A Premonition of Murder (6 page)

“That wonderful smell,” I began.

“Fresh lemon juice. It's a homemade wood polish I make myself,” she said proudly. “I've been taking care of this furniture for over thirty years now,” she said, running her hand over a beautiful mahogany table. “Not a scratch mark on it.”

I paused to admire the finely crafted round table and the huge vase of violet and blue hydrangeas arranged in the center. The vase looked like a Chinese blue-and-white porcelain flower vase.
Probably worth a small fortune
. “It looks like you're keeping up the place exactly as if Abigail were still here,” I told her.

“Of course.” She brushed back a tear and smiled. I noticed she was wearing a St. Christopher medal. “This house is so full of memories,” she added, ushering me into the kitchen. I was glad she invited me into the kitchen instead of the formal living room. The kitchen is always the heart of the house, and I hoped that a less formal atmosphere might lead to some confidences. I knew that Lucy was fiercely loyal to Abigail, and I would have to tread softly if I wanted to get any information out of her.

“So,” I began, when I was settled at a breakfast bar with a glass of sweet tea, “how are you doing? I know this is a
very tough time for you.” Lucy pushed a plate of homemade blueberry muffins toward me. The delicious scent almost made me swoon, but I shook my head. There are times when one simply has to restrain oneself. I felt virtuous, but I was salivating.

I took another peek at the blueberry muffins.
Streusel topping!
“Well, maybe just a small one,” I said. She grinned and passed me a plate and a porcelain dish of butter. Was I really that obvious?

“I'm doing okay,” she said slowly. “I miss Mrs. Marchand a lot, but I try to focus on what she would have wanted. She would have expected me to take care of the house just like I've always done. People think she was demanding, but she wasn't, not really. She just knew what she wanted. These are beautiful things, and she wanted them cared for properly.”

She let her gaze slide over the spotless kitchen with its white cabinets and black granite countertops. Clearly these were expensive renovations. The appliances were all high-end, and I recognized a gleaming burgundy La Cornue Grand Palais range, which looked like it was straight out of the Orient Express, and a wine cooler disguised as an antique cabinet. I doubt Abigail ever entertained and wondered who had selected the items.

I noticed a collection of colorful porcelain wall plaques; sunflowers, poppies, and an especially pretty one with a fish. They had a Latin feel to them. “These are beautiful. Are they hand-painted?” I asked.

Lucy smiled. “I brought them from my village in Mexico. Mrs. Marchand let me hang them here to remind me of home. I don't usually get homesick, but some days, I long to see my relatives.”

“I suppose it's hard raising Nicky on your own,” I ventured. I had to tread carefully; I didn't want to risk offending
her, or she'd clam up. “Without family around to guide him, I mean.”

“I do my best to lead him on the right path,” she said softly. “He's a good boy. Don't believe what you might have heard about him. He wants to be an electrician. Next year, he's going to take classes and get a two-year degree, and that will start him on his way. As an electrician, he can always find work.”

“Yes, he can,” I agreed. It was oddly quiet and peaceful in the kitchen with the sun streaming in the large windows over the sink. They looked like a recent renovation with double-paned glass.

“Did you know they haven't released her body yet?” Lucy asked suddenly. For the first time, a flash of anger crept into her dark eyes. “We can't even plan a proper funeral.”

“I know,” I said, nodding. “It's very sad. It might take a few days.” I paused; the house seemed unnaturally still, and I wondered if Lucy was the only person living here. But hadn't someone mentioned a summer student? And where was Jeb Arnold, the estate manager?

As if she had read my thoughts, she said, “It's quiet here today. Angus is doing some research at an art museum in Charleston, and Jeb has gone to visit his sister for a few days.”

“Angus . . . ?” I said innocently.

“Angus Morton. Mrs. Marchand invited him here for the summer to catalog the paintings and antiques.” She raised her eyebrows and her mouth twisted in a little grimace. “Mrs. Marchand was, how do you say it? Generous to a fault.”

I nodded, and I wondered what she was hinting at. It was obvious she didn't like this Angus fellow, and I wondered why. “Is he working for free?' I said, hoping I could keep her talking. “Or is this connected to his studies?”

“She pays him a small salary and he gets to live here for
free.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm that encompassed the kitchen and the sun-dappled garden I could see from the bay window. “And yes, you're right. He gets some sort of college credit for it. I suppose it's a trade-off, you could say.” She sniffed. I knew I was on to something. Lucy really didn't like Angus or didn't trust him. But why?

“If he's coming home later today, I'd love to meet him,” I ventured.

