked by, and Scout trailed after her down the hallway. “Don't stay up too late, okay?”

“I won't,” I called after her. I finished the hot chocolate and started turning off the lights. The kitchen suddenly seemed bleak and lonely, and I was eager to hit the sack, but there was one phone call I had to make. Noah Chandler. I let the phone ring a few times, and then his voice mail kicked in. Had he already heard the news? It was very likely. Noah
has strong connections with the local police. He works as a PI in Savannah, and his cousin Chris is a rookie cop with the Savannah PD. I quickly left a message, asked if we could meet for lunch tomorrow, and hung up.

Noah and I have a complicated history. We had an intense two-year relationship when we both worked in Atlanta. I was a strategist for a consulting firm and he was with the Atlanta field office of the FBI. We hit it off immediately and had sizzling chemistry, but neither one of us had the time or energy to devote to a relationship.

The timing was off, and we were both workaholics. After one major blowup, I decided to move back to Chicago and tried to put the past—and Noah—behind me. But then I returned to Savannah to help my sister run her store and discovered Noah was here, too. He has family in the area and I learned that he had left the Bureau to open his own detective agency in downtown Savannah.

Was it fate that brought us back together? Or sheer coincidence? Whatever it was, we found ourselves thrown together in a couple of murder investigations. Of course, our relationship is more than professional—it's definitely heading toward being seriously romantic once more—but I'm still not sure how to describe it.

The old attraction is still there, but this time we're both smart enough to take it slow.

At least I hope I am.

*   *   *

The next day,
Ali and I sailed into Sweet Caroline's, the charming French bistro owned by our good friend Caroline LaCroix. Caroline is one of those Frenchwomen whose beauty is ageless. With her slender figure, keen fashion
sense, and bubbly personality, she could be in her early thirties, although I know she's in her midfifties.

She and her husband used to own a more upscale restaurant in Savannah, but when he passed away, she sold the business and thought briefly about moving back to Paris. Luckily, her loyal friends and customers persuaded her to stay in town and open a smaller place. Her little bistro is flourishing and her homemade soups and freshly baked baguettes make it a favorite lunch spot for the business community.

I'd arranged the lunch with Noah and made sure I invited Sara Rutledge, a friend from Atlanta who's now a journalist here in Savannah. The four of us are close friends, and I didn't want Noah to think this was a “date.” As far as I was concerned, this was a working lunch and a chance for us to mull over ideas about Abigail's death.

Noah texted me that he'd be a little late, and I spotted Sara sitting alone, waving to us from a table in the back of the café. “I was planning to do a story on Abigail Marchand next month,” Sara said as Ali and I slipped into our seats. Sara immediately reached for a hot, buttery croissant from a wicker basket in the middle of the table. Sara is one of those people who can chomp down on a couple thousand calories a day, but is as slim as a swizzle stick. When I first met her, I decided that she must live on lettuce leaves and Tic Tacs, but that's not the case.

“A story on Abigail?” I asked in surprise. “But she was a recluse. Famously so.” I raised my eyebrows. “I can't imagine her opening her door to you. You must have really turned on the charm.” I smiled at her. “When we had lunch at Beaux Reves we never even got inside the mansion. We spent the whole time on the patio.”

“Well, the piece was going to be more about Beaux Reves than Abigail. It was about the cost of keeping up a Southern mansion and how many of the owners have caved and decided to sell to developers. Abigail was one of the holdouts, of course. She refused to even consider the possibility of selling.”

“So she didn't agree to an interview with you,” I persisted.

“No, she didn't.” Sara's tone was rueful. “I was going to press my luck and try to interview her, but my editor said I was probably wasting my time. We'll have to run the piece with stock photos of the mansion from earlier days and include some quotes from local historians.”

I wondered if Sara knew about the Magnolia Society and its mission to save Savannah's historical sites. I tried not to look at the basket of flaky croissants that were calling to me with their little buttery voices. Sara had whipped out a tiny notebook and placed it by the side of her plate, ready to jot down any theories about the case.

She wants to have a career in investigative journalism, but the newspaper market is so tight she takes any assignment she can get—she covers everything from flower shows to Little League games.

