by Mary Kennedy
“Calm down, Taylor,” Ali said, sending me a knowing smile. “I can see the wheels churning in that fast-track mind of yours, and I want to take this slow.”
“Slow,” I said hesitantly. “Okay, I get it, Ali, I think you’re right. Slow can be good. One step at a time.” What was I saying? Slow isn’t my style. Full speed ahead is my style. As General Patton said, “Lead me, follow me, or get out of the way.”
“I mean it, Taylor.” Ali’s voice was firm, her eyes serious. “It’s a wonderful idea, but I want to do this my own way. Oldies but Goodies is a nice little candy shop, and I don’t want to change it too fast. I’ve seen what happens when people expand too quickly. The shop could lose its whole character as a vintage candy store, and we could end up with a hybrid that no one wants.”
“Got it,” I assured her. “We’ll do it your way,” I promised. Secretly, my thoughts were racing like a gerbil on an exercise wheel, but there was no need to rock the boat just now. We had a murder to solve.
* * *
“I hear Chico’s wife is back in town. She’s going to be handling all the funeral arrangements. I suppose we should check the obits column in the Savannah Tribune for details.”
Sybil Powers sat back on the chintz-covered settee with a satisfied look on her face. “I’m assuming we all want to go, don’t we?”
If she’d hoped to deliver a bombshell, her wish had come true. There was a stunned silence, and then the Harper sisters tittered nervously.
“A wife?” Minerva said in loud whisper. “I had no idea he was married. He was such a”—she paused delicately—“man about town.”
“For heaven’s sake, Minerva,” Rose said impatiently. “No one says ‘man about town’ anymore. You make him sound like Cary Grant. He was a player, I believe that’s the term they use nowadays. A real skirt chaser.”
I was pretty sure no one said “skirt chaser” anymore, either, but I was enjoying the conversation too much to interrupt.
“Oh, did I say his wife? Silly me, I meant his ex-wife,” Persia purred. She grabbed a Madeleine and took a tiny nibble, glancing around the circle. The Dream Club had just started, and we had a full group this evening, including Sam Stiles and Gina Santiago.
Sam was preoccupied stirring lemon into her jasmine tea and didn’t look up at Persia’s pronouncement. I had the feeling she was determined to maintain a low profile whenever the talk turned to Chico’s death. As a police detective, she really didn’t have much of a choice; if she discussed the case, it would be unethical and unprofessional.
Ali froze, the tray of assorted marrons wobbling dangerously in midair until Sybil reached out and steadied it. Ali was a bundle of nerves tonight and seemed upset anytime Chico’s name was mentioned. I took the tray from her and placed it in the center of the table.
“Are you sure about this?” Dorien, jaw jutting forward, asked bluntly. “The guy was married?”
A little frown appeared on Persia’s lips, but she quickly dabbed her mouth with the edge of her napkin. “I’m positive,” Persia said flatly. It was clear she didn’t like being challenged.
“Oh, everyone knew he had a wife or two stashed away someplace,” Gina said. “I’m just surprised she showed up here in Savannah.”
Ali sank into a seat next to me. “Change of subject, everyone. Let’s get into dreams, okay?” I thought I heard a note of pleading in her voice.
Persia nodded. “I’d like to go first, if I may.” She glanced quickly around the room to make sure no one was going to object. “I had a very odd dream last night,” she said. She looked at me and winked. “I’ve just been bursting to tell someone.”
“Well, go ahead,” Dorien said irritably. “You’ve got the floor.” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand that was meant to encompass the room. The little sneer on her lips made it clear she hadn’t intended it as a gracious gesture.
Persia clasped her hands together dramatically. “Lucinda, my dream was about . . . you.”
Lucinda flushed and put her hand to her throat. A worried look flitted across her face but she said gamely, “Really, Persia, I was in your dream? How very odd.” She forced a thin smile.
“What was I up to?”
