A Premonition of Murder (7 page)

“Did she ask you for a donation?”

I shook my head. “Not money, just our time. And she even backed off on that once she realized . . .” I stopped, wishing I could take back the words.

“Once she realized what?” Osteroff leaned forward so quickly in his chair, he nearly catapulted himself onto the desktop.

Ali bit her lip. “Once she realized she'd be around long enough to handle the Society's business herself.”

Osteroff was either a good actor or he was genuinely surprised. “Why wouldn't she be around? Her parents lived well into their nineties. She came from good stock. I don't think the woman was ever sick a day in her life.”

“She never mentioned any premonitions to you?”

“Premonitions? Like what?”

“Abigail was having nightmares,” I explained. “She was dreaming about her own death. She was sure she was going to die sometime soon and she wanted to make sure the Magnolia Society would continue on without her.”

“This is news to me,” Osteroff said. “Dreaming of her own death? Abigail was a sensible woman.” He snorted. “At least more sensible than those silly friends of hers in their
orthopedic shoes. Those sisters with the flower shop.” I knew he was referring to the Harper sisters, and I bristled. “I never figured Abigail would be the type to get caught up in such nonsense.” This time he stood up and looked pointedly at his watch.

“Do you know anything about a distant relative suddenly turning up?” Ali asked. “Someone she hadn't seen in years?”

“No.” His voice was tense, clipped. “Now, if there's nothing else . . .”

“How well did you know Desiree Marchand?” I asked him. It was a shot in the dark, but it found its mark.

“Desiree was the younger sister of Abigail,” he said curtly. “She was a lovely young woman, and she drowned several years ago.” His tone was as flat as the Savannah River on a calm day, not a ripple anywhere. Another pointed glance at his watch. “There's no mystery there, if that's what you're thinking.” No mystery? Interesting that he would choose that word. I hadn't said a word about a mystery.

“No, of course not,” I said. “I just thought Sara—our friend—might like to add something about Desiree to the article. Abigail never mentioned her to us.”

“I'm sure it was a painful topic for her,” he said shortly. “I don't think she ever fully recovered from her sister's death. And now if you'll excuse me—”

Right on cue, the elderly assistant knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Your two o'clock is here, Mr. Osteroff.” She stood in the doorway, holding the door open, clearly ready to usher us out.

“Thank you for your time.” I stood up while Ali took a last gulp of her iced tea. I picked up my purse and then paused when I spotted a set of framed photographs of horses on the far wall. The horses were sleek, with gleaming coats, grazing in a lush green pasture. They looked like Arabians,
but I'm no expert. “You raise horses?” I asked, surprised. I hadn't figured Osteroff for an animal lover.

“My wife's expensive hobby,” he said with a wry smile. “I've never owned a pet in my life, but I have to admit, these horses have grown on me. They're beautiful animals, aren't they?” He looked fondly at a picture of an attractive forty-something blonde holding the reins of a large chestnut horse
. Trophy wife?
“That's Elyse with Thunderbolt,” he said proudly. “She's teaching me how to groom him. Maybe raising horses will be my retirement hobby some day.”

I smiled. It was hard to picture Norman Osteroff in jeans and a work shirt, wielding a currycomb. Would the high-powered lawyer, with his tony office and well-heeled clientele, slip off into retirement at a horse farm? I seriously doubted it. And with that, our meeting was over.

7

“So it was definitely murder?” Ali and I were grabbing a late lunch with Noah. Since it was a picture-postcard Savannah day, and we couldn't bear to go inside, Noah bought muffalettas for us to eat in Forsythe Square. The tasty treats, with their distinctive layer of marinated olives, originated in New Orleans but have become popular in Savannah. I dashed to an outdoor vendor and bought three large fresh lemonades for us before we settled on a wrought iron bench near the famous fountain.

“I'm afraid so.”

He handed us our sandwiches, and Ali opened the wax paper to peer at hers suspiciously. “Mine is vegetarian, I hope.”

“Always.” Noah grinned at her. Noah is almost as close to Ali as I am and plays the role of protective big brother with her. “I know the drill. No salami, no ham, and they doubled up on the provolone and the mozzarella for you.”

“Perfect,” she said. “This is heaven.” She smiled, tucking into her sandwich.

“Now, time to get down to business,” Noah said. He took a big drink of lemonade. “And a sad business it is. According to the ME, there's no doubt that Abigail was pushed.” He glanced at me.

“You're sure?” I suppose I still found it hard to believe anyone would kill Abigail.

“The coroner is sure,” Noah replied. “And the police chief agrees. That's good enough for me.”

