A Premonition of Murder

by Mary Kennedy

  “Died during the night?” Dorien said in her braying voice. “That makes it sound like she died in her sleep. Do you think she was she trying to pull the wool over your eyes?”

  Rose looked shocked, her mouth tightening. “Good heavens no, Dorien. That’s not what she meant at all. When I asked how Abigail had died, she was quite forthcoming. She said that her mistress had tripped and fallen down a flight of stairs. That grand marble stairway in the foyer.”

  “Poor thing.” Rose went on, “She didn’t find Abigail until she got up to fix breakfast. I suppose she’s a heavy sleeper because she said she never heard a thing during the night.”

  Well, that much was true, I reasoned. It was possible that Lucy hadn’t heard anything. But I would hardly call Lucy’s comments “forthcoming.” No mention of the ME turning up or the fact that Beaux Reves was now a crime scene.

  “Did she mention that the police came to the house and interviewed her?” Persia asked. She was perched on the edge of her chair, listening intently. I’d pulled some brownies and apple tartlets from the downstairs refrigerator and arranged them on a pretty blue-and-yellow hand-painted platter, a gift from the Harper sisters. The apple tartlet recipe was new and it called for wonton wrappers to form the tartlet shells. The tartlets and brownies would have to do instead of our usual, more elaborate spread.

  “Well, she was a bit vague on that.” Rose hesitated, looking slightly uncomfortable. It was clear she didn’t want to say anything that suggested Lucy was responsible for Abigail’s death, and I wondered if she was withholding information.

  “And she said the doctor came to the house, of course, even though it was obvious that Abigail was dead. Any resuscitation efforts would have been in vain.”

  “You mean Abigail’s personal physician?” Ali asked. “Not the coroner.”

  “Yes, of course.” Rose gave a little sniff and Minerva reached over and patted her hand. “This is the last thing I expected.”

  “How sad it all is,” Sybil chimed in. She reached for a brownie, hesitated, and then grabbed one. Ali and I exchanged a look. Sybil is very fond of sweets, and every time she has tried to give up sugar she has failed miserably. “You know, I had a really complicated dream about Abigail Marchand last night.”

  “Tell us about it,” Ali prompted, passing a pitcher of iced tea. Usually we take turns recounting our dreams. It made sense for Sybil to go first tonight. Everyone seemed to be in shock over Abigail’s death—except Dorien, who was taking it in stride—and I was eager to hear Sybil’s dream.

  “It was nighttime, and the grounds of the estate were shrouded in shadows,” she began. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if she was visualizing the scene. When she opened her eyes, her voice was low and hypnotic. “The white stucco mansion was dark, all the shutters were closed. The massive wrought iron gate suddenly swung open, and I could feel myself drifting toward the front portico.”

  Etta Mae frowned. “You were drifting?”

  She’s one of our newer members and probably doesn’t know that Sybil often describes herself as “drifting” or even “flying” over a scene in her dreams. It’s an image that many of our members can relate to; they often dream that they are floating near the ceiling, looking down on a scene. And this is also a commonly reported image in near-death experiences.

  “Maybe ‘floating’ would be a better word,” Sybil said. “Moonlight was slanting over the beautiful carved door, and I could smell honeysuckle in the air. Everything was still.”

  “As still as death,” Minerva said, dabbing her eyes.

  “The honeysuckle,” Ali said quietly. “There was a big honeysuckle bush next to the stone lion in the front of the mansion.” She turned to face me. “Do you remember we commented on it?”

  I nodded. So far, Sybil’s description was spot-on. Still, all of this information could have come from a guide book, I reminded myself.

  “I recognized the estate as Beaux Reves, of course,” Sybil continued. “I’ve never been there, but it’s been photographed so many times, I feel like I know it. I saw a woman in a filmy white dress standing on a veranda surrounded by big stone planters. They were filled with the most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen: New Guinea impatiens, petunias, tea roses, and daylilies. The vases looked old and vaguely Egyptian to me. They reminded me of a fresco, with images of women etched into the stone.”

