A Premonition of Murder (11 page)

12

“I should have known Abigail would plan a party instead of a funeral,” Minerva said two days later, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “She always wanted people to be happy and enjoy themselves.”

“She certainly did,” Rose chimed in. “I would have liked to attend the burial, but her lawyer insisted it has to be private. She left strict instructions; he'll be standing there alone when she's laid to rest in the mausoleum. That's the way she wanted it.”

It was a bright sunny day and we were “celebrating Abigail's life” with a lovely garden party at Beaux Reves instead of a dreary funeral procession. Somehow it seemed fitting that the mansion—which had been closed to the public for so much of Abigail's life—was finally open after her death.

Not the whole mansion, of course. We were restricted to the gardens and the downstairs powder room. Lucy had placed a red velvet rope in the front hallway, discreetly
barring visitors from exploring the house. The Harper sisters said a few people had zipped into the house to use the powder room and peered longingly down the hall. No one dared to venture past the rope.

“I wish they'd allowed pictures,” Sara Rutledge said. Sara was holding a large tote bag with her camera and lenses, but Norman Osteroff had made it clear that photos were strictly forbidden. “This would have been a great photo op. I bet half of Savannah is here.”

“Which half?” Andre asked, coming up behind us.

“Well, the interesting half, of course,” Gideon said. “Take a look around. I bet you'll see some familiar faces from the society pages.”

“Savannah's movers and shakers,” Sara agreed. “They all turned out for Abigail. You did an amazing job with the table settings,” she added.

I was surprised to learn that Gideon and Andre had provided the lovely china and serving dishes for the food. Apparently Abigail had approved all the party plans in her will and ordered her lawyer to carry out her wishes. She'd left nothing to chance.

There was an elegant selection of tea sandwiches, fruit-filled pastries, and lavish cheese platters. Trays filled with tiny buttered biscuits and thin slices of smoked ham were arranged on round tables scattered over the lawn. Someone had ordered several pounds of homemade cheese straws from our friend and restaurateur Caroline LaCroix. I recognized the
C
logo pressed on each one. Servers in white shirts and black trousers circulated with chilled glasses of wine, iced tea, and mimosas, Abigail's favorite drinks.

Each round table held a crystal vase filled with tea roses, lily of the valley, and baby's breath, straight from the Beaux
Reves gardens. The tablecloths were antique lace layered over bleached muslin, and the soft fabrics were ruffling slightly in the breeze.

“Abigail thought of everything, down to the last detail,” Gideon said. “She even wrote down which serving pieces she wanted us to use.” He looked around at the people chatting on the sun-dappled lawn of the estate. “This is a great send-off for her. She wanted to make this a memorable occasion for her guests.”

“The round tables were a clever idea,” Ali said.

“Abigail hated long buffet lines,” Gideon explained. “She said it always reminded her of a soup kitchen. She wanted the food be to be arranged on several round tables. That way you're only a few feet away from cakes and hors d'oeuvres, no matter where you're standing.”

“Very elegant,” Sara offered.

I was sipping a mimosa when I heard raised voices a few feet away. I turned to see Norman Osteroff and Lucy Dargos in what looked like a heated argument at the punch bowl. Lucy was standing with her hands on her hips, leaning in to the white-haired lawyer, her voice tight with rage.

“Mrs. Marchand should have a Christian burial,” she said between gritted teeth. “You have no right to deprive her of that. I already spoke to the priest at St. Cecilia's and he will do a requiem for her. There is still time to arrange it. What you're doing is
wrong
,” she hissed.

Norman saw me watching them and deliberately turned away, taking Lucy by the arm. He nudged her closer to the house, and I had to strain to hear them. “Stay out of this, Lucy. You don't know what she wanted. You only worked for her. You're the hired help. You were never a confidante.”

A low blow, but then I never figured Norman Osteroff to be a nice guy. His face was flushed, and I don't think it was
from the large glass of white wine he was holding. I took a chance and edged a little closer, pretending to fill my plate with goodies from the cheese platter. I deliberately ducked my head down as if I were blind, deaf, and dumb.

