by Mary Kennedy
“But there were other points of comparison, isn’t that right, dear?” Persia went on. “Maybe you overlooked some elements that are less obvious. Do you remember what I said about the wolves?”
“The wolves?” I asked. I refilled everyone’s glasses and sat down again. Almost everyone was having wine except the Harper sisters. They’d asked for sweet tea, and I’d put a large, cut-glass pitcher on the coffee table.
“Yes, Taylor, the wolves,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I saw a pack of wolves circling the man in the dream. They looked menacing, almost bloodthirsty, and their fur was tinged with red. She gave an involuntary little shudder and clasped her hands together in her lap.
“What do you suppose that means?” Sybil asked.
“The presence of the wolves in Persia’s dream must have been symbolic,” Ali said slowly. “One interpretation is that the wolves represent people who posed a threat to Chico.”
Dorien cleared her throat. “Well,” she began, “not to speak ill of the dead, but let’s face it, ladies, there were plenty of people who wanted to get rid of Chico.” She looked around the group as if daring anyone to disagree with her. “They wouldn’t be too upset if a pack of wolves had chomped him to death. They’d probably figure he had it coming.” She seemed to take a grim relish in the image of Chico being dismembered, and I wondered if she had a particular ax to grind with the dead dance instructor.
“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Lucinda said, twin spots of color popping up on her cheeks. “I mean, Chico had his faults, bless his heart, but I don’t think anyone really wanted to see him dead. He tried his best, but he was always an outsider here, bless his heart.”
Her remark was met with stony silence, and I had to bite back a smile. Whenever a Southerner says “bless his heart,” it’s usually code for “I’d like to wring his neck.”
“There was always something a little off about him, you know?” Persia offered. “Not that he didn’t have a certain charm, but he wasn’t quite up to snuff.”
Sybil blew out a little breath. “Tell us more about your dream, Persia. Anything else you can remember about the wolves?”
“Just that they were circling around a campfire,” Persia said, squinting her eyes. “There was a sort of red haze around them. I remember bright red flames shooting up in the air. The whole scene took on a fiery aura. I could almost feel the heat; it was overwhelming.”
“I remember you mentioning the flames, Persia,” I offered.
“Fire is an important element in dream work,” Ali said. “It’s open to interpretation, but it can mean passion, love, or danger.”
That’s the trouble with dream interpretation, I thought. There are just too many possible explanations. It was all beginning to sound like smoke and mirrors to me, and the truth was hidden under too many layers of camouflage.
“Fire can also mean something more sinister; it can represent evil,” Dorien said firmly. “Think of hellfire. Nothing glamorous about that.” She pressed her lips tightly together and sat back with a satisfied smile.
We were all silent for a moment. Ali got up to serve raspberry cobbler—another freezer find—when Persia snapped her fingers. “I just thought of something else, ladies.” She paused dramatically, waiting until she had everyone’s attention. “The dinner, remember? In my dream, the dark-haired man was surrounded by the remains of a dinner service. There was fine china and crystal. I couldn’t tell if it was a private dinner at home or in a restaurant or hotel. But he was definitely in the middle of dinner when he was struck down.”
I heard a clatter of silverware and realized Ali had dropped all the dessert forks she was carrying onto the tile floor. “Sorry,” she said, scooping them up. “How clumsy of me. I’ll be right back with some more.”
“Let us help you, dear,” Lucinda said, springing into action. “I’ll make coffee if you want to slice the cobbler, Taylor.”
“I’ll do that,” I said, reaching for the glass dessert plates that had belonged to my grandmother. I hadn’t thought Ali was sentimental, but she’d chosen a few things from the house when my grandmother passed away a couple of years earlier.
“Fresh raspberry cobbler,” Persia gushed. “With such a flaky homemade crust. I could practically swoon over it. Your sister is a wonderful cook, Taylor.”