  “We saw those vases!” Ali said, excited. “There was a pair of giant stone urns with figures in bas-relief. The women had their arms folded in front of them, and they were carrying baskets on their heads. Sybil, this is amazing—you were really at Beaux Reves in your dream. I have no doubt about that.” Sybil smiled and bowed her head in acknowledgment.

  Ali sank back, awed.

  I could picture the vases from our lunch at Beaux Reves; Sybil had described them perfectly. I glanced over at Dorien, whose mouth was twisted in a sneer. It was clear that she wasn’t enthralled with Sybil’s dream. Sybil has a dramatic conversational style, and some people find it a bit over-the-top. She adds a wealth of detail to her dreams and I always find her to be an engaging raconteur. Does she embellish the truth and spice it up a bit? I have no way of knowing. I do know that she has been helpful in solving previous murders, though, so I have no doubt that she has an unusual gift. We are all grateful to have her in the club.

  “Was it Abigail you saw—the woman in the white dress?”

  Sybil took a deep breath. “No, it wasn’t Abigail,” she said after a moment. “At first I thought it was, because there was a strong family resemblance. This woman had bright auburn hair streaming down her back; she wasn’t blond like Abigail. She could have been a relative, I suppose.”

  “Desiree,” Minerva and Rose chorused.

  “Desiree?” I asked.

  “Abigail’s younger sister,” Minerva explained. “Her life ended tragically, too.” Everyone grew quiet and even Dorien looked up, interested. “Desiree was the opposite of Abigail, who was quite prim and proper, as you know.”

  “Desiree was something of a wild child,” Rose interjected. “Ready to do anything on a dare, had loads of suitors, traveled the world. Sometimes I found it hard to believe she and Abigail were even related. Their interests were so different. Desiree was out for a good time, and Abigail devoted her life to good works.”

  “What happened to Desiree?” Ali asked.

  “No one is quite sure. She drowned a few years ago,” she said simply. “The whole thing was very strange because Desiree had a lifelong fear of the water. She attended a ball that evening, and later, someone spotted her walking down by the docks. I think she was a little”—she gave an apologetic smile—“tipsy, because she was singing and swinging her high heels in her hand. She was seen walking along the embankment, and I guess she was pretty wobbly.”

  “How very odd,” Sybil said. “The woman in my dream was standing by a pool of water, looking into it. She was wearing a silky white dress—I thought it was a nightgown, but I suppose it could have been an evening dress. It looked like a slip.”

  “That’s it!” Minerva said, clutching her sister’s hand. “That’s what Desiree was wearing when they found her. A white slip dress. They were all the rage at the time. I remember thinking that only very young, very thin women could get away with wearing dresses like that. Of course, on Desiree it looked beautiful.” She paused. “You know, I probably have a photo of her in that dress, somewhere. I remember her picture appeared in the society column; they did a big write-up on her. She was the belle of ball that night, as always. No one else in Savannah looked like Desiree,” she added. “She was a stunner.”

  “The woman in my dream was a stunner, too. She was beautiful,” Sybil said softly. “She was standing so still, just peering into a dark pool of water, and then suddenly a hand came out of nowhere and gave her a shove. She tumbled into the pool, and the water closed over her.”

 
“How horrible,” Persia said. “Could you see who pushed her?”

  “No, I don’t have a clue. I have a sense it was a man, but I’m not sure why I think that. All I saw was a gloved hand coming out of the dark. One hard push and the lovely woman in white was gone. There was a splash, I remember, and then there wasn’t a sound.” She gave a little shudder.

  “That could have been exactly what happened to Desiree,” Minerva said, her face pale. “You know, they always suspected foul play, but there was never any proof. The police investigated, of course, but the death was ruled inconclusive. I remember a lot of people in Savannah at the time suspected foul play.”

  “What did Abigail think happened to her sister?” It occurred to me that Abigail Marchand had the money and connections to launch a full-scale inquiry. Surely she would have done everything she could to find out what happened to her sister?

  “Abigail did what she could,” Rose said slowly, as if sensing my thoughts. Her hesitant tone made me think there was more to the story. “I don’t know,” she said, shaking her head. “I guess sometimes you just don’t get answers in these cases.”

