by Mary Kennedy
“I don’t!” she said, raising her voice. “Or I didn’t,” she said, quickly taking it down an octave. “Look, this is rather embarrassing, but you know I’m not doing very well with my tarot shop.” Embarrassing? Owning a failing business is nothing compared to being a suspect in a murder investigation. I longed to say this, but I restrained myself. I decided to sit back and let her tell the story in her own way.
“So I started a little catering business on the side. I thought I’d do a few events for friends, maybe people in the district. I didn’t say anything about it in the Dream Club because I didn’t want people to think I was a failure.”
“I’m sure no one would think that,” I said soothingly.
“You’d be surprised,” Dorien said with a sudden flash of temper. “We’ve got some strange personalities in that group. You may not have noticed, but there’s a lot of jealousy and backbiting beneath the surface,” she said in a self-righteous tone. “It’s too bad people aren’t a little nicer to each other and realize that everyone has troubles.” She stared at the floor with a woebegone expression on her face, her anger melting into sadness.
“You were telling me about your catering business?” I poured some more lemonade, and gave her a smile, hoping to bring her back on track.
“Yes,” she said morosely. “It shows just how something innocent can go terribly wrong.”
“What happened?” I asked. This time I cupped my chin in my hand, all bright-eyed eagerness, determined to get the truth out of her.
“Chico saw an ad I took out in one of those supermarket weeklies. I’d included a two-for-the-price-of-one dinner coupon, and he called me and ordered veal scallopini.”
“Veal scallopini, an expensive choice,” I murmured. I was glad Ali had gone upstairs because she would have lectured Dorien on the cruelty inherent in veal crates and reminded her that they were outlawed in Europe. I absolutely agree with her, but there was no way I was going to interrupt the thread of Dorien’s conversation now that I had her on a roll.
“Yes, he said it was a special occasion. He told me to be sure to drop it off at six sharp because he was expecting a guest a few minutes later. He planned on reheating the dinner in the oven; I told him the microwave could ruin the taste. I learned that from watching one of Gordon Ramsey’s shows,” she said confidently. “I wanted to make a good impression so I was there exactly at six.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing,” she said, letting her hands flop to her side. “He opened the door, took the basket, and paid me. In cash. I was there less than five minutes. He had already preheated the oven, and I gave him a couple of last-minute instructions for the roasted potatoes and vegetables.”
Five minutes. She was telling the truth, according to the surveillance tape.
“Why haven’t you told anyone about this?”
“Because everyone will think I killed him!” she said in an anguished voice. “I didn’t even know the guy, and he could ruin my business before it gets off the ground. Who’d want to order from a caterer who poisons her clients?”
Good point! “Dorien,” I said gently, “I think you’ve made a huge mistake here. You should have said something about it right away. This is information the police need to have. And you can’t assume they would point the finger at you. As far as anyone knows, the poison might not have been present in the food. It could have been ingested another way.” Although for the life of me, I couldn’t think how.
She nodded. “Maybe you’re right.” She heaved a deep sigh. “I almost said something at the last Dream Club meeting and then I saw Sam sitting there and I wimped out. I could just picture her arresting me on the spot. Can you imagine how awful that would be?” She gave a nervous little laugh. “I guess I’ve been watching too many TV shows; that’s not the way it would happen, is it?”
“Of course not,” I said, reaching over and patting her arm. I thought of Ali’s experience at the station house with Detective Sanderson. She’d told me the second interview hadn’t been as stressful as the first, but she hadn’t wanted to talk about it. I didn’t push her for details and decided to give her some time and space to deal with it.
“It might be a bit awkward, because Sam is a detective, but you know she’d be on your side, Dorien. She could have advised you on the best thing to do and smoothed the way for you. She’d probably suggest that you come down to the station house and give a statement.”
“Do you think it’s too late?” Dorien’s eyes had welled with tears, and now she brushed at them with a tissue.
“I know it isn’t,” I said warmly. “It’s never too late. If I were you, I’d call Sam right now. Tell her exactly what you told me and do whatever she suggests. And call me or drop by if you need some moral support.”