“I wonder how they decide something like that,” Ali said, her brow furrowed.

Noah hesitated for a moment. “Taylor, I'll send you the crime scene photos and you'll see why they came to that conclusion. There are certain details . . .” He nodded his head toward Ali, who was busily breaking off crumbs of bread and tossing them to a robin that was hopping in front of us. This wasn't the time or place for gory descriptions. “How did you do with Osteroff?” he asked, changing the subject.

“We didn't get anywhere, I'm afraid. He clammed up when we asked about Desiree and couldn't wait to get us out of his office. You might have done better.” I like to give credit where credit is due.

Noah is a first-rate interviewer, and I am always amazed at what he picks up on—the slightest hint of a frown on a suspect's face, a nuance in the voice, or even an obvious “tell.” Noah taught me be to be aware of body language and facial expressions. A suspect who's lying might unconsciously send a mixed message to an interviewer. Sometimes people say no, but unconsciously nod their heads up and down in a
yes
gesture. It's a strange phenomenon, and I've noticed it several times since Noah first mentioned it. Now I watch for it all the time.

“Not necessarily. He's one of the best lawyers in town, and he has the reputation of holding his cards close to his vest. People may not like him, but they respect him.”

“Osteroff isn't all bad,” Ali piped up. “He likes horses.”

Noah laughed. “Well, then he does have some redeeming features. How did he happen to mention horses?” I explained that his trophy wife raised what looked like Arabian horses and Osteroff seemed to have a soft spot for them. “Any leads on the mystery houseguest?”

“Not a word. All the Harper sisters could tell us was she's called Sophie Stanton and she popped up out of nowhere. I'm not even sure what the relationship is to Abigail. Abigail did tell Minerva once about a long-standing family feud and it seems the European relatives were estranged from the Americans for quite some time. Maybe even decades.”

“Don't you think it's odd that she suddenly turned up now?” Noah asked.

“Very,” I replied. “I'm not really sure what to make of it. We asked Osteroff about her, but he denied even knowing her. He pretended he didn't know what we were talking about. Now that Abigail is gone, I don't think anyone in town would even recognize her. Is there any way you could check her out for us?”

“I could run her name through a couple of databases,” Noah offered, “but unless she has a driver's license or something to connect her to Savannah, I don't know what I'll find. She may not even be using her real name. Sophie Stanton, you said?”

“Yes. I'll double-check with the Harper sisters tonight. I wonder if Stanton is her maiden name or her married name. I guess we could start there.”

“And she came over from Europe?”

“South of France, I believe.” I closed my eyes for a moment
and leaned back, enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. It was so calm and peaceful with the gurgling fountain and the songbirds in the magnolia trees. If I'd been sitting here alone, I think I would have dozed off. Instead I sat up, blinked a couple of times, and blew out a little puff of air, determined to shake off my fatigue. We were smack in the middle of a murder investigation, and I had to stay focused.

“Then she must have a passport,” Noah said. “I've got some friends over at the State Department. I can ask someone in the Bureau of Consular Affairs to check it out for us.” Noah has a strong network of friends in high places, and I'm always impressed by his ability to access information so swiftly.

“Let's recap,” he continued. “Did anyone ever meet Nicky Dargos, Lucy's son?”

I shook my head. “He was out when I called at Beaux Reves, and he wasn't around the day we had lunch there. I can ask the Harper sisters if they've met him, but I doubt it. I think they would have mentioned it.”

“And no one's met this Angus fellow, the grad student.”

“No, and I'm really eager to talk to him.” I thought fast, remembering I'd asked Lucy if he might like to take a look at some of our basement “finds.” “Lucy wasn't too keen on my meeting him even when I told her I'd pay him to appraise some china we'd found in the basement of the shop.”

“What china?” Ali said, feeding the last of the bread to the robin.

“There isn't any. I just said that to get my foot in the door with him.”

“That's not a bad idea,” Noah said, and there was a look of admiration on his face. “Good thinking, Taylor. I'd do it sooner rather than later, if you can swing it. Don't wait for Lucy to set up a meeting; do it yourself.”

“I don't have any contact information,” I said doubtfully.

“He must have a cell phone,” Noah said, pulling out a tablet. “Angus Morton?” I nodded and his fingers raced over the screen. “Got it,” he said a moment later and turned to me. “I texted it to you.”

“What if he asks me how I got his phone number?”

“You'll think of something; you're creative.” He stood up, finished up the last of his lemonade. “So do we have a plan?”

“We do,” I agreed. “I need some face time with Nicky Dargos and Angus Morton.”

