Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (13 page)

But even if Jennifer Walton was “stepping out on her husband,” as they say in the South, what did that have to do with Chico? Certainly the two of them weren’t lovers. It was impossible to imagine the wealthy socialite being involved with a rough around the edges Lothario like Chico.

I caught up with Ali as she was heading into the dining room.

“I heard we’re sitting together at dinner,” she said, sounding pleased. “I made sure I thanked Mr. and Mrs. Walton for inviting us, and I told Andre we were having a great time.” She reached out and touched a magnolia blossom in a cut glass bowl centerpiece. “We need to tell Caroline how beautiful the flowers are. Let’s make sure we catch up with her before we leave.” I nodded in agreement. Ali is big on the social niceties. That’s one thing our mother drummed into us, even if she wasn’t around that much when we were growing up. “This is like something out of a fairy tale, isn’t it?” She glanced at the beautifully appointed dining room and gave a happy sigh.

“Yes, it is.”
A fairy tale? Maybe. But was there something sinister lurking just beneath
the surface?
I found my place and slipped into my chair. We were seated at a round table for eight, and someone had written my place card in elegant-looking calligraphy. That told me Jennifer Walton paid a lot of attention to detail. Or perhaps she employed a secretary for such things? I wondered if Caroline had done the place cards as well as the catering. The table settings were beautiful, and I saw Andre cupping his hands around some candle flames that were flickering, threatening to go out. The French doors were open and a slight breeze, fragrant with honeysuckle, was wafting into the room.

We were forced to sit through a boring welcome speech from Thomas Walton. He looked slightly dissolute with a sizable paunch, a bull neck, and the beginnings of a red-splotched “drinker’s nose.” It was hard to imagine him being catnip to women, but power and money are known aphrodisiacs. The waiters hovered, eager to serve dinner, but he droned on about what he would do for his constituents if they sent him to Washington. Typical politician, I thought to myself. His wife playfully pulled on his cuff, and he finally raised his hands in an “I surrender” gesture and took his seat.

“Wasn’t that inspiring?” A young woman seated on my right immediately began clapping when Walton sat down, and he raised his glass to her in a toast. She was obviously on his payroll, I decided. No one could possibly be that enthralled by Walton’s remarks; they were dull, predictable, and full of assurances that he would put those “Beltway politicians” in their place. He didn’t seem to have any concrete ideas about how he would change things, just the usual platitudes.

“It was very interesting,” I agreed.
For lack of a better word
, I thought to myself. “Are you a volunteer with his Senate campaign?”

She looked about twenty-two, slim as a fairy, with silky blond hair, straight out of a shampoo commercial, and a wide smile. “I’m a staffer,” she said with a hint of pride. “Amber Locke.” She stuck out her hand, and I shook it a bit awkwardly. We were sitting in such close quarters, it was hard to maneuver.

I had to smile. Her eyes were shining with excitement, and she was staring at me with something akin to worship. I wondered if I had ever felt that young and idealistic. “Have you been with him a long time?”

“Ever since I graduated from Emory with a major in poli-sci. I’ve always loved politics, and I’d been waiting to find just the right candidate to support. Councilman Walton hired me full-time, and I’ll be going with him to Washington.” She gave a girlish giggle. “After he wins the election, I mean,” she added quickly.

“Of course,” Ali murmured. “So it’s a sure thing? The election?” I know Ali has no interest in local politics, but she is unfailingly polite, eager to let others direct the conversation.

Amber gave an impromptu little speech, extolling the merits of her employer. She had obviously memorized her talking points well, answering objections before any had even been raised.

The waiters began serving hearts of palm salad on nicely chilled plates, and I let my mind wander, taking a good look at Jennifer Walton, who was chatting with her husband. She was attractive in a rather brittle way, and I wondered what her background was. How had she met Thomas Walton? Had she started out as a staffer like Amber, working on one of his earlier campaigns?