Dorien stood up and surprised me by giving me a hug. “Thanks so much, Taylor, you’re a good friend.” She paused for a moment, her mouth taking a downward cast. “Sometimes I feel like I don’t have any real friends in the club. I guess I’m too much of a loner. People don’t take to me. It’s easy for women like you and Ali,” she said bitterly. “People are drawn to you, right from the start. They want to know you and spend time with you.” It occurred to me that maybe Dorien was more isolated and lonely than I’d realized.
“Nonsense,” I said firmly, secretly thinking she was spot-on in her self-assessment. She came across as brash and abrasive, not at all open to making new friends. “You’re a very important part of the club, and you always have such interesting insights. Really, Dorien, you’ll feel much better after you talk to Sam and come up with a plan.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said, reaching for her cardigan on the back of the chair. “I’ve been so stressed out, carrying this secret around with me. There’s nothing worse than uncertainty, is there? I should have told the truth from the beginning and faced the consequences.”
“Exactly.” I nodded solemnly, thinking of my sister. Ali had hidden the truth about visiting Chico the night of the murder, and her lie was coming back to haunt her. And me.
24
“I feel like getting out for a while, don’t you?” Ali looked refreshed after her nap. Her skin was glowing and her eyes had lost that tense, haunted look. It was late afternoon, a golden time of day in Savannah.
“What do you feel like doing?” I finished brushing Scout and deposited him on the windowsill next to Barney, who was snoozing contentedly. Barney slept like he didn’t have a care in the world, and as Ali was fond of reminding me, he doesn’t. Unlike most stray cats, Barney and Scout were lucky to have landed in a loving “forever” home with Ali. Only one in ten cats live their whole life in their original home, and Barney and Scout had hit the jackpot. I was pleased that they seemed to be bonding with me and often rubbed themselves against my legs, hoping for some grooming or a belly scratch.
“Maybe a bit of shopping, or just strolling through the district? And we could grab a bite to eat later? We could even try to look for some bistro tables and chairs if we feel up to it.” Ali pulled a brush through her thick hair. She had the ability to look terrific even after tumbling out of bed, her face bare of makeup.
“Sounds like a plan.” I pointed to an ad in the free flyer I’d picked up in the supermarket. “There’s a tag sale down on River Street, and it says they’re selling furniture from a B and B that’s being remodeled. Maybe we can find some bargains.” That was the accountant in me talking. We really didn’t have money to furnish the shop, but I was hoping that some attractive bistro sets would lure tourists in for our coffee and dessert menu. If we really wanted to go ahead with our expansion, the customers needed someplace to sit.
A few minutes later, we took a leisurely stroll toward the Riverwalk. The streets were crowded, and Ali and I were talking over possible dessert items when I saw something that made my pulse jump. “Ali,” I gasped, grabbing her arm. “Is that Persia sitting und
er the green umbrella table over there?”
Ali craned her neck, trying to see past a huge potted palm surrounded by impatiens. “Yes, I think so,” she said slowly. “Not too many people wear caftans like that.” She giggled. “And I recognize that one. It’s one of her favorites. It has goldfish all over it.” She was right. Persia’s caftan was deep blue dotted with bright lemon yellow goldfish. An unusual look, but somehow Persia managed to pull it off.
She shrugged and started to move on, but I stopped her. “Look at the man with her. I think it’s Kevin. How could those two possibly be connected?”
“Kevin from—”
“Kevin from the surveillance tape and your dream,” I said, pulling her with me as we ducked behind a pillar. “Kevin Moore.”
Persia had pretended she’d never seen Kevin before, the man on the tapes. She’d even played along and asked Marlene, the waitress, if she could identify him. So Persia was determined to keep their relationship hidden. Interesting. But what did it mean?
Ali gasped. “If that’s really Kevin, he might have been the last person to see Chico alive.” She shuddered. “Aren’t the police looking for him?”
“I think they figured he went back to California. They probably don’t know he’s right here in Savannah.”
