Dream a Little Scream (16 page)

“Well, the dream started out as a celebration, exactly like yours. And then”—Rose shook her head—“the dream veered off a little. There were people smiling and talking and boxes and boxes of presents—”

“Yes, that's just like my dream,” Dorien cut in. “What happened next?” The room was deadly still and everyone was focused on Rose as she struggled with her recollection. I felt a little chill go through me as my mind darted back to Trudy and Sonia and Clare.

“Now, this is the part that seems a little crazy.” Rose chuckled. “Someone had painted a triangle on the floor. And in the middle of the triangle was a bassinet. A really pretty wicker one—it looked vintage, the kind they used to make in the old days.” She shut her eyes tightly and then opened them. “Two women at the party tried to step into the triangle, but only one was successful. She pushed the other woman aside.”

“You saw the woman who stepped into the triangle?” Ali asked. “Who was she?”

“No, dear, I never got a look at her face. She was tall and blond; that's all I can tell you.”

“What happened next?” My mouth went dry and my voice was hoarse. A triangle. Two women and a baby.

“She walked right up to the bassinet and scooped out a baby! The loveliest little baby you've ever seen, with bright red hair, and crying for all she was worth. She held the baby close to her and just smiled and smiled. But the other woman started to cry. Then she turned around and left the party. It was very sad and my heart went out to her. She hung her head and put her hand to her heart as if she was devastated.” Rose sat back and rested her hands in her lap. “And that was the end of the dream,” she said softly. “I have no idea what any of it means. What do you all think?”

“The baby was the present,” Dorien said in an awed tone. “Both women wanted the baby, but only one woman could have it.”

“It certainly seems that way, doesn't it?” Rose answered. “It reminds me of the story of Solomon in the Bible.”

“Two women and a little baby.” Dorien blew out a breath. “But how does this relate to the case? I was thinking hard about Sonia Scott before I went to sleep. I asked my subconscious to send me a dream message.” She shrugged and gave a helpless gesture with her hands. “But the message makes no sense, no sense at all.”

And Dorien has no idea that her prayers were answered
, I thought.

Ali and I exchanged a look. “I think it's time to tell everyone exactly what happened today when we visited Clare Carpenter,” she said. “And what we saw.”

17

The room was eerily silent as Ali recounted every detail about our visit to Clare Carpenter and what we suspected about Trudy's birth. I chimed in with Noah's revelation about Reggie Knox, the ex-con who was living in a seedy neighborhood with Trudy. All that would change, I assumed, as soon as Trudy had access to Sonia's enormous fortune. But that meant Reggie Knox would have access to it as well, and I found myself fearing for Trudy's safety.

Persia gave a long exhalation that ended in a sigh. “The whole story is so sad. How could a girl from a good family end up like that? It just doesn't make sense.”

“We're not here to judge Trudy and the choices she's made,” Sybil said slowly. “We need to focus on how it fits into the bigger question of who killed Sonia.”

“Well, we certainly have a new suspect,” Sara pointed out. “Reggie Knox is at the top of the list, as far as I'm concerned. He certainly had motive, and now we have to figure
out if he had means and opportunity. We need to track down where he was and what he was doing the day of the book signing.”

“That's a good idea, but there weren't many men at the book signing,” Ali pointed out, “and I think we would have noticed him. He sounds like a thuggish type. He would have stood out like a sore thumb.”

I had to admit, Ali was right. Everyone at the book signing was so polite and well mannered, it was impossible to think of an ex-con in our midst. If Reggie Knox had a credible alibi for that date and time, then he was in the clear. We would be able eliminate him from the suspect list very quickly. Unless he had an accomplice, of course.

“Lucinda,” Sybil said suddenly, “I'd like to hear more about Trudy. Do you remember what she was like at the Academy? Maybe she was troubled back then and no one noticed. Did she seem lonely, or maybe sad and confused?”

“Not as far as I know, but I don't recall too much about her,” Lucinda said in her diffident way. “I certainly never heard any complaints about her from the teachers. From what I remember, she was a shy girl who kept to herself. She didn't have many friends and was something of a loner.”

“But she may have been troubled?” Sybil persisted.

