A Premonition of Murder

by Mary Kennedy

  I grabbed my coffee and tagged along after her. The shop wasn’t open for business yet, and I was happy that the three of us had this time together to plan and strategize. I made a mental note that we should meet at least once a week before the store opens and toss around ideas.

  Dana does a wonderful job with the window display—which she rotates—and this month she’s featuring vintage candy posters for Jujubes, Good and Plenty, Jawbreakers, and Necco Wafers. She found the lovely old posters on eBay and mounted them on wooden easels. I made a mental note to reimburse her. Dana will buy supplies out of her own money if I’m not careful.

  “Where did you get the mannequin?” I asked in amazement. I knew I wasn’t imagining things. A tall female mannequin with a frizzy blond ponytail was standing in the middle of the shop window, looking off to the side. She had a saucy smile and one eye was half-closed as if she were winking at passersby. The mannequin hadn’t been there last night when we closed up, so Dana must have brought it in this morning.

  “Someone tossed it in the Dumpster in front of Harold’s, that department store that closed down on Market Street. Can you believe it? A perfectly good mannequin. These things are pricey. I don’t know what they were thinking. I jumped right in and got it.” She brushed a speck of dirt off her sleeve. “Luckily no one had thrown anything on top of it. It must only have been there for a few minutes. I’m so happy I spotted it.”

  I had to chuckle at the thought of Dana Dumpster-diving for us. She will always go the extra mile to do her job.

  “Very clever,” Ali said. “And the outfit?” The mannequin was dressed in a turtleneck sweater, a poodle skirt, ankle socks, and saddle shoes. Circa 1955, I’d guess. She had short, straight bangs and reminded me of Kathleen Turner’s character in Peggy Sue Got Married.

  Dana laughed. “The outfit was left over from a fifties party at Kappa Kappa Gamma. My roommate gave it to me, but she wants it back when we change the display.”

  “Tell her thank you, I love it!” I never fail to be amazed at Dana’s creativity. The mannequin was holding an aqua blue “princess phone” to her ear with one hand and a Butterfingers bar in her other. “Definitely something that will stop traffic,” I told her.

  “I think it turned out well,” Dana said modestly. She took a step back to appraise her work. Next month, Dana will do something completely different; she never seems to run out of ideas. Tourists stop to admire her displays, and then they wander inside to check us out. And they usually end up not only buying a nice selection of candy, but settling down for a light lunch or coffee and pastries.

  Ali and I had decided to expand the shop’s offerings last year, and it was quite a hassle, but worth it. We thought it would be fun and good for business. We were right on both counts. The experiment paid off big-time.

  The backyard is small but charming, with coral and white impatiens lining an oyster shell pathway. We found a few wrought iron tables and chairs at a tag sale, and Ali made seat cushions and tablecloths. The Harper sisters keep us supplied with fresh pink carnations in mason jars for each table.

  The customers love sitting under the beautiful live oaks, lingering over coffee and pastries, and we have some regulars who show up every day. Sometimes there’s an overflow crowd, but the breakfast bar inside the shop will accommodate half a dozen more people. Right now, we’re only open in the daytime, but we’re thinking of stringing Japanese lanterns in the trees and staying open one or two evenings a week. With a business, you’re always planning, always wondering how to make a splash in a competitive market.

  Plus we’re running a thriving takeout business. Ali passed out flyers and discount coupons to the businesses in the Historic District, and now a lot of office workers order their lunches ahead of time and come dashing in to pick them up.

  “What do you think of the candy buttons?” Dana asked. She was holding rolls of white paper with tiny candy buttons on them, a favorite “back in the day.”

  “What do you plan on doing with them?” I have no design sense and love to watch Dana work her magic with these displays.

  “Well, first I thought of just hanging them from the ceiling, but then I decided they might look like flypaper,” she said with a giggle.

  “I see your point.” Ali laughed. “I think you’re right. They can’t hang straight down. How about draping them from the ceiling, sort of like Roman shades? You could arrange them in graceful arcs and fasten them with thumbtacks. And you could give a twist to them, like you do with crepe paper.”

