Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery)

by Mary Kennedy

  “Well, she’s young, isn’t she?” Jennifer said with a sneer. “Of course she thinks that.” I blinked in surprise, puzzled by the sudden change in tone. It seemed like my gracious hostess was no fan of Amber Locke, and I wondered why. Was she jealous of the bright young political aide? It was difficult to imagine why she would be. Unless Thomas Walton was fooling around with the young staffer, and somehow Jennifer had gotten wind of it. I remembered overhearing someone say “what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander,” at the Walton dinner that night. So someone was suggesting that both Jennifer and Thomas Walton were having affairs.

  The maid appeared with our tea, and I glanced at my watch. I couldn’t overstay my welcome, but I still hadn’t learned a thing about Jennifer and Chico. It was going to be tough to turn the discussion to the dearly departed dance instructor. I didn’t dare arouse her suspicions, and it wasn’t the kind of thing you could just toss into a conversation.

  And then I had a lucky break. The French doors were wide open, and I glanced out at the gardens. I could see workers setting up for an “event,” probably another political fund-raiser. Someone had laid one of those temporary dance floors over the lush green grass, so Jennifer was obviously planning on having an orchestra.

  She followed my gaze and said, “Yes, another event tonight.” She rolled her eyes. “They only seem glamorous when you’re not the one hosting them,” she added.

  “You’re going to have dancing tonight!” I said as if this were the most exciting thing I’d ever imagined.

  She smiled, probably at my naïveté. “Yes, it’s an evening called Dancing Under the Stars, and I’ve hired a local dance band.”

  “I bet you’re a wonderful dancer,” I said softly, as if I were in awe of her.

  “Me? You’ve got to be kidding. I’ve got two left feet.” She sneaked a peek at her watch, probably wondering how long this “courtesy call” was going to take.

  I knew I had to speed things up. “You could take lessons, you know.” I added a bright smile.

  She shook her head, not taking the bait. “I did once, when I was eleven. And then one more lesson last year.” She laughed.

  Bingo! Was she going to admit taking dance lessons from Chico?

  “How did you do this time?” I said, careful to keep my voice neutral.

  “You don’t want to know!” she said ruefully. It was one of those practiced laughs that had no warmth behind it. “Never again. It’s not for me. I’m happy to sit on the sidelines.”

  She glanced at her watch again, and this time she didn’t bother to hide it. “So . . .” she said, perching on the edge of her chair. In another second, I knew I’d be ushered out the door. I had to move fast.

  “Could I . . . uh . . . use your powder room?” I said, jumping to my feet.

  “Of course.” She clamped down on her jaw as if she was literally biting back her annoyance. Then she reverted to charming-hostess mode. “Take the hallway on the left, then it’s the third door on the right.”

  “Oh, thank you so much, I’ll just be a moment.”

  Her BlackBerry chirped and she said, “Taylor, if you don’t mind, I’ll take this call. It seems there’s been a mix-up with the florist.”

  “Oh, of course, please take your time,” I said as I hotfooted it out the double doors to the main hall.

  What was I looking for? Something—anything—that would link Jennifer to Chico. It seemed like an impossible task, and I was going to have to rely on sheer luck. I darted down the wing on the left and zipped past the lavishly decorated powder room on the right. Decision time. Another set of wings, one going right and one going left. The house was enormous, a maze of wings and corridors and reception areas. I stood stock-still, listening for a moment. I could hear the maid, humming along with the radio, on the right, so that must be the kitchen area.

  I took the left wing, hoping to find the master suite. I found something better, a room that had to be Jennifer’s study. It was too girly to belong to her husband, the politician. The door was half open and I zipped inside. It was tastefully furnished with pale green silk wallpaper and what looked like a Louis XVI mahogany desk. Swag curtains with a cranberry and green motif on the windows. A modern, custom-made wall unit of burnished teak housed a pricey computer and a filing cabinet.

  I tapped one of the keys and the computer sprang to life. Would I be able to find something incriminating? And could I do it quickly? An old e-mail from Chico? Would she be careless enough to leave any evidence around?