  “You do if you look hard enough,” Dorien said brusquely. “Were they close, the two sisters?”

  This time Minerva and Rose turned to look at each other. The unspoken thought was not like we are. “Well, it’s hard to say,” Minerva said slowly. “They were so different, you see. I had the feeling Abigail never really approved of her sister. Did you feel that way, Rose?”

  “I certainly did,” Rose said emphatically. “As different as chalk and cheese. Still, Abigail seemed devastated by her death. Even if Desiree was a flighty, silly girl, blood is thicker than water, you know.”

  “That it is,” Minerva murmured, bobbing her head. “But I know Abigail made every effort to bring her sister’s killer to justice, if there really was foul play in her death,” she said, rising to Abigail’s defense.

  “Was Abigail a recluse, back when her sister died?” I asked.

  “Oh my, yes; nothing has changed in that regard,” Rose said. “In fact, I think she was worse in those days. I remember her saying she wanted to hire a private detective to look into Desiree’s death, but she had no idea how to go about it. She finally turned the whole matter over to her lawyer, and she let him do his best to get to the bottom of it. I don’t know what he uncovered, but nothing more was ever said about it. I didn’t want to bring it up for fear of upsetting her. I suppose in the end, Abigail had to accept that her sister’s death would remain a mystery.”

  “A hard thing to accept,” Ali murmured.

  For a long moment, no one spoke. The only sound in the cozy living room was the whirring noise of the Casablanca fan. Barney jumped into Ali’s lap, and she picked him up and hugged him. Whenever she’s upset, she finds it very comforting to snuggle the cats close to her and speak softly to them. Scout sashayed in front of the sofa, tail swaying, like a queen reviewing her loyal subjects. Lucinda and Sybil, who are big-time cat lovers, bent down to pet her.

  I was beginning to wonder if we should call the meeting to a close. Abigail’s death had seemed to shatter the calm of the group, and no one was too interested in venturing into other topics. And then Lucinda Macavy spoke up. “I have a dream to report.” She went on to describe a dream about her teeth falling out. “I woke up in the morning, looked in the mirror, and saw that all my teeth had fallen out. I was horrified.” Her hand instinctively went to cover her mouth. “It seemed so real! I gasped out loud and ran downstairs to call someone for help.” She paused, looking a little sheepish. “Has anyone had a dream like this? I feel a little silly mentioning it, but it really bothered me. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head.”

  “You’re not being silly,” Sybil cut in. “If it’s important to you, it’s important to us.”

  “My uncle Bubba had a dream like that,” Etta Mae said. “He dreamt that all his teeth fell out. When he got up in the morning and looked in the mirror, he had no teeth.”

  “Surely you’re not saying his teeth really did fall out in the night.” Dorien said. She has a sharp, almost ferret-like face. It’s a shame, but her choppy haircut seems to emphasize her worst features.

  “Well, no,” Etta Mae said, backpedaling swiftly. Dorien has the power to intimidate almost everyone. “He had all his teeth pulled out years ago. He forgot to put his dentures in when he went to bed the night before. That’s why he nearly had a conniption when he looked in the mirror.”

  “Oh, well, that explains it,” Dorien said mockingly. “Now it makes perfect sense to us.” She gave a little eye roll to the group, and I knew it would be a long time before Etta Mae spoke up again. Dorien’s sarcasm is a real turnoff, but Ali and I have never come up with a workable solution.

  “Going back to Lucinda’s dream,” I said, hoping to ease the tension I sensed gathering in the room. “Persia, what do you make of it?”

  Persia immediately jumped in to tell Lucinda that “missing teeth” is a classic anxiety dream and it probably meant that she was experiencing some unusual stress in her life. “Is there something special going on right now, dear?” Persia asked.

  Lucinda nodded. She went on to say that one of her cousins was coming to Savannah for a visit and she was in a tizzy trying to get everything ready for her arrival. “My house is such a disaster,” she wailed. “My kitchen cupboards are a mess, and the hosta has completely overtaken the garden. It’s like a jungle out there.”

