Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery)

Last tango in Savannah . . .

“Gina, what’s wrong?” I asked, pushing her gently away, holding her by the shoulders. “Do you want to come upstairs and sit down? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She was so pale, I was afraid she might faint right on the spot. I tried to edge her toward a bench by the front door. She wriggled out of my grasp and started twisting her hands together like she was wringing out a towel. I was struck by the anguish in her dark eyes, and I knew that whatever had happened, it had shaken her to the core.

She shook her head violently. “No, there’s no time to sit down. Just call nine-one-one. Please, do it now.”

“What’s this all about?” Ali said sharply. I had been so focused on Gina, I hadn’t even heard Ali slip down the stairs behind me. “Gina, what’s going on? Tell us right this minute.”

“It’s Chico,” Gina gasped, gesturing to the studio across the street. I could see that the front door to the dance studio was wide open and music was pouring into the street.

“What about Chico?” Ali demanded. “Gina, please! Pull yourself together. You’re frightening me.”

Gina swallowed and closed her eyes tightly, her lips quivering. Then she opened her eyes and tugged at my hand. “Come, come right now!” she rasped. “There’s no time to waste. He’s . . . he’s on the floor and he’s not moving.” She drew in a long, shuddering breath, her voice catching in her throat. “I think he’s dead.”

Titles by Mary Kennedy

Talk Radio Mysteries

DEAD AIR

REEL MURDER

STAY TUNED FOR MURDER

Dream Club Mysteries

NIGHTMARES CAN BE MURDER

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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NIGHTMARES CAN BE MURDER

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2014 by Mary Kennedy.

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eBook SBN: 978-1-101-62411-1

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / September 2014

Cover illustration by Bill Brunning.

Cover design by Lesley Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To Carolyn Hart, gifted author and dear friend

A big thank-you to my wonderful, creative, and energetic agent, Holly Root, who makes everything possible. I also want to thank Michelle Vega, who loved the idea of the Dream Club from the very start and has been my champion. And special thanks to my husband, Alan, plot genius and computer guru, who smoothes over technical (and creative) glitches for me. A grateful shout-out to Jill and Bob Ten Eyck and Lisa Schieferstein, who love all my books and are my most devoted fans. The world would be a boring place without you!

1

Friday, June 2, 8:00 p.m.

“You know I don’t believe in dreams.”
How can I? I’m one of the small percentage of people who never dream. I fall into bed and it’s total oblivion for the next eight hours. My brain powers down to sleep mode. No fragments of memories, no images, no dramatic storyline to analyze when I wake up. No dream content, period.

And I have to confess, I like it that way.

“I’m not trying to convert you, sis. You say you don’t dream, and you don’t believe in dreams. Okay, I get it. Some of us feel differently, you know. I think of a dream as a little window into my subconscious.”

Allison looked distracted as she scurried past me, putting the finishing touches on a platter of delectable-looking petit fours. The bite-sized cakes were calling to me with their sugary little voices, nestled in a checkerboard pattern on a hand-painted porcelain tray. Ali strategically placed dark chocolate truffles in between them and stepped back to admire her work.

Very Savannah
, I decided. Elegant, sophisticated, with a cosmopolitan flair. I was dying to grab a tiny cake and pop it in my mouth, but I knew it would ruin the look of the platter. As Ali says, it’s all about presentation.

“I’m totally out of my element with this stuff,” I went on. “Dream interpretation. The paranormal. Psychic phenomena. Things that go bump in the night. Tarot readings. Voices from the beyond—”

“Okay, enough, Taylor! You’ve made it very clear how you feel.” A hint of a frown crossed her face, and she blew out a little sigh. I couldn’t tell if she was exasperated with me, or just a tad stressed out over playing hostess. We’ve had this conversation dozens of times and have never come to a meeting of the minds. “Here’s the deal. I won’t ask you to share your history of childhood night terrors, and you don’t have to be a believer to enjoy yourself tonight. Anyway, it’s not as woo-woo as you think. Scout’s honor.” Ali quirked an eyebrow and held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just think of the Dream Club as an experience, an entertaining evening. It’s a fun way for me to socialize with my friends. Not everyone takes it seriously, but we do have a couple of die-hard psychics and intuitives in the group. Everybody has dreams, and all we do is try to make sense of them.”

“Okay, you win,” I said, pushing myself to sound positive. “You’ve certainly put out a nice spread. And the sitting room looks great.”