  A flashing screen asked for my password. My spirits plummeted to my feet. I was glancing frantically around the office trying to find something—anything!—that would connect her with Chico.

  And then the sound of footsteps in the hall. “Well, where in the world is she?” I heard Jennifer mutter. The maid answered in a low voice. Just as they rounded the corner, I darted out of the office, remembering to pull the door behind me. Almost subliminally, I spotted a framed needlepoint over Jennifer’s desk. El que rie ultimo rie major. It sounded familiar; where had I heard that expression before?

  “Here you are!” Jennifer said, her voice tight with annoyance.

  “I must have taken a wrong turn,” I said, putting on my ditziest voice. “I used the little girls’ room”—I lowered my voice discreetly—“and then somehow I got turned around.”

  “Well, I’m afraid I’m going to have to walk you out,” Jennifer said in an icy tone. “There’s a huge problem with the caterers and I have to deal with it immediately.”

  “Oh, of course, I understand. I’ll just slip back to the sunroom to get my purse.”

  “Lupe brought it for you,” Jennifer said flatly. The stone-faced maid passed me my tote bag, and I smiled as I was ushered out a side door. They didn’t even bother walking me down the Great Hall to the front door. “This path will take you to the front circle, where you parked,” Jennifer said. Her Southern hostess charm had vanished; I could have been peddling Amway products.

  “Thank you for the lovely tea,” I said graciously as the door thumped shut behind me.

  Jennifer didn’t bother thanking me again for the gift basket. That was fine with me; I’d accomplished my mission. My mind went back to the saying posted over Jennifer’s desk. He who laughs last laughs best. Was it significant?

  If I consulted a Magic 8 Ball, I knew it would say, SIGNS POINT TO YES.

  30

  “I can’t believe you went to Jennifer Walton’s,” Ali said. “I’m surprised you even got past the front door. I read in the paper she’s hosting a big fund-raising event tonight.”

  “I think it was the element of surprise. She opened the door and there I was. With a pastry basket in hand! She certainly wasn’t expecting me.” I pulled up a bar stool to the downstairs counter, where Ali was serving fresh lemonade to Persia and Sybil.

  “The pastry basket was an inspired choice,” Persia offered. Persia and Sybil had dropped by the shop to buy some candy for a neighborhood block party that evening. All the proceeds were going to a women’s shelter so Ali and I had decided to donate the candy.

  “It certainly was. No Southern lady would turn away a guest with a pastry basket,” Sybil added sagely.

  “What did you include in the basket?” Sybil continued. “I didn’t think the desserts menu was up and running yet.” She looked around as if she expected the menu to be posted on the chalkboard we’d just installed.

  “It’s not,” I admitted. “I just scooped up a few things that were left over from last night’s Dream Club meeting. And I raided the freezer, Ali.” I held up three fingers in the Girl Scout oath. “I cannot tell a lie.”

  “Oh no!” she wailed. “I hope you made a list of what you took. I had a few wild card desserts stashed in there. They turned out just so-so, and I didn’t know if they should make the final cut.”

  I scrunched up my face. “Ther
e were a few that didn’t turn me on,” I said, “so I put them back.” Ali raised a questioning eyebrow. “The cardamom brownies, for example. Maybe they’re an acquired taste. They smelled like burnt rubber.”

  “I know,” Ali said, pouring us all glasses of fresh lemonade. “Something went terribly wrong. And the cumin pound cake. I’m afraid that didn’t live up to its reputation, either.”

  “Cumin pound cake and cardamom brownies?” Sybil wrinkled her nose and quickly reached for a magic seven-layer bar. “Good heavens, where did you find these recipes?”

  “I found them online. They sounded so interesting and exotic,” Ali said, “but they just weren’t the classic desserts that people expect here in Savannah.” She was right. Savannah residents love their coconut cake, blueberry muffins, peach cobbler, and cinnamon buns. Tradition is very important in Savannah eateries; it’s best to stick to the tried-and-true.

