Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery)

by Mary Kennedy

  “So sorry. This has been one of those days,” she said, looking frazzled. “What did I miss?”

  “Someone has threatened Taylor,” Noah said, his tone grim. “I’m trying to persuade her to take it seriously.”

  Sara gasped and took a sip of the sweet tea we’d ordered for her. “Someone threatened you and not Ali? That’s strange. When did this happen?” She reached into her oversized tote and pulled out a pen and notebook.

  “I received a phone call last night. Shortly after the meeting of the Dream Club.”

  Sara gave a wry smile. “I’m going to have to infiltrate this club of yours. Dreams, murders, death threats. Who knows, I might write a bestselling book about it someday.”

  “Sara . . .” Noah said threateningly.

  “Oh, honestly, Noah, I’m just teasing.” She turned to me. “Sorry, Taylor, you know I didn’t mean it.” She gave a broad wink. “I’d forgotten how overprotective Noah can be.”

  “Can we please get back to the telephone threat?” Noah said.

  Sara put on her rimless reading glasses and shot me a quizzical look. “Tell me about the call. You have Caller ID, right?”

  “Yes, but nothing showed up. It just said ‘private number.’”

  “Probably a burner phone. We’ll never trace it,” Noah said.

  “And the person who called, male or female?” She opened her notebook and began scribbling.

  “I have no idea. It sounded like a robot. I suppose the voice was altered electronically. I’m afraid I don’t have much to go on.” I anticipated her next question. “Someone told me to stop asking so many questions and to mind my own business. And then they hung up.”

  “And we don’t even know if the message was intended for you or for Ali?”

  “No idea. I’m the one who picked up the phone but I didn’t even identify myself.” I felt my stomach clench, remembering the eerie intensity of the voice. “I’m trying to downplay this with Ali, I don’t want to alarm her.”

  “She needs to know the facts,” Noah said gruffly. “Did anything unusual happen at the Dream Club last night?”

  I quickly filled him in on Sybil’s dream about Dorien and Lucinda’s confession that she’d taken dance lessons from Chico. Noah already knew that Dorien had admitted bringing dinner to Chico that night, but I repeated the information for Sara.

  “Wow, this story gets weirder all the time.” Sara looked up briefly and ordered a tarte de pommes, one of the house specialties. Noah and I opted for buttery croissants, which Caroline makes fresh every day. “So Sybil dreamt that Dorien was having an outdoor picnic with Chico?”

  “Close. What actually happened is that Sybil dropped in on a dream that Dorien was having. Dorien was dreaming about sharing a picnic with Chico in an open field.”

  Sara raised a skeptical eyebrow. “I wish I could say I believe in this stuff, but—”

  “I know, I know,” I said quickly. “You don’t believe in dreams. I’m not trying to convert you.”

  Sara rolled her eyes. “I’m really having trouble with the idea that someone can just hop into another person’s dream. Even if it is true, and I’m not saying that it is,” she added quickly, “it seems like an invasion of privacy. How can you just drop into someone’s dream like you were watching a Lifetime movie?” She widened her eyes. “You can’t tell me that’s not intrusive.”

  “Sara, I’m not trying to convince you of anything, I’m just telling you what happened. Sybil claimed she dropped in on Dorien’s dream.” I paused. “Why would she lie about that, as strange as it sounds?”

  “Not lie exactly, but maybe Sybil is more clever than you think.” Her apple tart arrived, and she eyed it hungrily. “What if Sybil knew that Dorien had brought dinner over to Chico that night? And she invented the whole dream sequence, because she figured Dorien would break down and confess or melt in a puddle of tears?”

  I had to laugh. Dorien drowning in tears? Sara didn’t know that Dorien was one tough cookie. Dorien refused to admit anything at the Dream Club and blew off Sybil’s dream, pretending it had no merit. So now we knew that Dorien was capable of lying in a very convincing way.

  Sara offered me a bite of her apple tart, and I shook my head. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to resist, but I saw the server coming down the aisle with our croissants. “So,” Sara continued, “somehow this meeting of the Dream Club led to the threatening phone call last night. Someone wants you to stop investigating Chico’s death.”

