A Premonition of Murder

by Mary Kennedy

  “Have there been any surprises in your work?” I asked Angus.

  “Surprises?” He barely looked up at me, but his tone was annoyed. “What do you mean?”

  “I don’t know,” I said vaguely. “Sometimes you read about people poking around attics and basements and they come across treasures. Wonderful things that the owners didn’t even know were there.”

  Angus snorted. “I think you’ve been watching too much Antiques Roadshow,” he said curtly. “That sort of thing only happens on TV. Mrs. Marchand gave me a very detailed list of what she wanted appraised, and I just go through the items one by one.”

  “It sounds fascinating,” Ali said in her breathy voice.

  Angus looked up in surprise, and his features relaxed. Maybe he was taken in by Ali’s blond good looks or her sunny smile, but he seemed to instantly relax. After spearing another piece of pancake, he leaned back in his chair to study her.

  He obviously liked what he saw. Ali looked particularly cute today in a navy-and-cream striped top with a boat neckline and snowy white capris. Her blond hair was swept back in a high pony-tail, making her look very young and vulnerable. If Angus had a “type,” Ali surely fit the bill, I decided. His pale blue eyes flashed with interest, and he was suddenly animated.

  “It’s a pretty cool job,” he admitted. “A lot of students would kill for an opportunity like this.”

  Kill? Obviously a poor choice of word, under the circumstances, but Ali let it slide.

  “How did you ever find it?” Ali gazed up at him with puppy eyes. Ali can turn on the charm when she wants to, and I had the feeling it was going to pay off big-time.

  “Mrs. Marchand made a major gift to an art museum where I was interning,” he explained. “My supervisor asked me if I’d like to spend the summer at Beaux Reves, and I jumped at the chance. Who wouldn’t want to live here for a few months?” he said, waving his hand around the enormous kitchen. “I’m living like a king,” he said, obviously pleased with himself. I thought of Lucy’s referring to Angus as “Mr. Big Shot.”

  “Yeah, well, you may be living like a king, but I feel like a janitor,” Nicky said in his wheedling voice. “You don’t do any of the heavy lifting around here,” he said with a snort. “Try spreading two hundred pounds of compost at eight o’clock in the morning and you’ll see how the rest of us live.”

  “Now, Nicky,” Lucy said, “you should be willing to help Jeb. He doesn’t ask you very often.” She put another giant platter of pancakes on the table, after passing them first to Angus. Nicky dug in like he hadn’t eaten for days. Lucy slid a plate of fried eggs and bacon across the table to him; the kid was a bottomless pit. “Nicky, Jeb appreciates your help, and so do I.” She crossed herself and muttered a few words of prayer. “And if dear Mrs. Marchand were here, she would be grateful; I know she would.”

  “Whatever,” Nicky muttered, pouring a giant helping of maple syrup over his pancakes. “Maybe Jeb should stop betting on the ponies.”

  Jeb. That had to be Jeb Arnold, the estate manager at Beaux Reves. So Nicky is jealous of Angus and resents having to do occasional landscaping work for Jeb Arnold. Nicky’s mother makes excuses for him and denies he had anything to do with the theft. And maybe Jeb has a gambling problem?

  I had no idea how this was getting me any closer to finding Abigail’s killer, but I tucked the information away for later. You never know when a tidbit will come in handy and a connection between two facts will suddenly click. Solving a crime is like putting together a giant jigsaw puzzle. Some of the pieces fit together effortlessly, some you have to work for, but in the end, you have the whole picture.

  “You really should stop complaining so much, dude. It’s bumming me out,” Angus said out of the side of his mouth.

  Nicky threw down his knife and fork, ready to spring from his chair. “Do you want to take this outside?”

  “Boys!” Lucy said, holding up a spatula. “We have guests. Behave yourselves.” She flashed me an apologetic smile and returned to her cooking.

  So there was trouble in paradise. Interesting. I wondered about the source of friction between the two young men. Was it a class thing? Was Nicky really being forced to act like a servant and Angus was behaving like the lord of the manor? I needed to find out more about the history between these two. And how did Jeb fit into the picture? But for the moment, I turned my attention to Sophie Stanton.