Immediately, her eyes were shuttered. She had a nervous tic I'd never noticed before, a strange little twitch to her mouth. “Why would you want to do that?” she said bluntly. There was definitely a frostiness in her tone.

“Well,” I said, thinking quickly, “Ali and I found some old pieces of china in the basement of our candy shop. A few dishes and serving pieces. I think they were left there by a previous tenant at the turn of the century.” I forced myself to smile. “Who knows, they might be valuable. Maybe Angus could tell me.”

“Maybe,” she said grudgingly. “But trust me, he doesn't know as much as he pretends to. Mr. Big Shot.” She snorted. She got up and reached for some ice cubes from the freezer and tossed them into the pitcher of sweet tea on the table. Even with the Casablanca fan whirring, it seemed warm in the kitchen, and I lifted my hair up off my neck for a moment.

I wondered why she didn't like Angus. Did she resent having extra work to do and one more person to cook for? I wondered what the terms of the arrangement were and if he would be staying on for the rest of the summer, even though Abigail had passed away. I took a good look at Lucy. She had a small but muscular frame, and it occurred to me that she could easily push a frail old lady down the stairs. But what would be her motive?

“He acts like a big shot? In what way?” I asked pleasantly.

She let out a little puff of air before sitting down again. She placed her hands on the table in front of her, almost as if she were reaching out to me, a clear sign that she wanted me to believe whatever came next.

“Angus says things are missing from Beaux Reves,” she said sullenly. “And he thinks my son took them. I've been working here for thirty years. I know this place like the back of my hand. I know what's here and what isn't here.”

I sucked in a little breath. I never thought she would be this forthcoming about Nicky. I remembered what Noah had said about the kid's record in juvie, and it was certainly possible that he was up to his old tricks. Lucy's lips had thinned when she mentioned Angus. She was clearly defensive about her son, but was she also in denial? How far would she go to protect him? Would she kill?

“Why in the world would Angus suspect your son of theft?” I tried to inject a note of surprise into my voice. “I'm sure your son is a wonderful young man,” I said as sincerely as I could.

Lucy shrugged and gave a dismissive wave with her hand. “He's a good boy,” she said, not making eye contact. “He had a little trouble in the past, that's all. It was nothing. He had some friends I wasn't too crazy over, and I think they set him up.” She was still staring at the breakfast bar as though she had never seen it before. If Noah were here, he would surely take this as evidence she was lying. She wouldn't make eye contact with me.

She finally looked up, but I stayed silent, hoping she would say more. “You know I would never let anything happen to Mrs. Marchand's belongings,” she said in a wheedling tone. “I take care of them like they're my own.”

I tried not to raise my eyebrows at that last statement. With millions of dollars coming her way, maybe she really did think
of Beaux Reves as her own private paradise. I wanted to find a way to poke around upstairs to see if I could find any evidence of a diary or at least a date book, but Lucy glanced pointedly at her watch and stood up. Teatime was over.

I thanked her and drove back the long winding drive, more puzzled than ever. The sun was high in the sky, making interesting patterns through the live oak leaves lining the road. I squinted against the bright sunlight and hummed along with the radio that was tuned to an oldies rock station. Bobby McFerrin was urging everyone not to worry and to be happy. I sang along with him, so happy that I'd deliberately “forgotten” my sunglasses on the hall table.

6

“So you didn't find out anything?” Ali asked later that afternoon. She'd met me at the Riverwalk, and we planned to stroll for a bit and then head over to the lawyer's office. I'd had quite a time trying to convince Norman Osteroff's secretary to grant us a quick appointment. It was a Sunday and Osteroff had ordered his secretary to meet him there for a few hours to take a deposition. I had to fib and say that one of our friends—Sara Rutledge—was planning to write a feature on Beaux Reves for the
Savannah Herald
, and we were helping her with her research.

Whether or not he would believe my story was up for grabs. I'd heard that Osteroff had the reputation of being one of Savannah's shrewdest lawyers, and I was afraid he'd see right through my plan, but I was out of ideas. I hoped he wouldn't call the newspaper and ask to speak to Sara's editor. I'm sure he has the money and clout to be put right through to the publisher, if he wanted to. This was worst-case scenario,
of course. One phone call from Osteroff to the newspaper, and Ali and I would be toast.

“Nothing really useful,” I answered Ali. I told her about Angus, the graduate student, and Jeb, the estate manager who was out of town. “Lucy was just rattling around in that big house all by herself. She seems to be taking Abigail's death very hard, but it's difficult to know. And she admitted that her son has had some problems in the past. She made a big deal out of defending him. Blamed it all on bad companions.” I remembered how Lucy's eyes had darkened when I questioned her about the thefts Angus had reported. How far would a mother go to protect her son?