  “I like that idea,” Dana said. “It would add a nice touch. You’ve solved the problem.”

  We left Dana to finish the window display and went back to our breakfast. The shop would be opening in another half hour, and there were a lot of things I wanted to discuss with Ali. She pulled out some covered containers from the refrigerator and started working on the lunch specials.

  We always offer homemade salads, soups, and sandwiches. Lately, we’ve added paninis and a flatbread menu, but those items are made fresh for each customer. The soups, salads, and desserts are all labor-intensive, but customers appreciate the fact that we use all fresh ingredients with no preservatives.

  One time, a whole family insisted on having their sandwiches made with soft white sliced bread. We make our own sandwiches on delicious whole-grain bread delivered fresh each day from a local bakery. Instead of telling the family that we didn’t have any of their favorite bread on hand, Ali dashed to a nearby supermarket and bought some. The first rule of business is to give the customers what they want.

  “What’s on the agenda for today?” she asked, deftly mincing a cooked chicken breast and adding celery and spices. Ali is a vegetarian, but she makes the best chicken salad sandwich in town, and the secret is cream cheese. Our friend, the restaurateur Caroline LaCroix, taught her how to make it. And Caroline insists that it should be served only on a fresh croissant.

  “I think we need to pay a few visits in town,” I told her. “I want to see Noah and I’d like to drop by and see that lawyer, Norman Osteroff. I think it would be worth it to have a quick chat with Lucy, the housekeeper. She could certainly tell me a little about Desiree, Abigail’s sister.” It occurred to me that the two deaths could be related, although at the moment, I didn’t see how.

  “It sounds like you’ve got a full day planned,” Ali said, wrinkling her brow in concentration.

  “Do you want to divide up or shall we go together?”

  She opened the refrigerator and took a long look. “There’s an awful lot to do here. I need to make chicken salad, tuna salad, and egg salad,” she said. “I’m not sure when I can get away. Dana can handle the candy sales and the cash register”—she gave a little helpless shrug—“but I need to get the salads going right now, and then I have to defrost a couple of soups from the freezer.”

  She pushed a lock of blond hair out of her eyes, looking a bit frazzled. Adding the café to the shop has meant a lot more work for both of us, but I think it will pay off in the end. When I first arrived, the shop was operating in the red, and Ali had to tuck into her savings to meet her monthly bills. Now we’re finally turning a profit, and I think things are on the upswing. We have a lot of repeat business, which tells me we’re doing something right.

  “Ali, don’t worry about it. I can handle things myself this morning,” I told her. “Let’s touch base after lunch. I think I’d like to have you with me when we call on Norman Osteroff. I have the feeling he’s not going to be thrilled to see us.”

  * * *

  My first stop was Beaux Reves and Lucy Dargos. The imposing house looked empty, with its shutters closed against the Savannah sun and the grounds deserted. I announced myself at the entrance and the massive wrought iron gates swung open. As I drove up the winding road lined with live oaks and magnolia trees, I thought of all the family secrets that might be unveiled with Abigail’s death.

  Sud
den death always seems to leave a few loose ends, and I hoped that my chat with Lucy might be fruitful. Had she discovered any of Abigail’s correspondence, anything that might have a bearing on her death?

  I knew that Abigail was a great letter writer, and came from a generation that believed in the power of handwritten notes. But the Harper sisters said they’d communicated by e-mail with Abigail over Magnolia Society business. I wondered if there was a laptop tucked away somewhere inside the mansion. Had the police seized it as evidence? Or was it squirreled away somewhere out of sight?

  “I thought you might pay me a visit,” Lucy said with a sad smile. She wiped her hands on her apron and led me into the kitchen. The front hall was dazzling. Every surface was polished, and a faint lemony smell drifted in the air.

  “That wonderful smell,” I began.

  “Fresh lemon juice. It’s a homemade wood polish I make myself,” she said proudly. “I’ve been taking care of this furniture for over thirty years now,” she said, running her hand over a beautiful mahogany table. “Not a scratch mark on it.”