“She's going into unconsecrated ground—” Lucy's voice was shrill with rage.

“She's not going into
any
ground,” Norman corrected her with a heavy sigh. “I've already explained this to you. She's going into a mausoleum.”

“Even worse!” Lucy's voice was tight with anger. “She's going into a concrete box. An unholy resting place.”

“Honestly, Lucy—” Their voices trailed off as Norman took her more firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the mansion.

“What was all that about?” Ali said, coming up next to me. Lucinda Macavy, Dorien Myers, and Persia Walker were trailing after her. Abigail had left instructions that all the members of the Dream Club should be included at the memorial. She wanted to thank us for offering to hear her dream.

“Some disagreement about Abigail's burial. Lucy, the housekeeper, and Norman, the family lawyer, seem to be at odds.”

“Wouldn't the housekeeper know what Abigail wanted?” Dorien asked. “Someone said she's been working here for thirty years.”

“She has,” Ali replied. “But according to the lawyer, Abigail left very specific instructions about what she wanted. She didn't want anything to do with a church or having any type of religious service. She wanted a completely secular burial.”

“Well, I wouldn't put a lot of stock in what the lawyer says,” Dorien said. “You can't trust the lot of them, that's what I think. I need something cold to drink. It must be ninety degrees out here; I feel like I'm melting. I'd rather be inside
that nice air-conditioned house. If they'd had any sense, that's where they should have held this party.” She immediately took off toward a waiter circulating with a tray of mimosas.

Ali raised her eyebrows and Sara muttered, “That's Dorien, charming as ever.”

Moments later, I found myself standing next to a tall, slender woman with striking white-blond hair. She must have been in her late seventies or early eighties, but she had the classic good looks that survive the test of time.

“An amazing affair, isn't it,” she said lightly, looking over the selection of pastries. She finally chose a couple of mushroom puffs and added them to her plate.

“Yes, it certainly is.” The woman was wearing a chic black-and-white dress with stylish high heels. “Did you know Abigail well?”

Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Very well indeed. We went to grade school together, and I hate to tell you how long ago
that
was. We've remained friends ever since.” She offered her hand and I noticed she was wearing an emerald ring the size of a walnut. “I'm Laura Howard.”

Laura Howard!
I could hardly restrain my excitement. The one person I wanted to talk to had just magically appeared. I felt like I'd summoned a genie in a bottle. I looked around for Ali and Sara, but they'd drifted over to the far edge of the lawn and were admiring the rose garden.

“Taylor Blake,” I said, shaking her hand.

“Are you related to Abigail?” she said, her brow furrowed. I knew she was trying to place me. She probably knew everyone in Abigail's circle and she was trying to figure out how I fit in.

“No, I only met her once. She invited me here for a small luncheon party last week.” I gestured vaguely to the outdoor table where we'd sat.

“You must have been a very special guest,” Laura said in her soft, musical voice. “She rarely had anyone over to Beaux Reves. You can't imagine how many times over the years I've begged her to host a charity event, and the answer was always no.” She paused for a moment, and her eyes welled up. “I didn't mind, because that's just the way she was. She guarded her privacy right up to the end.”

“And yet it sounds like her sister Desiree was just the opposite.”

If I'd wanted to shock her, I succeeded. Laura Howard made a startled noise as if an electric current had just passed through her. “Yes, Desiree was quite different,” she said slowly. “She marched to a different drummer, as they say.”

“So I heard.” Laura Howard ducked her head and sipped her glass of white wine. A tiny muscle was jumping around her lips, and I had the feeling she was uncomfortable at the sudden turn the conversation was taking.

“What was your connection with Abigail?” she said, not unkindly. “I know all Abigail's friends, and you say you're not a relative, so . . .” She let her voice trail off and gave me an appraising look. I had the feeling that underneath that mask of gentility she was as tough as nails.

“I run a vintage candy shop over on Clark Street with my sister Ali,” I told her. “We're good friends with Rose and Minerva Harper—”

“Oh yes, I know them,” she said, looking relieved. “Two of the sweetest women in the world. They know everything about Savannah—the history, the culture, the art. But I still don't understand—”

“Abigail invited the Harper sisters for lunch and she asked us to come along. My sister Ali is into dream interpretation . . .”