  “We don’t even know if the phone call was about Chico,” I said.

  “But it must be!” Sara piped up. “What else would you be investigating? The message was stop asking questions. Nothing else dramatic has happened since you’ve been in town.”

  She looked at her notes. “Well, this really adds another ingredient to the mix. Dorien delivering dinner and Lucinda taking dance lessons.” She blew out a little puff of air. “Anything else to report, or shall I tell you what I’ve dug up?”

  “You have the floor.” I smiled at her. Sara looked very young and eager in a blue silk top from Chaps and skinny jeans.

  “I don’t have a bombshell; it’s more of a firecracker.” She gave a dramatic pause. “Okay, here goes. I’m pretty sure that Jennifer Walton had something going on with Chico.” She gave us a moment to absorb this, and then ducked her head back to her notebook.

  “Really? That’s interesting.” I glanced over at Noah but his face was impassive. I still couldn’t make sense of what I’d seen at the Walton dinner that night. Noah and Jennifer had seemed like they were pretty close, unless I was mistaken.

  Sara nodded. “I’ve made friends with a local socialite who wants to start a gossip column, and she passed this tidbit on to me.”

  “A gossip column? Surely not in the local paper.” I raised my eyebrows. Savannah has its share of eccentrics, but it’s basically a conservative town, and people value their privacy and their reputations.

  “Oh, she doesn’t call it that, of course,” Sara quickly amended. “She thinks of it as a social column, Savannah’s version of Page Six. She wants to get invited to all the trendy parties, and she hopes the column will be her calling card.”

  “Interesting. But the column is still in the planning stage, is that what you’re saying?”

  “That’s right. She hasn’t gotten a contract from the newspaper yet; she’s just putting out feelers,” Sara said.

  “But getting back to your source . . .” Noah prodded.

  “Oh yes, here’s the juicy part,” she said, flipping the page. “I found out that Jennifer Walton is really jealous of Gina Santiago.” She paused and waited for our reaction. I noticed Noah didn’t change his expression. I hadn’t seen Gina since Chico’s memorial service; she hadn’t attended any of the Dream Club meetings and was supposedly visiting her sister in Charleston.

  “She’s jealous because . . .” I said, hoping to hurry her along.

  “Because she thinks Chico was cheating on her with Gina! Chico was seen dining out with Gina, and people said they looked very cozy.”

  “Wait a minute. You said cheating on her? So that means that Chico and Jennifer—”

  “Had hooked up,” Sara said solemnly. “Lots of people in town knew about it. The word on the street is that Jennifer was furious when she found out that Chico had something going on the side with Gina.” So furious she might have killed Chico?

  “Why are people convinced that Gina and Chico were involved?” I asked. I still wasn’t sure this was true. Gina and Chico had worked together for years. I had never sensed anything the least bit romantic between them. Maybe it was all just idle gossip? Maybe they had just grabbed a bite to eat after work and were spotted by some busybody? Two friends having a late supper? There was no need to make it into something it wasn’t.

  “Apparently, Chico was dumb enough to brag about his conquests. B
oth Gina and Jennifer. And word got back to Jennifer. As far as Gina is concerned, if she worked with him every day, she probably knew he was a player.” She gave a wry laugh. “Men!”

  I was still waiting for Noah to jump into the discussion, but he was silent. He was carefully spreading sweet butter on his croissant as if he wasn’t taking in every word we were saying.

  “Oh, sorry, Noah, no offense. I didn’t mean you,” Sara said blithely.

  “None taken.” He glanced at me and I grinned. “Do you want to hear what I’ve dug up?”

  “Absolutely,” Sara and I chorused.

  Noah opened a folder. “The tox screen is back, and it seems that Chico died of potassium cyanide. That’s the most likely explanation. But here’s the interesting part. They tested the remains of his dinner. The veal scallopini was clear. No trace of cyanide. And they tested the wine. Nothing.”

