A Premonition of Murder (15 page)

Lucy turned in surprise, wiping her hands on her apron. “It's the fourth room on the left on the second floor. Miss Desiree's room is bright yellow; it was her favorite color. We have kept it exactly as it was when she was alive. Mrs. Marchand insisted that nothing be disturbed.”

“Then that's where we'll start,” I told her. She began to protest, but I waved my hand dismissively. “Don't worry, we're just looking. We won't disturb anything.”

*   *   *

“I don't think
she's thrilled to have us here,” Ali whispered as we made our way up the stairs. We stopped briefly on the landing, and I heard the front door open and close. Heavy footsteps headed toward the kitchen, followed by a husky voice greeting Lucy.

Angus Morton!
I looked at Ali and put my finger to my lips. Had Angus already gotten the word from Norman Osteroff that we were free to inspect the mansion? Or would Lucy tell him? I leaned over the banister on the upper landing to listen, but someone had closed the door between the kitchen and the hall.

“I can't hear much,” I said in a low voice to Ali, “but they're definitely talking down there.” I turned around, but Ali had vanished. “Ali?” I whispered.

She stuck her head out of a bedroom down the hall and motioned for me to come quickly.

“It's Desiree's bedroom,” she said, pulling me inside a bright yellow room. “And you can hear perfectly through the heating grate.” She grinned and hunkered down on the floor. I squatted next to her, just in time to hear Angus give a gasp of surprise.

“They're here
now
?” he asked. He tone was gruff, annoyed.
It was surprising how unpopular we were. “What do they want?”

Lucy said something I couldn't quite catch, but I heard the name “Osteroff.” “No, he didn't tell me a thing,” Angus went on. “Why would they be doing an inventory? Something's up, I know it.” Again, soft murmuring from Lucy and harsh words from Angus. “I don't want any tea,” he said irritably. “I'd better track them down and see what they're up to. And keep your idiot son quiet. If he says anything, there'll be hell to pay.”

Ali stood up slowly, her face pale. “I can't believe that Angus could be involved,” she said slowly. “I just had coffee with him. He seemed like a nerd, but a nice guy.” She shook her head in dismay. “How could I have been so wrong about him? He might be Abigail's killer!”

“Don't get ahead of yourself,” I said, pulling her out the door into the hallway. I didn't want Angus to see us poking around Desiree's room. “And pull yourself together. Don't let him think we overheard anything.”

We were pretending to inspect a small oil painting in the hall, a rather sentimental scene of lilacs and roses, when Angus bounded up the stairs. I was struck by how tall and powerful he was.

“We meet again,” he said cheerfully to Ali.

I could feel her shrinking back from him, so I was overly friendly to compensate. “This is so exciting,” I said, babbling on girlishly. “Ali and I have always been curious about the mansion, and I never thought we'd have a chance to see it firsthand. We're taking our own private tour.”

His expression hardened, and he shot a curious look at Ali. “It seems that Mrs. Marchand's lawyer asked you to do your own inventory.” He raised his eyebrows as if he couldn't
understand why anyone would make such a ridiculous request.

“Yes, he did. Well, it was actually Abigail herself who made the request. Mr. Osteroff just passed along the letter from her.”

“I see.” There was a long silence, and I thought I saw his gaze shift to the landing. Exactly the place where Abigail had been pushed down the stairs. For one crazy moment, I wondered if he was planning on doing away with one of us and then realized that would be too hard to pull off. There were two of us to contend with, and no one would believe our deaths were accidental. That would simply be too much of a coincidence.

“Could you tell us something about this painting?” Ali asked. Her voice was a little shaky, but she no longer looked like a frightened rabbit, and I was relieved.

“A small oil, circa eighteen nineties. Not particularly valuable. The artist was a local one and he was making a stab at Impressionism, but as you can see, he wasn't too successful.” His voice was curiously flat, devoid of any enthusiasm. It was hard to believe he was really an art aficionado, but from the amount of detail he offered, he seemed to know his stuff. And Ali had mentioned that he had appeared knowledgeable when she'd shown him the antique tea set.

“He wasn't successful at his attempt at Impressionism? Why's that?” I asked, pretending to be interested.

