by Mary Kennedy
“Gideon played a detective on Secret Passions, so you made the right choice,” Andre offered. Andre, Gideon’s partner, is a former set designer from Hollywood who moved to Savannah to make his home with Gideon. They’re a good match and have been wonderful friends to both of us.
“I promise not to take up too much of your time,” Ali said as Gideon guided us to a little sunporch at the back of the shop. It was cool and leafy, and he’d already arranged sweet tea and éclairs for us.
“Don’t worry, we have all the time in the world. The antique business is slow this month,” Gideon said. “The days are hot and the tourists are browsing instead of buying. Andre and I were just going over the inventory and planning some road trips.” He pushed some maps and guide books off the table and I realized I’d forgotten to tell Ali about Sophie and the travel book I’d found stashed in her tote bag.
“We’re off to Bar Harbor and Cape Cod in two weeks,” Andre said. “So your timing is perfect.” I knew that Gideon and Andre often drove up and down the East Coast, scouting out antique fairs and estate sales, hoping to make a killing.
“Tell me what you need,” Gideon said. “You want something that looks like it could be expensive, but isn’t?”
“Yes, that would work perfectly,” Ali told him. “Such a good imitation that even a trained eye might be taken in at first glance. Do you remember that casserole dish with the rabbit on top—the one you kept Lucinda Macavy from buying? It looked like an original but was a fake. You showed me how to spot the tiny details that make all the difference.”
“I remember that day at the tag sale.” Andre nodded. “I still think we should have let your friend buy the rabbit. It was kitschy, but she liked it, and at the end of the day, that’s all that counts. If something brings a smile to your face, you should take it home with you. You were meant to have it. That’s my motto.”
“And Andre practices what he preaches,” Gideon said ruefully. “You wouldn’t believe how many times some old dear falls in love with a tea set or a porcelain vase and doesn’t have the money to pay us for it. Andre practically gives the item away, because it makes him happy to brighten someone’s day.”
“Guilty as charged,” Andre said, pouring tea for us. “I can’t stand to see people disappointed, so I tell them it’s been marked down and we forgot to change the ticket. That way they can afford it and their pride is still intact. Southerners are very proud, you know. Gideon is the number-cruncher and I’m the creative guy. Hey, it works, so don’t knock it,” he added with a grin.
Interesting. That’s a little like Ali and me. Ali always has grandiose plans for the candy store (her favorite saying is “Go big or go home”) and I have to rein in her flights of fancy and remind her not to be so extravagant. Now that we have Dana as our assistant, it’s a little easier to make Ali focus on the bottom line, but some days I really have my work cut out for me.
The store is finally operating in the black, but I don’t take anything for granted, and I keep a keen eye on the receipts. Ali had never heard of ROI (return on investment) until I pointed it out to her. I guess to a creative type, ROI is a difficult concept.
“I think I have just the thing for you,” Gideon said, handing me a cardboard box. “I picked it out from the storeroom after you called me. Take a look and tell me what you think.”
I peered inside and lifted out a miniature tea set sitting on a tray. “Why, it’s charming,” I told him. “Is it intended for a child’s room?” It was porcelain with delicate blue, pink, and yellow flowers. There was a tiny teapot, along with two teacups and two saucers, a sugar bowl, and a cream pitcher.
“It could be for a doll’s house or a collector’s item. This particular one is a dead ringer for a Meissen tea set that was auctioned off at Sotheby’s for six figures,” he said. “I remember you said once that your building used to house a day care center, so you could pretend you found it in a closet. It’s possible someone could have donated a child’s tea set and not recognized its true value. At least that’s the story you can use.”
“But it’s not really valuable, is it?” I turned the teapot upside down to see the mark. It was navy blue but blurry and hard to decipher.
“No, it’s an imitation. A rather nice one, but not the real thing.” Gideon passed the éclairs, and after a moment’s hesitation, I took one. Savannah is a dangerous place to be a foodie—fantastic treats can be found everywhere.
“Will it fool Angus?” Ali asked.
