Dream a Little Scream (14 page)

“Ali, ad space is expensive, and you know we have zero in the promo budget right now.”

My worst fear was that the store would slowly slip back into the red. Ironic. A few months ago, the shop was bleeding red ink when I flew in to help Ali turn the business around. And now it was dangerously close to coming full circle—in a couple of weeks, we could be right back in the red again. This time might be the death knell for the store. How could I convince Ali that we needed to cut back on expenses and not toss our money away on foolish projects? At this point, every penny had to count. Our bottom line had taken a big hit with Sonia's death, and who knew if it would ever recover.

“Oh, we won't pay for it—or we won't pay very much.” Her tone was light and casual, and I tried not to bristle. She gave a little wave of dismissal, and it was obvious she wasn't taking my worries to heart. “We'll just run it in one of the neighborhood shopping circulars,” Ali said blithely, “not one of the major newspapers. You can buy ads for almost nothing in these little fliers. I've already called to get an estimate. And I'm thinking maybe we can work out a co-op arrangement
with another store.” She jotted a note on a Post-it. “That way, they'd be footing half the bill for the ad. Although, if we get a really good deal, we could probably pay for it ourselves.”

“A co-op ad,” I said slowly.

“Yes, it will cut our expenses in half. All I have to do is find someone who wants to go in with us on the ad, fifty-fifty. It's a win-win situation.” She thought for a moment. “In fact, I was just thinking that this might be something you'd like to follow up on, wouldn't you, Dana?”

Dana nodded and immediately whipped out her own notebook. She was superorganized and kept a list of her daily tasks; it made it easy for us to give her professors a detailed description of how she spent her time.

“I guess I'm not clear on something,” I piped up. I shook my head, wondering where she was going with this. “What's our end of the deal? What can we offer another business that would make them want to split an ad with us?”

“Well, we could pick a specialty store, maybe a cheese store. We'll feature some of their products in our recipes. And we'll put up a poster in the shop, telling customers where they can get ingredients for all the recipes. That would really be good advertising. I bet a lot of businesses would like to take advantage of the opportunity.”

I shook my head. “I'm not at all sure about that.”

“Of course they will. Don't you see?” Ali raced on, her eyes alive with excitement. “It will be a way to generate new business. Everyone loves a free cooking class, and as you can see”—she reached over and flipped the pad to a new page—“we're offering them for all age groups.”

“Indeed,” I said, at a loss for words. “All age groups.”

“We even have Toddler Chef classes,” Dana said brightly. “That was Ali's idea. There's something for every age group.” Her voice was spiraling upward, and she was now practically
vibrating with enthusiasm. “I think the Toddler Chef class is going to be my favorite. We can have little aprons printed up with the name of the shop on the front and maybe even go for those cute white hats that chefs wear.”

“Toques,” Ali said helpfully.

“Yes, toques,” Dana agreed. “There must be a specialty store somewhere that makes them in children's sizes.”

Toddler Chef?
Ali loved kids of all ages, but I could just picture the shop being overrun with out-of-control toddlers in toques and their doting moms. It sounded nightmarish.

“You like the idea, don't you?” Ali's voice suddenly wavered for a moment. She shot me a keen, questioning glance, and I knew this was the moment of truth. If I dashed her hopes about the cooking classes, it would be a huge setback for her. And for the shop, I wagered.

“Like it?” I reached across the desk to bump fists with her. “I love it!” I managed to keep a grin plastered on my face even though my spirits were sinking and a cash register in my head was going
ka-ching, ka-ching
at the thought of all the money we'd be spending that we didn't have.

“There's more,” she said eagerly, pointing to the legal pad. “Keep going. It gets better.”

I flipped over the next page.
Oh no!
It seemed we were also offering
Master Chef
classes. At no charge, of course. So that made a total of three classes: the regular, The Magic of Cupcakes, presumably aimed at adults; the dreaded Toddler Chef class for mothers and toddlers; and the Master Chef class for people who were seasoned cooks. My mind reeled at what this would entail.