“You could call Noah,” Ali suggested.
I hesitated. “I could,” I said finally, “but I don’t think they have enough evidence to bring Kevin in for questioning. The only thing he’s really guilty of is running a red light. Who knows, he might have already paid the fine.”
A reasonable excuse, but it sounded hollow to my ears. The truth is, I’m not sure why I was hesitant to call Noah. Maybe I was feeling a bit hurt that he’d never contacted me after our lunch with Sara? Maybe I had set my expectations too high? I’d let myself imagine that seeing Noah here in Savannah meant our romance would be rekindled. The fact that he hadn’t called me told me he had a different view of things. For all I knew, he was already involved with someone and keeping quiet about it. Noah has always been a man with secrets. Back in Atlanta, Noah was always on the move for the Bureau, always silent about his investigations. It’s not surprising we broke up: both of us were engrossed in our careers with little time or energy to invest in a relationship.
“But what’s Kevin doing here now?” Ali asked.
“And why is he meeting with Persia?” I raised my eyebrows. “What’s the connection between those two?”
“It doesn’t look like a friendly conversation,” Ali said, allowing herself another quick peek. “Persia has her chin stuck out like a bulldog’s and look at her waving her hands in the air. She usually only does that when she’s angry at someone in the Dream Club. Like Lucinda,” she added.
Lucinda! I suddenly remembered that Persia had revealed a dream about Lucinda twirling around the dance floor with Chico. Maybe she’d made up the dream. Was Persia trying to point the finger at Lucinda, in the hopes of drawing suspicion away from herself?
It was easy to see why Kevin Moore had a motive to kill Chico. Chico had swindled him out of his share of the dance studio. But what was Persia’s link to Kevin Moore? And to Chico?
Maybe Ali was right. The smart thing would be to put my personal feelings aside and keep Noah in the loop. I pulled out my cell phone and left him a brief message. Maybe nothing could be done, but at least he’d know that Kevin was back in town and he could alert the police if he wanted to.
I was still puzzled over Persia and her involvement in all this. It was Persia who’d shocked the Dream Club by describing a “murder right here in Savannah.” We’d listened spellbound as she’d shared some telling details about the crime scene: the Latin music, the dark-haired man, the open door leading to the street. Her dream was so spot-on that I remembered wondering if she could have had intimate knowledge of the crime scene. But if she did, wouldn’t that make her the killer? Or at least an accomplice? And why would she want to kill Chico?
Judging by the body language, Kevin and Persia loathed each other. How were they connected? Any why did Persia deny knowing him? That was a missing piece of the puzzle, and I was determined to find it.
Persia and Kevin suddenly stood up and pushed back their chairs. I could hear raised voices but I couldn’t make out what they were saying. Kevin made an “I give up” gesture, with his hands raised chest-high, palms out, facing Persia. She was jabbing the air with her forefinger and her face was bright red. Was she accusing him of something? And what about the classic palms-out gesture Kevin was making? Was he admitting guilt or telling her he’d had enough of the conversation? I couldn’t decide.
I watched them for a full thirty seconds, more confused than ever. I didn’t want to alert Persia to the fact that we’d spotted her, so I linked my arm through Ali’s and we headed quickly down the street.
“That was weird,” Ali said as we turned the corner and found ourselves at another beautiful square.
“Very weird,” I agreed.
The sunlight was filtering through the leaves of a banyan tree, making interesting shapes on the sidewalk. I’d only been here a short time, but I already felt like Savannah was my home. How will I ever leave? The thought of going back to chilly Chicago wasn’t the least bit attractive, and I found myself increasingly drawn to the slow-paced life in the historic town. I’d loved Atlanta, but Savannah was even more relaxed, less “big-city,” and seemed to offer a sense of peace and solace that I was craving. Two blocks later, we arrived at the outdoor flea market.
“Look, there’s Lucinda,” Ali said, waving to the birdlike woman in the beige shift dress.
“Flea markets seem to bring everyone out, don’t they?” She hurried over to greet Lucinda, who was looking over a pile of crockery on a display table.