Lucinda hesitated. “You know, in those days, we didn't know much about depression or mood disorders, and I suppose Trudy could have needed help. We used to think teenagers were just moody and we hoped they'd grow out of it.” She sipped her iced tea and put it down carefully on a coaster. “But now that I think of it, yes, I suppose Trudy might have been depressed. We just didn't recognize the signs back then. No one bullied her, I'm quite sure of that.”

I thought of Trudy and her DUIs and the fact that she lived with a known criminal and drug dealer. That certainly
fit the profile of someone who'd had a troubled adolescence and had never received counseling or medication for depression.

“Can you recall anything specific about her, something that stands out?” Ali asked.

Lucinda frowned, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. “She liked to write; I remember that much,” she said. “She showed real talent. In fact, one of her stories was published in a regional newspaper and was reprinted in the yearbook. Would you like me to look it up? I saved a complete set of yearbooks when I left the Academy. A bit sentimental of me, but the Academy was such a big part of my life,” she said apologetically.

“Of course it was,” Ali said warmly. “I'm sure you have a lot of fond memories of those years. Do you think you'll be able to locate the yearbook with Trudy's story?”

“I know I can,” Lucinda replied. “I'll look it up tonight. Do you think it might be helpful?” she asked eagerly.

“I do,” I told her. “Any light we can shed on Trudy would be good at this point.”

The rest of the meeting went smoothly. Etta Mae took the floor briefly to announce she was having what she called “angry” dreams with flashes of red and black. “I see a lot of jagged lines,” she said in her abrupt way. “I'm opening my mouth to scream at someone. I'm absolutely furious with them. But when I open my mouth, no sound comes out.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I'm so angry and then I start to feel panicky. The other person is just standing there laughing at me. I see red and black shards of glass everywhere. They make a crunching sound under my feet. And there are also shards of glass hanging from the ceiling. I can feel myself getting madder by the minute, and finally I'm so upset I wake myself up.” She shook her head as if to
dispel the dream. “I sat up in bed trembling and my heart was beating like a rabbit's. It took hours to go back to sleep.”

“Talk about ‘seeing red,'” Sybil murmured. “That's a classic image, both in real life and in dreams.”

I nodded. What Etta Mae was describing sounded like an anger-aggression dream. Sometimes the dreamer is so caught up in a red haze of rage she feels engulfed, as if flames are leaping around her.

“Did the person make you feel like you were talking to a brick wall?” Sara asked. “I've had dreams like that, and it's usually when I'm on the outs with someone and they're not listening to a word I say. It happens when I feel really helpless and vulnerable about a situation in my life. It could be a job or a relationship. Maybe you feel the same way,” she said sympathetically.

“That's it exactly,” Etta Mae said. “You hit the nail on the head. I feel like I have no power with the executives at Sonia Scott, Inc., and when I wake up, I'm just exhausted, really drained.”

“You're still thinking of the family cookbook,” Minerva said, “and I can imagine how much it means to you. It's your heritage. I'm not surprised you're upset over this, my dear. Is there anything new on that front?”

“Not that I know of,” Etta Mae said glumly. “They're keeping me in the dark, and that's the truth.” She set her glass down with considerable force and Barney jumped off his windowsill perch, looking annoyed. “I doubt they'll even bother to respond to my letter, and I bet I'll have to hire a fancy lawyer to get any results.” She paused. “With no guarantee I'll even win,” she said sadly. “How can one person go up against a whole corporation? It's like David and Goliath.”

“This might be a difficult time to find resolution,” Persia
suggested. “I work for a law firm, as you know, and we handle a lot of corporate issues. When a CEO dies suddenly, sometimes the whole company is thrown into disarray. I've seen it happen, and it's utter chaos. There's juggling for power among the key executives, and business suffers. Even routine matters get pushed aside, and something like your plagiarism charge might be buried on someone's desk. The problem is, no one is going to consider it a priority at a time like this. The company might be going through a crisis. Sonia's death could have enormous financial repercussions. I wonder how the stock is doing. If it takes a tumble, you can be sure they'll be hearing from their investors.”

“I see what you mean,” Etta Mae said sadly. “I think you're right that my complaint is probably stuck on the back burner. Let's face it, it's small potatoes compared to everything else they're dealing with right now. But what's the answer? The more time that goes by, the more likely it is they'll get away with it. I have to act now if I want to get any justice. That Olivia knows all about it, but she's definitely not on my side.”