I conjured up an imaginary expense sheet. Ali often tells me I have the soul of an accountant, and she doesn't mean it as a compliment. The expenses for the supplies would add up exponentially, unless we offered the finished products for sale
at the end of the class. And wouldn't that defeat the whole purpose? In most cooking classes, the participants are allowed to bring the goodies home with them. Of course, most cooking school students pay for the privilege of attending class. With Ali's plan, we were giving away the store. Literally.

Another objection reared its ugly head. Would we have to suspend normal business hours while the classes were in progress? I looked around the already crowded shop, with its narrow aisles and overflowing display cases. As far as I could tell, we'd have to widen the center aisle and hold the classes there. Of course, business wasn't exactly booming, so losing a morning's sales might not make much difference either way.

“And guess what the best part is?” Ali asked.

I shook my head. I literally couldn't come up with a single thought.

“We'll be teaching the classes together.”

“We? We, as in you and me?”

“Yes, of course.” Ali grinned. “It's time for you to get your hands dirty, Taylor. You can't just sit around and crunch numbers all day long. C'mon,” she teased me, “you're up for a challenge, aren't you?”

“Well, I'm game, I guess.” I swallowed hard. Cooking is not my forte and Ali knows it. Ali has always been in charge of making the luscious pastries, and my sole contribution has been defrosting them and serving them at Dream Club meetings. This was a game changer, and I didn't know what to make of it.

“I can picture it now,” Ali said dreamily. She had her chin in her hand, staring at the front of the shop, with the bright window display that Dana had designed. Dana had displayed copies of Sonia's dessert books on a white wicker table and had placed a platter of frosted cupcakes in front of them.
Balloons and confetti added to the festive air. “Just think about it, Taylor. The whole shop will be filled with happy customers, all enjoying homemade treats they've baked themselves. And all the cute little kids—they'll be so happy decorating cupcakes, and we'll give them helium balloons to take home. I can see it all in my mind's eye.” She gave a happy sigh. “It's perfect, isn't it?” she murmured.

I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Perfect,” I agreed. “Absolutely perfect.” Really, there are some situations in life when a little white lie—or a whopping big lie—is called for, and this was one of them.

15

“Things are getting stickier,” Persia Walker said ominously. It was 8:15 the following morning and she was calling from the law firm. “You'll never guess who inherited Sonia's fortune.” She sounded out of breath, and I wondered if she'd just run upstairs. Her law office is on the fifth floor of a downtown office building, and Persia's doctor has been urging her to take the stairs instead of the elevator in the hopes of losing a few pounds.

“Don't keep me in suspense,” I pleaded. Ali padded into the kitchen with Barney and Scout trotting behind her. I quickly switched the call to speakerphone and motioned to Ali, who took a seat at the round oak table. “Persia, I'm putting you on speaker,” I said quickly. “Ali's here.”

“Are the two of you sitting down?” Persia teased, drawing out the moment for all it was worth.

“Yes!” we chorused, and I heard a throaty chuckle at the other end of the line.

“Well, here's the big news. It's Trudy Carpenter, Sonia's niece. Trudy is Sonia's sole heir, outside of a few bequests here and there to some of her longtime employees.”

“Most of her fortune went to Trudy? What about Jeremy Watts and Olivia Hudson?”

My mind was reeling at the news, and I tried to make sense of it. This was the last thing I'd expected. If Sonia wasn't close to her niece, why did she leave everything to her? And Sonia wore a necklace with Trudy's name on it. That certainly suggested a strong relationship. Did Sonia know that Trudy was living with an ex-con, a real lowlife? I wondered if Trudy had any children and if Sonia had really intended the money to go to them. I made a mental note to ask Noah the next time I talked to him.

“Nothing,” Persia said flatly. “Not a penny to Jeremy or Olivia.” She waited a beat and then went on, “I was really surprised at that, because she left a fairly generous amount to some of her favorite employees. Did you happen to meet anyone named Charlotte Cross at the book signing?”

Ali looked at me and shook her head. “No, I'm sure I didn't, and her name wasn't in the guest book. Ali doesn't know her, either. What's her connection with Sonia?”

“I'm still trying to figure that out,” Persia replied. “Sonia must have been fond of Charlotte, because there's a bequest for Charlotte's daughter, Annabelle, to attend the Academy right here in Savannah. Sonia even left enough money for her to attend four years of college, too. Anywhere she wants to go.”

