A Premonition of Murder (22 page)

“Pardon?” Minerva said, leaning forward. “I didn't quite catch that. You dreamt about a fish and it reminded you of your ex-brother-in-law?”

“I didn't catch it, either,” Rose piped up. Minerva and Rose were sitting side by side in nearly identical floral housedresses, their curly white hair framing their faces like halos. They had helped themselves to a hefty selection of pastries and were balancing the plates on their laps.

Dorien sometimes rambles when she's annoyed and goes off topic. “Well, I suppose I should back up a bit,” Dorien said.
“Last Christmas, I received the most ridiculous present in my entire life. She paused dramatically. “It was a Big Mouth Billy Bass.”

Minerva shot a perplexed look at Rose. It was obvious neither of them had ever heard of the kitschy wall plaque or seen the ads on late-night TV. The fish is a rubberized model of a largemouth bass, stretched over a plaque. It's motorized, and when someone passes by, the fish twitches its tail, turns its head, and bursts into song.

“It's a singing fish, isn't it?” Lucinda ventured. “Someone brought one into school last year and mounted it on the wall outside my office.” She put her well-manicured hand to her chest. “They asked me to come out and look at it, and it gave me quite a start. I felt like that silly fish was looking right at me when he sang, ‘Don't Worry, Be Happy.' A person could faint right on the spot from a shock like that.”

I tried not to smile. The idea of Lucinda, always prim and proper, being confronted by a singing fish was almost comical. She's lucky no one posted a video on YouTube. It would certainly go viral.

“But getting back to your dream,” Ali prompted.

“Well, the fish in my dream sang ‘Take Me to the River,' and I wondered if it had something to do with the case.”

“Oh, I see what you mean,” Lucinda said. “You're thinking about Desiree drowning in the river. I don't know,” she said. “What does everyone else think?”

“It's an interesting dream,” Sybil said. “The metaphor of the song suggesting the river, and the idea that the fish was mounted on the wall.”

“Yes, like the plaque,” Dorien said, excited.

“So you have imagery from your subconscious—the water—merging with the residue of the day,” Persia said. “It's interesting how your mind combined the two and
created a dream out of it.” She turned to me. “What do you think, Taylor?”

“I don't know, I'm still trying to get my mind around the fish on the wall,” I said with a grin. As soon as I said it, my heart stopped. I'd seen a fish on a wall. And I'd seen a fish that was part of a medallion or a piece of jewelry in the crime scene photo. The images of the fish were identical. They were both primitive line drawings. “I've seen a fish on a wall,” I said slowly.

“Where?” Ali stopped serving the pastries to stare at me. “At Beaux Reves?” she guessed.

“Yes, in the kitchen.” My chest felt tight as I imagined the sunny kitchen and Lucy singing over the sink. There was a bright blue ceramic plaque hanging on the wall above her. It looked Mexican, and it had a line drawing of a fish that looked exactly like the item in the crime scene photo.

I grabbed a piece of paper and a Sharpie. “Here's what I saw at Beaux Reves. It was painted on a ceramic plaque hanging in the kitchen.” I made two swift strokes with the pen and held up the image. “Can anyone identify this?”

“Yes, of course we can,” Lucinda said in her schoolmarm voice. “That fish is an early Christian symbol. It's used very commonly in folk art. And it's quite popular with people who are religious.”

People who are religious.
The words hammered in my brain. Lucy Dargos was religious. She wore religious medals, she had a religious plaque above the sink, and she had argued with Osteroff because Abigail hadn't had a religious funeral.

It seemed probable to me that Lucy owned the piece of jewelry found on the landing in the crime scene photos. After all, it had a fish, a Christian symbol, on it. Who else would wear it? It might have ended up on the floor as she'd
struggled to push Abigail down the stairs. Or she might have dropped it while she'd been cleaning the house and it had nothing to do with Abigail's death.

But did I really want to go down this road right now? I decided to bide my time and let the Dream Club continue. But Rose knew I was perplexed and called me on it.

“Is something bothering you, dear?” Rose asked in her shaky voice. “You look troubled.”

24

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I was just thinking of something I need to check out tomorrow.” I hadn't said a word about my visit to the mansion earlier today. There was no need to alarm the club members, and it would only distract them from discussing their dreams.

But Minerva has a steel-trap mind and remembered that I'd planned on doing inventory at Beaux Reves today. “How did you do with finding the items on the list?” she asked kindly. “Rose and I were worried about you rattling around that huge estate all by yourself. There are so many rooms, and there's so much to do. I wish we could have helped you, but we really can't do stairs anymore. Arthritis, you know.” She patted her knee and gave a sweet smile.