  I paused to admire the finely crafted round table and the huge vase of violet and blue hydrangeas arranged in the center. The vase looked like a Chinese blue-and-white porcelain flower vase. Probably worth a small fortune. “It looks like you’re keeping up the place exactly as if Abigail were still here,” I told her.

  “Of course.” She brushed back a tear and smiled. I noticed she was wearing a St. Christopher medal. “This house is so full of memories,” she added, ushering me into the kitchen. I was glad she invited me into the kitchen instead of the formal living room. The kitchen is always the heart of the house, and I hoped that a less formal atmosphere might lead to some confidences. I knew that Lucy was fiercely loyal to Abigail, and I would have to tread softly if I wanted to get any information out of her.

  “So,” I began, when I was settled at a breakfast bar with a glass of sweet tea, “how are you doing? I know this is a very tough time for you.” Lucy pushed a plate of homemade blueberry muffins toward me. The delicious scent almost made me swoon, but I shook my head. There are times when one simply has to restrain oneself. I felt virtuous, but I was salivating.

  I took another peek at the blueberry muffins. Streusel topping! “Well, maybe just a small one,” I said. She grinned and passed me a plate and a porcelain dish of butter. Was I really that obvious?

  “I’m doing okay,” she said slowly. “I miss Mrs. Marchand a lot, but I try to focus on what she would have wanted. She would have expected me to take care of the house just like I’ve always done. People think she was demanding, but she wasn’t, not really. She just knew what she wanted. These are beautiful things, and she wanted them cared for properly.”

  She let her gaze slide over the spotless kitchen with its white cabinets and black granite countertops. Clearly these were expensive renovations. The appliances were all high-end, and I recognized a gleaming burgundy La Cornue Grand Palais range, which looked like it was straight out of the Orient Express, and a wine cooler disguised as an antique cabinet. I doubt Abigail ever entertained and wondered who had selected the items.

  I noticed a collection of colorful porcelain wall plaques; sunflowers, poppies, and an especially pretty one with a fish. They had a Latin feel to them. “These are beautiful. Are they hand-painted?” I asked.

  Lucy smiled. “I brought them from my village in Mexico. Mrs. Marchand let me hang them here to remind me of home. I don’t usually get homesick, but some days, I long to see my relatives.”

  “I suppose it’s hard raising Nicky on your own,” I ventured. I had to tread carefully; I didn’t want to risk offending her, or she’d clam up. “Without family around to guide him, I mean.”

  “I do my best to lead him on the right path,” she said softly. “He’s a good boy. Don’t believe what you might have heard about him. He wants to be an electrician. Next year, he’s going to take classes and get a two-year degree, and that will start him on his way. As an electrician, he can always find work.”

  “Yes, he can,” I agreed. It was oddly quiet and peaceful in the kitchen with the sun streaming in the large windows over the sink. They looked like a recent renovation with double-paned glass.

  “Did you know they haven’t released her body yet?” Lucy asked suddenly. For the first time, a flash of anger crept into her dark eyes. “We can’t even plan a proper funeral.”

  “I know,” I said, nodding. “It’s very sad. It might take a few days.” I paused; the house seemed unnaturally still, and I wondered if Lucy was the only person living here. But hadn’t someone mentioned a summer student? And where was Jeb Arnold, the estate manager?

  As if she had read my thoughts, she said, “It’s quiet here today. Angus is doing some research at an art museum in Charleston, and Jeb has gone to visit his sister for a few days.”

  “Angus . . . ?” I said innocently.

  “Angus Morton. Mrs. Marchand invited him here for the summer to catalog the paintings and antiques.” She raised her eyebrows and her mouth twisted in a little grimace. “Mrs. Marchand was, how do you say it? Generous to a fault.”

  I nodded, and I wondered what she was hinting at. It was obvious she didn’t like this Angus fellow, and I wondered why. “Is he working for free?’ I said, hoping I could keep her talking. “Or is this connected to his studies?”

  “She pays him a small salary and he gets to live here for free.” She made a sweeping motion with her arm that encompassed the kitchen and the sun-dappled garden I could see from the bay window. “And yes, you’re right. He gets some sort of college credit for it. I suppose it’s a trade-off, you could say.” She sniffed. I knew I was on to something. Lucy really didn’t like Angus or didn’t trust him. But why?