  10

  “So how are you enjoying Savannah, Ms. Stanton?” I asked the petite blonde with the heart-shaped face. She was wearing a silky kimono with flowing sleeves, and I couldn’t tell if it was an elegant bathrobe or if she was dressed for the day. The rich purple kimono set off the red glints in her hair, and she looked poised and fashionable.

  I took a peek at her feet and saw she was wearing a pair of stylish Jimmy Choos, strappy little numbers in black patent leather that would easily have set her back seven or eight hundred dollars. Clearly, she was dressed to go out.

  “I love it so far,” she purred, flashing me a big movie-star smile. “And please call me Sophie—everyone does.” She checked out my pressed khakis and Oldies But Goodies T-shirt, my standard work uniform. She pressed her lips together as if she was trying not to snicker. “Oldies But Goodies, is that a rock band?” she asked. “The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “No, it’s a vintage candy store over on Clark Street that my sister and I own.” I kept my tone pleasant. “Maybe you’d like to stop by someday. We added a little café, so we offer pastries and coffee as well as candy.”

  She gave a delicate shudder. “I’m afraid I don’t eat puddings,” she said softly.

  Puddings. I know that’s what Brits call dessert. Any type of dessert. Was she educated in Great Britain? I had to find out more about this mysterious relative.

  “It must have been exciting to reconnect with the American side of the family,” I said blandly. She probably felt like I was interrogating her, but I didn’t know how else to pry the truth out of her. She certainly wasn’t a Chatty Cathy.

  “Yes, it was,” she said, giving a small smile. She reminded me of a cat delicately toying with a mouse. She tapped a beautifully manicured fingertip against her coffee cup. “Of course, I had no idea that dear Aunt Abigail was living”—she paused delicately to wipe her lips—“in such splendor. I used to visit her place in the south of France. It had gorgeous views, but it was not as grand as this. Sans Souci is a lovely location, in the hills of Cannes overlooking the Bay of Angels.” She gave a little sigh. “How I used to love to walk along La Prom.” La Prom. I knew that was what jet-setters called La Promenade des Anglais, the boardwalk that runs along the seaside in Nice. “But Beaux Reves is equally charming,” she added.

  Nicky made a soft grunting sound that could have been a snort of derision or might have just been the sound of him scarfing down his third round of pancakes. Sophie glanced at him and frowned.

  “One of our reporter friends is doing a piece for the Savannah Herald Lifestyle section on Beaux Reves,” I offered, hoping to keep the conversation going.

  “Really?” She brightened as if I had finally said something interesting. “I’d like to read it. When will it appear?”

  “I’m not sure; she’s still doing some research on the gardens. And she might want to add a few paragraphs about the antiques and artwork.” I glanced over at Ali, who had her chin in her hand and was deep in conversation with Angus Morton. He was staring at her, obviously smitten. From the snatches of conversation, I could tell that they were talking about furniture restoration. With any luck, Ali might get him to reveal something we could use in the investigation.

  I waited until Lucy was busily cleaning the griddle and then said, “Lucy, could you tell me where to find the powder room?”

  “It’s at the end of the front hall on the right,” she said, absorbed in her task. “No, wait,” she added, “we’re having so
me plumbing troubles. The pipes, they are so old,” she said apologetically. “You’d better use the one at the top of the stairs.”

  The top of the stairs. Music to my ears. “Thanks so much,” I said, pushing back my chair and standing up. I planned on making the most of my foray into the second floor of the mansion and could hardly wait to get started.

  I bounded up the stairs and quickly closed the door to the powder room. If anyone glanced up from below, they would assume I was in there. I was grateful for the thick Oriental runners that deadened the sounds as I hurried down the hall.

  Which way to turn? I’d assumed Abigail would have a master suite, but after peeking into three bedrooms in a row, it appeared they all were the same size. I really wanted to find Abigail’s room but stopped when I glanced into a pale blue bedroom with white area rugs and a four-poster bed with a canopy. It was lovely, and the plantation shutters were open to catch the early morning breeze.