“That's okay—I was fine,” I said. I wanted to answer her question about the inventory quickly so we could move on to more dream material. “In fact, I took a photograph of one of the items, a painting called
Sunrise over All Saints Church
.”
I whipped out my camera phone and passed it around. “According to the tag, it was painted by William Gilbert in 1932. Abigail must have acquired it shortly before her death. It was down in the storeroom; it hadn't been displayed yet.”

I passed the phone around, and everyone admired the painting. All except Rose Harper. “This was painted by William Gilbert in 1932, you say?” She shook her head of fuzzy white hair. “There must be some mistake. Take a look at this, Minerva.” She passed the phone to her sister, who took out her glasses to get a better look.

“Oh my. Well, it's All Saints Church, all right,” Minerva said flatly. “Rather a nice landscape. I know Abigail was fond of William Gilbert's paintings, even though they're pricey. A similar William Gilbert landscape went on sale last week at Sotheby's for a quarter of a million dollars. And that was just the starting bid.” She started to hand the phone back to her sister, who stopped her.

“Minerva, for heaven's sake, take a look at the church
steeple
, dear. The
steeple
!”

Minerva held the phone up to the light. “The steeple . . . oh yes, I see what you mean. It's all wrong, all wrong.” She handed the phone back to me.

“What's wrong with the steeple?” I asked, baffled.

“Nothing's wrong with the steeple,” Minerva said. “It's what's wrong with the painting. All Saints Church didn't
have a
steeple in 1932. Rose and I were both baptized there, and I have the photos to prove it.”

“But it has a steeple now,” Lucinda said. “My niece was married there. It was a lovely ceremony.”

“And it had a steeple when it was constructed. But the church caught fire in 1928 and it took almost fifteen years to replace the steeple. It was the Depression and no one had money
to spend on things like church steeples.” Rose loves genealogy and has collected thousands of photos from years gone by.

“So,” I said, trying to put the pieces together, “what you're saying is . . . ”

“I'm saying this painting couldn't have been painted by William Gilbert, dear,” Rose said flatly.

“She's right,” Lucinda said. To my amazement, she'd pulled out an iPad and was tapping the keyboard with a tiny stylus. She read from the screen. “William Gilbert lived and painted in Savannah for a few short years before returning to England.” She held up the iPad. “He was in Savannah from 1932 to 1935. The church didn't have a steeple in those days. That painting you photographed couldn't possibly be a William Gilbert. It's a fraud.”

A fraud.
There was a moment of silence while everyone digested this information. My thoughts were buzzing like bees in a hive.

Abigail had hired Angus to make an inventory of her possessions yet she'd asked us to find certain pieces. Was she suspicious? Did she realize things were missing? And who was responsible for new acquisitions?

Someone had bought a fake William Gilbert. Who? Was it an honest mistake, or something more sinister? Even reputable art experts can be taken in by a fraud, but I had a feeling this was different. My gut told me that money had changed hands with the sale of this phony painting.

The thefts, the inventory, the odd piece of jewelry with the religious symbol. It all came back to one person who was a constant. Who would notice if items disappeared? Who knew the placement of every antique because she dusts the house from top to bottom? Who had the most to lose if thefts are discovered and might be held accountable? Who stood
to inherit thirty million dollars if Abigail died before she could change her will?

There was only one answer.

Lucy Dargos
. “Lucy Dargos.” When I said the name aloud everyone turned to me.

“Lucy Dargos?” Ali asked in surprise. Dead silence for a moment and then the phone rang. “Hold that thought!” she said, jumping up to answer it.

Persia sat back, her expression somber. I could see she didn't agree with me but didn't want to press the matter. After all, no one has a crystal ball, and we don't always agree on the course the investigation will take. There's usually not a consensus on the lineup of suspects or who heads the list. And since nothing is written in stone, we often change our minds several times before settling on a particular suspect.

I watched as Barney trotted out to the kitchen, winding his way around Ali's legs as she held the receiver to her ear. To my surprise, she ignored Barney and suddenly whirled to face me, her face deathly pale.

“What is it?” I half rose from my chair, nearly upsetting Scout, who'd curled up next to me, making snuffling noises in his sleep. Ali held up a hand as if to quiet me and spoke softly into the receiver. “I'll tell her.” She hung up the receiver and stood stock-still for a moment. I knew she was taking a moment to compose herself, and that she was about to reveal something major.

But even I couldn't have guessed the next words out of her mouth.

“That was Noah,” she said, making her way back to the living room. Her voice was flat and her face was expressionless as though she'd had a shock. “Something awful has happened at Beaux Reves.”

