by Mary Kennedy
The other dreams were fairly mundane and Sam Stiles had nothing to share. “When I’m under a lot of stress, I tend not to dream,” she said wearily. “It’s like my brain wants to shut down completely and give me a few hours of oblivion. Does anyone else feel that way?”
“Oh, heavens, yes,” Lucinda said. “It can go either way. When I’m upset, I have these awful ‘rescue’ dreams. There are always cats or puppies in trouble, and it’s up to me to save them.”
“Probably from your days at the Academy,” Persia noted. “The kitties and puppies probably represent your former students.”
“That could well be,” Lucinda said. “And sometimes it goes the other way. When I’m really troubled by something, my head hits the pillow and I go out like a light for eight hours straight. I always feel so much better when I wake up.”
“I have the same experience,” Sam piped up. “It’s almost like my brain reboots itself, like a computer. I wake up energized, ready to take on the day.”
“I don’t suppose you can tell us any news about the investigation?” Dorien asked. Her tone was polite and conciliatory. I think she’s a little afraid of Sam. Sam can be just as blunt and direct as Dorien, and she’s not afraid to tell Dorien off if she feels she’s stepped over the line.
“Afraid not.” She threw me a quick look, and I wondered if she planned on staying after the meeting and giving us an update.
“Oh, speaking of poor Sonia,” Minerva said, “I completely forgot that I have some photos of the book signing to show everyone.”
“The shop looks so nice,” her sister Rose added. “I thought you might like to have them, Ali. We can make copies.”
While Minerva dug into her purse for the photos, I asked, “Who took the photos? I didn’t think anyone on Sonia’s staff came equipped with a camera that day.”
“Oh, they didn’t,” Minerva said. “This is from Mrs. Martha Whittaker. She’s a longtime friend of ours and she snapped them with her camera. Her grandson gave her one of these point-and-click cameras for her birthday, and you’ll be surprised at how clear the photos are.” She finally dug out a manila envelope and spread the photos on the coffee table.
“Wow, these are lovely,” Ali said. “Look Taylor, here’s a shot of the window display and here’s a nice one of Sonia smiling at the guests.”
“Look, here’s Bernice Tuckerman,” Persia said. “She used to work at the law firm with me. I’d love to have a copy of one of these, if I may.”
“Of course, we’ll have copies made for anyone who wants them. Someone start a list. I’ve numbered the photos on the back.”
As we passed the photos around, Lucinda said suddenly, “Oh, this is my favorite. Sonia is answering a question. Look how happy she is and the people in the front row are smiling at her.”
The photo made the rounds and when it reached Sam, she gasped. “How did we miss this?” she said in a strangled voice.
“Miss what, my dear?” Minerva asked calmly.
“The drink! Sonia’s holding a cardboard coffee cup.”
“I don’t think so,” Rose said, “I remember she was drinking iced tea at the signing. At least, that’s what Ali and Taylor served that day.”
“We did,” I said slowly, leaning forward to see the photo. “But I don’t know that Sonia actually drank any of it. Where did this cup come from?”
Minerva dug into her giant purse again and pulled out a magnifying glass. “Here, your eyes are better than mine,” she said, handing it to Ali.
“Java Joe’s,” Ali said, squinting at the photo. “That’s the little coffee shop right next to the hotel. Sonia had breakfast at the hotel, but she must have stopped by Java Joe’s and grabbed a cup of coffee to go.”
“I can’t believe we overlooked this,” Sam said. She looked pale and exhausted and I knew she’d been working overtime at the precinct. “I’m positive this paper cup wasn’t in any of the crime scene photos.”
“Is it important?” Rose asked.
Sam ran her fingers through her short, curly hair. “I have no idea.” She gave a short laugh. “But it adds another element to the mix, doesn’t it? We need to find that coffee cup.”
“What can you do?” Ali asked.
“Can I borrow this photo?” Sam asked Minerva. When Minerva nodded, she said, “I’m going to see if the CSIs remember seeing this paper cup at the scene. They certainly would have bagged it, unless somehow it got overlooked. Maybe someone dumped it, but we took all the trash with us. I gave very clear orders on bagging all the trash. I have no idea why it’s in the picture, but it didn’t show up in the evidence.”