The server had just passed around menus when Noah arrived. “Sorry,” he said breathlessly, and slid into a chair across from me. Tall and broad-shouldered, with cool, assessing gray eyes, I'm sure he made some female hearts in Caroline's go flutter-flutter.

“An emergency at work?” Ali asked. She reached for one of Caroline's famous handmade potato chips. Caroline has a basket on every table and they are addictive. The first basket is on the house, and after that, you have to order them
from the appetizer menu. I could easily eat the whole basket on my own, but I remind myself to put on the brakes.

“I wanted to look into the financials for Abigail,” he said, balancing a manila envelope on the table. Noah always believes in “following the money” in any investigation. He says this was drummed into him at Quantico, and I have to admit he's right most of the time. I tend not to look at money as the primary motive in a case, but with Noah, it's his first priority.

“There's a lot of money there,” he went on as the server appeared. We quickly ordered our favorites; Ali and I had chef's salads, and Sara and Noah went for grilled chicken and roasted potatoes.

“You mean besides Beaux Reves?” I asked.

“Yes, I do. Abigail made some good investments over the years, and they paid off. I found out the name of her lawyer and financial advisor: Norman Osteroff. Have you heard of him?”

“I've heard he handles a lot of money here in Savannah. Old money,” Sara said meaningfully. “How did you get access to her financial records so quickly?” She looked wistful and a bit envious.

As a brand-new journalist in town, Sara is building up her contact list, and she's remarked a couple of times that Savannah is something of a closed society. It's hard to break into, and you have to develop a certain level of trust before people will even talk to you. And even then, many times they refuse to let their names appear in print and insist that the information is off the record. Deep background, Sara calls it.

“A few contacts here and there,” Noah said cryptically. I knew he wasn't going to give away his sources. “It's definitely been ruled a homicide, but I guess you already know that?”

“That's what I assumed, but I haven't talked to Sam since last night. When she called me from the crime scene, she was convinced that Abigail was shoved down the stairs; she said it wasn't an accident.”

“Who'd want to hurt her?” Sara asked, giving a little shudder. Sara still gets upset by violence and death, and I wonder if she'll ever toughen up enough to make it as an investigative reporter.

“That's what we have to find out,” Ali said. She turned to Noah. “Do the police have any suspects?”

“The housekeeper, for starters.” He flipped open a notebook. “Lucy Dargos.”

“Lucy?” I said, shocked. “She seemed totally devoted to Abigail. She's been with her for over thirty years.”

Noah gave a wry smile. “And did you know that Abigail promised her millions in her will?”

“No,” I said softly. “I figured Abigail would be generous, but I still don't see how that's a motive for murder. Abigail was in her eighties—”

“But she was in excellent health,” Sara cut in. “And her relatives all lived well into their nineties.” I could see Sara had done her homework.

“How much do you know about Lucy and her son?” Noah asked. “Did you meet them when you had lunch at Beaux Reves?”

I shook my head. “I didn't even know she had a son. Lucy served lunch, but we really didn't talk much.” I remembered Lucy had seemed a little on edge that day, but I thought she was just worried about pleasing her rather demanding employer. “Tell me about the son.”

“Nicky Dargos. Not every mother's dream,” Noah said. “He's been in and out of juvie since he was fifteen and just did his fourth stint in rehab. A known druggie and possibly
a dealer. His age saved him from doing hard time as a teenager, but now that he's older, he'll probably face a long jail sentence the next time he screws up.”

“Wow, I had no idea,” Ali said softly. “Poor Lucy. She seems so nice.”

“There's more,” Noah went on. “Abigail made an unofficial complaint to the police that things were missing from the mansion. Small items that someone could pocket—an antique snuffbox, a cigarette lighter, a silver bracelet. This was a few months ago.” He paused while the server placed the dishes in front of us. “The investigation never went anywhere. The police offered to alert local pawnshops, but Abigail didn't even have photos of the items. All they could do was recommend that she have someone do an inventory of the mansion and take photographs and document everything.”

“That must be why she hired Angus,” I said. “Angus Morton,” I went on when Sara raised her eyebrows. “He's a university student spending the summer working for Abigail. Rose mentioned that he's cataloging everything at Beaux Reves. She didn't know many of the details, but I thought perhaps Abigail was doing it for insurance purposes. If someone's been stealing from her, that puts a whole new slant on things.”