“Yes, she is,” I said, forcing myself to smile. My thoughts were a million miles away from raspberry cobbler, though, because I’d just remembered something. When I’d glanced into the open door of the studio, Chico had been surrounded by china and cutlery. The whole image registered in my mind like a freeze-frame in a film. The dishes, the glasses, the napkins. And of course, poor Chico lying dead on the floor while the music played on.
Just like in Persia’s dream.
Finally, we seemed to have exhausted the subject of Chico and his untimely death, and everyone except Ali tucked into dessert. She seemed pensive, gazing out the windows to the street now and then, a sad look flitting across her face.
When Rose and Minerva stood up to take their leave shortly after, it seemed to put an unofficial end to the evening. Lucinda and Dorien gathered up their things, and Sybil gave Ali a quick hug. We were just about to make our way downstairs when Persia announced, “Before we split up, ladies, I have a very important request. There’s something I need each of you to do tonight.” Everyone stopped in their tracks to listen. Persia has a forceful personality and a rather commanding presence.
“What is it, dear?” Minerva Harper asked. She stood next to her sister, resting her hand lightly on top of the sofa for support.
“I want everyone to dream about Chico tonight,” Persia said. Her gaze moved slowly over all of us gathered at the top of the stairs.
“What?” Lucinda blurted out. “How in the world would we do that? I can’t control my dreams, no matter how hard I try, and I’m sure no one else can, either.” I remembered Lucinda’s embarrassment when she dreamt she’d been strolling down the produce aisle at Publix, stark naked.
Persia smiled. “Think about him right before you go to sleep. Get an image in your mind of him in the studio, exactly as Ali and Taylor described him. I believe in the collective power of dreams.” She paused. “And in the power of suggestion. The mind is always open to instructions from us. Sometimes we fail to take the reins, and we miss a valuable opportunity.”
“I’m not sure I can make myself dream about the man,” Dorien said snippily. “It’s not like I really knew him, after all.”
“You don’t have to make yourself dream about him, Dorien,” Persia retorted. “You can encourage yourself to dream about him. The mind is a marvelous creation, you know.” I heard Dorien, who was standing behind me, give out a little sigh. She was obviously eager to be on her way and didn’t feel like listening to a lecture on dream work from Persia.
Persia, while well meaning, does tend to adopt a professorial tone from time to time, and I hoped she would keep her explanation brief.
“So you’re saying that if we think about Chico, we can encourage ourselves to dream about him?” I asked, hoping to hurry her along. “That’s really all we have to do?”
“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Persia said approvingly. “Just give your subconscious free rein, and you might be surprised where it takes you. Your mind might go down some interesting pathways and come up with images and themes that will surprise you. I suggest we all give ourselves an opportunity to dream about what we learned here tonight, and meet again midweek for another discussion.”
“That’s sounds wonderful,” Minerva said, clutching the banister and making her way slowly down the stairs. She turned to Ali and patted her hand. “Thank you for the delicious dinner, Ali. I enjoyed every single bite of it. Next week, Rose and I will bring the sweets; you’ve been doing far too much work.” She smiled warmly at my sister. “We’d like to lend a hand.”
11
“I’m exhausted,” Ali said the moment everyone left. Her skin had turned as white as a kabuki player’s face, and my heart went out to her as she curled up on one end of the sofa. She suddenly looked very young and vulnerable as she twisted a lock of pale blond hair around her finger, staring blankly at the carpet. Barney and Scout immediately jumped down from their perch on the window seat and snuggled close to her. They seemed to sense she needed the comfort of their warm, furry little bodies, and she kissed the top of Barney’s head.
“Would you like me to get you anything? Maybe some hot chocolate?” I remembered all our late-night talks growing up. We’d sit at the kitchen table and drink hot chocolate while we talked about whatever was troubling her, whether it was boys or history class.
“I’ll be okay,” she said, smiling her thanks. “I just need some time to get a grip on what’s happened. I thought I was dealing with it pretty well, but—” She broke off suddenly, and her voice caught in her throat. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be okay tomorrow, I promise.”