I thought guiltily of us inviting the Dream Club upstairs to the apartment for an impromptu meeting right after Sonia was taken away. Should I have thought to shoo everyone out the door to preserve the crime scene? In hindsight, it would have been the wise thing to do. But at that time, we didn’t know the downstairs was a crime scene. As far as we knew, Sonia had died of natural causes. It had seemed perfectly normal to want to join together after such a traumatic event.
“I think we may be overlooking something. Are there any photos of her actually drinking the coffee?” Sybil asked. “It looks like it’s just sitting there in front of her.” A good question. Maybe Sonia bought the coffee and brought it to the shop, but never drank it during the book signing.
“I don’t think so.” Ali swept up all the photos and riffled through them as if she were shuffling a deck of cards. “In fact, I think this is the only photo that even shows the coffee cup.”
We went back to our dream discussion then, but Ali looked worried and preoccupied. I think she was feeling the same emotion I was: guilt. Had we made Sam Stiles’s job a lot harder by not preserving the evidence?
But how could we have known? Sonia’s collapse was so sudden and shocking, we weren’t thinking clearly. Our focus was on getting Sonia to the hospital as quickly as possible. Somehow I couldn’t shake the gray cloud hanging over me, and I was happy when the meeting was over and the members filed out. Sam received an urgent phone call on the landing, so she left immediately. If she really had some inside knowledge she wanted to share with us, it would have to wait until the following day.
25
The next morning, I debated whether or not to call Noah. Again. I’d already left two messages and the idea of leaving another one seemed, well, needy somehow. The shop was going to open in ten minutes and I was restocking a rainbow assortment of Necco Wafers. I love their Easter-egg colors and was trying to figure out something creative to do with them when Ali spoke up.
“You really should call him, you know.” Sometimes she can read my mind. It’s uncanny, and it usually happens when I feel troubled or indecisive about something. Ali seems to have a sixth sense, and her protective instincts kick in, even though I’m the older sister. I gave a slow, deliberate shrug as if I had no idea what she was talking about. “Him,” she added pointedly. “Call him. Noah.” A long beat. “You know you want to. Don’t be so stubborn.”
“Ah, Noah,” I said innocently, as if the thought had never crossed my mind. “Yes, I suppose I could.” I gave up on the Necco Wafers. Dana would be here any minute, and she was a genius at display. I’d let her tackle them.
I watched as Ali wrote today’s specials on a blackboard with colored chalk. Flatbread pizzas; Mediterranean panini with black olives, artichokes, and Feta cheese; and a light version of Ali’s favorite potato soup that was catching on fast. And, of course, cheese soup served in a bread bowl. Ever since we’d added soups and sandwiches to our menu, we’d attracted some street traffic. “You’re letting your pride get in your way,” Ali said softly. She let out a little breath as if she was tempted to say more but was holding her peace for the moment.
“I don’t think so,” I said, pretending I really didn’t care either way. The trouble is, I did care, and when I didn’t hear from Noah f
or a while, my mind zipped down dark paths. What did I really want from him? One day, in a fit of exasperation, he’d asked me that. I’d replied that I wanted us to be friends, but deep down, I wondered if I really wanted something more.
Did I want to go back to the hot romance we’d once shared? It was a crazy-making, exciting time, being in love with Noah. Like walking on a tightrope with no net. Every step was fraught with danger, with the potential of plunging to the earth. So why did I want to go back to that? I couldn’t even answer my own question. Every time I thought about Noah, my thoughts were more confused than ever. Maybe the best thing to do would be to just dive into my work at the shop and put all romantic notions aside for the time being. Que cera, cera, as Ali is fond of saying.
“He’s not ignoring you, you know. He always gets involved when he’s working on a case. He develops tunnel vision, and everything else flies out of his head.”
“Is he working on a new case? Besides Sonia’s death, I mean?”