“Sit here, my dear,” Minerva said quickly, patting the seat
beside her. Ali was so white, I was afraid she was going to pass out. “What happened?” Minerva asked, her voice warm with concern. She clasped Ali's hand in her own and rubbed it as if to get the circulation going. I had the feeling Ali's hand had gone stone-cold as if her whole body had been shocked by the call. Her eyes had a dull, faraway look, and her lower lip was trembling. She was shivering and Minerva pulled a blue-and-white afghan over her legs. “Take a couple of deep breaths, my dear,” Minerva said. “That will steady you. Don't try to talk until you're ready.”

“It's Lucy,” Ali blurted out. “Lucy Dargos.” Ali's voice was a strangled cry and her eyes welled with tears. “She's dead.” The last word came out in a whisper. She fluttered her hands helplessly in the air in front of her and then let them fall into her lap.

“Lucy Dargos is dead?” I repeated.
Another death at Beaux Reves?
How is that possible?
“An accident?” I managed to ask over a lump in my throat.
Surely not another fall down the stairs?
My mind was reeling.

I had just accused Lucy Dargos of murdering Abigail, and yet I felt distraught at the news of her death. Shock is a funny thing. It makes your body go numb and scatters your thoughts to the wind. Nothing makes sense as you struggle to take back control of your mind and your emotions.

Ali shook her head. She swallowed hard, and I could see she was trying to get her feelings under control. “Noah doesn't think it was an accident. She died in the mansion a couple of hours ago. Sam Stiles says it could be murder.”

“Murder?” Rose said, her hand flying to her mouth as if she hadn't wanted the awful word to escape her lips.

“How did she die?” Sybil's tone was brisk. Sybil has something of a take-charge personality, and I was glad to turn the conversation over to her.

“I'm not sure,” Ali said. She took a deep breath and exhaled
slowly, obviously trying to calm herself. “Something about bathwater—maybe she drowned. I was so upset I couldn't take it all in.”

“I told you I dreamt about water!” Etta Mae said excitedly. “The same thing happened to Desiree. Remember that dream you had, Lucinda? The one about a woman in a white evening dress walking along the Riverwalk?”

“Yes, but”—Lucinda hesitated, shaking her head—“I don't think there's a pool or a pond at Beaux Reves. So I don't see how this is connected to my dream about Desiree and the Riverwalk.”

“Lucy may have drowned in the bathtub,” Ali said flatly. She was sitting up straighter now, and had taken a few sips of strong tea. “At least that's what the first responders thought.”

“How in the world could someone drown in the bathtub?” Rose asked.

“Don't you remember the Brides in the Bath murders?” Minerva replied. “Beautiful, healthy young women and they all were murdered the same way. They were all married to a bigamist, George Smith. He simply lifted up their ankles and they quickly slipped under the water,” she said grimly. “Everyone was horrified and wondered how it could have happened. But it did.”

“I've never heard that story,” Etta Mae said. She looked entranced, her lips parted.

“It was a hundred years ago,” Minerva said. “You can research the case, if you like. These days, with CSIs, he'd never get away with it.”

“That's true,” Persia added. “Back then, people didn't know much about forensics, and there wasn't any way to cross-reference suspected murders.”

“Well, we won't know more until morning,” Minerva said briskly, “so there's no sense in speculating.”

“You're right,” Rose piped up. “We shouldn't second-guess ourselves. This could be just a tragic accident. Do you suppose it will be in the papers tomorrow morning, Taylor?”

“I'm sure it will be online but not in the print edition. And I'm not sure how much information the police are releasing to the public. So for the moment, please don't reveal anything. Sam Stiles may have spoken to Noah in confidence.”

“You're quite right,” Persia spoke up. “It's wiser to say nothing for the moment. I'm sure I can find out more information at the practice tomorrow. I'll see what the associates are saying, and I'll fill everyone in.” She gave a little sigh. “Lawyers love to gossip, you know, and I'm sure they'll have some theories about what happened.”

No one had any more dreams to report, and the conversation sputtered and ground to a halt. Lucy's death had cast a pall over the evening, and Ali quickly wrapped up the meeting. There was a somber note in the air as the members made their way down the steps. Only Lucinda remained behind, helping Ali clear up the dishes.

“Are you feeling all right?” she asked Ali. “I was worried about you for a minute. You went dead white.”

Ali gave a weak laugh. “I'm fine; it was just such a shock. All our attention was focused on Abigail, and then another death happens, right under our noses.” She poured out the last of the tea and rinsed the pot. “Taylor, I nearly forgot. Noah wants you to call him. He's heading over to the mansion and asked if you'd like to meet him there.”

I put down my coffee cup. “Is Sam going to let him inside?”

“I think so. As soon as the CSIs finish processing the place. I think she wants to hear his input.”

“I'm on it,” I said, grabbing my phone and my purse.