by Mary Kennedy
“I’ve been to Malmaison; the gardens are beautiful,” Lucinda offered. “We took our seniors to Paris a few years ago.” Lucinda looked wistful, as though she missed her position as headmistress at the academy. “Oh, I didn’t mean to interrupt,” she said, fluttering her hands. “Please go on, Sybil.”
Sybil nodded and continued. “Josephine planned on doing a lot of entertaining and she wanted Malmaison to be a showplace for the whole country. Her mind was full of wonderful images and exciting plans. It was one of the most vivid, colorful dreams I’ve ever had.” She sat back and rested her hands in her lap, a look of contentment on her face.
“I still can’t get over the fact that you can jump into another person’s dreams,” Etta Mae said. “I don’t think I’ll ever get to that stage.”
“Not many people do,” Persia said enviously. “Sybil has a special talent, a gift.”
“Can you tell me how you do it?” Etta Mae went on, her tone full of admiration.
“I can’t explain it. I’ve done it since I was a child,” Sybil said simply. “When I was nine, I caused quite a scandal because I found myself in Ms. Sharpton’s dream—she was my homeroom teacher—and she was dreaming about Mr. Robertson, the math teacher. I was foolish enough to tell a couple of my friends. And you can imagine how fast word got around. I should have kept my big mouth shut.”
“Oh my, what happened?” Lucinda asked. As the former headmistress of a girls’ school, she was keenly interested in the outcome. “I hope you weren’t punished.”
“Not really,” Sybil said with a smile. “Everyone thought I’d made it up, of course, and no one believed I had this talent. I was told to stop spreading gossip, and the principal threatened to put a written reprimand in my chart if it happened again.” She chuckled. “The funny thing is that Ms. Sharpton and Mr. Robertson got married a year later. They each divorced their spouses, and no one suspected they’d been having an affair.”
Ali glanced at her watch. “Unless someone has another dream . . .” she began.
“Oh, I think we’ll call it a night,” Minerva said, rising slowly. “We still have to do some wreaths for the Cooper funeral tomorrow morning.”
“That we do,” Rose said, joining her. “We should have done it this morning, but somehow the day just slipped away.” The Harper sisters own Petals, a flower shop that has been in business for almost fifty years. They never advertise and seem to rely on word of mouth to attract new customers.
When I first moved to Savannah, I thought maybe Ali and I could run some joint promotions with them, but I quickly realized they seem to do only funerals. A few wreaths and a potted plant here and there for the dearly departed and their loved ones. The sisters managed to eke out a living but watched their pennies carefully.
“Don’t forget this,” Ali said, handing them a package of baked goods from our shop wrapped in tinfoil. The Harpers don’t cook anymore, and I think they appreciate having some homemade items in the house. Ali saw Rose looking at the leftover brownies and quickly wrapped them up to add to the bag. “Enjoy,” Ali said softly as Rose smiled her thanks.
The Dream Club meeting was over, and I mulled over what we had learned. The disappearing women, the mysterious gold box, and the strange woman at the docks carrying an old-fashioned suitcase. Was any of this related to Abigail’s death? Or Desiree’s? Ali would say it all was related, if only we knew how to put the clues together.
9
The next day dawned bright and clear and I woke to the enticing smell of hazelnut coffee. Ali always brews a pot just for me, even though she’s a tea drinker. We took our mugs downstairs to touch base with Dana, our amazing assistant. Dana was dreaming up plans for yet another window display. The fifties display had gone over well and she was toying with the idea of hiring live models the next time.
“Live models?” I said, astonished. I pulled up a stool at the counter, enjoying the way the shop looked in the early morning hours. The display bins were gleaming, everything was polished to perfection, and the sunlight was slanting across the oak floor. “Do you mean they’ll pretend to be mannequins?”
“Yes, exactly! I spent a summer in Atlanta and one of my friends did a department store window display with students from the local college. They didn’t charge much, and all they had to do was hold a pose for twenty minutes.”
“Twenty minutes?” Ali said doubtfully. “I don’t know, that sounds like a long time to me.”