“You don’t have to put on a brave face for me,” I told her. “This has been a huge shock, and it’s going to take time to process it.” I hesitated. “Part of the problem is that we don’t really know what happened.”
“I know,” she said miserably. “I’d feel better if it was some kind of an accident. I hate to think that someone actually wanted to kill Chico.” She shivered as if a chill had gone through her. “But it looks like that could be the case, doesn’t it?” She let her blue-eyed gaze settle on me, and I could see she was holding back tears.
“I’m afraid so,” I said gently. “Maybe Sam will have some answers for us soon.” I struggled for something reassuring to say and came up empty-handed.
I wondered if Ali would ever find “closure,” even if it turned out that Chico had died of natural causes. Sudden death—especially in someone so young—is always a shock. It seems to go against the natural order of things and makes us question basic tenets we always took for granted.
It also brings us smack up against our own mortality.
“Do you mind if I turn in?” Ali said suddenly, swinging her feet to the floor and gathering the hand-crocheted throw around her like a shawl.
“No, of course not, but do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” I had assumed Ali would want to sit up for a while and might enjoy some company. I felt a little pang of guilt when I realized I didn’t know my sister as well as I thought, and time and distance had created a gulf between us. I couldn’t seem to find the right words to say to her when she was obviously in pain.
“I doubt it,” she said, giving a sad little smile. “But I think I might just rest a bit and listen to music. I’ll take these guys with me.” Barney and Scout seemed to understand they were being invited into the bedroom. They immediately jumped off the sofa and scampered down the hallway to Ali’s room. “See you in the morning,” she said softly.
I settled back at the kitchen table and decided to have another sliver of cobbler with a cup of coffee before turning in. For some reason, caffeine seems to soothe me, even though it’s supposed to cause a boost of adrenaline. There’s something comforting about holding the warm cup in my hands and breathing in the delightful fragrance of hazelnut or vanilla bean. I’d just finished brewing the coffee when the phone rang. I snatched it off the hook almost immediately. There was always the chance that Ali had fallen asleep and I didn’t want her to be disturbed.
“Hope this isn’t too late to call.” Persia’s voice came racing over the line. “I thought of something I need to run by you.”
“Go ahead,” I said, trying to put a little enthusiasm into my voice. I didn’t feel like rehashing the meeting of the Dream Club, but I didn’t want to be rude to Persia, who sounded like she was ready for a chat. “What’s up?”
“Well, I’ve been mulling over the imagery in my dream about the dark-haired man,” she began. “And I think something stands out. We talked about evil and danger, but we didn’t even touch on the jealousy angle. That could be crucial to solving the case.”
“Jealousy?” I sneaked a little bite of cobbler in my mouth and tried to chew quietly.
“Yes, remember how prominent the red imagery was in the dream? The color red can signify jealousy, you know. I wondered if Chico could have been involved in some sort of love triangle?”
“A love triangle? I haven’t heard anything like that, but I suppose Sam will have to delve into all his relationships, if he really was murdered.”
She pondered that for a moment, and I had the feeling she was looking for something more gossip-worthy, probably some spicy details about Chico’s love life. “How is Ali holding up?” she said, shifting gears.
“She’s exhausted,” I said quickly. “She’s already turned in for the night.” I could hear soft music coming from the bedroom, and I had no intention of disturbing my sister. “I’ll tell her you called, though, and I’m sure she’ll get back to you first thing tomorrow.”
“Oh well, that would be fine,” Persia said with a note of resignation. “Some more details may come to light once the news gets around.” It seemed obvious to me that Persia was someone who lived for gossip, and the phone lines would be burning up tomorrow morning as she shared the news about Chico. “And Taylor—”
“Yes?”
“Don’t forget to allow yourself to dream about Chico. You can nudge the subconscious; it’s not at all difficult to do. Your subconscious is just waiting for your command. Remember, dear, you’re in control.”