“Only for a moment, if he’s any good,” Andre answered. “In fact, it will be a good test of his skills. I’ll be interested to see what he comes up with.”
We tucked into our éclairs and greeted Bibelot, a large black cat, who wandered onto the sunporch and headed straight for an oval bed on a sunny patch of tile floor.
“There’s no news on the case?” Andre said tentatively. “There hasn’t been much newspaper coverage on it. I think they’re keeping it deliberately quiet.”
“I suppose so,” I said. “Sad that she’s gone; it seems like the end of an era.”
Gideon nodded. “And then there were none,” he murmured.
I nearly dropped my fork in surprise. “What did you just say?”
“And then there were none,” he repeated, shooting me a puzzled look. “Of course, that isn’t accurate. I should have said, ‘And then there was one.’ I was referring to Laura Howard and the tontine, of course.”
“What’s a tontine?” Ali and I chorused.
“And who’s Laura Howard?” I asked.
Gideon gave me a level gaze. “Well, now that Abigail is gone, rumor has it that Laura Howard is the last surviving founder of the Magnolia Society. With Abigail’s death, it’s winner take all. I’m sure Laura will have some years left to enjoy the prize, the tontine.”
“Tell me about the tontine,” I said, trying to ignore Bibelot, who had left his cat bed and was sitting next to my chair, looking up at me imploringly with his brilliant green eyes. Bibelot seemed to sense there was some delicious food on the table, and even though cats can’t have chocolate, he probably would have enjoyed the cream filling inside the éclair. Not that I had any intention of sharing!
“The tontine is a prize that goes to the last surviving member of a group. You have to contribute to it, of course. Everyone contributes an equal amount, and if you outlive the others”—he raised his eyebrows and splayed his hands out in front of him—“you’ve got quite a nice windfall.”
“You mean everyone contributes money every year,” Ali asked. “And then the winner gets the pot of gold?”
“Not quite.” Gideon bent down to scoop Bibelot onto his lap; the cat had been making the rounds, hoping someone would invite him to the party. The cat perched comfortably on Gideon’s knees and placed his two front paws on the table, watching me. “It wasn’t money, in this case. It was land. Everyone tossed in a lot of hard cash to buy a pretty parcel of land. It was a steal back then; now it’s worth a fortune.”
“All the women in the tontine already had their own fortunes,” Andre pointed out. “They didn’t really need the money; I think it was more of a game to them. Money attracts money.”
“It only rains where it’s already wet,” Gideon said with a chuckle. “My great-aunt told me that a long time ago.”
“And the land,” Ali said softly, “is it right here in Savannah?”
“Yes, a pricey parcel of land indeed. Prime real estate that some developer would give his eyeteeth to acquire.” He turned to Andre. “You know that nice piece of land east of Forsythe Square? The one that’s never been developed? That’s it.”
“I know the one you mean. It’s right at the end of a cul-de-sac, and I can’t even guess how much it’s worth. But the whole idea of a tontine seems rather odd to me. There’s something strange about winning a prize just for outliving your friends,” Andre said thoughtfully.
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p; I smiled. Sometimes Andre’s insights are memorable.
“I know what you mean,” Ali offered. “It’s not like winning the Nobel Peace Prize or coming up with a cure for cancer.”
“How do you know about the tontine?” I asked Gideon. Gideon reminds me of the Harper sisters in that he always seems au courant with the latest gossip, and he can reel off the past history of anyone who’s noteworthy in Savannah. He has a wide circle of friends from all walks of life, from politicians to playboys, and he throws lavish parties. That may be partly responsible for his knowledge of Savannah society, but I also think he’s a good listener, and he stashes away every tidbit he hears.
“It’s supposed to be a closely guarded secret,” he said, “but my great-aunt Thelma went to church with one of the ladies who was involved with the tontine. Regina Porter. One day they went out for breakfast after church. Mrs. Porter was getting up in age and for some reason, she decided to confide in Aunt Thelma that day. A couple of years later, Ms. Porter died, and then, as I recall, there were just three women left in the group. And then two, and now just Laura Howard.”