“It’s not like they have to hold their breath,” Dana teased. “They just have to stand still. Look, it’s easy.” She struck a saucy pose, with one hip out, her head thrown back, her hand touching her glossy black ponytail. I was amazed that she was absolutely motionless.
“Very eye-catching,” I told her. “But are you sure they can do it?”
“I like it. Very cute. It will draw in the tourists,” Ali added.
Dana ignored both of us, kept her pose, standing as still as a statue. She didn’t even blink. I had to admire her ability to focus.
Barney strolled over and stared at her curiously, probably marveling at the strange antics of his human guardians. He rubbed his whiskery face against Dana’s bare leg and tried to nuzzle her shoe, but she still didn’t move a muscle. Barney looked up at her, puzzled, his brow furrowed. I glanced at the clock; she’d been motionless for a full minute. How in the world does she do this?
“Okay, Dana, you’ve convinced me.” I clapped my hands, startling Barney, who dashed under one of the candy bins. Both Barney and Scout are rescues, and although they’re socialized, they still retain some feral ways. Loud noises and shouting tend to freak them out, and they run for cover. Life on the streets must have been challenging for them, and I think they have flashbacks from time to time.
“Sorry, Barney.” He stuck his head out from under the bin and I reached down to let him sniff my hand. When he cautiously emerged, I scooped him into my lap for a quick cuddle. “It’s okay; everything’s fine,” I reassured him as he began to purr.
Dana relaxed her pose and grinned. “See? It’s easy. Anyone can do it.”
“I think you’re amazing.” Ali reached for a batch of poppy seed muffins we’d made the day before. “I guess these weren’t big sellers,” she said, peering at them. She lifted out a muffin and tapped it with her finger. “Are these stale?”
“They’re not stale,” Dana said. “I had one for breakfast. They’re better if you put them in the broiler oven for a couple of minutes, though. And go heavy with the butter and jam.”
“What do you honestly think of them?” I asked. “Why didn’t they move?”
“They’re a little dry, that’s all.” Dana poured herself a cup of coffee and joined us at the counter. “Did you use sour cream in the recipe, Ali?”
Ali flushed. Guilty as charged. Whenever she tries to lighten up a recipe, it’s a gamble. I remembered her wheat germ–soy cookies from a few months ago. They were studded with currants and looked like ants on cardboard. I didn’t dare serve them to the Dream Club, and we finally fed them to the birds in the back garden. “I tried to do a healthy version with fat-free yogurt. I’m not sure what happened. I wonder what I did wrong.”
Dana and I exchanged a look. “I think the substitutions are the problem. You know how folks are down here in Savannah,” Dana said apologetically. “You can tweak their recipes, but only up to a point. When you start making too many changes, it doesn’t taste like the original. You’re bound to get some pushback.”
“Dana’s right: we’re selling nostalgia.” I kept my tone soft. I grabbed a muffin and took a bite. Not bad, but not great. Certainly not up to our usual standards. Blueberry, apple streusel, and donut muffins are huge bestsellers for us, and there was no point in offering something that wasn’t up to par. “Maybe shelve this recipe for a while,” I said, and Dana nodded.
After a quick breakfast and some instructions for Dana, Ali
and I set out to track down our leads. When I told Ali we were making a return trip to Beaux Reves, she asked if we should call ahead. I assured her it was better to stage an impromptu visit. The last thing I wanted to do was give Lucy Dargos an excuse not to see us. With any luck, we might also meet Nicky, her son, and Jeb, the estate manager. And who knew, maybe Sophie Stanton had returned from her trip. It was a little early to call on people, but that was all part of my plan.
* * *
To say Lucy Dargos, the housekeeper, was unhappy to see us would be an understatement. She was scowling as she answered the door and immediately grabbed my sunglasses from the hall table.
“I found them,” she said in a peremptory tone, handing them to me. “I should have called you; I’m so sorry. There was no need for you to come back.” She kept her squat frame blocking the doorway. She obviously had no intention of inviting us in, and I could hear noises in the kitchen. And a woman’s voice. Perhaps Sophie Stanton was back from her travels?