“I like this, but I don’t need it,” Lucinda was saying to a vendor, holding up a soup tureen with rabbits on the lid. It was a little bit kitschy, but I knew it would fit right in with Lucinda’s style.
“But it’s so colorful, I think you should buy it anyway,” Ali said, touching her gently on her arm.
“I do love chickens and rabbits,” Lucinda said, “and the colors are exactly right for my kitchen.”
“Is it terribly expensive?” Ali lifted up the tag and winced. “Oh dear, I think it is.”
“It’s actually a bargain,” the vendor piped up. She was a young girl in her early twenties with copper-colored hair and a wide smile. She looked pleased at the sudden interest and took off the lid so we could examine it more carefully. “Just look at the fine craftsmanship,” she said. “You won’t find that level of intricacy nowadays.”
“Is this vintage?” a male voice asked. I turned to see Andre from the antique shop talking to a tall, very tanned man standing next to him. They were inspecting a set of Limoges china and Andre was holding up a dinner plate to the bright sunlight. “If the price is right, it might be worth it to buy an extra set. This kind of thing can only go up in value. And who knows, we might be doing a lot more events.”
Ali spotted the pair and rushed over to them. “Gideon!” she squealed, leaning forward to kiss his cheek. “I’m so glad you’re back. You were in California when we stopped by your shop the other day. I want you to meet my sister.”
“I heard all about it, sweetie,” Gideon said. “I can’t believe I missed you. And you must be Taylor,” he said, leaning forward and kissing me on the cheek. “Welcome to Savannah. I hope Andre has been taking good care of you.”
Ali beamed. “Andre managed to get us invitations to a big dinner party at the Waltons,” she said. “What a night, everything was perfect. Andre, you did an amazing job.”
“They hired us for two more gigs,” Andre said, looking pleased. “The Waltons have money to burn, and the sky’s the limit when it comes to his campaign. He’s pulling out all the stops, and I think it may pay off. Plus they’re referring a couple of their friends to us
. So things are looking up.”
“Come over and help our friend decide on a soup tureen,” Ali said. She dragged Andre and Gideon over and introduced Lucinda to them. “Andre and Gideon have one of the nicest antique stores in Savannah,” Ali said warmly. She lowered her voice. “They can tell you whether or not this is a good deal,” she said. “They’re antique experts.”
“Oh my goodness, that’s exciting.” Lucinda looked impressed. “I know it’s silly, but this particular piece just speaks to me,” she said. “I suppose you think I’m being foolish,” she said in her self-deprecating way.
“Not at all,” Andre told her. “If it’s a genuine Chelsea rabbit, it could be quite valuable. Of course, if it’s an imitation, then it’s just a cheap piece of crockery.”
“What in the world is a Chelsea rabbit?” Lucinda asked.
“Back in the eighteenth century, the Chelsea Porcelain Factory in England made china sets with rabbits on them. Very distinctive, and nowadays, they’re a hot item. Chelsea soup tureens are valuable, definitely worth collecting.” Andre leaned down to peer at the lid and ran his finger around the edge. “But is this the real thing? I’m just not sure.” He looked back at the vendor, who was standing by anxiously, hoping for a sale. “Do you have the provenance on this piece? Or could we at least look at the mark?”
“I don’t have any paperwork to prove it’s authentic, but I can show you the mark.” She deftly turned the tureen upside down and pointed to a small mark on the bottom. Andre examined it and shot Lucinda a disappointed look.
“I’m afraid it’s not a Chelsea,” Andre said, shaking his head. “A nice piece, but don’t buy it as an investment, Lucinda.”
“But it if you love it,” Ali urged, “why not go for it?”
“I’m sorry but I think I’ll pass,” Lucinda said apologetically to the girl with the copper hair. “I have too many knickknacks as it is.”
The five of us edged away then, continuing down the aisle, and Lucinda tossed a grateful smile at Andre. Andre and Gideon had decided against buying the Limoges, and we wanted to check out a few more stalls.