“It’s a fascinating story,” I said.
“Do you think it has any bearing on Abigail’s murder?” Andre asked.
“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I suppose it could.”
“Taylor, of course it does! Don’t you remember? The tontine appeared in Lucinda’s dream!” Ali was so excited the words came out in a rush, tumbling over one another. She grabbed my arm. “Lucinda described a group of women standing in a circle. And they all had their eyes on a gold box. It was some sort of prize.”
“I do remember,” I said, blinking. “The women kept disappearing one by one . . .”
“And the last one standing walked over to the gold box and opened it. That was the prize, the tontine!”
Andre looked baffled. “A friend of yours dreamt about the tontine?”
“A member of the Dream Club,” I said hastily. “It could mean anything—”
“No, it couldn’t,” Ali interrupted me. “Honestly, Taylor, the truth has to come up and smack you in the face before you recognize it. It was the tontine; I know it was. That was the prize in the gold box.” She turned to Gideon and Andre and gave a small eye roll. “Didn’t I tell you my sister is a skeptic? The dream symbolism is so obvious, and yet she hates to admit it.”
“All right, I give up.” I held up both hands, palms out, in a gesture of surrender. “I agree. Lucinda might have been dreaming about the tontine, I suppose. There are some similarities.”
“And . . .” Ali prompted.
“And this could put a whole new spin on the investigation,” I said. This could be a game changer. Noah always said to follow the money. If someone stood to profit—big-time—from Abigail’s death, this was a lead we had to pursue. Now we had a new suspect in our sights. Laura Howard. I hoped we’d meet her soon, because I had a lot of questions to ask her.
12
“I should have known Abigail would plan a party instead of a funeral,” Minerva said two days later, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. “She always wanted people to be happy and enjoy themselves.”
“She certainly did,” Rose chimed in. “I would have liked to attend the burial, but her lawyer insisted it has to be private. She left strict instructions; he’ll be standing there alone when she’s laid to rest in the mausoleum. That’s the way she wanted it.”
It was a bright sunny day and we were “celebrating Abigail’s life” with a lovely garden party at Beaux Reves instead of a dreary funeral procession. Somehow it seemed fitting that the mansion—which had been closed to the public for so much of Abigail’s life—was finally open after her death.
Not the whole mansion, of course. We were restricted to the gardens and the downstairs powder room. Lucy had placed a red velvet rope in the front hallway, discreetly barring visitors from exploring the house. The Harper sisters said a few people had zipped into the house to use the powder room and peered longingly down the hall. No one dared to venture past the rope.
“I wish they’d allowed pictures,” Sara Rutledge said. Sara was holding a large tote bag with her camera and lenses, but Norman Osteroff had made it clear that photos were strictly forbidden. “This would have been a great photo op. I bet half of Savannah is here.”
“Which half?” Andre asked, coming up behind us.
“Well, the interesting half, of course,” Gideon said. “Take a look around. I bet you’ll see some familiar faces from the society pages.”
“Savannah’s movers and shakers,” Sara agreed. “They all turned out for Abigail. You did an amazing job with the table settings,” she added.
I was surprised to learn that Gideon and Andre had provided the lovely china and serving dishes for the food. Apparently Abigail had approved all the party plans in her will and ordered her lawyer to carry out her wishes. She’d left nothing to chance.
There was an elegant selection of tea sandwiches, fruit-filled pastries, and lavish cheese platters. Trays filled with tiny buttered biscuits and thin slices of smoked ham were arranged on round tables scattered over the lawn. Someone had ordered several pounds of homemade cheese straws from our friend and restaurateur Caroline LaCroix. I recognized the C logo pressed on each one. Servers in white shirts and black trousers circulated with chilled glasses of wine, iced tea, and mimosas, Abigail’s favorite drinks.
Each round table held a crystal vase filled with tea roses, lily of the valley, and baby’s breath, straight from the Beaux Reves gardens. The tablecloths were antique lace layered over bleached muslin, and the soft fabrics were ruffling slightly in the breeze.