Persia helped herself to a thumbprint cookie and chewed it appreciatively. “If you like, I can ask someone at the office about the best way for you to proceed. It sounds like Sonia's company might not be taking your complaint seriously, and you should probably seek legal counsel before going any further. The lawyers at my firm don't charge for an initial consultation, if that helps.”

“It sure does, and I appreciate your offer,” Etta Mae said, brightening. “Sonia sure didn't take me seriously, and I guess I was just plain naïve to think anyone else at the company would step in and do the right thing. I'll call your office tomorrow and set up an appointment,” she said. “That's mighty kind of you.”

“Glad to help,” Persia told her. “It never hurts to explore your options.”

I wasn't even sure if Etta Mae had a case against Sonia Scott, Inc., but I'm no lawyer and she was wise to consult with one.

I glanced at Etta Mae. She seemed an honest, forthright sort of woman, even though she could be volatile and would probably hold a grudge. Still, I couldn't really picture her as a cold-blooded murderer. There was something so down-home and ordinary about her, I just couldn't imagine her serving anyone a plate of deadly cookies.

And deep down, the thought that a Dream Club member might be responsible for someone's death was appalling. These were our friends and neighbors, people we welcomed into our home every week. Was it really possible I could be sitting across from a killer and not even realize it? Wouldn't there be alarm bells going off in my head?

I wasn't even sure who the police were looking at in Sonia's death. Sam had avoided coming to the Dream Club meetings because she either was busy or felt it better to distance herself. After all, Etta Mae was a member of our group. It was a touchy situation.

Would anyone be indicted for Sonia's death? The evidence was all circumstantial and a grand jury would have to decide if someone should be charged. At this point, it was up in the air and I couldn't even hazard a guess.

“I brought my family cookbook in case anyone wants to take another look,” Etta Mae said shyly.

“I'm so glad you did. I bet it's a gold mine,” Minerva said. “I just love these old family recipes.” Minerva reached for the cookbook and carefully flipped through it while the rest of us refilled our plates. Suddenly she gave a little gasp
of surprise. “Why, Etta Mae,” Minerva said, “did you know there's a recipe for benne biscuits in here?” She exchanged a knowing look with her sister Rose, who leaned forward to read the recipe.

“No, I didn't,” Etta Mae said, widening her eyes. “Have you heard of them? I don't seem to recall that recipe at all.”

Dorien cleared her throat. “Benne biscuits are sesame seed cookies,” she said flatly. “You didn't know that, Etta Mae?”

“Well, I just told you I didn't,” Etta Mae retorted. Then the significance of Dorien's comment hit her. An angry flush began to creep up her neck, and her face suddenly was mottled with red patches. “If you think these cookies had something to do with—” She broke off suddenly. “Well, what exactly are you implying?” Her lips had thinned into a hard line and her eyes were as dark and cold as river rocks.

“Nothing,” Dorien said, shrugging. “It's just a coincidence, that's all.”

“Sales are way up,” Etta Mae said bitterly. “The sales of Sonia's cookbook,” she added when Minerva shot her a puzzled look. “Ironic, isn't it? All it takes is a dead author and a book shoots its way to the top of the
New York Times
list.”

“I think all Sonia's books have been bestsellers,” I said gently. I didn't want to add fuel to the fire, but Etta Mae seemed intent on throwing herself a pity party, and we were all reluctant guests. I tried to think of a way to bring the conversation back to more neutral topics but drew a blank.

“Well, her latest cookbook is the best she's ever had because she stole my recipes,” Etta Mae insisted. “It was like a gift from heaven.”

“That may be true,” Persia said in her calm voice. Persia is often the voice of reason when the Dream Club conversations
grow heated. “But who knows, you may have your day in court, after all. Wait and see what the attorney says when you come into the office. You may be pleasantly surprised.”

“Do you really believe that?” A flicker of hope flashed on Etta Mae's broad face.

“You never know.” Persia's tone was gentle. “Most of the time, right prevails. Justice is blind, you know.”

Etta Mae snorted. “At least she's supposed to be,” she said, her brashness back. “Sometimes I have to wonder, though.”