  “So how was the poison administered?” Sara asked. “If it wasn’t in the food or drink, then that means he didn’t ingest it during dinner . . . so I’m stumped.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Noah said. “The security cameras picked up Chico standing in the alley behind the studio, drinking something out of a bottle.”

  I felt a rush of excitement. “Wasn’t Kevin Moore slowing down and staring at the alley in the early tapes? He could have met up with Chico and handed him something to drink.” My heart thumped in my chest. This might be the first solid lead we’d had.

  “Except there’s no video of Chico and Kevin in the alleyway,” Noah pointed out. “The police can’t bring him in for questioning unless they find him.”

  “Is he here in town?” Sara asked. I’d forgotten to tell her I’d spotted Kevin Moore with Persia.

  “I think I saw him the other day,” I told her. “Sitting and talking to Persia Walker at an outdoor café.”

  “Kevin Moore was sitting with Persia?” Sara frowned. “How does she fit into all this?”

  “I have no idea; she’s one of the members of the Dream Club. I can’t imagine what her connection with Kevin could be. Or with Chico,” I quickly added. “There’s no reason she’d want to hurt Chico, I don’t think she ever met him. She showed up at the memorial service, but I think that was just because Gina is a member of our club.”

  “Do you have a close-up shot of the bottle Chico was drinking from?” I asked.

  “Not yet but they think it’s an energy drink of some sort.”

  “Didn’t they run a screen on the contents of the bottle? That seems like the obvious thing to do.” Sara was making short work of her apple tart. It looked so good, I nearly changed my mind and asked her for a bite.

  “That’s what’s odd,” Noah went on. “They never found the bottle. It wasn’t in the studio and it wasn’t in the alley.”

  “Is it possible that Kevin Moore gave Chico the drink in the alley, stood there and watched him drink it, and then took the bottle away with him?”

  “If that’s the way it happened, we’ll never know,” Noah said.

  “And wouldn’t Chico think it was strange?” Sara offered. “If someone offered him a drink and then took the empty bottle away? That would make anyone suspicious!” she huffed.

  “I think you’re right,” I agreed.

  “And don’t forget,” Noah added. “There’s nothing on tape that shows anyone else in the alley. Just that one shot of Chico drinking a sports drink. That’s all we have to go on.”

  “So now what?” I said.

  “Someone should track down that rumor about Gina and Chico,” Sara suggested. “Taylor, you could do it, couldn’t you? You and Ali are friends with Gina; do you suppose she’d confide in you?”

  “I’m not so sure. We’re not exactly friends, and you know how Ali is—she’s nice to everyone. She probably thinks she’s closer to Gina than she actually is. I’ll do my best, though.”

  “I’ll keep working the case and try to get some more information from the police,” Noah said. “At the moment, they don’t seem to have any viable suspects. Three people visited Chico that night, but no one had a strong motive to kill him.”

  “Unless it was the fourth person, Kevin Moore,” Sara said. “I can try to track him down, if you want. And I can try to figure out what his relationship was with Persia. That part is baffling.”

  “The whole case is baffling,” I said. “I can’t believe I came to town to help my sister and ended up smack in the middle of a murder investigation.”

  “How’s she doing with the shop?”

  “Great!” I told them all about the “handheld desserts” idea that we planned, along with a few of Dana’s marketing ideas. Noah seemed preoccupied once we stopped talking about the case, and the fragile connection between us seemed to have vanished. I was puzzled by his on-again, off-again interest in me, and I wondered if this was the way it was going to be from now on. We finished up our pastries then and stepped out into the bright Savannah sunshine, ready to do our separate sleuthing.

  I’d promised to see what I could find out about Gina’s relationship with Chico, but there was one place I wanted to try first. My mind still kept going back to Jennifer Walton. I felt certain there was more to the story than she was letting on. Was she involved with Chico? Were they lovers? And was she somehow connected to his death?

  I decided to pay her a visit. I didn’t have any reason to barge in on her, but I decided to use an old Southern tradition. A courtesy call with baked goods. How could anyone refuse? All I had to do was catch her at home, and I’d have it made.