“Abigail thought of everything, down to the last detail,” Gideon said. “She even wrote down which serving pieces she wanted us to use.” He looked around at the people chatting on the sun-dappled lawn of the estate. “This is a great send-off for her. She wanted to make this a memorable occasion for her guests.”
“The round tables were a clever idea,” Ali said.
“Abigail hated long buffet lines,” Gideon explained. “She said it always reminded her of a soup kitchen. She wanted the food be to be arranged on several round tables. That way you’re only a few feet away from cakes and hors d’oeuvres, no matter where you’re standing.”
“Very elegant,” Sara offered.
I was sipping a mimosa when I heard raised voices a few feet away. I turned to see Norman Osteroff and Lucy Dargos in what looked like a heated argument at the punch bowl. Lucy was standing with her hands on her hips, leaning in to the white-haired lawyer, her voice tight with rage.
“Mrs. Marchand should have a Christian burial,” she said between gritted teeth. “You have no right to deprive her of that. I already spoke to the priest at St. Cecilia’s and he will do a requiem for her. There is still time to arrange it. What you’re doing is wrong,” she hissed.
Norman saw me watching them and deliberately turned away, taking Lucy by the arm. He nudged her closer to the house, and I had to strain to hear them. “Stay out of this, Lucy. You don’t know what she wanted. You only worked for her. You’re the hired help. You were never a confidante.”
A low blow, but then I never figured Norman Osteroff to be a nice guy. His face was flushed, and I don’t think it was from the large glass of white wine he was holding. I took a chance and edged a little closer, pretending to fill my plate with goodies from the cheese platter. I deliberately ducked my head down as if I were blind, deaf, and dumb.
“She’s going into unconsecrated ground—” Lucy’s voice was shrill with rage.
“She’s not going into any ground,” Norman corrected her with a heavy sigh. “I’ve already explained this to you. She’s going into a mausoleum.”
“Even worse!” Lucy’s voice was tight with anger. “She’s going into a concrete box. An unholy resting place.”
“Honestly, Lucy—” Their v
oices trailed off as Norman took her more firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the mansion.
“What was all that about?” Ali said, coming up next to me. Lucinda Macavy, Dorien Myers, and Persia Walker were trailing after her. Abigail had left instructions that all the members of the Dream Club should be included at the memorial. She wanted to thank us for offering to hear her dream.
“Some disagreement about Abigail’s burial. Lucy, the housekeeper, and Norman, the family lawyer, seem to be at odds.”
“Wouldn’t the housekeeper know what Abigail wanted?” Dorien asked. “Someone said she’s been working here for thirty years.”
“She has,” Ali replied. “But according to the lawyer, Abigail left very specific instructions about what she wanted. She didn’t want anything to do with a church or having any type of religious service. She wanted a completely secular burial.”
“Well, I wouldn’t put a lot of stock in what the lawyer says,” Dorien said. “You can’t trust the lot of them, that’s what I think. I need something cold to drink. It must be ninety degrees out here; I feel like I’m melting. I’d rather be inside that nice air-conditioned house. If they’d had any sense, that’s where they should have held this party.” She immediately took off toward a waiter circulating with a tray of mimosas.
Ali raised her eyebrows and Sara muttered, “That’s Dorien, charming as ever.”
Moments later, I found myself standing next to a tall, slender woman with striking white-blond hair. She must have been in her late seventies or early eighties, but she had the classic good looks that survive the test of time.
“An amazing affair, isn’t it,” she said lightly, looking over the selection of pastries. She finally chose a couple of mushroom puffs and added them to her plate.
“Yes, it certainly is.” The woman was wearing a chic black-and-white dress with stylish high heels. “Did you know Abigail well?”
Her eyebrows lifted in surprise. “Very well indeed. We went to grade school together, and I hate to tell you how long ago that was. We’ve remained friends ever since.” She offered her hand and I noticed she was wearing an emerald ring the size of a walnut. “I’m Laura Howard.”