by Mary Kennedy
Whether or not he would believe my story was up for grabs. I’d heard that Osteroff had the reputation of being one of Savannah’s shrewdest lawyers, and I was afraid he’d see right through my plan, but I was out of ideas. I hoped he wouldn’t call the newspaper and ask to speak to Sara’s editor. I’m sure he has the money and clout to be put right through to the publisher, if he wanted to. This was worst-case scenario, of course. One phone call from Osteroff to the newspaper, and Ali and I would be toast.
“Nothing really useful,” I answered Ali. I told her about Angus, the graduate student, and Jeb, the estate manager who was out of town. “Lucy was just rattling around in that big house all by herself. She seems to be taking Abigail’s death very hard, but it’s difficult to know. And she admitted that her son has had some problems in the past. She made a big deal out of defending him. Blamed it all on bad companions.” I remembered how Lucy’s eyes had darkened when I questioned her about the thefts Angus had reported. How far would a mother go to protect her son?
Ali stopped dead in her tracks, and I nearly crashed into her. “We might be standing right on the spot where Desiree tumbled into the water,” Ali said solemnly, glancing down into dark blue water. The river was sparkling in the bright Savannah sunlight, but the beauty of the scene was wasted on Ali.
Ali’s voice was low and soft, her eyes filled with shadows. “She could have been walking right about here. I can just imagine her, young and beautiful with everything to live for . . .” Her voice trailed off and she stared at a tanker that was docked nearby. Ali’s thoughts can take a melancholy turn from time to time, and I tucked my arm through hers to hurry her along the walkway. “No more dark thoughts, okay?” I said, patting her hand. She gave me a tremulous smile and nodded.
It was the perfect day to lunch outdoors, and the umbrella tables at the riverfront restaurants were packed with tourists. But Ali wasn’t watching the tourists eating ice-cream cones in the bright Georgia sunlight or taking in the sweet scent of magnolias. Her mind was reaching back to a lovely young girl in a white slip dress who died before her time.
“It’s sad, isn’t it?” She blinked and looked at me. “First Desiree and now Abigail.”
“Yes, it is. But, Ali, the best thing we can do right now is focus on finding Abigail’s killer,” I said briskly. “And who knows, maybe we’ll finally know what happened to Desiree, too. We can’t lose sight of our goal.”
“I know you’re right,” she said, falling into step with me. “Let’s give old Norman a run for his money. He certainly can’t stonewall two of us, can he?”
* * *
Stonewall us? He could and he did. Norman Osteroff is a world-class stonewaller. It was obvious from the get-go that he wasn’t buying the notion that Ali and I were visiting him on a “fact-finding” mission.
He waved us to a seat in his luxurious office and his geriatric, blue-haired receptionist—who was as frosty as he was—offered us a cold drink. I declined, only because he looked so annoyed and clearly wanted us out of there as soon as possible. Ali asked for an iced tea, and the receptionist allowed herself a brief eye roll, and then quietly left to get one.
I settled into a comfortable red leather chair with brass tacks and admired the fine furnishings—a huge mahogany desk, Oriental rugs in muted shades of Wedgwood blue and pale yellow, a Queen Anne sideboard piled high with manila files. Osteroff reminded me of a character from another century, and I wondered if he insisted on using paper files. Certainly legal offices had all gone to computers, hadn’t they? How can they research case law without access to LexisNexis? But there wasn’t a computer in sight. Odd.
The walls were dotted with lovely oil paintings, Impressionist landscapes and street scenes from the Historic District. There was a charming watercolor of Waving Girl, the statue of Florence Martus that graces the Savannah Harbor; it was hanging right next to a small watercolor of Beaux Reves.
I wondered if it was a gift from Abigail. The painting depicted the mansion and gardens on a sun-dappled day with puffs of white clouds dotting a turquoise sky. The shutters were thrown open and a profusion of yellow and white roses spilled out of sandstone vases next to the front door. Osteroff saw me glancing at the paintings and cleared his throat.