“Dream interpretation,” she said wryly. She gave a ladylike
snort of derision. She'd obviously written me off as loony tunes, but I kept my voice calm. There was no point in acting offended or she'd clam up. As Noah says, never let the suspect know what you're thinking.

“Yes,” I said, trying not to sound defensive. “Some people call it dream analysis. We share our dreams and try to figure out what they really mean. We look for common themes and symbolism in them.” Naturally, I didn't mention the Dream Club had been successful in uncovering clues to solve murders. At this point, the less Laura Howard knew about our involvement with the police, the better.

“You look for
symbolism
,” she said, drawing the word out. She was clearly mocking me. “Is this sort of thing popular? I always think that people who believe in dreams are the same folks who believe in UFOs and psychics.” Her mouth twitched in a smirk. The claws were out.

“I was a skeptic, too,” I told her, “in the beginning. And in some ways, I still am. But I've heard some interpretations that were spot-on and I've seen parallels between dreams and events in the real world. Things that defy a rational explanation. I look at everything differently since I joined the Dream Club.”

“A
dream club
? Oh, good heavens!” It was obvious she thought the idea preposterous. She gave a delicate cough. “I just can't picture Abigail getting caught up in something like that. That wasn't her style.”

“She wasn't a member of the club,” I said quickly. “But the Harper sisters are devoted members. They come to every meeting. Abigail invited us over because she was having some disturbing dreams and hoped we could shed some light on them.”

“What sort of disturbing dreams?” Laura stared at me, her icy blue eyes intent. “Do you mean nightmares?”

“Yes,” I said flatly. “She dreamt she was going to die.”

13

“You wouldn't believe the conversation I just had with Laura Howard,” Sara Rutledge told me a few minutes later. “She seemed really shaken up, and I think I must have caught her at a vulnerable moment.”

“She
was
shaken up,” I agreed. “I'd just told her that Abigail had a premonition she was going to die.” I quickly filled Sara in on the details. Once Laura had heard my pronouncement, she'd quickly excused herself and walked away. Was she genuinely upset or was it a sign of a guilty conscience? I couldn't be sure.

“Then she got hit by a double whammy,” Sara said, leaning close as we crossed the lawn. “No wonder she looked shattered after I dropped my bombshell on her.” We were heading for a pale blue canopy where folding chairs had been arranged for the guests. According to the program, there was going to be a brief “sharing time” for friends to comment on how Abigail had impacted their lives.

“What kind of bombshell did you drop?” I watched as Lucy Dargos, sniffling into a handkerchief, slipped into a seat in the first row and pulled her sullen son, Nicky, into the seat next to her. She reached over and rapped him on the fingers when she saw him fiddling with his cell phone.

“I told her I knew about the tontine,” Sara said, her eyes twinkling. “I thought she was going to faint dead away on the spot.”

“How did you find out about the tontine? It was supposed to be a deep, dark secret!”

“Shh, not so loud—people may be listening.” Sara put her fingers to my lips. “One of the judges was a little tipsy from the champagne, and he told me the whole story. It seems that people in legal circles know all about it. They've known about it for years, ever since it was set up.”

“And so do people in society circles.” I told her about Gideon and Andre's revelation to me. “It sounds like the worst-kept secret in Savannah.”

We were lingering at the back of the tent, scanning the guests, trying to find a good place to sit. The Harper sisters were in the second row, flanked by Persia Walker, Dorien Myers, and Sybil Powers. Etta Mae Beasley was sitting right behind them. Lucinda Macavy spotted us and gestured to a couple of empty chairs on her left. My sister Ali was sitting to the right of her.

As we headed down the aisle, Sara continued. “We should have figured that people in legal circles would know about the tontine. After all, it was a legal document, and there's quite a bit of money involved. It's impossible to keep this kind of thing a secret. Especially in Savannah. And can you guess who drew up the papers?” She waited until I sat down before telling me. “Norman Osteroff.”

