A Premonition of Murder (4 page)

“Shall we divide up the work?” Ali suggested. “If we need any legal help, we can ask Persia. She knows all the lawyers in Savannah. The ‘good, the bad, and the ugly,' as she says.”

“Persia is one of our Dream Club members,” I explained to Noah. “She's been working as a paralegal here for over thirty years. I bet she could check out this Norman Osteroff you mentioned.”

Noah nodded. “That would be a good starting point. Ask her to get a general feel for how other lawyers regard him, and see if she can find out anything about his relationship
with Abigail. If he's been the family lawyer for decades, there's probably nothing there, but you never know.”

“I can check out the son, Nicky Dargos,” Sara volunteered. “If he's had a string of arrests, there must be some newspaper articles about his crimes. I can run his name through the system and see what pops up.”

“I can find out more about this grad student, Angus,” I volunteered. “I'd like to know how he got the job. Why didn't Abigail just go to one of the respected appraisers here in town? There's something odd about him spending the summer at Beaux Reves.”

“I wish we could have met him the other day,” Ali said. “Trying to get inside the mansion was like trying to storm Fort Knox.”

“It always makes me feel like someone's hiding something when they're that secretive,” Sara said. She gave a little shrug. “Although maybe I'm being unfair. Perhaps Abigail was just a very private person.”

“That she was,” I agreed. On that note, the talk turned to more casual topics and Noah caught my eye a few times, giving me a sexy half smile. It was hard to concentrate on the conversation with Noah just sitting right across the table from me, but I gave myself a mental shake and told myself to be professional. After all, like it or not, we were in the middle of a murder investigation. Again.

4

It was a somber group that gathered in our upstairs apartment that night. We decided we needed to call an emergency meeting to deal with the shocking news about the murder. Abigail's death was the lead story on the local television stations and everyone except Dorien Myers had heard the sad news. Dorien had been in Charleston all day, hoping to get a catering job, and hadn't had time to read the evening paper or switch on the television.

“I just can't believe it,” Rose Harper said, dabbing at her eyes. “When Lucy called to tell me the news this morning, I just burst into tears. I couldn't stop crying, I felt weak as a kitten.”

“Lucy called you?” I exchanged a look with Ali. “I didn't think Lucy was close to any of Abigail's friends.”

“Well, we're not close, my dear,” Minerva said. “Abigail and Lucy come from a generation where that would be impossible. There was always a certain formality at Beaux
Reves, and class lines were never crossed. Even after thirty years, Lucy always called Abigail ‘Mrs. Marchand.'”

I nodded. I'd noticed that. So both Abigail and Lucy were old-school.

“What did Lucy tell you exactly?” Ali asked.

“Why, just that Abigail had died during the night. It came as a terrible shock, of course.”

“Died during the night?” Dorien said in her braying voice. “That makes it sound like she died in her sleep. Do you think she was she trying to pull the wool over your eyes?”

Rose looked shocked, her mouth tightening. “Good heavens no, Dorien. That's not what she meant at all. When I asked how Abigail had died, she was quite forthcoming. She said that her mistress had tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. That grand marble stairway in the foyer.”

“Poor thing.” Rose went on, “She didn't find Abigail until she got up to fix breakfast. I suppose she's a heavy sleeper because she said she never heard a thing during the night.”

Well, that much was true, I reasoned. It was possible that Lucy hadn't heard anything. But I would hardly call Lucy's comments “forthcoming.” No mention of the ME turning up or the fact that Beaux Reves was now a crime scene.

“Did she mention that the police came to the house and interviewed her?” Persia asked. She was perched on the edge of her chair, listening intently. I'd pulled some brownies and apple tartlets from the downstairs refrigerator and arranged them on a pretty blue-and-yellow hand-painted platter, a gift from the Harper sisters. The apple tartlet recipe was new and it called for wonton wrappers to form the tartlet shells. The tartlets and brownies would have to do instead of our usual, more elaborate spread.

“Well, she was a bit vague on that.” Rose hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. It was clear she didn't want to
say anything that suggested Lucy was responsible for Abigail's death, and I wondered if she was withholding information.