  But it wasn’t the color scheme or the décor that captured my attention. It was a large calfskin tote bag sitting on the bed. It was covered with travel decals, and a guide book was sticking out. I saw a filmy Japanese-style wrap thrown over a chair.

  I was in Sophie Stanton’s room! I was sure of it. I darted inside and closed the door softly behind me. I knew I had to move quickly. I heard voices and kitchen sounds drifting up from the heat grates, and in a minute or two, eagle-eyed Lucy would be hot on my trail. Did I have an excuse for being in Sophie’s room? Nothing came to me, so I figured I’d better do my snooping and hightail it out of there as fast as I could.

  The tote bag drew me like a magnet. The patches I’d thought were travel decals turned out to be embossed on the leather (it was a designer bag, by the way). I quickly riffled through it, hoping to find some form of ID. If Sophie was an imposter, she had certainly covered her tracks. I found a Belgian passport, along with American, French, and Belgian currency. She had a few British pound notes tucked into a zipper compartment. But nothing else. Odd.

  I peered carefully at the passport photo. Yes, it was definitely Sophie. She was so attractive, she even managed to look good in harsh fluorescent lighting. There was a guide book squirreled away in the very bottom of the bag, and it was earmarked with Post-its.

  I pulled it out, expecting a book on Savannah’s famous places. Wrong guess. It turned out to be a guide to Cannes and the Côte d’Azur. I turned to the first Post-it and saw that someone had highlighted a paragraph on Sans Souci, Abigail’s family home in the south of France.

  The description was familiar. Gorgeous views, a lovely location perched high in the hillside above the town, overlooking the Bay of Angels. That was exactly how Sophie had described it to me in the kitchen, word for word. I sat down on the bed, thinking. Had she memorized the guide book, hoping to appear knowledgeable about Sans Souci? Was it possible she had never even been there? Could she have learned enough about the south of France to fool Abigail? Abigail may have been way up in her eighties, but she’d been a shrewd woman and sharp as a tack.

  I didn’t have long to ponder this because I heard heavy footsteps tromping up the stairs. Lucy! I hurriedly shoved the guide book back in the bottom of the tote bag, smoothed the bedspread, and raced down the carpeted hall. I peeked out over the railing to see Lucy paused on the stairs. She was calling to someone in the kitchen, “Nicky, I’ll be right back. You don’t need any more bacon. Have some fruit. It’s better for you.”

  Those few seconds were all I needed. I pulled open the door to the powder room and rushed inside, flushing the toilet and running the water. I heard a faint knocking on the door.

  “Ms. Blake,” Lucy was calling. “Are you all right?”

  I smiled and opened the door, holding a small towel in my hand. “Yes. I had a bit of a stomach problem, I’m afraid.”

  She looked suspiciously at me but nodded. “If you want, I can make you some herb tea. That always settles my stomach.”

  “Oh, that won’t be necessary,” I told her. “I’ll just walk it off and I’ll be fine. We’d best be on our way. Ali and I have a full day ahead of us, and I’m sure you do, too.”

  “There’s a lot of work to do in this place,” she said grudgingly. “All this furniture to polish.” She ran her hand over the smooth railing. I noticed her hands were surprisingly large for her short stature, and they looked powerful. She saw me staring at her hands and thrust them into her apron pocket.

  “Well, you do an excellent job,” I told her. “Everything is gleaming.”

  She looked pleased and beamed at me. “It’s my lemon wood polish. Mrs. Marchand gave me an antique French bottle to keep it in. You may have seen it on the kitchen counter,” she said proudly. “It’s too pretty to put away.”

  I nodded vaguely. “Yes, I did,” I told her. I hadn’t seen the bottle, but it was easier to let her think I had.

  “Everything in here is solid walnut, and it picks up fingerprints,” she went on. “I try to go over the furniture and the molding every day, one room at a time. I start at the top of the house and work my way down.”

  I bobbed my head up and down as if I could sympathize. Actually, taking care of Beaux Reves probably was too much work for one person. But hadn’t someone said that most of the house was closed off? How many rooms were actually in use and what secrets did they hold?