Ali stopped dead in her tracks, and I nearly crashed into her. “We might be standing right on the spot where Desiree tumbled into the water,” Ali said solemnly, glancing down into dark blue water. The river was sparkling in the bright Savannah sunlight, but the beauty of the scene was wasted on Ali.

Ali's voice was low and soft, her eyes filled with shadows. “She could have been walking right about here. I can just imagine her, young and beautiful with everything to live for . . .” Her voice trailed off and she stared at a tanker that was docked nearby. Ali's thoughts can take a melancholy turn from time to time, and I tucked my arm through hers to hurry her along the walkway. “No more dark thoughts, okay?” I said, patting her hand. She gave me a tremulous smile and nodded.

It was the perfect day to lunch outdoors, and the umbrella tables at the riverfront restaurants were packed with tourists. But Ali wasn't watching the tourists eating ice-cream cones in the bright Georgia sunlight or taking in the sweet scent of magnolias. Her mind was reaching back to a lovely young girl in a white slip dress who died before her time.

“It's sad, isn't it?” She blinked and looked at me. “First Desiree and now Abigail.”

“Yes, it is. But, Ali, the best thing we can do right now is focus on finding Abigail's killer,” I said briskly. “And who knows, maybe we'll finally know what happened to Desiree, too. We can't lose sight of our goal.”

“I know you're right,” she said, falling into step with me. “Let's give old Norman a run for his money. He certainly can't stonewall two of us, can he?”

*   *   *

Stonewall us? He
could and he did. Norman Osteroff is a world-class stonewaller. It was obvious from the get-go that he wasn't buying the notion that Ali and I were visiting him on a “fact-finding” mission.

He waved us to a seat in his luxurious office and his geriatric, blue-haired receptionist—who was as frosty as he was—offered us a cold drink. I declined, only because he looked so annoyed and clearly wanted us out of there as soon as possible. Ali asked for an iced tea, and the receptionist allowed herself a brief eye roll, and then quietly left to get one.

I settled into a comfortable red leather chair with brass tacks and admired the fine furnishings—a huge mahogany desk, Oriental rugs in muted shades of Wedgwood blue and pale yellow, a Queen Anne sideboard piled high with manila files. Osteroff reminded me of a character from another century, and I wondered if he insisted on using paper files. Certainly legal offices had all gone to computers, hadn't they?
How can they research case law without access to LexisNexis?
But there wasn't a computer in sight
. Odd.

The walls were dotted with lovely oil paintings, Impressionist landscapes and street scenes from the Historic District. There was a charming watercolor of Waving Girl, the
statue of Florence Martus that graces the Savannah Harbor; it was hanging right next to a small watercolor of Beaux Reves.

I wondered if it was a gift from Abigail. The painting depicted the mansion and gardens on a sun-dappled day with puffs of white clouds dotting a turquoise sky. The shutters were thrown open and a profusion of yellow and white roses spilled out of sandstone vases next to the front door. Osteroff saw me glancing at the paintings and cleared his throat.

“We promise not to take up much of your time,” I said apologetically as he looked at his watch and scowled. Mr. Congeniality, he wasn't. I wondered how Abigail had put up with him all these years and then reminded myself that he must have treated her very differently from the way he was treating us. After all, she was his star client, and I was sure she'd provided a handsome income for him over the years.

“Just a few quick questions,” Ali promised. Her friendly grin was lost on the straitlaced lawyer, who looked like he hadn't cracked a smile in thirty years. In his stiff white collar and black suit, he reminded me of a cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and an undertaker. Not a good visual. Rose Harper always says that Ali could “charm the pants off a honeybee,” but this time she had her work cut out for her.

“I have a two o'clock,” he said petulantly. “So if you can be brief . . .” He was tapping a fountain pen on a datebook, and I noticed he checked his watch and jotted down the time of our arrival. By reading upside down, I managed to learn that his daily calendar was divided into ten-minute increments. I wondered what it would be like to track your activities every ten minutes, all day long
. Crazy-making, that's what it would be like.

When I was doing my MBA, I had a professor who
recommended this strategy as a great way to track your productivity, but I could never handle it. And Ali, free spirit that she is, would never manage it, either. Measuring out our lives in ten-minute spoonfuls would drive us both insane. We'd probably already squandered two or three minutes of our allotted time with the stone-faced lawyer, so I figured we'd better get straight to the point.