“The light's all wrong,” Angus said impatiently. “See the way it slants across the lilacs, but then it seems to stop dead at the roses? There should be diffused light throughout the whole painting. Impressionism is a lot more complicated than it looks. A lot of artists in that time period simply slapped some blurry flowers on a canvas, added some sunlight dappling through the scenes, and thought they'd nailed it.”

“Oh, I see,” Ali said, examining the painting. “You know so much about paintings,” she said in a slightly gushing tone.

Angus relaxed, falling for the bait. He adjusted the lapels on his linen blazer, preening. “Well, I've studied art for a long time,” he said modestly, “and I was bound to pick up a few things here and there.”

“All that knowledge,” I said wonderingly. “It almost seems wasted at Beaux Reves.” I wasn't sure how hard to push. “But I suppose this was never the endgame for you.”

“Certainly not. I wanted to beef up my résumé and my advisor suggested spending the summer here. My real goal is to be an appraiser at Sotheby's. A good recommendation from Mrs. Marchand would have meant everything.”

A recommendation? I hadn't thought of that angle. And he had said
would have meant
, so it clearly had fallen through because of Abigail's death.

“Of course, that's impossible now,” he said churlishly, as if he were reading my mind. “No Mrs. Marchand, no recommendation. I should have asked her for a letter when I first arrived here.”
Talk about a narcissist! His employer was murdered, and all he cares about is his own career plan.

Ali and I exchanged a look. I think our brains were whirring along on the same track. If Angus needed a recommendation from Mrs. Marchand for a job with Sotheby's, why would he murder her? Wouldn't that be killing the goose that laid the golden egg? So maybe the conversation with Lucy in the kitchen had nothing to do with murder. This cast a whole new light on things.

“Maybe Mr. Osteroff could give you a recommendation,” I said tentatively.

“That old gas bag?” Angus sneered. “He wouldn't know a Monet from a money market account. I'm afraid I'm screwed.”

“Lucy Dargos?” I suggested, wondering what he would say about the longtime housekeeper.

“A scullery maid?” he scoffed. “Pots and pans are all she knows. And that son of hers? Don't get me started.”

I was wondering how to get Angus out of the picture so we could continue our sleuthing when his cell phone rang. He checked the readout and frowned. “I've got an appointment in town,” he said, “so I've got to leave for a while.” He gave us a piercing look, and I could feel Ali tense. “But I'll be back as soon as I can.” He paused. “In case you need anything.”

Hah! As if
. “That's so kind of you. Thank you so much,” I said, pouring on the charm.

17

“What will we do?” Ali asked the moment Angus tromped down the stairs. “We're supposed to meet Noah and Sara for lunch.”

“We'll just have to work fast,” I told her. “And we don't have to do everything today. It's up to us to decide how long we need to spend on the inventory. Text Sara and tell her that we'll be at Marcelo's by two. We'll take a quick look at Desiree's bedroom and maybe do one other room before we leave.”

“It seems overwhelming,” Ali said, looking down the hall, which seemed to stretch on forever, with endless wings and corridors hinting at endless treasures.

“One thing at a time, Ali,” I told her. Sometimes my MBA training comes in handy. I leave the intuitive, subjective elements to Ali, and it works well. My sister is classic “right-brained,” and I'm very “left-brained.” What does that
mean in practical terms? It means I'm logical, analytical, and objective. I approach everything as a task. I don't get emotionally involved and I try to devise the most effective way to do a job. Ali is the opposite. She runs on sheer emotion and instinct. That's why we make a good pair.

Right now, our first priority was Desiree's bedroom. Even though I'm left-brained, I had the gut feeling that the key to Abigail's death was somehow linked to Desiree's murder all those years ago.

The room was “girly,” with its sunny yellow walls and charming white pointelle bedspread embroidered with daisies. I ran my hand lightly over the spread, admiring the fine handiwork. There was nothing out of place. Either Desiree was a compulsive neat freak, or Abigail had ordered the room tidied up after her death. It seemed more like a guest room than a bedroom belonging to a family member. There were few personal items in sight. A skirted vanity table held a silver comb-and-brush set, a small jewelry box, and what looked like an antique pedestal mirror.

“Empty,” Ali said, pulling open a drawer under the vanity top. “Not even a lipstick. And someone has cleaned out the jewelry box. It's odd, isn't it?” She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. I had the feeling the closet and bureau drawers would also be empty. My optimism was quickly evaporating.