Ali had gone all out tonight. My sister seems to have inherited a Martha Stewart gene, and sadly, I didn’t. My Chicago condo is positively spartan compared to Ali’s place. I took a moment to appreciate the creamy taupe walls, the glossy white woodwork, the old brick fireplace with the white marble mantelpiece.

The whole room was bathed in a golden glow thanks to fat amber candles she’d placed on nearly every flat surface. Soft cello music was playing in the background, and the faint scent of lavender danced on the air.

“So tell me you won’t be grumpy and you’ll try to enjoy yourself.” Ali turned, flashing a smile that has melted my heart ever since we shared a crush on Bon Jovi, growing up in Muncie, Indiana. “Please? For me?” Her voice was warm, entreating, and she had little crinkles around her eyes.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I’m asking—just keep an open mind.” She gave me a friendly fist bump.

“You got it,” I agreed, giving in to temptation and snagging one of the petit fours. And then I took a second one, because the whole platter looked off-kilter with just one cake missing
.
I
nudged the remaining cakes toward the middle and grabbed a third
.

There, you can hardly see there’s a gap in the platter
,
I decided, chomping happily away.
Melt in your mouth delicious. At least the food will be good
,
even if the rest of the evening turns out to be a snooze.

The petit fours were just the beginning. A crystal decanter of iced “sweet tea” flavored with fresh mint was the star attraction, along with two kinds of gourmet coffee, exotic Asian teas, and an assortment of French pastries heaped high on a silver platter.

Tiny triangles of chess pie were arranged on a hand-painted antique tray along with fragrant lemon bars and mini cupcakes frosted in Easter egg colors. And for die-hard vintage candy fans, there was a blue and white Limoges bowl filled with pastel Necco Wafers. It was enough to make a sugar junkie salivate with pleasure. I was getting a buzz just inhaling the heavenly aromas.

And then the doorbell rang, and the Dream Club was in full swing.

“Last night I dreamt I was walking stark naked down the produce aisle in Publix.” Lucinda Macavy folded her French-manicured fingernails demurely in her lap and let her gaze wander around the circle, waiting for a response. A long beat passed. “Anybody have any thoughts?” she added hopefully.

Nobody jumped in to offer an interpretation. Lucinda was so prim and uptight, I could hardly imagine her naked in her own shower. Plus, this was the third “naked” dream of the evening, so the shock value had lessened considerably. Persia Walker had regaled us with a hilarious story about finding herself in the altogether at choir practice, and Dorien Myers had confessed to being “au natural” on the Savannah Hills Golf Course.

Why do so many people dream of being naked in a public place? According to Ali, this is a fairly common dream theme, usually related to anxiety or a fear of being “exposed.” It’s a “worst-case scenario” type of dream and usually happens during a time of great stress or emotional upheaval.

I have to admit I was having trouble relating to the “buck naked” dream template.

I stifled a tiny yawn and pulled my attention back to the group. The Dream Club members were gathered around a white wicker coffee table in the cozy sitting room attached to Oldies but Goodies, my sister’s vintage candy store.

“Tell me more about the dream.” Sybil Powers leaned forward, her bright eyes keen as a ferret’s. “Were you shopping with anyone? Did you recognize any friends or relatives in the dream? Maybe someone significant in your life?” I’d met Sybil earlier in the week, and I knew she favors bold colors, flowing tops, and chunky handcrafted jewelry she buys from local artisans. Tonight she was wearing a caftan that looked like hand-printed batik in a sapphire blue and snowy white pattern.

“I’m pretty sure I was alone.” Lucinda shrugged. “I remember pushing my cart down the aisle, all by myself. It didn’t seem to bother me in the least that I was completely naked,” she said, flushing bright pink.

“You didn’t feel uncomfortable?” I asked.

Lucinda hesitated. “Uncomfortable? No, not really. I was chilly all over, though. I remember I had goose bumps when I turned into the frozen dinner aisle. They had the AC cranked up full blast.”

“I know what you mean, my dear,” an elderly woman in a bright floral dress offered.

She was wearing orthopedic shoes with little ankle socks, and her face was framed by a cloud of fluffy white hair. “It’s downright freezing in that aisle. It’s cold enough to lay out a body in there. I’ve complained to the manager several times, to no avail.” Her companion—who resembled her so much I wondered if they were twins—nodded in agreement.

I decided that they must be the Harper sisters. Ali had mentioned that her elderly neighbors, Minerva and Rose, would be attending the group tonight. The women were well into their eighties, longtime Savannah residents and history buffs.