And more important, what did she have to do with Chico? And with Noah, for that matter? I couldn’t help noticing that Noah was sitting at one of the “A” tables, close to the front of the room, where the Waltons were holding court. Our table wasn’t in Siberia, but it was close to it, nestled near the kitchen, where we heard the whoosh of the swinging doors and the shouts of the line cooks to the servers. Still, it was nice to be included in such an A-list event, and I was happy to see that Ali was coming out of her funk. She was smiling and laughing, seemingly enjoying her chat with the young staffer.

I thought about the girl with the Long Island accent whose conversation I’d overheard. I’d probably never find her in this crowd, and even if I did, how could I ask her to clarify what she meant? It was too embarrassing to admit I’d been eavesdropping, and in any case, it wasn’t any of my business. My head was buzzing pleasantly from the chardonnay, and after a few minutes, I decided to forget the thoughts that were whirling in my mind and simply enjoy the evening.

16

“Now that I’ve started dreaming about him, I can’t seem to stop,” Dorien said irritably. “I wish you had never made that suggestion to us, Persia. I don’t feel like having Chico invade my dreams every single night. When I wake up, my head is spinning. I’d like to have some restful sleep again.” We’d called an impromptu meeting of the Dream Club to compare notes, and Dorien was being her usual prickly self. There were nine of us this evening; Gina was visiting her sister in Charleston and wouldn’t be back until late the next day.

“Well, honestly, Dorien, I was just trying to help.” Persia sat back and poured herself another cup of tea. I saw her eyeing the brownies; Ali had made three kinds tonight. Rich, dark, Kahlúa brownies—my personal favorite—along with blond brownies and cheesecake brownies.

Persia’s bejeweled hand was hovering over the tray, and Ali said gently, “Why don’t you try all of them, Persia? I cut them small, so it would look like a tasting tray.”

Sam Stiles gave a wry smile at this polite fiction as Persia swooped down like a hungry seagull and snatched up a handful of the delicious little cakes. The brownies were cut in generous servings but Ali, as always, was being tactful. I felt certain Persia could polish off the whole tray in a heartbeat if no one was looking.

“You know I’ve been dreaming about him, too,” Minerva said thoughtfully. “It was almost like you hypnotized us, dear.” She gave Persia a long, direct look, and Persia frowned right back.

“Oh honestly, what is wrong with you people? It’s not like I brainwashed you,” Persia said sullenly. “I thought the whole idea of the club was to share our dreams and analyze them.”

“Yes, but it’s gone a bit beyond that if we’re being directed what to dream about,” Rose Harper said gently. She was sitting next to her sister on the settee, and they were wearing almost identical “housecoats” of peach flowered cotton.

“I’m ready to change the subject,” Sybil said brightly. “Last night I dreamt I was on an ocean liner and it was being tossed about in a storm. I felt like Shelley Winters in
The Poseidon Adventure
. Anybody have any clues what that could mean?”

“That’s a common dream image,” Ali said slowly. “Being surrounded by water, drowning, or being adrift at sea are all classic anxiety dreams. It means you’re being buffeted by life’s events.”

Lucinda nodded eagerly. “That’s true. I used to have a dream like that when I was feeling overwhelmed with my job as headmistress at the Academy. I was always in a rowboat, alone at night in a vast ocean, and the rowboat was springing a leak. A big ship was coming toward me in the distance, but I knew it wouldn’t reach me in time. I was so alone.” Her voice trembled a little, and she suddenly looked older and more vulnerable. I knew she had never married and had no family; perhaps she really did feel alone in life.

“Everyone needs a soft place to fall,” Sam said, as if she were reading my mind.

“It must have been terrible for you,” Ali said gently.

“Yes, it was dreadful. It was so dark, and I was terrified. I didn’t know who to turn to, and I didn’t know how to manage the boat.” She shook her head helplessly. “I didn’t have a clue how to save myself.” She paused and said in voice that was almost a whisper. “Sometimes I feel like I can’t control my own life.”