“You told my secretary you're here about an article,” he said, jumping in ahead of me. He had remained standing, which was a little disconcerting. Either it was some sort of power play or he hoped he could nudge us out the door more quickly this way.

“Yes,” I said brightly. “Our good friend Sara Rutledge is a reporter, and she's doing a piece on Beaux Reves. Now that Abigail has passed away”—I paused and bowed my head for a second—“we thought you might be able to fill in some details.”

“Why in the world would you think that?” he asked churlishly. He glanced out the window for a moment—his office was on the tenth floor, and he had an excellent view of the Historic District—and then sank into his desk chair. He picked up the old-timey fountain pen again, thought better of it, and put it back down on the leather-topped desk.

I noticed it had faint nibble marks on the tip and wondered if this was his secret vice—nibbling on pen tips. Maybe this was his version of squeezing a stress ball. He looked so rigid and controlled, it was hard to imagine him ever suffering from stress or anxiety.

“Well, you've probably known her longer than most people,” I ventured. “So that gives you a unique perspective on her and on Beaux Reves.”

“That may be true,” he said curtly. “But all the more reason to protect her legacy and honor her wishes.” He shook
his head from side to side in a quick, nervous gesture. “If Abigail were with us today, she never would have granted an interview to your friend. She refused all media requests, and in her later years, she rarely left the estate. And one thing she made clear—she loathed reporters.”

He gave a little snort of satisfaction and then leaned forward, shooting me a keen look. “I'm surprised you're not aware of this, Ms. Blake. It makes me wonder how well the two of you really knew Abigail.”

I exchanged a look with Ali. I was fairly certain that Norman had Googled us, discovered we owned a vintage candy shop on Clark Street, and probably knew our net worth down to the last dollar. We obviously weren't part of his social scene. He probably thought of us as carpetbaggers. We were newcomers to Savannah, didn't have a fancy pedigree, and certainly weren't old money. I bet not much got by those glacial blue eyes. I remember the shrewd look he shot at us the day of the luncheon; his eyes had been cold and unblinking. I bet he didn't miss a trick.

The receptionist returned with Ali's iced tea. Ali took a tiny, delicate sip and then put the glass on a coaster. I glanced at Osteroff and nearly laughed. It was all he could do to restrain himself. He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop, frowning.

“What is it you want to know?” He gave a strangely feral smile that was probably intended to be gracious but missed the mark. He had obviously decided it was smarter to throw us a few crumbs to get out us out of his office. “Something about Beaux Reves, you said?” He looked ancient in the harsh sunlight streaming in the window, and his voice was querulous, an old man's voice. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be older than I'd originally thought, and might even be a contemporary of Abigail.

“Yes, anything you can tell us would be helpful,” I said, reaching into my tote bag and pulling out a notebook. “Anything about the mansion itself, or perhaps the Marchand family.”

He sat back, plunked his elbow on the desk, and stroked his chin. “Well, you can find out anything you need to about the history and the décor of the mansion in Savannah guide books,” he said swiftly. “You don't need me to rehash all that.” Ali looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
Uh-oh.
This was going to be harder than I'd thought.

“No, we don't,” I said agreeably. “But as for the Marchand family—” I began, and he cut me off.

“I have a question for you, Ms. Blake,” he said, pointing his pen at me as if it were a lethal weapon. “Why did Abigail invite you for lunch with her? She mentioned that you were new in town, but that's all she said. The woman could be damn secretive when she wanted to be,” he added peevishly.

Ali quickly explained about the Harper sisters, their long friendship with Abigail, and the desire for “new blood” in the Magnolia Society.

Osteroff allowed himself a small chuckle. “So she tried to rope you into volunteer work?” he asked. “She was always good at getting people to do things for her. Then she'd take the credit.” He'd broken off eye contact, and seemed lost in thought, staring out the window again.

“So you know about the Magnolia Society?” I asked, hoping he would reveal more details.

“Yes, of course I do. I did the legal work to get them recognized as a legitimate charity. We wanted to make sure all the donations were tax-deductible. That was years ago.” He turned back to face us. He'd obviously forgotten about his packed schedule because he crossed his legs and settled back as if he was ready for a chat. “I figured it was just
another one of Abigail's impulsive decisions, but she was dead set on establishing the group and keeping it going.”

“It's a philanthropic society, right?”

“That's what she liked to think.” He cackled. “Actually, it's a bunch of old dears with too much time on their hands. And more money than they know how to spend.”

Ali sneaked a look at me and I could read her thoughts. Neither one of us had expected this snarkiness from the old-timey lawyer. I wondered if they could have had a falling-out shortly before her death or if there was some long-standing resentment on his part.