Someone snickered and quickly covered it with a cough. “Well, I think we have to look at the subtext here,” Sybil went on. She gave me a quick glance. “You probably don’t know this, Taylor, but the subtext is the hidden emotional content in a dream.”

“Ah yes, the subtext.” I tried to look suitably impressed even though I’m pretty sure dream interpretation isn’t rocket science. In fact, I’m inclined to think it’s a bunch of hooey. A dream can mean anything you want it to, right? Like reading tea leaves or tarot cards. The meaning is in the eye of the beholder.

“Now Lucinda,” Sybil said, “I’m surprised that appearing naked in public didn’t bother you. In the majority of these cases, the dreamer experiences a certain degree of embarrassment and humiliation.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t
want
to have this sort of dream,” Lucinda said, looking chastised. “I’d rather dream about something sweet, like kittens or babies.”

“No one dreams about kittens,” Dorien cut in. “Unless they’re rescue dreams, and that’s another whole issue. Rescuing animals is a very common theme. I have those dreams all the time. It’s always late at night and—”

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Sybil cut in swiftly. “We need to focus on Lucinda’s dream and her feelings about it. That’s the path to enlightenment.”

The path to enlightenment?
Sybil and her fortune cookie platitudes were beginning to grate on my nerves. “But why do people have dreams like this?” I cut in. “Where do they come from?” I felt my BS register rising, and I suppose I may have sounded sharper than I’d intended.

Sybil turned to me. “Well, it can be related to the imposter syndrome, wouldn’t you agree, Ali?”

“Yes, I do. Being naked is a metaphor. Having no clothes means your smooth veneer is stripped away and people will see right through you. They might discover that you’re a fake, an imposter.” Ali paused, passing a plate of lemon squares.

“Yes, exactly.” Sybil waved her hand dramatically, and her bangle bracelets clanked together. “Lucinda, is there something you need to overcome in your personal life? Maybe you’re facing a dilemma, or something left unresolved?” She arched her eyebrows, and her voice spiraled upward in a question.

“I don’t think I’m struggling with anything,” Lucinda said doubtfully. “No more than usual, I mean.” Lucinda has so many phobias and neuroses, she makes Monk look like a model of sanity.

Lucinda is a quiet woman in her mid-forties who took early retirement from her headmistress position at a private school to become a patron of the arts. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, and she wore a beige linen sheath that was probably expensive but hung shapelessly on her bony frame. She’s pleasant but colorless, the kind of woman who could easily blend into the wallpaper.

I’d heard she’s well connected in Savannah, serves on the boards of several charities, and volunteers at a homeless shelter once a week. Ali told me that Lucinda was a trust fund baby before anyone had even invented the term, so she’s never had to worry about taking a paying job. Instead, she can devote herself to philanthropic work and live off her considerable assets.

The only sound was the lazy whirring of the Casablanca fan high above us, suspended from the tin ceiling with its distinctive fleur-de-lis-patterned squares. It had been a sunbaked June day, but the thick walls of the old building warded off the Georgia heat and the sitting room was cool and pleasant.

The contrast between the cream-colored walls and dark wood floors added a light, airy feeling to the room. Ali had covered the fussy antique furniture with white cotton slipcovers and had made her own throw pillows from scraps of blue and white gingham. A crystal water pitcher filled with blue hydrangeas, a few artfully arranged seashells on a steamer chest, and suddenly the once formal living space looked fresh and inviting.

Shabby chic, Savannah style.

I was torn between the mille-feuilles and the napoleons when I heard Samantha Stiles blow out a low sigh. Samantha, who was sitting right next to me on the settee, is a rookie detective in Savannah and new to the group. She’d been drumming her fingertips impatiently on the armrest for the past ten minutes, sneaking an occasional glance at her watch.

I figured she’d already decided Ali’s little Dream Club was sheer hocus-pocus and couldn’t wait to make her escape. I’d heard from Ali that Samantha had been dragged into the group by her close friend, Dorien Myers, a self-proclaimed psychic and tarot reader.

“Maybe this fear, or whatever it is, is buried deep in your subconscious,” my sister offered. “Outside your awareness. Your conscious awareness, I mean.”

There was Ali, back on her Freud kick again. Ali reads a lot of books on psychodynamic theory so her suggestion didn’t surprise me. According to Ali, the unconscious is a boiling cauldron of unexplored fears, wishes, and desires. We manage to keep a lid on the pot during waking hours, but at night, all bets are off and the repressed material comes bubbling to the surface in the form of dreams.