“The plot thickens,” Ali said, leaning forward in her seat.
She'd obviously overheard the last part of the conversation. “I knew there was something going on with that guy. He never said a word about it.”

“And I bet if you asked him today, he'd still deny it,” Lucinda said complacently. “That man plays his cards close to his chest.”

“But wouldn't he have to reveal the tontine to the police? This is certainly information they'd want to have as part of their investigation.”

“It probably wouldn't occur to the police to ask him,” Lucinda replied. “They don't move in the same circles he does. I bet he thinks he can keep mum about the whole thing.”

“Well, yes, but now that
we
know,” Sara said, “it changes everything. I plan on writing a piece about it for the
Savannah Herald
. I've already texted my editor and she said to go ahead.”

“Then the cat will be out of the bag,” Lucinda agreed. “I bet you didn't get a word from Laura Howard about it.”

“I didn't,” Sara said ruefully. “She put her handkerchief to her lips, muttered, ‘No comment,' and stumbled away. I think she was genuinely shocked that I'd discovered it.”

People were filling up the seats and I knew we'd only have a few minutes before the “remembrance” started.

“But, Lucinda, if you knew about the tontine, why didn't you say something at the last Dream Club meeting?” I asked.

Lucinda smiled. “Well, I only heard about the tontine today. I overheard Judge Parker talking about it to Sara.” She turned to Sara. “No one should drink as much champagne as the judge did. And in this heat. Why, did you see how red his face was? He's on his way to another heart attack, I'd put money on it. He's no spring chicken, you know.”

“But getting back to the tontine . . .” I whispered.

“I
did
tell you about it at the last meeting,” Lucinda replied.
“But it came out as dream material, remember? The women and the gold box. The women all disappeared one by one? I didn't put it all together until just now. That had to be the tontine.”

Laura made her way slowly to the podium. Any trace of emotional distress was gone. She looked calm and composed. “As one of Abigail's oldest friends,” she began, “I want to welcome you here today to celebrate her life.” She paused to look around at us sitting under the large blue tent. Even with a small breeze, the temperature inside the tent was stifling. “As you know, she didn't want a funeral,” she went on. “Instead, she wanted us all to celebrate her at her beautiful home.”

I tuned out the rest of her remarks and looked at the program. Norman Osteroff, the family lawyer, was going to speak next, and then there would be a brief reading of Abigail's favorite poem, “Ozymandias,” by Percy Bysshe Shelley. An odd choice, I decided, and I wondered about the significance. The poem depicts the inevitable decline of great empires and leaders with pretensions to grandeur. In the end, all that remains is a desolate landscape of bare sand.

Was Abigail trying to send a message with this poem?
Ali knows more about literature and poetry than I do, and I made a mental note to ask her about it later.

Norman Osteroff's remarks were barely audible. There was some problem with the microphone, and his words seemed to drift in and out in the tent. People began fanning themselves with their programs and he finished quickly and returned to his seat.

Laura Howard returned to the podium and asked if anyone would like to share special remembrances of Abigail. Minerva Harper stood up and said in a quivery voice, “She was one of the kindest, most thoughtful women I've
ever met. She was a wonderful friend to us for over sixty years, and we will miss her so much.”

“Anyone else?” Laura said after Minerva had sat down and a minute had passed.

“Mrs. Marchand, she was a real lady,” Lucy Dargos said, standing up. “I've worked here for more than thirty years. You learn a lot about someone when you live with them every day”—she cast a baleful eye on Norman Osteroff—“and it wasn't just a business relationship. I know that she had a good heart. And I was her
friend
.” Norman stared straight ahead, oblivious to Lucy's glare and her pointed remarks. I'm sure Lucy was stung by Norman's callous reminder that she was just the “hired help” and wasn't important to Abigail.

“Wow, that's telling him,” I said softly to Ali, who shot me a puzzled look. “I'll explain later,” I said in a low voice.

A few of Savannah's socialites stood up to say a few words about Abigail. I didn't know who they were, but Sara kept up a running commentary. “That woman in pearls runs the Junior League,” Sara whispered, “and the woman in the lime green Lilly Pulitzer is married to a guy who owns half the Riverwalk.”