“I’m sure he is. I spoke to Sara briefly a couple of days ago and she said he’s right in the middle of a big harassment case. She didn’t know too many details, but it sounded like it was very high profile.”
“What sort of harassment?”
“One of those he-said-she-said cases. He’s doing a lot of collateral interviews, trying to figure out the background of both the parties involved. He’s convinced it’s not an isolated incident.”
Dana arrived a few minutes later and immediately took charge of stocking the shelves, putting her own stamp on things. “Shall I make a pot of tea?” she asked. I’d been so absorbed thinking about Noah, I’d forgotten to put out tea and cookies for the customers.
“Yes. Let’s make it iced tea; we could try some of that spiced ginger tea Ali ordered.”
“Sounds good.”
When Lucinda dropped by a few minutes later, we were debating the merits of adding more salads to the café menu. Dana was opting for smoked turkey salad with candied pecans and cranberries and Ali had her heart set on a marinated fennel and red onion salad she’d sampled at a party. I told her I wasn’t sure about the fennel and wanted to do a taste test.
“Good morning, ladies,” Lucinda called out cheerfully. “I can tell you’re all busy, so I’m just going to pick up one of those cookie stamps you advertised in your flier.” Offering upscale baking supplies had been Dana’s idea. The cookie stamps were an imported item, and rather pricey, but nothing deters die-hard bakers.
“We have a new selection,” Dana said, pulling out a box of cookie presses. “They’re gorgeous; take a look and see what strikes your fancy.”
“Oh, I do love these,” Lucinda said. “I’m putting together a gift basket for a raffle, and I want to add a few cooking tools. Something very Southern. The cookie presses are adorable. I didn’t realize they came in so many different designs.”
“They’re a very popular item,” Dana told her. She spread an array of presses on the counter. “I think the pineapple and the sailing ship are my favorites.”
Lucinda leaned over to inspect them. “I’ll take the pineapple, the acorn, and the sunburst,” she said finally. “And I have to have this little rabbit.” She turned to me. “I already have the sailing ship. You know, you’ll think it’s silly but I haven’t been able to use the sailing ship press since poor Sonia died. That was the one I used on the shortbread cookies I brought to the shop that day. What a dreadful morning that was.” Lucinda’s voice wobbled and Ali quickly rushed to her side.
“Oh, you shouldn’t think about that sad day, Lucinda.” Ali locked eyes with me over the top of Lucinda’s head, probably hoping I would say something comforting. I had barely noticed the ship imprint on the cookies that day, and I took a closer look at the mold. It looked exactly like a nineteenth-century ship, with its full sails and broad hull. An amazing coincidence.
“That’s odd,” I said softly.
“What is?” Lucinda raised her head.
“Well, this sailing ship,” I began, “is just like the one Edward told us about in his dream. Remember, he described the Savannah Harbor and the sailing ships with their cargoes of spices for the New World?”
“I’d forgotten all about that,” Lucinda said, perching on a stool by the counter. “But now that you mention it, yes, I think this is the kind of ship he described. He said he was lecturing on trade routes in the nineteenth century in his history classes at the university. He’s such a fascinating man. His description of the wharf was very vivid, wasn’t it?”
“It was,” I agreed. “Do you remember Sybil had a similar dream?”
“The one about the woman with the basket of benne chips,” Ali said. “I remember that. I thought it was striking that two people in the group had dreams about the past and the same location, the Savannah Harbor.”
“It’s a pretty press, isn’t it?” Lucinda said, turning it over in her hand. “Except I’ll probably never be able to use it again without thinking of that dreadful day.”
“I need to figure out how to arrange these,” Dana said, picking up a rose cookie press. “I wonder if we could use them in a window display? They’re small, but maybe if they were grouped in a dramatic way, they would make a statement.”
“It would be nice if you could sell boxes for them,” Lucinda added. “You know how I can’t stand clutter. I had to look all over for a plastic box that was the right size.” She gave me an apologetic smile and I nodded. Lucinda’s passion for order is practically pathological. Ali and I have visited her home, and her kitchen looked like it was ready for a photo shoot. It was so spotless, I had been hesitant to sit down.