“Let’s hope you weren’t strolling naked down the freezer aisle in Publix again,” Dorien said churlishly. “I haven’t been able to get that image out of my mind.” I glanced at her, perplexed. Dorien has never been known for her tact, but she was being particularly abrasive tonight.
“You were dancing, Lucinda,” Persia said, drawing the words out. “With Chico. And the two of you were drinking white wine out of lovely cut-glass goblets.” She gave a little sigh and lifted her eyes to the ceiling.
I exchanged a look with Ali, who shrugged and raised her eyebrows. White wine and cut-glass goblets? Persia certainly had an eye for detail. And a taste for the dramatic. It seemed overly descriptive to me, but she loves bold colors and designs, so maybe it wasn’t too much of a stretch. I’d have to ask Ali if artistic people have more detailed dreams than ordinary folks.
“What!” Lucinda paled. “Is this some sort of joke, Persia? Because I don’t think it’s the least bit funny.” A deep flush worked its way up Lucinda’s collarbone and was settling under her chin.
“Of course it’s not a joke.” Persia looked flummoxed. “Why would I joke about a dream? This is the one place where all our dreams are taken seriously. I thought we were free to say anything we wanted. Honestly, Lucinda, I had no idea this would upset you.” She folded her hands in her lap and struck a pious pose. She looked up at Ali. “Would you like me to continue?”
“I think we should leave it up to Lucinda,” Ali said diplomatically. Ali hates any kind of confrontation, and I wondered how she’d work her way out of this one. Was Lucinda being overly sensitive, or was Persia out for blood?
Lucinda heaved a sigh. “Yes, of course, please continue, Persia,” she cut in. “Say whatever it is you have to say.” Ali and I exchanged a look. Lucinda’s reaction was baffling.
I couldn’t recall her ever being upset by someone recounting a dream before. Did she think Persia was mocking her? A more sinister thought flitted through my mind. Was she reacting so strongly because she had something to feel guilty about?
“You were alone in the dance studio with him,” Persia continued. “The lights were low and music was playing. He’d lit some candles. I remember they smelled like cranberries.”
Uh-oh, wine and music and candlelight. I could see where this was headed.
“Really, Persia,” Lucinda rasped. She put her hand to her throat as if she were losing her voice. “Are you suggesting that we were indulging in some sort of romantic interlude?”
“Indulging in what?” Minerva said. Minerva is notoriously hard of hearing, and Lucinda’s voice was barely above a whisper. “What did Lucinda say? I missed it.” Minerva nudged Rose and scowled.
“She thinks Persia is accusing her of having a romantic interlude,” Rose said patiently, drawing the words out like taffy.
“Romantic interlude?” Minerva cackled. “In my time, they called it hanky-panky. Why can’t people just speak their mind these days?”
“Oh, my goodness, it wasn’t anything like that, dear,” Persia continued. “You were taking dance lessons from Chico. It was all on the up-and-up. You looked very graceful, and he was like a prince, spinning you around the floor. It was a Latin number, and I was impressed at how you followed the steps so well. Almost as if the two of you had danced together for years.”
I had never heard anyone refer to Chico as a “prince” before, but I kept my opinions to myself. I was curious how this would all play itself out.
“What happened next?” Gina prompted. Her voice had a hard edge to it. Either she knew something about Chico and Lucinda, or she was tired of Persia taking so long to tell the story.
“Nothing, that was the end
of the dream,” Persia said with a little smile.
Ali frowned. “Why are you so sure Chico was giving her dance lessons? Maybe it was a”—she paused—“a social evening.”
Persia shook her head. “I don’t think so. I forgot one little detail. Lucinda wrote him a check when the dance was over,” she said triumphantly. “That’s how I know he was giving her dance lessons.”
“Interesting,” Gina said coldly. “She wrote him a check. Quite a telling detail.”
“But what does the dream mean?” Sybil said. “I don’t have a clue how to interpret it.”
“This is going to be a tough one,” Minerva said. “Maybe we should all think about it and come up with some interpretations for next week.”