I smiled to myself. Persia was relentless. “I’ll do that. To the best of my ability, I mean.”
“That’s all anyone can ask,” Persia replied. “Have a good evening,” she said before ending the call.
* * *
I spent a restless night and was up at six the next morning, greeting Barney and Scout, who’d padded into the kitchen. I noticed the door to Ali’s room was firmly shut so I filled their bowls with low-cal, nutritious crunchies while they circled around my feet, mewing softly.
Both cats stared at the pellets in disbelief and then looked back at me, as if to say, “This is it? You’ve got to be kidding!” Ali had gotten into the habit of adding a few goodies to their dry food—a slice of smoked turkey breast, a spoonful of tuna—but the vet had warned her that the cats were turning into porkers. Barney weighed in at seventeen pounds, and Scout topped the scales at eighteen and a half. Ali had reluctantly agreed to place them on a strict diet. I had to admit the “heart-healthy” dry food she bought from the vet didn’t look appealing, but we decided to limit treats from the table.
“I’m afraid that’s it, guys,” I told them, as if they could understand me. “If Ali wants to spoil you, she’ll have to do it on her watch. I’ve been given my orders.” After shooting me an abject look of hurt and betrayal, they tucked into their bowls, resigned, and I brewed a pot of strong coffee. Barney shot me a last, sad look from over his shoulder, and I had to steel myself against adding a handful of tuna cat treats from the pantry.
I thought about how I wanted to spend the day. The shop wouldn’t open for another three hours, and I planned to unpack a shipment of gummy bears that had arrived Saturday evening. Ali had a nice selection of gummy fish and gummy worms on display, but gummy bears were a perennial favorite and we’d nearly sold out.
I grabbed a cup of coffee fresh from the pot and a notepad as I settled myself on the chintz-covered window seat. I opened the dark walnut plantation shutters to the warm Savannah air and peered outside. Not a hint of a breeze, and even at this early hour, it was obvious that the day was going to be a scorcher. The air felt soupy, and I could hear the buzz of cicadas from the live oak trees lining the street.
I glanced across the road at Chico’s dance studio. The curtains were drawn, and I noticed someone had posted a sign in the window. The pale yellow brick building looked sad and desola
te, and I felt a little pang thinking about the vibrant dance instructor whose life was suddenly cut short.
Giving myself a mental shake, I sipped my coffee and began to make lists. I try not to brood over things, and I’ve found that action is the perfect antidote to ruminating. Ali always teases me about my ABC to-do lists. Items in the A-list are “must-dos,” the B-list is for “should-dos,” and the C-list is for “would like to do.” On a good day, I can hit all three, but I don’t let myself fall into bed at night until I accomplish everything on the A-list. Ali thinks this is obsessive, but I can’t operate any other way.
I lined up today’s tasks in order of priority. I wanted to help Ali with the stock inventory, work up some publicity ideas with Dana, her young assistant, and think about reorganizing some of the glass display counters for maximum effect. All of these items went on the A-list.
The B-list was easy. I wanted to go forward with my idea of adding a “soup, sandwiches, and snacks” menu to the shop. I knew I’d have to tread carefully, because Ali didn’t seem too keen on the idea.
When we’d talked about it initially, she had no idea whether she was even allowed to serve fresh food, or whether she would need a pricey upgrade to her current business license.
Did a shop owner like Ali need a restaurant license to serve soups and sandwiches? She already had a license to sell candy. The fact she hadn’t checked this out told me I’d have an uphill battle on my hands.
I was jotting down some menu items—wondering if we should add some classic Savannah favorites like crab cake sandwiches and corn chowder with roasted red peppers—when Ali appeared, looking pale with dark smudges under her eyes. She yawned and stretched elaborately, reminding me of a teenager in her Ralph Lauren striped pink pajama set. I recognized the outfit because I’d given it to her last Christmas.