“We promise not to take up much of your time,” I said apologetically as he looked at his watch and scowled. Mr. Congeniality, he wasn’t. I wondered how Abigail had put up with him all these years and then reminded myself that he must have treated her very differently from the way he was treating us. After all, she was his star client, and I was sure she’d provided a handsome income for him over the years.
“Just a few quick questions,” Ali promised. Her friendly grin was lost on the straitlaced lawyer, who looked like he hadn’t cracked a smile in thirty years. In his stiff white collar and black suit, he reminded me of a cross between Ebenezer Scrooge and an undertaker. Not a good visual. Rose Harper always says that Ali could “charm the pants off a honeybee,” but this time she had her work cut out for her.
“I have a two o’clock,” he said petulantly. “So if you can be brief . . .” He was tapping a fountain pen on a datebook, and I noticed he checked his watch and jotted down the time of our arrival. By reading upside down, I managed to learn that his daily calendar was divided into ten-minute increments. I wondered what it would be like to track your activities every ten minutes, all day long. Crazy-making, that’s what it would be like.
When I was doing my MBA, I had a professor who recommended this strategy as a great way to track your productivity, but I could never handle it. And Ali, free spirit that she is, would never manage it, either. Measuring out our lives in ten-minute spoonfuls would drive us both insane. We’d probably already squandered two or three minutes of our allotted time with the stone-faced lawyer, so I figured we’d better get straight to the point.
“You told my secretary you’re here about an article,” he said, jumping in ahead of me. He had remained standing, which was a little disconcerting. Either it was some sort of power play or he hoped he could nudge us out the door more quickly this way.
“Yes,” I said brightly. “Our good friend Sara Rutledge is a reporter, and she’s doing a piece on Beaux Reves. Now that Abigail has passed away”—I paused and bowed my head for a second—“we thought you might be able to fill in some details.”
“Why in the world would you think that?” he asked churlishly. He glanced out the window for a moment—his office was on the tenth floor, and he had an excellent view of the Historic District—and then sank into his desk chair. He picked up the old-timey fountain pen again, thought better of it, and put it back down on the leather-topped desk.
I noticed it had faint nibble marks on the tip and wondered if this was his secret vice—nibbling on pen tips. Maybe this was his version of squeezing a stress ball. He looked so rigid and controlled, it was hard to imagine him ever suffering from stress or anxiety.
“Well, you’ve probably known her longer than most people,” I ventured. “So that gives you a unique perspective on her and on Beaux Reves.”
“That may be true,” he said curtly. “But all the more reason to protect her legacy and honor her wishes.” He shook his head from side to side in a quick, nervous gesture. “If Abigail were with us today, she never would have granted an interview to your friend. She refused all media requests, and in her later years, she rarely left the estate. And one thing she made clear—she loathed reporters.”
He gave a little snort of satisfaction and then leaned forward, shooting me a keen look. “I’m surprised you’re not aware of this, Ms. Blake. It makes me wonder how well the two of you really knew Abigail.”
I exchanged a look with Ali. I was fairly certain that Norman had Googled us, discovered we owned a vintage candy shop on Clark Street, and probably knew our net worth down to the last dollar. We obviously weren’t part of his social scene. He probably thought of us as carpetbag
gers. We were newcomers to Savannah, didn’t have a fancy pedigree, and certainly weren’t old money. I bet not much got by those glacial blue eyes. I remember the shrewd look he shot at us the day of the luncheon; his eyes had been cold and unblinking. I bet he didn’t miss a trick.
The receptionist returned with Ali’s iced tea. Ali took a tiny, delicate sip and then put the glass on a coaster. I glanced at Osteroff and nearly laughed. It was all he could do to restrain himself. He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop, frowning.