“And I'm going to find out some more about this mysterious relative, Sophie Stanton,” Noah said. “Is she really a long-lost relative, or is she a scam artist?”

“She's out of town at the moment, according to the housekeeper, but I suppose she'll have to come back eventually.” I paused. “I wonder why she didn't come rushing back the moment she realized Abigail had died. It makes me think they weren't that close, after all. The whole situation is strange.”

“She'll have to return to Savannah at some point. We'll probably meet her at Abigail's funeral,” Ali said. “If she's really a relative and she's staying at Beaux Reves, it would look pretty odd if she didn't show up.”

“It would definitely raise some eyebrows. I can't wait to have a chat with her,” Noah said, his eyes darkening.

*   *   *

“My dream was
very strange. I felt like I was trapped in an Agatha Christie novel.” Minerva paused to take a tiny bite of an éclair. Chocolate éclairs are a new item on the café menu, and I wondered how they would hold up in the refrigerator overnight. The pastry was so thin and flaky that we might have to make them fresh each day.

I turned my attention back to Minerva. The Dream Club
was in session, again; we needed to meet daily to keep up with all the new developments in the case. Minerva had asked to go first that evening. The summer heat was still bearing down on us, even though the sun had set, and I'd made extra pitchers of sweet tea to serve with the brownies and éclairs.

“An Agatha Christie novel? It sounds like fun. Which one was it?” Persia jumped in. Persia is a great Agatha Christie fan and is something of an expert on the famous mystery writer.

“
And Then There Were None
,” Minerva replied. “Her most popular book, I believe.”

“I read that book. She said it was the most difficult book of her career,” Ali said softly. “Interesting that you would think of that, Minerva. I wonder what the significance could be?”

“Yes, but what's the connection with the dream?” Dorien asked. “Do you mean someone mentioned the book in your dream, or—”

“No, no one mentioned it,” Minerva said firmly. “But the name of the book just flew through my mind. In my dream, I was saying it over and over to myself, under my breath, like a mantra.”

“It sounds odd and a little sinister,” Sybil offered. “What was the mood of the dream? Did you have a sense of foreboding?” I'd learned from Ali that it's best to focus on the emotional content of the dream. It's more reliable than the actual details. When someone in the Dream Club recounts a dream, I listen very carefully for any underlying emotions—desire, fear, anxiety, or happiness.

“Yes, a very strong sense of foreboding,” Minerva continued. Her voice wobbled a little, and she gave a nervous laugh, touching her throat. “It's odd, but the feeling is still with me. I felt that something dreadful was going to happen
from the moment I pulled open these giant oak doors. They looked almost medieval, with black hardware, the kind of door you would see in a castle with a moat. I stepped inside and found myself standing in a great hall with dark wood paneling and high ceilings. A very fancy floor, some sort of mosaic tile.”

“It sounds like a museum,” Lucinda said under her breath. I glanced at her and wondered if she was thinking of a particular building in Savannah.

“I was surrounded by a circle of women, and there was a lively conversation going on. I didn't recognize anyone in the group, and I was wondering how I should introduce myself”—she paused dramatically—“when it happened.”

“When
what
happened?” Sybil asked.

“The women started disappearing,” Minerva said breathlessly. “One by one.”

“What do you mean ‘disappearing'?” Dorien's tone was brusque. She picked up an éclair with her napkin, scrutinized it as though she were examining a counterfeit bill, and then replaced it on the serving tray. Dorien is persnickety about everything, especially food. She's struggling to make a living from her catering business, and I sometimes wonder if she's jealous of our success with our little café downstairs.

“I can't explain it,” Minerva said, “but I knew the women were dying off. One by one, their images would grow fainter; each woman would turn into a shadow and then she would disappear completely.”

“Did the women speak to you?” Persia asked. “Did any of them reach out to you for help?”

“Not a word. And no one made a move toward me. I'm not even sure they realized I was there.” Minerva hesitated. “I had the sense that all this had taken place a long time ago. There was nothing I could do in the present to help them. It
seemed sad but inevitable.” She turned to Ali. “Does this make sense to you?”

“Yes, it does,” Ali said in a gentle voice. “Time and space have no meaning in dreams, so we can easily visit a scene from the past. Somehow we know it's the past even though no one spells it out for us. There's a sense of distance, as if what we're seeing and experiencing took place in another time.”

“These women,” Ali asked, “how were they dressed?”

“Oh, they were very well dressed, in bright colors and heels. They looked like socialites.”

“Socialites?” Dorien snorted. She has had a hardscrabble life, and she often makes jabs at anyone she considers to be in a higher social class. “You mean a bunch of stuck-up snobs?”