“That's interesting,” Ali mused. “Remember when Lucinda said that Sonia was once a student at the Academy? She must have had warm feelings toward the place if she left a bequest like that. It's a very pricey school.”

“I do remember that.” The whole thing was baffling to
me. A sudden thought zinged in my mind. “Persia, this is all in the public record, right?”

“Yes, anyone can look it up if they want,” she replied.

“And the media?”

“The news services haven't caught on yet, but I know they will. Once the story breaks, I'm sure it's going to be big.”

“Has anyone tried to contact Trudy?”

“I heard from the grapevine that someone from the
Tribune
tried, but they haven't had any luck. I don't know what it would take to lure her out,” Persia said. Her voice dropped a notch. “I better run. My boss is here and I'm supposed to sit in on a deposition. I'll text you the most recent address for Trudy. Later, guys.”

“This is getting more and more interesting,” Ali said when the connection was broken.

I made a quick call to Sara while Ali fed Barney and Scout and made herself a strawberry smoothie for breakfast. Sara agreed to contact Trudy and see if she would agree to a brief meeting, and I decided to try another tack.

“Ali, how would you like to take a quick ride with me this morning?” It was almost 9 a.m., and Dana had just arrived to help out with things at the shop. The freezer was stocked with soups and I'd made biscuits and muffins the night before, so I was sure she could manage on her own for a couple of hours.

“Sure, where are we headed?” Ali was already pinning her hair on top of her head, ready to jump into the shower.

“Trudy Carpenter's parents. Clare Carpenter is Sonia's sister.” She raised her eyebrows. “Assuming they haven't moved. Lucinda Macavy gave me their old address from the days when Trudy was a student at the Academy.” I glanced at my watch. “We can be there in an hour or so. We might learn something interesting.”

“Just give me five minutes,” Ali said, zipping down the hall.

She was true to her word, and after she poured her smoothie into a travel mug, we jumped into the car and headed south out of Savannah.

•   •   •

“Shouldn't we have
called them first?” Ali asked as we zipped along a country road toward Brunswick.

“I think we need the element of surprise,” I told her. “Besides, they have an unlisted number, and we need to strike while the iron's hot. In a day or so, they'll be fending off reporters, and they might leave town or barricade themselves inside their house. This could be our only chance to talk with them.”

“How did Lucinda happen to have their address? Was she friendly with them?” Ali asked.

“She had their address from the school records, but that's a good point.” I heaved a sigh. “I should have asked her how well she knew them; that might have given us a foot in the door. I could have asked her for an introduction.” I was kicking myself for not thinking of this earlier.

“Who knows?” Ali shrugged. “It was a long time ago. We might have to take our chances and play it by ear. Let's just do the best we can. I have a good feeling about this,” she added.
My sister, the optimist.

When we pulled off the main road and headed up a narrow lane overgrown with crepe myrtle, I was already regretting my decision. Why had I thought Trudy's parents would be interested in talking with us?

Some of Ali's impulsiveness must be rubbing off on me, I decided. I was acting in a way that was completely out of character for me. I never do anything spontaneously, and I
weigh my options carefully. This time I'd jumped in feet first, and I had no idea why.

Then my thoughts screeched to a halt because the house loomed into view, an imposing white brick affair tucked behind towering black wrought iron gates.

“Wow,” Ali said softly, “I wasn't expecting this.”

“Me, either,” I said, shaking my head. “It's spectacular.” The house reminded me of a Hollywood version of a Southern mansion. Lush foliage, weeping willows, a sprawling veranda, and a long second-floor balcony running the length of the house. I almost expected to spot the Tarleton twins lounging on the front porch sipping mint juleps, waiting for Scarlett to join them.

It appeared the Carpenters were not only wealthy, but “one percent” wealthy. The richest of the rich. I was fascinated by the estate. What in the world was Trudy doing living in a seedy part of town when her parents were living in splendor? Maybe Noah's instincts had been right when he suggested that Trudy might be the black sheep of the family. I needed to know more, because nothing made sense to me. Questions for the Carpenters were zinging through my brain. But would they answer them? And why should they talk to us at all?