The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted down the hall, and I could feel myself salivating. I’m a caffeine addict, no doubt about it, and I hadn’t had my quota for the day. Without four cups of coffee, I have brain fog, even though Ali says that’s impossible.
“I hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said, flashing a bright smile.
“Well, I was just serving breakfast . . .” She hesitated, and I could see she was wrestling with her conscience. Southerners are trained to be hospitable, and not asking us in for coffee would go against the grain.
“Breakfast!” Ali said delightedly. “I was just saying to Taylor that I needed something to eat. I have low blood sugar, you see. When it plummets, I can just faint away with no warning.” She raised the back of her hand to her forehead, and I was afraid she was going to swoon right on the spot.
All those college drama classes had finally come in handy. Ali was so convincing with her low-blood-sugar act, she almost had me fooled. I think she was reprising her role as Blanche DuBois in A Streetcar Named Desire. Like the fragile, overly dramatic Blanche, she depended “on the kindness of strangers.” I could only hope that her act was going over well with the stone-faced housekeeper.
“My aunt Delores has diabetes,” Lucy said finally, opening the door a little wider. “So I know exactly what you mean. When she gets low blood sugar she passes out, right on the spot. Maybe you should come in and sit down for a spell. And have something to eat with us.”
“Oh, that would be lovely,” Ali said, sweeping past Lucy into the hall. I just realized Ali had never seen the inside of Beaux Reves, and I could see she was awestruck, taking it all in. The fifteen-foot ceilings, the stunning Art Deco black-and-white tiled floor, the oil paintings in heavy gilt frames lining the wall. The front hall in Beaux Reves is at least five times bigger than my former Chicago condo.
If only I could explore the whole mansion. According to the guide book put out by the Historical Society, Beaux Reves has a ballroom, a solarium, and a formal dining room that can seat fifty people at round tables. And the upstairs bedrooms are supposed to have fireplaces along with private balconies and sitting rooms. I racked my brain but couldn’t think of an excuse to zip up there. I wondered if any part of the mansion was considered a crime scene, but no yellow plastic tape was visible in the front hall. The CSIs must have done their work and left.
I was beginning to wish I hadn’t acted so impulsively. I’d thought visiting Lucy on the fly was the way to go, but maybe I should have taken some time and come up with a more detailed action plan. Noah always harps on the fact that trained investigators always know exactly what they want to accomplish before they meet with a suspect or take a statement. They have an agenda, and they leave nothing to chance. What did I hope to accomplish here today? I’d already used up the forgotten-sunglasses card, and it was unlikely I’d get back in here for another visit. I’d better make this visit count.
I found myself envying Angus Morton, the young grad student, living in the lap of luxury. Of course, maybe his life at the mansion wasn’t as luxurious as I imagined? Maybe he spent his days tucked away in some dusty attic, cataloging antiques? Even so, it would be a small price to pay to enjoy your free time in such luxury. We passed a beautiful yellow-and-purple orchid plant in an Oriental porcelain vase and made our way into the kitchen. I started to reach out and touch it. Was it real? Of course it was real! Ali rapped me sharply on the knuckles and shot me a disapproving look.
“Don’t touch it; they’re very fragile. It’s a lady’s slipper,” Ali whispered.
“It’s an orchid, right?” I kept my voice low. Lucy turned her head slightly as if she was trying to follow the conversation.
“Yes, but a very rare one,” she said admiringly. “A single cutting can go for five grand.”
I raised my eyebrows. Ali always says I have the soul of an accountant, and maybe I really am too focused on the bottom line. But five thousands dollars for a plant? I shook my head and followed Lucy down the hall, marveling at the habits of the very rich.
To my delight, I saw a young woman and two young men sitting at the kitchen table as Lucy ushered us inside. Bingo! I’d lucked out. The young woman with the porcelain skin and strawberry blond hair must have been the mysterious Sophie Stanton. She looked up at me over the rim of her cup, her gaze curious and intent. Her head was tilted to one side, and she had an air of utter confidence. Her chin was lifted upward slightly. She was a beauty with finely chiseled features and that wonderful mane of reddish-blond hair. Hadn’t someone mentioned a strawberry blonde lately? Who was it?