“Can we get back to my dream about Chico, just for a minute?” Dorien cut in. She has a brusque conversational style, and I’m not sure she realizes that she sometimes comes across as being a tad rude and insensitive. “Not that I
want
to spend my time thinking about this guy, but I want to get it out before I forget it.”

“Go ahead,” Ali prompted. “Tell us about your dream.”

“Well, this is going to be a bit of a surprise,” Dorien said, leaning forward as if she enjoyed being the center of attention. “I saw Chico in my dream, and it was so real, I felt like I could reach out and touch him. I had gone to the dance studio, which is certainly odd, because I would never go to a place like that. Not in a million years.” She gave a little shudder and continued. “I opened the door and there was Chico standing in the middle of the studio with a woman and child.” She paused and said meaningfully, “I had the feeling they were his woman and child, if you get my drift.”

“Sometimes a baby or a child in a dream has a symbolic meaning,” Persia offered. “It can mean you have a desire to nurture or care for someone.”

“Or maybe it’s not symbolic at all,” Rose offered. “Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something important about Chico. That he’s married and has a family waiting for him.”

Minerva nodded, her eyes bright with interest. “A woman and child. That certainly puts a new twist on things. Does anyone know for sure if Chico was married?” There was dead silence, and it seemed that none of us had any idea. I found myself wondering what Gina’s take would be on this. People seemed to be speaking more freely without her there, but she probably knew more about Chico than anyone in the room. “Well, that’s something that’s easily checked, right, Sam?”

Sam Stiles hesitated for a moment. I wondered how she would handle her dual role as investigating detective and Dream Club member. So far, all the dreams about Chico had involved imagery and emotions—visions of fire, of jealousy, of a frightening figure with no face. This was the first time anyone had raised a concrete question, and I wondered if she felt she was being put on the spot.

“Are you allowed to tell us anything about the case?” I asked her. “Don’t say anything if you’re not comfortable talking about it. We understand.”

She flashed me a grateful smile. “I suppose it’s okay to share this, since it’s a matter of public record,” Sam began. “In case anyone’s wondering, Chico
was
married at one time to a woman named Lisa Ortez”—Lucinda let out a little gasp and then quickly covered her mouth—“but his current marital status is unclear. The records must exist somewhere, but we don’t have them in the U.S.”

“Do you mean he was married to someone back in South America?” I asked. Funny, but Ali had suspected Chico had a wife and children tucked away somewhere. I remember she’d mentioned it to me the night she introduced me to Chico, but I wasn’t sure if she totally believed it. From what she’d told me, her brief relationship with him was already in a downward spiral and she didn’t confront him on it. What would be the point? Chico would surely lie to her. He liked to pass himself off as single and available.

“Yes. That’s exactly what I mean.” Sam’s voice was clipped, and it was obvious that was all she was going to say at this time.

“Is there any chance that some of his relatives are in the States?” Minerva asked. She turned to her sister. “Do you remember the shouting we heard that night?”

Rose nodded. “I do. Someone was hollering in Spanish or maybe it was Portuguese. I could only make out a few words here and there, but the tone certainly wasn’t friendly. I studied both those languages in school because our father did a lot of business in Latin America. Both Minerva and I used to be fluent, but that was many years ago.”

“Did you tell the police about this?” Sam asked.

“I’ve already told the police all about this, dear. I gave them a full accounting the night of the . . . incident.”
The incident
. No one seemed to be calling it a murder. At least not yet.

“Yes, of course you did,” Sam said, looking weary. She shook her head as if to clear it and bit back a yawn. “These late nights are getting to me.” Sam had dark circles under her eyes, and I thought that being a police detective wasn’t nearly as glamorous as they made it out to be in shows like
Major Crimes
and
CSI: Miami
. Sam had come up in the ranks and earned the respect of grizzled veterans on the force, but I think it had taken a toll on her personal life. She never said much about her home life, except everyone knew she was divorced with no children.