“What is it you want to know?” He gave a strangely feral smile that was probably intended to be gracious but missed the mark. He had obviously decided it was smarter to throw us a few crumbs to get out us out of his office. “Something about Beaux Reves, you said?” He looked ancient in the harsh sunlight streaming in the window, and his voice was querulous, an old man’s voice. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be older than I’d originally thought, and might even be a contemporary of Abigail.
“Yes, anything you can tell us would be helpful,” I said, reaching into my tote bag and pulling out a notebook. “Anything about the mansion itself, or perhaps the Marchand family.”
He sat back, plunked his elbow on the desk, and stroked his chin. “Well, you can find out anything you need to about the history and the décor of the mansion in Savannah guide books,” he said swiftly. “You don’t need me to rehash all that.” Ali looked at me and raised her eyebrows. Uh-oh. This was going to be harder than I’d thought.
“No, we don’t,” I said agreeably. “But as for the Marchand family—” I began, and he cut me off.
“I have a question for you, Ms. Blake,” he said, pointing his pen at me as if it were a lethal weapon. “Why did Abigail invite you for lunch with her? She mentioned that you were new in town, but that’s all she said. The woman could be damn secretive when she wanted to be,” he added peevishly.
Ali quickly explained about the Harper sisters, their long friendship with Abigail, and the desire for “new blood” in the Magnolia Society.
Osteroff allowed himself a small chuckle. “So she tried to rope you into volunteer work?” he asked. “She was always good at getting people to do things for her. Then she’d take the credit.” He’d broken off eye contact, and seemed lost in thought, staring out the window again.
“So you know about the Magnolia Society?” I asked, hoping he would reveal more details.
“Yes, of course I do. I did the legal work to get them recognized as a legitimate charity. We wanted to make sure all the donations were tax-deductible. That was years ago.” He turned back to face us. He’d obviously forgotten about his packed schedule because he crossed his legs and settled back as if he was ready for a chat. “I figured it was just another one of Abigail’s impulsive decisions, but she was dead set on establishing the group and keeping it going.”
“It’s a philanthropic society, right?”
“That’s what she liked to think.” He cackled. “Actually, it’s a bunch of old dears with too much time on their hands. And more money than they know how to spend.”
Ali sneaked a look at me and I could read her thoughts. Neither one of us had expected this snarkiness from the old-timey lawyer. I wondered if they could have had a falling-out shortly before her death or if there was some long-standing resentment on his part.
“Did she ask you for a donation?”
I shook my head. “Not money, just our time. And she even backed off on that once she realized . . .” I stopped, wishing I could take back the words.
“Once she realized what?” Osteroff leaned forward so quickly in his chair, he nearly catapulted himself onto the desktop.
Ali bit her lip. “Once she realized she’d be around long enough to handle the Society’s business herself.”
Osteroff was either a good actor or he was genuinely surprised. “Why wouldn’t she be around? Her parents lived well into their nineties. She came from good stock. I don’t think the woman was ever sick a day in her life.”
“She never mentioned any premonitions to you?”
“Premonitions? Like what?”
“Abigail was having nightmares,” I explained. “She was dreaming about her own death. She was sure she was going to die sometime soon and she wanted to make sure the Magnolia Society would continue on without her.”
“This is news to me,” Osteroff said. “Dreaming of her own death? Abigail was a sensible woman.” He snorted. “At least more sensible than those silly friends of hers in their orthopedic shoes. Those sisters with the flower shop.” I knew he was referring to the Harper sisters, and I bristled. “I never figured Abigail would be the type to get caught up in such nonsense.” This time he stood up and looked pointedly at his watch.
“Do you know anything about a distant relative suddenly turning up?” Ali asked. “Someone she hadn’t seen in years?”
“No.” His voice was tense, clipped. “Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”
“How well did you know Desiree Marchand?” I asked him. It was a shot in the dark, but it found its mark.
“Desiree was the younger sister of Abigail,” he said curtly. “She was a lovely young woman, and she drowned several years ago.” His tone was as flat as the Savannah River on a calm day, not a ripple anywhere. Another pointed glance at his watch. “There’s no mystery there, if that’s what you’re thinking.” No mystery? Interesting that he would choose that word. I hadn’t said a word about a mystery.