I didn’t have time to ponder the question because Lucy motioned for us to take a seat, and quickly introduced us to our tablemates. It was just as I suspected. The woman was Sophie Stanton, who nodded coolly as she gave me a quick once-over. The sullen-looking young man in a vintage rock T-shirt sitting next to her was Nicky Dargos, Lucy’s son, and Angus Morton, the graduate student, was at the head of the table.
All the people I wanted to see, gathered in one place. This had to be a good omen. I locked eyes with Ali for a moment, and she grinned. I bet we both were thinking the same thing. This was like something out of an Agatha Christie novel!
“Make yourselves comfortable,” Lucy said, turning her back to us, bustling around the stove. “I’m doing bacon and eggs for Nicky and pancakes for Angus.”
“You know, I’m just having fruit and yogurt,” Sophie piped up. Her voice was low and cultured, without a trace of an accent. She didn’t sound European, but more like someone who had lived in the states for years. I was sure I detected a touch of New England in her patrician tone. Boston? Bar Harbor, perhaps? It was almost as though she had done her best to eliminate all traces of an accent.
“I know; you told me,” Lucy said with a hint of irritation. “You can help yourself. It’s on the sideboard. The boys are hungry. They need a hot breakfast.”
“Yeah, I’m starving, Ma,” Nicky whined. “Hurry up, will ya?” Lucy whirled around and pretended to tap him with the spatula. “All those calories you eat and you never gain an ounce,” she said fondly. “I wish I knew your secret.”
The kitchen was a cozy place, and soft Spanish guitar music played in the background. I was surprised to see a boom box plugged into an outlet near the sink. The cord was so short it looked like it might topple into the sink at any moment.
Lucy caught me staring and said, “I have an iPod, but my son keeps forgetting to buy a charger for me. This boom box is twenty years old, but it still works.” She pretended to cuff Nicky playfully on the head as she passed behind his chair, and he winced.
“Hey, Ma, I got better things to do than buy a charger, you know? Use the boom box for now.” He glanced at me. “Mama has to have her Latin music playing twenty-four seven. But if I try to play a little Drake, she goes nuts.”
I took a good look at Nicky and Angus. Physically, they were polar opposites. Nicky was th
in and wiry with a pinched face and a slightly feral look. He reminded me of a hungry jackal, and it was hard to imagine him doing any physical harm to anyone. He had narrow shoulders, skinny arms, and looked like he was barely five seven or five eight.
Angus, on the other hand, was a “big, strapping lad,” as my grandmother used to say. He had pale white skin dotted with freckles, a shock of reddish hair, and he towered over everyone at the table. He must have been well over six feet tall, I decided, with a broad chest and well-muscled arms. A good push from Angus could easily send a frail old lady like Abigail down the front stairs, but why would he want to? This was the part of the story that was missing.
I decided to tackle Angus first. “I understand you’re cataloging the antiques here at the mansion.” I deliberately kept my tone soft and low-key, but he immediately went on the defensive.
“How did you know that?” His tone was gruff, unfriendly, but I kept a smile plastered on my face.
“One of the Harper sisters mentioned it,” I told him. “They were great friends of Mrs. Marchand. She invited us for lunch the other day, but we didn’t get a chance to meet you. You had gone to Charleston to do some research.”
He grunted and turned his attention to a giant plate of pancakes that Lucy placed in the center of the table. Both he and Nicky made a grab for the food at the same time, like starving dogs. Nicky was the victor, spearing at least eight pancakes with two forks and laughing at the startled expression on Angus’s face. Angus had snared only two.
“Nicky,” Lucy said reproachfully. “There’s plenty to go around. And I really made those for Angus. Why do you act so greedy? Didn’t it occur to you that our guests might like some pancakes?” She looked at Ali, who was eyeing the empty platter. “Don’t worry, I have another batch ready to go on the griddle.” She paused. “Would anyone like chocolate chips in them?”
“Oh, I would,” Ali said with a broad smile. My sister can eat like a longshoreman and still keep her model-thin figure.