“Rose, did Chico have South American friends here in Savannah?” I asked. “Perhaps that was the source of the shouts you heard.” I slid a tiny slice of key lime on her plate and she smiled her thanks. Rose eats delicately like a cat, taking her time as she samples tiny portions of every single dessert.

“Not that I know of.” She looked at Sam, her blue eyes keen and expectant. “I imagine you’re trying to track down everyone who might have known him.”

“Yes, of course. Anyone who might . . .” Her voice trailed off, and I wondered if she’d said too much.

“Anyone who might have had a reason to kill him,” Dorien said flatly. “That’s what all of us should be concentrating on.” She directed a level look at Sam. “If we can do anything to help the police, we’d like to, you know.”

Sam nodded. “I appreciate that, I really do.” She gave a rueful smile. “I don’t think my captain is into dream analysis,” she said apologetically. “I’ve heard some amazing things come out of this group, but not everyone feels the way I do. Detectives tend to be sort of a hard-boiled lot.” She shrugged, and we locked eyes for a moment. I could see that Sam was softening her earlier stance and was starting to appreciate the work we did in the Dream Club.

“That they do,” Sybil agreed. “I’ve read hundreds of mysteries, and the police always groan when someone wants to bring in a psychic as a consultant. Psychics can be powerful resources,” she said earnestly, “and proper dream analysis can be just as helpful.”

The meeting broke up an hour or so later, but Gina turned up just as Minerva and Rose were making their way down the steps.

“I got home from Charleston a little early,” she said apologetically. “Is there still time to have a cup of coffee?”

“Of course,” Ali said, reaching for the pot. “And we have loads of desserts.”

“Just coffee, please,” Gina said. “My sister made a big family meal, topped off with homemade cheesecake, and I’m absolutely stuffed.”

I had the feeling there was something on her mind, and I suspected it involved the investigation into Chico’s death. I poured us mugs of hazelnut decaf, and we sat around the cozy kitchen table. Barney purred around my ankles while Scout curled up in the empty chair. I bent down and scooped Barney onto my lap, running my hands over his soft fur.

“I heard an interesting rumor when I was in Charleston,” Gina said. She was perched on the edge of her chair, her voice tight with tension. “Apparently there’s a story going around town about Chico.”

“About his death?” Ali asked quickly.

“No, something else. Something very unexpected, that hits close to home,” she said, locking eyes with Ali. “My sister has a friend on the city council here in Savannah. The word on the street is that Chico was planning a big real estate deal when he died. A major deal,” she added for emphasis. “A couple of people on the zoning commission knew about it, but it was pretty hush-hush and hadn’t made the newspapers. At least, not yet.”

“Chico? A real estate deal?” I said incredulously. “I can’t believe it.” I thought of the cheesy dance instructor in the tight pants and couldn’t picture him as the South’s answer to Donald Trump. His own studio was sorely in need of repair; there was nothing high-end about the establishment. So why would anyone think he was planning on being a real estate mogul?

Gina gave a ladylike snort. “It was a surprise to me, too. But I think you should know what he was up to.” She gave a dismissive little wave of her hands. “I’ll tell you what I heard, and you can decide for yourself whether or not to believe it. At least you’ll have the facts.”

Ali reached for the creamer and paused, her hand in midair. “Now you’ve got me really curious. What are they saying about this deal?” Her tone was casual, unconcerned, but I saw a telltale red flush begin to creep up her neck.

“Did you know Chico was planning to buy up all four shops on this street?” Gina’s tone had a steely edge to it, and Ali drew back. I saw a pulse beating in her throat and wondered what was upsetting her. Chico was dead and her job at the studio was over. So what did any of this have to do with her?

“All four shops? Do you mean Minerva and Rose’s flower shop, Luigi’s, and the old movie house?” Her eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“And your shop,” Gina pressed on. “You have a yearly lease, right? And it’s up pretty soon, right?”