Abigail certainly counted the rich and famous as her friends, but that wasn't surprising. She owned one of the most magnificent estates in Savannah, and her family was one of the most prominent dynasties the city has ever known. So many people had warm remembrances of Abigail, but somehow their words seemed flat and impersonal as though they were scripted. I didn't hear any personal vignettes that revealed the real Abigail, her generous nature, or her wicked sense of humor.

Except for one. Sophie Stanton.

I'd been wondering if Sophie was present at the ceremony.
I hadn't seen her in the crowd milling around outside while drinks and hors d'oeuvres were being served. And suddenly here she was. She walked dramatically up the main aisle in the tent, wearing a bright lemon shift dress and a straw hat. With her spectacular figure and her rich reddish-blond hair, she made quite an entrance, and I heard someone behind me mutter, “Who
is
that?”

“Sophie?” Lucinda asked me. I'd just realized she'd never met Sophie Stanton, except in her dream sequence. I nodded and she smiled. “I knew that was Sophie Stanton,” she said with a ring of certainty in her voice. “She looks exactly as she did in my dream. All that's missing is the suitcase with the travel decals.”
But that part of the dream was true, too. She has a tote bag with travel decals plastered all over it
, I nearly blurted out. The coincidences—or symbols, as Ali prefers to call them—were piling up fast.

“What do you know about her?” Sara whispered. “Is this the relative who appeared out of nowhere?”

I nodded. “And she may be inheriting Beaux Reves,” I said.

“You're kidding!” Sara's eyes widened. “How did she manage that?”

“She's Abigail's only living relative,” Ali said. “At least, that's what she wants people to believe.”

“Is Noah checking her out for us?”

“I certainly hope so,” I said grimly. It suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't touched base with Noah since our lunch with Sara and Ali the other day. So much had happened, and I felt as though things were spinning out of control. We all needed to sit down together as a group, go over our notes, and see what progress we'd made on the case.

My mind raced over what Ali and I had accomplished in the last couple of days. Our meeting with Norman Osteroff
at his office, my visit to Beaux Reves, and my chat with Lucy, the housekeeper.

And what had I learned? I'd discovered an apparent rivalry between Lucy's slacker son, Nicky, and Angus Morton, the grad student who was appraising the artwork at Beaux Reves. Nicky was accused of stealing items from Abigail. Was it true? Naturally, his mother, Lucy Dargos, defended him. But Nicky had had some scrapes with the law before, and it was possible he was picking up a few items at the mansion to fuel a drug habit.

Lucy referred to Angus as “Mr. Big Shot” and clearly didn't like him. Did she really suspect him of something, or was she just taking her son's side? I had the feeling both Nicky Dargos and Angus Morton were hiding something.

Could Angus be helping himself to a few antiques as he “cataloged” them? I remembered the child's china tea set that Gideon and Andre had loaned to us. Ali needed to meet with Angus to appraise the item. Since he was clearly attracted to Ali, that shouldn't be a problem. With any luck, he'd tell her some inside details about his job at Beaux Reves, and whether he suspected some items were missing. If anyone could gain his trust, it was Ali, with her sunny smile and blond good looks.

I thought about my quick trip upstairs to snoop in Sophie Stanton's room and the French travel guide I'd found stashed in her purse. And the impeccably dressed Laura Howard and the tontine! What a surprise that had been, and it certainly put Lucinda's dream into perspective.

How does all this fit together?
As soon as Abigail's memorial service was finished, I needed to touch base with Noah. But first I had to hear what Sophie Stanton had to say.

Sophie gave a wide smile to the assembled guests. “Abigail would be so happy to see everyone here,” she said in her low,
musical voice. “She may not be with us in person, but I'm sure she's with us in spirit.” She turned her eyes heavenward. “She's probably looking down and hoping we all had enough to eat and drink. She loved taking care of people.”

There was a polite chuckle from the audience. Sophie's voice and mannerisms made me think she might have had some acting training. The gestures, the shadings, and the nuances in her voice seemed planned, not spontaneous. Was she putting on an act? Or was I just overly suspicious?