  Ali and I exchanged a look. We’ve been to Lucinda’s adorable little house, and she keeps it in perfect condition. Even Martha Stewart would approve.

  I bit back a smile at the notion that things were “out of order” at Lucinda’s and reminded myself that everyone has different standards. Ali and I are not neat freaks by any means. We tend to be casual, with loads of books, newspapers, and overflowing tables in our comfy apartment above the shop, but not ready for a photo op.

  Our vintage candy shop downstairs is a different story. Thanks to our capable assistant, Dana Garrett, things at Oldies But Goodies are always shipshape. The candy bins are well stocked with the “classic” candies we’re known for, the glass cabinets are sparkling, and the whole place has a festive air, due to Dana’s flair for decorating.

  The evening ended on a positive note, and I noticed Sybil and Persia stopped to say a few sympathetic words to Rose and Minerva, who were the last to leave. I packed up some brownies and apple tartlets for the two Harper sisters to take home and watched as they made their way slowly down the stairs. Their hearts were heavy over the loss of their friend, and they looked older and less spry than ever. Even though they saw Abigail only occasionally, they had been friends with the reclusive heiress for over fifty years. Her death must certainly have been a shock to them.

  5

  Ali and I rose early the next day, ready to go downstairs and get back to work at our vintage candy shop. We’d left everything to Dana as we tackled the issue of Abigail’s death, but now it was time to get back to business.

  Ali had been struggling to keep the shop going when I’d arrived in Savannah a few months earlier to help her. I’d loved the place from the moment I walked in the front door. The name, Oldies But Goodies, is written in an old-timey script on etched glass and matches the vintage theme. With its bleached oak floors, tin ceiling, and bins of retro candies, entering the shop is like taking a trip down memory lane. In an earlier life, the shop had been a jam factory, a community newspaper, and briefly served as a day care center. I don’t know how Ali got the idea of turning the place into a vintage candy shop, but I’m glad she did.

  Sunlight streamed in the front window from Clark Street, then zigzagged its way past the bins and counters of goodies. I could smell fresh croissants, and I smiled at Dana, who was pulling a heavy tray out of the oven. She placed it on the counter, along with a jar of homemade blueberry jam and a clay pot of sweet cream butter. It
was Dana who came up with the idea of selling jams and chutneys, and they’ve become popular items.

  “Breakfast of champions,” Ali said, grabbing a croissant and slathering it with butter and jam. Dana had already brewed a pot of fresh coffee—hazelnut, my favorite—and a pot of Yorkshire Gold tea for Ali.

  “What a way to start the day,” I said appreciatively, sinking onto a bar stool and eyeing the freshly baked pastries. Dana had also defrosted a homemade coffee cake from the freezer. It’s a recipe that Ali has been tinkering with, and the final version has a rich poppy seed filling and a buttery crumb topping. I think it’s going to be a keeper. Poppy seed cake or croissant? Which do I want? They both looked delicious. Dana must have read my mind, because she cut a small wedge of coffee cake, added a hot croissant, and passed the plate to me.

  “I’m so sorry about your friend,” Dana said softly. “It’s just awful.”

  “Thanks,” Ali said. “We only met Abigail once, and I don’t know why I’m taking this so hard,” she commented. “We both are,” she added quickly.

  “It was such a shock,” I murmured.

  “Is there anything new on the case?” Dana asked tentatively.

  “No, I’m afraid not,” I told her. I paused for a moment and then decided to turn the conversation to cheerier topics. Ali is a sensitive soul, and I knew if we talked about Abigail any longer, she would be sad and depressed for hours. “What’s the plan for today?” I asked Dana.

  One thing I love about Dana is her initiative. Give her a project and she runs with it; she’s one of the most creative people I’ve ever met. Ali and I were astounded when she told us that her parents insisted she major in criminal justice. They felt that majoring in marketing would limit her job opportunities. I think it was very shortsighted of them because she’s a genius at promotion and would be a valuable asset to any company.

  “The front window,” she said promptly. “Want to see what I’ve done so far?”