  “If he’s coming home later today, I’d love to meet him,” I ventured.

  Immediately, her eyes were shuttered. She had a nervous tic I’d never noticed before, a strange little twitch to her mouth. “Why would you want to do that?” she said bluntly. There was definitely a frostiness in her tone.

  “Well,” I said, thinking quickly, “Ali and I found some old pieces of china in the basement of our candy shop. A few dishes and serving pieces. I think they were left there by a previous tenant at the turn of the century.” I forced myself to smile. “Who knows, they might be valuable. Maybe Angus could tell me.”

  “Maybe,” she said grudgingly. “But trust me, he doesn’t know as much as he pretends to. Mr. Big Shot.” She snorted. She got up and reached for some ice cubes from the freezer and tossed them into the pitcher of sweet tea on the table. Even with the Casablanca fan whirring, it seemed warm in the kitchen, and I lifted my hair up off my neck for a moment.

  I wondered why she didn’t like Angus. Did she resent having extra work to do and one more person to cook for? I wondered what the terms of the arrangement were and if he would be staying on for the rest of the summer, even though Abigail had passed away. I took a good look at Lucy. She had a small but muscular frame, and it occurred to me that she could easily push a frail old lady down the stairs. But what would be her motive?

  “He acts like a big shot? In what way?” I asked pleasantly.

  She let out a little puff of air before sitting down again. She placed her hands on the table in front of her, almost as if she were reaching out to me, a clear sign that she wanted me to believe whatever came next.

  “Angus says things are missing from Beaux Reves,” she said sullenly. “And he thinks my son took them. I’ve been working here for thirty years. I know this place like the back of my hand. I know what’s here and what isn’t here.”

  I sucked in a little breath. I never thought she would be this forthcoming about Nicky. I remembered what Noah had said about the kid’s record in juvie, and it was certainly possible that he was up to his old tricks. Lucy’s lips had thinned when she mentioned Angus. She was clearly defensive about her son, but wa
s she also in denial? How far would she go to protect him? Would she kill?

  “Why in the world would Angus suspect your son of theft?” I tried to inject a note of surprise into my voice. “I’m sure your son is a wonderful young man,” I said as sincerely as I could.

  Lucy shrugged and gave a dismissive wave with her hand. “He’s a good boy,” she said, not making eye contact. “He had a little trouble in the past, that’s all. It was nothing. He had some friends I wasn’t too crazy over, and I think they set him up.” She was still staring at the breakfast bar as though she had never seen it before. If Noah were here, he would surely take this as evidence she was lying. She wouldn’t make eye contact with me.

  She finally looked up, but I stayed silent, hoping she would say more. “You know I would never let anything happen to Mrs. Marchand’s belongings,” she said in a wheedling tone. “I take care of them like they’re my own.”

  I tried not to raise my eyebrows at that last statement. With millions of dollars coming her way, maybe she really did think of Beaux Reves as her own private paradise. I wanted to find a way to poke around upstairs to see if I could find any evidence of a diary or at least a date book, but Lucy glanced pointedly at her watch and stood up. Teatime was over.

  I thanked her and drove back the long winding drive, more puzzled than ever. The sun was high in the sky, making interesting patterns through the live oak leaves lining the road. I squinted against the bright sunlight and hummed along with the radio that was tuned to an oldies rock station. Bobby McFerrin was urging everyone not to worry and to be happy. I sang along with him, so happy that I’d deliberately “forgotten” my sunglasses on the hall table.

  6

  “So you didn’t find out anything?” Ali asked later that afternoon. She’d met me at the Riverwalk, and we planned to stroll for a bit and then head over to the lawyer’s office. I’d had quite a time trying to convince Norman Osteroff’s secretary to grant us a quick appointment. It was a Sunday and Osteroff had ordered his secretary to meet him there for a few hours to take a deposition. I had to fib and say that one of our friends—Sara Rutledge—was planning to write a feature on Beaux Reves for the Savannah Herald, and we were helping her with her research.