“Good idea,” Rose seconded. “I don’t mean to change the subject, but I do have to say, these lemon bars are exquisite, Ali.”
Ali flushed with pleasure. “Thank you so much,” she said, looking relieved. I think she was happy to move on to a new subject. “Taylor and I have a little announcement to make. We’re going to add a dessert menu to the shop, and I’ll be trying out lots of different recipes on you. You’ll be my beta tasters, and we’ll keep the ones you like.”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Minerva said heartily. “You could bring in some bistro tables and scatter them around. The shop is easily big enough to accommodate them.”
“And umbrella tables for the sidewalk,” Rose said. “Everyone likes to sit outside in nice weather. And it’s almost always nice weather here,” she said, looking directly at me. She knew I lived in Chicago, the “Windy City.”
“You’re right,” Ali agreed. “We already have a couple of tables in the back, but we need to have some in front of the shop. It would draw people inside.”
We spent the next few minutes talking about the expansion planned for the shop, and Sybil treated us to one of her famous “dream-hopping” experiences. This time, she traveled back to sixteenth-century France and managed to insert herself in one of Marie Antoinette’s dreams. I thought this was a stretch, but everyone else seemed to accept Sybil’s theory that time and space are fluid and don’t pose any barriers to dream work.
“Marie Antoinette! How exciting,” Dorien said. “I hope she wasn’t in prison, dreaming about the guillotine.”
“No, she certainly wasn’t,” Sybil huffed. “She was a young girl, just arrived from Austria, and was dreaming about the man she was destined to marry, the Dauphin. She felt like a prisoner at the French Court of Louis XVI, and she was dreaming about running through a field of wildflowers. I think the flowers represented freedom; that would be my interpretation.”
“Flowers can also symbolize new beginnings, new life,” Sam Stiles offered. This was the first interpretation she had offered tonight. I noticed she hadn’t said a word when Persia had described her dream about Lucinda and Chico.
“Yes, that’s a very popular dream symbol,” Ali agreed. “I’ve had those dreams myself, especially during stressful times in my life. I’m running barefoot in a field of flowers, and the colors are so vivid, really vibrant. It’s a very comforting dream.”
“Was Marie Antoinette speaking French in her dream, or were there subtitles?” Dorien asked wickedly.
“Of course there were no subtitles,” Sybil bristled. “This wasn’t a foreign film, it was a dream. I had complete access to her inner thoughts and emotions, and I saw everything through her eyes. There was no need for dialogue.”
“Well, that’s certainly convenient because I expect you’ve forgotten your high school French by now,” Dorien sniped. “Now, may I tell everyone about my dream?”
As always, Dorien was itching to hog the floor. Dorien described a pretty mundane dream about climbing a cliff and admiring a beautiful vista and a spectacular sunset. The reddish brown colors of the rocks and hills seemed to suggest the Southwest, and Dorien confided that she was planning to visit her sister in Albuquerque.
“This seems pretty straightforward,” Persia offered. “You didn’t feel any anxiety about being at the top of the cliff, did you, Dorien?”
“Not a bit. I was as happy as a clam.”
“Then I’d say it’s a wish fulfillment dream, wouldn’t you, Ali?” When Ali nodded her consent, Persia asked if anyone had a different interpretation, but no one had any new ideas.
Ali had taught me that dream content can simply reflect “residual material” from the day and not have any particular significance. Dorien admitted that she’d spent an hour at the computer before bedtime, checking out flights to New Mexico, so it wasn’t surprising that her mind created a scenario that placed her in a desert setting.
The brain needs time to process information so dreaming is a way of sorting new material and putting it in the context of a series of images. Sometimes the thread has a strong emotion attached to it and sometimes not. The meeting ended shortly afterward, and I was heading to the sink with a pile of dishes when the phone rang. I caught myself wishing it was Noah. I was surprised by how much I was looking forward to our next meeting with Sara.
“I’ll get it,” Ali said cheerfully. A moment later, her faced hardened and her voice grew chilly.
