by Mary Kennedy
“Please, go right ahead.” I smiled through gritted teeth.
“Enjoy the rest of the evening, Taylor,” she said, turning her smile up to full wattage. “I’ll be sure to drop by your sister’s little store very soon.”
Little store? So condescending. She may be a spectacular hostess, but there was something off-putting about the woman. A cold kettle of fish, as my granny would say.
“Give my best to Ali,” Noah said as he was led away. I nodded, wondering if I would see him again. Did I want to? I wasn’t sure. And what was his relationship with Jennifer Walton?
I wandered over to a buffet table and helped myself to some tiny crab puffs. They had an elaborate selection of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, served on antique silver trays from a pair of mahogany neoclassical sideboards. Savory cheese straws, tiny biscuits filled with goat cheese and chives; mini freshly cut sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, cucumber, tomato, and cheese. Eye-catching and delicious. These were all things that we could serve as part of Ali’s “light lunches and snacks” menu.
Savannah is known for its fabulous food, and this would be a good time to start collecting recipes. I stepped back into the drawing room and took in the opulent surroundings. From the creamy ivory curtains to the museum-quality antiques, no expense had been spared in restoring the mansion to its former glory.
“I love the pineapple finials, don’t you? Jennifer ordered them last month from a specialty shop in town. So very Savannah,” a middle-aged woman murmured. “And she repeated the motif with the door knocker. She has excellent taste, don’t you think?”
“Yes, I do,” I said warmly. I wondered what a pineapple finial was, and glanced around for a clue. I couldn’t tell if the woman was staring at the pale gray silk wallpaper or the seascape in the ornate gilded frame. If the seascape was a Winslow Homer, it was worth a small fortune. There was a muted floral pattern on the wallpaper, but nothing even vaguely resembling a pineapple. “This is my first time visiting the estate, and I have to say, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’m Taylor Blake,” I said, sticking out my hand.
“Hildy Carter.” She shook hands, and I noticed she was wearing a ruby the size of a walnut. “Yes, it’s a lot to take in. This is one of the best restorations I’ve seen, and I’m in the business.”
“Really?” I murmured politely.
“I run a decorating business in Savannah.” She was stuffed into a black cocktail suit a couple of sizes too small and was wearing a white silk blouse with pearls.
“That must be fun; there seem to be so many grand old homes here.”
“Yes, there are, but it’s a cutthroat business. And sometimes customers aren’t as loyal as you’d like them to be. They latch on to the flavor of the month. Out with the old, in with the new,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “Are you visiting family here?”
“I am.” I wasn’t sure how she’d pegged me as a visitor, not a resident, but maybe it was the Northern accent. When I told her about Ali and the shop, her smile fell right off her face. She was probably disappointed when I mentioned that we lived in a small apartment on the second floor. Ali’s little two-bedroom flat above the shop was filled with yard-sale finds and done up in shabby chic décor. We certainly weren’t the type of high-end customers she was looking for.
“I just realized your sister’s shop is right across the street from Chico’s,” Hildy said, her hand flying to her mouth. “Good heavens, what a terrible thing that was. Do they know what happened to him?”
I shook my head. “It seems unclear. The police are still investigating.”
“Well, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say that I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if someone murdered him. You know what they say,” she said, nodding grimly, “if you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.” For a split second, Lucinda’s dream flashed through my mind. Hadn’t she seen flames leaping all around the dancing man with no face? I remember being stuck by that image. But what could the connection be between Chico and the Waltons?
“That dance instructor broke a lot of hearts here,” Hildy went on, “and you know what they say about karma. It comes right back and smacks you every time.” I must have looked distracted because she took a step closer, her tone solicitous. “Is everything all right, dear?” Hildy asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine,” I assured her. “It’s just a bit warm in here, and I need a breath of air. Would you excuse me while I freshen up?”
“Of course, and if you or any of your friends ever need a decorator, here’s my card.” She pulled out an expensive embossed business card and pressed it into my hand. “Enjoy your stay, dear.”
I quickly made my way to the downstairs powder room, which was like something out of a movie. Architectural Digest meets antebellum. The pale peach wallpaper was stenciled with delicate ferns, and the crown molding was dripping rosettes and curlicues. The attention to detail meant hand-carved, I decided. A creamy bisque porcelain bowl had been dropped into an antique marble-topped mixing stand, which served as a counter. I quickly splashed some water on my face and dabbed on some lipstick. I was about to reach for the doorknob and paused when I heard voices outside.
“I think someone’s in there, we’ll have to wait,” a female said in a bored, slightly nasal voice. Her accent was decidedly not Southern, and I quickly pegged it as Long Island. She tapped lightly on the door and twisted the knob. “Damn it, what’s she doing? Writing her memoirs?” She gave a loud snort.
“We could go upstairs,” her friend suggested. “There’s a bathroom right at the top of the stairs.”
“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Ms. Long Island said with a sigh. “The last time I tried that, I wandered down the wrong hallway and Jennifer accused me of snooping in her bedroom. Can you believe it?” Her voice rose to an angry spiral. “That woman is paranoid, especially when she’s had too much to drink.”
“Hah! Which is like all the time. I know, she can be a real be-otch. So is it true what they’re saying about Chico?”
A pause and then, “I don’t know. But even if it is, so what? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, as they say.”
“What does that mean exactly? I never understood that saying. Hey, I just remembered there’s another bathroom out in the pool house. I can’t wait another minute.”
The voices faded then, and I quickly unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. I was shaken and confused by what I’d heard. Chico was involved with the Waltons. But how? It seemed unlikely they would move in the same social circles. The dance instructor and the politician and the politician’s wife? None of it made sense.
The conversation I’d overheard between the two women was cryptic to say the least. And the quote from the womans’s granny buzzed in my brain. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Did that mean Jennifer Walton was fooling around? And that Thomas Walton was doing the same thing? There seemed to be some murky secrets buried in his past, but I thought they had to do with shady business dealings, not adultery.
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 whe
n 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 som
etimes 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.