“And she said the doctor came to the house, of course, even though it was obvious that Abigail was dead. Any resuscitation efforts would have been in vain.”

“You mean Abigail's personal physician?” Ali asked. “Not the coroner.”

“Yes, of course.” Rose gave a little sniff and Minerva reached over and patted her hand. “This is the last thing I expected.”

“How sad it all is,” Sybil chimed in. She reached for a brownie, hesitated, and then grabbed one. Ali and I exchanged a look. Sybil is very fond of sweets, and every time she has tried to give up sugar she has failed miserably. “You know, I had a really complicated dream about Abigail Marchand last night.”

“Tell us about it,” Ali prompted, passing a pitcher of iced tea. Usually we take turns recounting our dreams. It made sense for Sybil to go first tonight. Everyone seemed to be in shock over Abigail's death—except Dorien, who was taking it in stride—and I was eager to hear Sybil's dream.

“It was nighttime, and the grounds of the estate were shrouded in shadows,” she began. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was visualizing the scene. When she opened her eyes, her voice was low and hypnotic. “The white stucco mansion was dark, all the shutters were closed. The massive wrought iron gate suddenly swung open, and I could feel myself drifting toward the front portico.”

Etta Mae frowned. “You were
drifting
?”

She's one of our newer members and probably doesn't know that Sybil often describes herself as “drifting” or even “flying” over a scene in her dreams. It's an image that many
of our members can relate to; they often dream that they are floating near the ceiling, looking down on a scene. And this is also a commonly reported image in near-death experiences.

“Maybe ‘floating' would be a better word,” Sybil said. “Moonlight was slanting over the beautiful carved door, and I could smell honeysuckle in the air. Everything was still.”

“As still as death,” Minerva said, dabbing her eyes.

“The honeysuckle,” Ali said quietly. “There was a big honeysuckle bush next to the stone lion in the front of the mansion.” She turned to face me. “Do you remember we commented on it?”

I nodded. So far, Sybil's description was spot-on. Still, all of this information could have come from a guide book, I reminded myself.

“I recognized the estate as Beaux Reves, of course,” Sybil continued. “I've never been there, but it's been photographed so many times, I feel like I know it. I saw a woman in a filmy white dress standing on a veranda surrounded by big stone planters. They were filled with the most beautiful flowers I've ever seen: New Guinea impatiens, petunias, tea roses, and daylilies. The vases looked old and vaguely Egyptian to me. They reminded me of a fresco, with images of women etched into the stone.”

“We saw those vases!” Ali said, excited. “There was a pair of giant stone urns with figures in bas-relief. The women had their arms folded in front of them, and they were carrying baskets on their heads. Sybil, this is amazing—you were really at Beaux Reves in your dream. I have no doubt about that.” Sybil smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgment.

Ali sank back, awed.

I could picture the vases from our lunch at Beaux Reves; Sybil had described them perfectly. I glanced over at Dorien,
whose mouth was twisted in a sneer. It was clear that she wasn't enthralled with Sybil's dream. Sybil has a dramatic conversational style, and some people find it a bit over-the-top. She adds a wealth of detail to her dreams and I always find her to be an engaging raconteur. Does she embellish the truth and spice it up a bit? I have no way of knowing. I do know that she has been helpful in solving previous murders, though, so I have no doubt that she has an unusual gift. We are all grateful to have her in the club.

“Was it Abigail you saw—the woman in the white dress?”

Sybil took a deep breath. “No, it wasn't Abigail,” she said after a moment. “At first I thought it was, because there was a strong family resemblance. This woman had bright auburn hair streaming down her back; she wasn't blond like Abigail. She could have been a relative, I suppose.”

“Desiree,” Minerva and Rose chorused.

“Desiree?” I asked.

“Abigail's younger sister,” Minerva explained. “Her life ended tragically, too.” Everyone grew quiet and even Dorien looked up, interested. “Desiree was the opposite of Abigail, who was quite prim and proper, as you know.”

“Desiree was something of a wild child,” Rose interjected. “Ready to do anything on a dare, had loads of suitors, traveled the world. Sometimes I found it hard to believe she and Abigail were even related. Their interests were so different. Desiree was out for a good time, and Abigail devoted her life to good works.”