  29

  “Why, this is so sweet of you,” Jennifer Walton said. “What a lovely basket. Please come in.” She opened the massive double doors wider and gave me a dazzling smile. “I’ve just been catching up on my bills and my e-mail. One of those lazy days at home, you know.”

  She was dressed in expensive designer duds: a creamy silk blouse and fitted black slacks with Leboutin low heels. She was wearing full makeup, and her streaky blond hair was pulled back in a ponytail. I wondered if this was her idea of “at-home casual,” and if all Savannah women lounged around their houses dressed like this. I glanced around the sitting room, filled with museum-quality antiques and priceless oriental rugs. I’d forgotten how impressive the historic mansion was, with its gleaming wood floors and elaborate millwork.

  “I hope you enjoy the goodies,” I said, trying to sound as shy and innocent as I could. “We’re starting a new dessert menu at the candy shop, and I thought you might like to try some samples. All of the pastries are homemade and we only use Southern recipes.” I was going to add that they were “passed down from generation to generation,” and then decided that I was probably laying it on a little too thick.

  Jennifer laughed. “You can’t beat Southern cooking,” she said. “I have some recipes I swear by; the kitchen is my favorite room in the house.”

  Jennifer Walton as Rachael Ray? Since Andre told me Jennifer has a live-in chef and a staff of three, I found that hard to believe. I looked at her nails, beautifully buffed with a sophisticated French manicure. I doubted she’d ever done anything more taxing than press the start button on the Keurig.

  “Let’s sit on the sunporch,” she said. A uniformed housekeeper appeared briefly, and Jennifer asked her to serve us tea.

  “Unless you’d like something stronger? We have the makings for mimosas.” She had a hungry look in her eyes, and I wondered if tippling mimosas during the afternoon was something she normally did.

  “Oh no, tea is fine,” I said quickly. “I’ve got a long afternoon ahead of me at the shop.”

  “Yes.” She smiled, and I caught a look of pity. “I don’t know how you girls do it these days. Trying to work and have careers and keep up with your social engagements. And of course, finding time to take care of yourself.” She glanced at my casual white jeans and striped top. My outfit clearly wasn’t up to snuff
in her world. “I just couldn’t do it,” she said, giving a little helpless wave of her hand. “Taking care of Thomas seems to be a full-time job. He’s running for office, you know.”

  I smiled. “I know, I was at that lovely dinner you hosted for your husband and his supporters.” Hah, score one for Taylor.

  “Silly me,” she said flushing. “I’ve been so frazzled by all the campaign activities, I’d forgotten you were there. And you had your sister with you, a lovely girl.” She paused. “That was very thoughtful, writing me that handwritten thank-you note. These days, so many people forget the social niceties.” I nodded sagely, as if I spent a lot of time pondering the demise of etiquette in America.

  “Tell me, Taylor, would you like to get involved in the campaign? We have plenty of fun volunteer openings.”

  Fun volunteer openings? I knew exactly what she had in mind: licking envelopes, manning the phone banks, plus assorted copying, faxing, and filing. I’ve volunteered with election campaigns before and I know the drill. It’s grunt work, with very little “fun” at the lower levels.

  “It certainly sounds tempting,” I said, “but I’m so involved with Ali and the shop, I don’t think I could manage it right now.” I decided it was time to try another topic. “I can see that your husband has attracted some very dedicated people to his team. I sat next to Amber Locke at dinner.”

  Jennifer stiffened when I mentioned the young campaign worker and quickly plastered a bright, false smile on her face. “Isn’t she just the sweetest thing?” she purred. “I simply love her to death.” I’d been in Savannah long enough to know that “loving someone to death” is code for “I wish she’d take a bath with a toaster.” Jennifer paused, as if she wanted me to say more, but I just looked at her. “Taylor, honey, what all did you and Amber talk about, if I might ask?”

  Time to put on what Ali calls my “earnest” look.

  “Well, let me see. Amber told me how much she loves Washington and how she hopes to go there, once your husband is elected to the United States Senate. She’s very idealistic and I’m sure she believes your husband can make a difference.” I figured that was a safe thing to say and would cover almost any situation.