“It's very strange. I thought Lucy said the room was kept exactly as it was when Desiree was alive. Someone has obviously gotten rid of her clothes and all her personal effects.” And this could have happened in the past few days, since Abigail's death, but we had no way of knowing.

“Why would Lucy lie about something like this?” Ali asked.

“Who knows? Maybe she never thought we'd check. Or
maybe someone raided the room in the past few days.” I paused. “Someone Lucy might be protecting.”

“Nicky,” Ali said. She raised her eyebrows. “That would explain a lot. And it's not just valuables that are missing. What about photographs and keepsakes?” She lifted down a lovely hand-painted box from a shelf. “This might be promising. It looks like the kind of box you'd use to store letters.” She lifted the lid and showed me the contents. “Empty. I'm afraid we've struck out again.”

“Try the closet, and I'll check the nightstands,” I suggested. Matching walnut nightstands were on either side of the bed. “Not a thing,” I muttered a moment later. Could Lucy have removed everything from the room when Norman Osteroff had called to instruct her to give us free access to the house? Or had Nicky cleaned it out after Abigail's death?

Ali frowned as she flung open the closet doors. “Nothing here. At least nothing interesting.” She pulled out a silk Japanese-style dressing gown, splashed with pink and magenta on a midnight blue background, and laid it carefully on the bed to inspect it. “Nothing in the pockets.”

“What do you suppose has happened to her jewelry?” I asked. “That's what I can't understand. Remember that newspaper clipping Minerva showed us? Desiree was wearing some pretty serious bling when she was photographed for the society section.”

I nodded. “I remember. It was probably worth a small fortune. Do you suppose Abigail has the jewelry stashed in a safe somewhere? After all, there are strangers in the house this summer, and maybe she didn't completely trust Angus or Sophie Stanton.”

“That's a good point.” I sat on the edge of the bed to think. “Abigail could have the jewelry tucked away somewhere, and
she could have given Desiree's clothes to charity. And any odds and ends or makeup or perfume”—I glanced at the pristine vanity table—“might have just been thrown out.” There was one empty perfume atomizer on the table, and it looked elegant, made of gold filigree in classic Art Deco style.

“So that would account for the clothes and jewelry. That still doesn't explain the lack of personal items. Letters, souvenirs, photographs. Maybe even a diary.”

“You're right.” I stared at the paintings on the wall. A selection of pastels and watercolors, mostly pastoral scenes and a couple of seascapes. A field of flowers and a small painting of Beaux Reves, with the shutters thrown open to catch the sunlight. It reminded me of the one I'd seen in Osteroff's office. I didn't know enough about art to know if the paintings were valuable, and I snapped a few pictures with my phone. We might be able to check them against the inventory or show them to Gideon and Andre.

“I don't see anything else to look at here,” Ali said. She glanced at her watch. “Do you?”

“Probably not.” I hesitated. “There's just one thing. That painting on the far wall. It seems out of place, doesn't it?” I pointed to a small painting of an Egyptian pyramid. It was in bold tones of sand and copper, a desert scene. “It doesn't look at all like the other paintings; it's not in the same style and the colors are all wrong.”

“Maybe Desiree was sick of flowers and sailboats,” Ali said.

“Or maybe it's here for a reason.” I thought of the poem, “Ozymandias,” that Abigail had included in her memorial service. I remembered thinking at the time that it was an odd choice. Was Abigail trying to tell us something? She obviously had her suspicions or she wouldn't have told Osteroff that she wanted us to check the inventory at the mansion.

It sounded like she didn't trust Lucy. Or Osteroff. Or Angus. And she certainly didn't trust Nicky Dargos.

“‘Ozymandias,'” Ali said softly. “That was another name for an Egyptian pharaoh, Ramesses II. And that painting is set in the Egyptian desert, so . . .”

I sprang off the bed and raced to the painting. I tried to lift if off the wall, and nothing happened. “It's stuck to the wall. Something's wrong. It's practically welded in place.”

“Wait, I see a tiny medallion on the bottom of the frame. Try pressing that.” Ali's eyes were glowing with excitement. I touched the medallion, and the frame swung open, revealing a square niche in the wall. It was about a foot wide, a foot high, and pitch-black inside.

“Bingo,” I said. “How did you think of that?”