“No, of course not,” I said. “I just thought Sara—our friend—might like to add something about Desiree to the article. Abigail never mentioned her to us.”
“I’m sure it was a painful topic for her,” he said shortly. “I don’t think she ever fully recovered from her sister’s death. And now if you’ll excuse me—”
Right on cue, the elderly assistant knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Your two o’clock is here, Mr. Osteroff.” She stood in the doorway, holding the door open, clearly ready to usher us out.
“Thank you for your time.” I stood up while Ali took a last gulp of her iced tea. I picked up my purse and then paused when I spotted a set of framed photographs of horses on the far wall. The horses were sleek, with gleaming coats, grazing in a lush green pasture. They looked like Arabians, but I’m no expert. “You raise horses?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t figured Osteroff for an animal lover.
“My wife’s expensive hobby,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve never owned a pet in my life, but I have to admit, these horses have grown on me. They’re beautiful animals, aren’t they?” He looked fondly at a picture of an attractive forty-something blonde holding the reins of a large chestnut horse. Trophy wife? “That’s Elyse with Thunderbolt,” he said proudly. “She’s teaching me how to groom him. Maybe raising horses will be my retirement hobby some day.”
I smiled. It was hard to picture Norman Osteroff in jeans and a work shirt, wielding a currycomb. Would the high-powered lawyer, with his tony office and well-heeled clientele, slip off into retirement at a horse farm? I seriously doubted it. And with that, our meeting was over.
7
“So it was definitely murder?” Ali and I were grabbing a late lunch with Noah. Since it was a picture-postcard Savannah day, and we couldn’t bear to go inside, Noah bought muffalettas for us to eat in Forsythe Square. The tasty treats, with their distinctive layer of marinated olives, originated in New Orleans but have become popular in Savannah. I dashed to an outdoor vendor and bought three large fresh lemonades for us before we settled on a wrought iron bench near the famous fountain.
“I’m afraid so.”
He handed us our sandwiches, and Ali opened the wax paper to peer at hers suspiciously. “Mine is vegetarian, I hope.”
“Always.” Noah grinned at her. Noah is almost as close to Ali as I am and plays the role of protective big brother with her. “I know the drill. No salami, no ham, a
nd they doubled up on the provolone and the mozzarella for you.”
“Perfect,” she said. “This is heaven.” She smiled, tucking into her sandwich.
“Now, time to get down to business,” Noah said. He took a big drink of lemonade. “And a sad business it is. According to the ME, there’s no doubt that Abigail was pushed.” He glanced at me.
“You’re sure?” I suppose I still found it hard to believe anyone would kill Abigail.
“The coroner is sure,” Noah replied. “And the police chief agrees. That’s good enough for me.”
“I wonder how they decide something like that,” Ali said, her brow furrowed.
Noah hesitated for a moment. “Taylor, I’ll send you the crime scene photos and you’ll see why they came to that conclusion. There are certain details . . .” He nodded his head toward Ali, who was busily breaking off crumbs of bread and tossing them to a robin that was hopping in front of us. This wasn’t the time or place for gory descriptions. “How did you do with Osteroff?” he asked, changing the subject.
“We didn’t get anywhere, I’m afraid. He clammed up when we asked about Desiree and couldn’t wait to get us out of his office. You might have done better.” I like to give credit where credit is due.
Noah is a first-rate interviewer, and I am always amazed at what he picks up on—the slightest hint of a frown on a suspect’s face, a nuance in the voice, or even an obvious “tell.” Noah taught me be to be aware of body language and facial expressions. A suspect who’s lying might unconsciously send a mixed message to an interviewer. Sometimes people say no, but unconsciously nod their heads up and down in a yes gesture. It’s a strange phenomenon, and I’ve noticed it several times since Noah first mentioned it. Now I watch for it all the time.