  “In my defense, I only took items that you had two of,” I said. “I needed a few things to fill out the basket.” I smiled. “And by the way, I would eighty-six the tofu treats.” I shuddered, remembering the odd-tasting white lumps passing themselves off as cookies. They had the same texture as Play-Doh and were dotted with pomegranate seeds.

  “Let’s hope Jennifer didn’t look too closely into the basket,” Ali said ruefully. “I don’t want her to think that I’m the world’s worst cook.”

  “Not that Jennifer would ever eat a bite of those desserts,” Persia sniffed. “That woman is as thin as a swizzle stick. I think she lives on lettuce leaves and Tic-Tacs.” She paused, sending me a shrewd look. “So did you have a nice visit with the lady of the manor?”

  “She was the perfect hostess,” I replied. I didn’t mention that I’d gotten the bum’s rush, and that Jennifer had ushered me out a side door to the driveway. The side door had probably been the tradesmen’s entrance in the old days, I realized with some amusement.

  Sybil looked thoughtful. “Did you have any particular reason for calling on Jennifer Walton?”

  “Not really.” I smiled. “I should have brought her a hostess gift the night of the dinner, but we went there on the spur of the moment. Ali’s friend, Andre, invited us. We did send a thank-you note, but I thought a hostess gift would be a nice thing to do, even it was a belated one.”

  Sybil and Persia exchanged a look. “That was very thoughtful of you, my dear,” Sybil said. “I can see you’ve adopted some of our Southern ways.”

  “The longer you stay here, Taylor, the harder you will find it to leave,” Persia said kindly. “I think you have the soul of a Southerner.”

  “Maybe I do.”

  I never told Persia that Ali and I had spotted her sitting at an outdoor café with Kevin Moore. I was hoping she’d bring up the topic herself and the minutes were ticking by.

  “So there’s nothing new on the investigation?” Sybil asked. Before I could answer, she turned to Ali. “And you, my dear. Is everything all right? I hope those dreadful police officers aren’t hounding you.”

  “I’m fine,” Ali assured her. “They’re just doing their job, and luckily, I seem to have slipped off their radar screen.” It was true. Ali was never questioned again after the second interview. Either Noah had worked some magic with his cronies at the Savannah PD, or the detectives had finally come to their senses and realized my dear, sweet sister would never hurt a mosquito.

  But who was on their radar screen? I went over the list of suspects in my mind while Ali poured more lemonade and served a batch of freshly made shortbread cookies. I grabbed one and started munching while I let my mind drift over the list of suspects.

  Dorien and Lucinda had visited Chico the night he died and had either lied about it, or failed to disclose it. I couldn’t imagine that either one of them had a motive to kill him, but I suppose anything was possible. It bothered me that neither Dorien nor Lucinda had immediately gone to the police. That certainly looked suspicious.

  On the other hand, could I really have sat next to them at the Dream Club meetings and not realized one of them was a killer? I remember that Ann Rule sat side by side with Ted Bundy for months on end, never suspecting he was a mass murderer. They were working the late shift together in a Seattle crisis clinic, answering a crisis hotline. I felt a little chill go through me at the thought. I might have shared cookies and sweet tea with a ruthless killer. The idea was preposterous. Wasn’t it?

  Who were the other suspects? Lisa Ortez, Chico’s ex-wife, might have been so furious with him over missing child support payments that she killed him in the heat of an argument. But Chico was poisoned, and that didn’t sound like a crime of passion. There was something cold, calculating, and well planned about his death.

  On the other hand, women killers tend to use poison instead of brute force or guns, so maybe I shouldn’t take Lisa Ortez off the list just yet. Plus, Minerva and Rose said they heard raised voices—in Spanish—the night of the murder. Lisa Ortez probably conversed with Chico in Spanish, their native language, but who else did? I didn’t know where to go with that lead, and I think Lisa had already returned home. She must have been ruled out as a suspect or the police wouldn’t have let her leave the country.