“What happened to Desiree?” Ali asked.

“No one is quite sure. She drowned a few years ago,” she said simply. “The whole thing was very strange because Desiree had a lifelong fear of the water. She attended a ball that evening, and later, someone spotted her walking down by the docks. I think she was a little”—she gave an apologetic
smile—“tipsy, because she was singing and swinging her high heels in her hand. She was seen walking along the embankment, and I guess she was pretty wobbly.”

“How very odd,” Sybil said. “The woman in my dream was standing by a pool of water, looking into it. She was wearing a silky white dress—I thought it was a nightgown, but I suppose it could have been an evening dress. It looked like a slip.”

“That's it!” Minerva said, clutching her sister's hand. “That's what Desiree was wearing when they found her. A white slip dress. They were all the rage at the time. I remember thinking that only very young, very thin women could get away with wearing dresses like that. Of course, on Desiree it looked beautiful.” She paused. “You know, I probably have a photo of her in that dress, somewhere. I remember her picture appeared in the society column; they did a big write-up on her. She was the belle of ball that night, as always. No one else in Savannah looked like Desiree,” she added. “She was a stunner.”

“The woman in my dream was a stunner, too. She was beautiful,” Sybil said softly. “She was standing so still, just peering into a dark pool of water, and then suddenly a hand came out of nowhere and gave her a shove. She tumbled into the pool, and the water closed over her.”

“How horrible,” Persia said. “Could you see who pushed her?”

“No, I don't have a clue. I have a sense it was a man, but I'm not sure why I think that. All I saw was a gloved hand coming out of the dark. One hard push and the lovely woman in white was gone. There was a splash, I remember, and then there wasn't a sound.” She gave a little shudder.

“That could have been exactly what happened to Desiree,” Minerva said, her face pale. “You know, they always
suspected foul play, but there was never any proof. The police investigated, of course, but the death was ruled inconclusive. I remember a lot of people in Savannah at the time suspected foul play.”

“What did Abigail think happened to her sister?” It occurred to me that Abigail Marchand had the money and connections to launch a full-scale inquiry. Surely she would have done everything she could to find out what happened to her sister?

“Abigail did what she could,” Rose said slowly, as if sensing my thoughts. Her hesitant tone made me think there was more to the story. “I don't know,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess sometimes you just don't get answers in these cases.”

“You do if you look hard enough,” Dorien said brusquely. “Were they close, the two sisters?”

This time Minerva and Rose turned to look at each other. The unspoken thought was
not like we are.
“Well, it's hard to say,” Minerva said slowly. “They were so different, you see. I had the feeling Abigail never really approved of her sister. Did you feel that way, Rose?”

“I certainly did,” Rose said emphatically. “As different as chalk and cheese. Still, Abigail seemed devastated by her death. Even if Desiree was a flighty, silly girl, blood is thicker than water, you know.”

“That it is,” Minerva murmured, bobbing her head. “But I know Abigail made every effort to bring her sister's killer to justice, if there really was foul play in her death,” she said, rising to Abigail's defense.

“Was Abigail a recluse, back when her sister died?” I asked.

“Oh my, yes; nothing has changed in that regard,” Rose said. “In fact, I think she was worse in those days. I remember her saying she wanted to hire a private detective to
look into Desiree's death, but she had no idea how to go about it. She finally turned the whole matter over to her lawyer, and she let him do his best to get to the bottom of it. I don't know what he uncovered, but nothing more was ever said about it. I didn't want to bring it up for fear of upsetting her. I suppose in the end, Abigail had to accept that her sister's death would remain a mystery.”

“A hard thing to accept,” Ali murmured.

For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound in the cozy living room was the whirring noise of the Casablanca fan. Barney jumped into Ali's lap, and she picked him up and hugged him. Whenever she's upset, she finds it very comforting to snuggle the cats close to her and speak softly to them. Scout sashayed in front of the sofa, tail swaying, like a queen reviewing her loyal subjects. Lucinda and Sybil, who are big-time cat lovers, bent down to pet her.