“The tomb scene from
Raiders of the Lost Ark
.” She grinned and then suddenly raised her finger to her lips, her gaze drifting to the open doorway. “Shh!” My hand froze in midair at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Lucy was trudging up the steps, singing softly in Spanish. “Quick,” Ali urged.

I reached inside, my heart thumping so loudly I was sure it could be heard two rooms away. The niche held a collection of papers, and I grabbed the first one I could reach and jammed it into my pocket. I closed the door to the portal just as Lucy passed by in the hallway. She was armed with a hand vacuum and the boom box, and apparently was in the midst of cleaning.

“Everything okay in here?” Her tone was cheerful, and if she was suspicious, she was covering it well.

“It's fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “We just finished up, and we're going to meet some friends for lunch. We'll be back tomorrow morning if that's okay.”

“Yes, sure,” she said. “I know you have a job to do.”

She sounded so pleasant I wondered if I'd been wrong to suspect her of anything. She didn't have any motive to murder Abigail, unless her son, Nicky, really
was
helping himself to treasures from Beaux Reves. If Abigail had found out and threatened to go to the police, I could imagine Lucy doing anything in her power to stop her.

And there was that pesky issue of the thirty million dollars' inheritance. Unless Abigail had changed her will—which we wouldn't know until the reading next week—Lucy stood to inherit a fortune. A million dollars for every year she'd spent working at Beaux Reves. Abigail was in good health and could have lived for a long time. Had Lucy become impatient for the big payoff?

Lucy continued down the hall, and Ali let out a deep whoosh of air as if she'd been holding her breath. “Wow, that was close,” she said in a breathy voice. “What do you have there?” she said, eyeing my pocket.

“Let's wait till we're outside to look,” I told her, making tracks for the stairs. I barely stepped into the bright Savannah sunshine before pulling a creased piece of paper from my pocket. “It's written to Desiree,” I said to Ali as we stood on the portico. “It looks like a love letter.”

“A love letter?” She peered over my shoulder. “‘My darling Desiree, I can hardly wait to see you tonight. You are the light of my life. Sending you a gardenia to wear in your hair. Hoping they'll play our song and I can take you in my arms. Your conquering hero.'”

“I don't know what to make of it, do you?” I folded the letter carefully and placed it in my purse.

“A gardenia,” she said slowly. “Wasn't Desiree wearing a white flower in her hair in that clipping from the society column? It could have been a gardenia.”

I thought back to the faded clipping that the Harper sisters had given us. “She was wearing a flower, yes. I'd like to look at that picture again—” I stopped talking when I heard a door slam and then voices at the side of the house. Raised voices, and one of them was Lucy's. Lucy must have slipped down the back staircase, because it sounded as though she was standing outside, at the edge of the patio, arguing with someone. Ali and I edged closer.

“You know what you have to do.” Lucy's voice was tight with anger. “Don't come whining to me. You got yourself into this mess, and now you'll have to sell it. That's the only thing you
can
do. See how much they'll give you for it. Maybe it's worth big bucks; maybe it's a fake.”

“Easy for you to say,” a man's voice retorted. “You win either way.” He gave a derisive snort. “Come next week, you'll probably be thirty million dollars richer.”

“That's if she didn't change her will,” Lucy said coldly. “Anything could happen. I gave thirty years of my life to this place, and I could be out in the cold with you.”

“What do you mean, out in the cold
with me
? Did she cut me out of the will?”

“Who knows?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Why should you get any money? Maybe she wanted to teach you a lesson. She knew you gambled your paycheck away. She told me one time she didn't want to throw good money after bad.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the man said with a snort. “I'm going into town.”

“Jeb,” she called after him, “get me a charger for my iPod. Nicky never got around to it.”

“If I have time,” he muttered.

Footsteps were heading toward the end of the portico, and Ali and I flattened ourselves against the stucco wall as a man
rushed by
. Jeb Arnold, the estate manager
. We waited until he got into his Jeep and then made our way down the driveway. Lucy had advised him to sell something. But what?

“Jeb Arnold,” Ali said thoughtfully. “I wonder how he fits into all this. Did you know he had a gambling problem?”

I nodded. “Nicky Dargos made some crack about him playing the ponies when we were sitting in the kitchen for breakfast.” She looked surprised and I added, “You were playing up to Angus and probably didn't hear it.”