There was a video surveillance box by the gate, and Ali hopped out to pick up the phone. The screen suddenly jumped to life, and I knew someone was checking her out. She put on her most winning smile, said a few words into the microphone, and jumped back in the car.

“Well?” I asked.

“Abracadabra, open sesame,” she said as the massive gates parted. She held her arms straight out in front of her, palms up, like a wizard.

“Ali, you are amazing. What did you tell them?” I pulled
through the gates and headed up a curvy driveway framed by live oaks.

“I said we were here to pay a condolence call. People in the South still do that, you know.” She frowned. “We should have brought muffins, or a fresh apple strudel. That would have been a nice touch. People expect it down here; it's the way they do things.”

“I think you did a brilliant job,” I told her. “With or without pastries. You must have sounded pretty convincing.”

Minutes later, we were seated at a white wicker table on the veranda, which was dotted with pots of lush ferns and tea roses. A uniformed maid served us fresh-squeezed lemonade and assured me “the missus” would be with us shortly. From this vantage point, the grounds were spectacular.

I leaned back in my rocker and admired the wide expanse of green lawn, the neatly kept flower beds filled with impatiens and begonias. I glimpsed a tennis court off to the left and the sparkling blue waters of a kidney-shaped pool to the right. Southern living at its finest.

“Who says money doesn't buy happiness?” Ali murmured. She tilted her head back, catching some rays.

“Can I help you?” A soft, cultured voice with just a hint of a Southern accent brought me out of my reverie. Ali rocked forward so suddenly she nearly catapulted out of her chair.

“I'm Ali Blake,” she said, jumping to her feet, “and this is my sister Taylor.”

The woman nodded politely but looked puzzled. “I'm Clare Carpenter.” She held out a jewel-encrusted hand, and I noticed she was wearing a diamond the size of a walnut. “Do we know each other?”

“No, ma'am,” Ali said quickly, “but we own the candy store in Savannah where Sonia”—she paused delicately—“passed away. We had invited her for a book signing.”

“Ah yes, the candy store. Oldies But Goodies,” Clare said, sinking into a wicker chair. “I read about it in the news. What a terrible thing that was.” She didn't seem the least bit upset by her sister's death, and I wondered what their relationship had been like. Had they been close? It didn't seem likely. She poured herself a glass of lemonade, her blue eyes flickering. I had the feeling she was stalling for time, planning what she was going to say.

“Yes, ma'am, it certainly was terrible, a real tragedy. We just stopped by to offer our condolences,” Ali said, taking the lead. “We're so sorry for your loss. Sonia was such an amazing person, and we feel privileged to have known her, even for a brief time. No one could have predicted this, and we're just so upset about what happened.” She glanced at me and I gave a tiny smile. She had said exactly the right thing.

Clare nodded and brushed a lock of hair back from her porcelain forehead. I figured her to be late fifties, but her skin was so smooth and unlined, I was sure she'd had a series of Botox injections. Or maybe she'd even gone under the knife and had “a little work” done.

Of course, her sister Sonia was well preserved, too, so maybe it was just good genes. I remembered that Sonia was a couple of years older than Clare. There was a remarkable similarity in the two women, except for the hair color. Sonia was a striking redhead and Clare was a platinum blonde.

I had no idea how to bring the conversation around to her daughter, Trudy, and hoped inspiration would strike. When she'd settled herself back in her chair, I took a good look at our hostess. She was wearing a pale lemon-yellow silk blouse with tailored white slacks and espadrilles. Her jewelry was classic, the kind that's handed down for generations. A triple set of pearls, with pearl button earrings, and
her streaky blond hair was swept back into a neat chignon. Her makeup was simple and understated, and she shifted in her chair to guard her face from the sun. With her white-blond hair and pale skin, she looked ethereal.

“I hope you know that I don't hold either of you responsible in any way,” she said finally. I blinked. I wasn't sure where she was headed with this. “Sometimes things happen that are out of our control, and as a woman of faith, I believe there must be a purpose to everything that happens in life. There are certain things that are beyond our understanding.”

Ah. So she didn't blame us for the fatal pastries.
I wondered if she'd read the autopsy report or the ME's findings. Did she really think Sonia's death was unforeseeable, an act of God? Skeptic that I am, I found that hard to believe.