  I was glad I’d seen Sophie’s room, but I would have given anything to have had some time alone in Abigail’s room and Lucy’s private quarters. I remember that Lucy had an apartment way up on the top floor and there was probably no way in the world I would ever get up there.

  Had the police done a thorough search of the estate when they investigated Abigail’s death? I wondered if they’d found anything incriminating in Lucy’s apartment or in the guesthouse where Jeb Arnold lived. Noah would probably be able to answer that question, and I needed to meet with him fairly soon.

  I thought about Sam Stiles, our detective friend with the Savannah PD, and wished she would come back to the Dream Club meetings so we could chat. She’s more levelheaded than most of the members and is somewhat skeptical. Sometimes I think she attends the meetings only because she’s friendly with Dorien, who begged her to join.

  I realized I was dawdling on the landing and Lucy was giving me a suspicious look. I smiled and walked quickly down the stairs with Lucy right behind me. I caught a faint scent of lemon in the air. Lucy’s furniture polish, I decided.

  Minutes later, Ali and I were outside the mansion comparing notes. I told her about the tote bag with the travel decals in Sophie’s room and she remembered Lucinda’s dream about the woman on the docks and her suitcase.

  “Don’t you see?” she said excitedly. “The woman in Lucinda’s dream had to be Sophie Stanton. The reddish-gold hair and the travel decals. It’s all so specific, it can’t be a coincidence.”

  “But what does it all mean?” I vaguely remembered that Lucinda said the woman quoted some Bible scriptures to her. Something about only a few being chosen and the last being first and the first being last.

  This was baffling to me. Sometimes Ali and her dream interpretations seem so far-out, I can’t really see the relevance to the situation. Almost everyone in the club is an avid “believer,” and they’re willing to stretch the facts in a dream to match their expectations.

  I’ve always taken a more skeptical, utilitarian approach. Ali teases me that she’d have to hit me over the head with a two-by-four to get me to see the symbolism in dreams. I’ve come a long way since the first meeting, but I’m still not as enthralled with “dream work” as the others. They’ve been analyzing dreams for a long time and are convinced that dreams can be prophetic.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” Ali admitted. “But we are definitely making progress.” She gave a devilish grin. “I’m having coffee with Angus Morton tomorrow.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. “You and Angus are an ite
m?” I teased her. “You just met him. And besides, I don’t think he’s your type.”

  “It’s all part of detective work,” she said solemnly. “I’m going to get as much information as I can out of him, and I’m going to start with the thefts at Beaux Reves. We need to find out exactly what has been taken and who’s the culprit.”

  “Even if we find the thief, it doesn’t mean he murdered Abigail,” I reminded her.

  “No, but it’s a step in the right direction.” She paused and glanced at her watch. “Want to stop by and see Gideon and Andre? I need to borrow some china.”

  I snapped my fingers. “Got it! You’re going to pretend you need an appraisal from Angus. Another way to rope him in.”

  “Yes, I need to find something that might be high-end or might be a fake, and I bet Gideon can find just the right thing for me.”

  11

  Gideon and Andre are two of Ali’s closest friends in Savannah, and they took me under their wing when I first moved here. They own Chablis, a high-end shop in the Historic District, specializing in European antiques.

  Every time I see the outside of their shop, I’m struck by its beauty. The Victorian-era frame building is painted a pale lemon yellow and the shutters are cobalt blue. As we climbed the front steps, I admired the fiery bougainvillea on a trellis made of twisted branches arching over the doorway. The front stoop is crowded with overflowing pots of ferns, dusty-rose hibiscus, and pale pink begonias. Chablis reminds me of an enchanted cottage. Two giant porcelain umbrella stands filled with pampas grass flank the front door, which is a vivid shade of purple.

  Gideon enveloped me in a bear hug as soon as we stepped inside. Ali had called to say we’d be stopping by and had told him a little about our mission.

  “So,” he said with a wide grin, “do you need a little help with your latest caper?” Gideon is a wickedly handsome man in his midthirties and a former soap opera actor. He still has some of his theatrical ways, and his voice is deep and commanding.