  Kevin Moore was a wild card in all this. He’d been spotted on the security tapes, driving by the studio, but nothing else was suspicious. As far as I knew, he never entered the studio and he never appeared in the alley with Chico. I was hoping Persia would admit to meeting Kevin for coffee, but so far she was keeping mum on that topic. So now we had three members of the Dream Club with secrets.

  Was it a stretch to say that everyone on this street had a possible motive to kill Chico in order to stop his real estate deal? The proposed plan would wipe out a few businesses. The flower shop would certainly go, but realistically, the Harper sisters were too old and frail to kill anyone. Ali’s candy shop would be on the block, but I knew Ali was innocent. The run-down movie theater was already closed, so that wasn’t an issue. Ali had told me the owner of Luigi’s was ready to retire, so he wouldn’t mind if someone bought him out. I was stumped.

  Hildy Carter, the decorator, lost out to Chico in a financial deal and someone told me Hildy “hates to lose.” But would she really kill him over it? I doubted it. Hildy had plenty of money and she had already found another, more lucrative deal. I couldn’t imagine her as the murderer. Noah had told me to “follow the money,” but where was it getting me? Nowhere. I was running into a dead end.

  I had the gut feeling Jennifer Walton was involved with Chico, but could she have been angry enough to kill him? Had she caught him with another woman? Even if she had, this could hardly have come as a surprise to her. Chico was a known philanderer.

  “I’m thinking Jennifer Walton knows more than she’s telling.” I nearly jumped when Sybil’s voice roused me from my thoughts. It was almost as though she’d read my mind. She was giving me a keen, penetrating look, and I plastered a polite smile on my face.

  “What makes you say that?” Persia asked. There was a predatory gleam in her eye along with an emotion I couldn’t identify. Was it relief? Was Persia relieved that the spotlight was off her? Persia had no reason to kill Chico, as far as I knew, but why was she being so secretive?

  I thought about the morning I’d met Persia at the bakery and she’d zipped in from her job at the real estate office. Persia had told me that she’d learned at work about Chico’s plan to buy up the buildings on the block. She hadn’t reacted when she’d seen the photo of Kevin Moore. Not a peep out of her.

  But why had she never disclosed that she’d met him for coffee at the outdoor café the other day? Something didn’t add up. What was her connection with Kevin Moore, and why was she afraid to reveal it to us? A link to Kevin Moore could also mean she had a link to Chico. But that seemed far-fetched. The more I pondered it, the more confused I got. I remember Ali saying it was like trying to put together a complex jigsaw puzzle when yo
u’re missing some key pieces. It was impossible.

  “I think I need to tell you about a dream I had last night,” Sybil said solemnly. All eyes were on her, and she raised her hand to her throat, preening a little. “I know we usually save dream interpretations for our regular meetings but I just can’t wait another minute.”

  “Then go ahead,” Ali said politely. “It sounds like it’s a significant dream.”

  “It could be,” Sybil agreed. “Maybe one of the most important dreams I’ve ever had.” She pushed her gold bangle bracelets up higher on her arm and rested her elbows on the counter. “What I’m going to tell you will seem very strange”—she paused, looking at all three of us—“but I think it may be the key to Chico’s passing.”

  Persia gave an involuntary gasp and had to steady herself. She was perched precariously on one of the bar stools, and her peach and white caftan was flowing around her.

  “Last night,” Sybil said in a tone that gave me goose bumps, “I saw Chico and Jennifer Walton. Together.”

  I drew in my breath sharply and Ali looked stunned. This was the last thing we were expecting. I was curious to see how the dream played itself out.

  “What were they doing?” Persia said, regaining her composure.

  “Driving,” Sybil said, raising her eyebrows. “Driving with the top down in that little red sporty car of his. Driving along a country road, somewhere marshy, lots of Spanish moss, definitely the low country at dusk. They were singing, without a care in the world, and looked very happy.”

  The low country. Didn’t someone tell me that Chico and Jennifer used to sneak off to Charleston together? A country road, marshy, certainly sounded like the road that went from Savannah to Charleston.