“Detective Sanderson,” she said in a flat voice, “what can I do for you?” She turned her back to me, pacing around the kitchen, listening for a full thirty seconds. “Okay, I’ll be there,” she said. Her tone was leaden, defeated.
“What did he want?” My pulse was pounding and I tried to read her expression when she turned to face me.
“Another interview,” she said, sounding hopeless. “Down at the station house . . . first thing tomorrow morning.”
“It will be all right,” I said, rushing to her side to give her a hug.
“Do you think so?” She shook her head, her eyes blank. “I’m not so sure, Taylor. Not this time.”
22
“What did Sanderson say exactly?” Noah picked at his lobster salad, and I could tell he wasn’t enjoying it. He’s strictly a meat-and-potatoes kind of guy, but he’d gamely ordered the lobster salad because it was the house special at Andrea’s on Broughton Street. I used to tease him about expanding his gastronomic borders. I thought wistfully about all the good times we’d enjoyed together back in Atlanta. Those were carefree days, without the threat of a murder investigation looming over us.
“Very little,” I said crisply. “He asked for another meeting with Ali this morning, and naturally, she refused to let me go with her.” I glanced at my watch. Ali was probably being grilled by Sanderson right this minute, and I felt my breath catch in my throat. Ali had looked pale but calm when she left the house, and I hoped she’d managed to keep her composure.
“Ali can be stubborn at times,” Sara said with a smile. “She knows her own mind, that’s for sure. Do you suppose Sanderson has new information about the case?” The three of us had met for an early lunch to compare notes, and even though my stomach was roiling with worry over Ali, I felt comforted being in the company of good friends.
“I have no idea, but the thought crossed my mind.” I bit back a sigh and speared a chunk of sweet potato off my roasted veggie platter. “I wonder what he could have come up with?”
Noah shook his head, and Sara shot me a sympathetic look. “I think it’s time for a status report,” she said, pulling out a notebook. She pushed aside the remains of her margarita pizza and reached for her reading glasses. “Shall I go first?” Noah and I nodded and she said, “Do either of you know someone named Lucinda Macavy?”
“Of course. She’s a member of the Dream Club. Ali and I both know her very well.” I couldn’t imagine where Sara was going with this, and Noah had lifted his eyebrows at the name.
“The word on the street is that Chico might have been involved with her.”
“Involved? You’ve got to be kidding.” I immediately thought of Persia’s dream about Chico and Lucinda wr
apped in each other’s arms, dancing around the studio to Latin music. “That’s impossible.”
“Nothing’s impossible,” Sara said archly. “That’s the first rule of reporting.” She smiled at Noah. “I bet it goes for detective work, as well.”
“That it does,” Noah said, pushing his salad away. He glanced around for the waitress, and I knew he was going to order dessert. Southern desserts are to die for, and Savannah has some mouthwatering classics.
“Well then, far-fetched,” I said, gulping down some sweet tea. Persia’s dream couldn’t be true, could it? A sudden thought hit me. “Wait a minute. You meant romantically involved, right?”
“Oh no,” Sara said firmly. “I meant financially.” She shrugged. “I suppose they could have had a little something going on in the bedroom department, but”—she allowed herself a little giggle—“she doesn’t really seem like the type to hook up, does she?”
I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. It was doubtful that Lucinda had ever heard the expression “hooking up” and she would be appalled to think it was being applied to her. Lucinda, with her white gloves and gardening awards, was every inch a Savannah lady.
“No, she doesn’t.” I remembered her profile photo on the dating site—she’d been dressed like a prim schoolmarm. Then I recalled Persia’s comment: Still waters run deep. “What was the financial connection between them?”
“One of my pals is an investigative reporter, and she said Chico had a history of scamming women out of their life savings. I should say ‘women of a certain age’ who were lonely and vulnerable. It’s the kind of thing that’s tough to prove, but Chico’s name came up in an FBI investigation on Ponzi schemes. There was never enough evidence to formally charge him, but it looked like he was cheating women out of their life savings.”