“I think I could order some boxes like that,” Dana said, snapping her fingers. “I saw one the other day in a catalog. A rectangular plastic box, and it had slots inside. Would that work?”
“That would be perfect,” Lucinda said, sipping her iced tea. “My, this is delicious. What is it?”
“Ginger spice,” Dana said promptly, pushing the box toward her. “We have a new shipment, but I haven’t marked them yet.” She pulled a few tea bags out of the box and handed them to Lucinda. “Here, try them at home and see what you think.” I had to smile. Dana has shrewd retailing instincts and never misses a chance to make a sale or promote a product. “Going back to the boxes, how many cookie stamps do you own, Lucinda?”
“Oh, more than a dozen, probably fifteen. I keep them in alphabetical order.”
Dana smiled. “You are the most organized person I’ve ever met.”
“She alphabetizes her spices, too,” Ali piped up.
“Well, of course I do,” Lucinda, raising her eyebrows. “Doesn’t everybody?”
“Not everyone,” Ali said, grinning. “But I suppose it makes things easier when you’re in a hurry.”
“Yes, it does.” Lucinda’s expression was placid. “I’m afraid I’m getting careless as I get older, though. Just the other day, I reached for thyme and grabbed the turmeric by mistake.”
“Wow, how did that happen? It would have been a disaster,” I said, remembering that turmeric was a potent spice used in Indian cooking.
“It was very strange. I still can’t fathom how I mixed them up. I know the lineup because they’re alphabetical. R, S, T. Rosemary, sesame seeds, thyme. Some nights when I can’t sleep, I visualize my spice cabinet and go through each shelf, listing all my spices.” She gave a self-deprecatory smile. “Some people count sheep or list the states, but I always turn to my spices. It focuses my mind, although I suppose it’s not for everyone.”
I nodded as if this made perfect sense, wondering where in the world she was going with her story. “The turmeric, of course, should be to the right of the thyme,” she continued. “But the sesame seeds weren’t in their usual place between the rosemary and thyme; they were two bottles away. So the turmeric was sitting where the thyme used to be.”
“Did you
stop yourself from adding turmeric just in time?” Dana asked. I could tell she was asking out of politeness.
“Oh, heavens, yes, I did. It’s a good thing I happened to glance at the bottle.” She reached into her purse and handed Dana a credit card. “I think I’d like to add one more cookie press: the sailing ship,” she said. She pushed the press with the schooner across the counter.
“Well, sure, but I thought you said you already had one of these?” Dana asked, puzzled.
“I do, but I’m going to send this as a gift to someone. Do you remember Leslie Watts? She really admired it the night she visited me. I bet she’d like to have one, and she’ll probably never get around to buying one for herself. She has those little children and she doesn’t get out much, poor thing.”
Dana started to wrap up Lucinda’s purchases when my brain did a cartwheel. “Lucinda,” I said breathlessly, “did you just say Leslie admired your cookie press—”
“Why, yes, dear, she did—”
“Were you in the kitchen—I mean, were the two of you in the kitchen when you made those shortbread cookies?” I could hear the tension in my voice and a look of concern flitted over Lucinda’s face.
“Of course we were,” she said in her gentle voice. “We were having tea and just enjoying a wonderful conversation about friends we hadn’t seen in years. It’s amazing how time flies and life gets in the way of our keeping in touch with old friends. Friendship is a precious thing, you know, and I have to remind myself never to take it for granted.” She signed her name to the receipt and looked up at me. “It’s a shame that census taker came to the front door when he did. You know I try to be polite to everyone, but he just talked and talked.” Lucinda threw up her hands. “I finally had to shoo him off the porch by telling him I had cookies ready to pop into the oven.”
“What happened then?” I asked, willing myself to slow down. My heart was pounding, and I could feel the hairs standing up on the back of my neck.
Lucinda shot me a puzzled look. “Why, I went back into the kitchen and Leslie was admiring my cookie press. Is that what you mean, dear?”