A Premonition of Murder

by Mary Kennedy

  “Really? This is wonderful; I know Sara will love it. She’ll keep it for a few days and give it back to you,” Ali said.

  “No hurry,” Rose said with a little flutter of her fingers. “She might find something useful, some information you can’t really find in guide books.”

  “Very kind of you,” I said, giving Rose a brief hug.

  15

  “This is a fascinating book,” I said to Ali when everyone had left. “It’s a shame it went out of print.”

  “If you really like it, we could try to find a used version and give it to Sara for her birthday. It’s coming up next month.”

  “Good idea. I think I’d like to order one for myself.” I flipped through the pages, struck by the beauty of Beaux Reves through the ages. It was not only a gorgeous tribute to a magnificent estate, but doubled as a photo album of the Marchand family.

  I spotted a photo of Desiree, looking as beautiful and carefree as I’d expected, standing next to Abigail, who was staring thoughtfully at the camera. It was obvious from Abigail’s solemn bearing that she was the “responsible” sister, and her arm was looped protectively around Desiree. The two girls must have been teenagers in the photo, and they were standing in a paddock on the estate, feeding treats to a chestnut horse with a white star on his face.

  I suddenly flashed back to Dorien’s dream about horses. It couldn’t be related to Desiree and Abigail, could it? Dorien mentioned a ranch house and horses running inside a corral, but there wasn’t anything like that at Beaux Reves. At least not in the present day.

  According to the text, not much had changed at Beaux Reves in the last seventy years. The author claimed that the family liked to keep each piece of furniture and every painting and sculpture exactly where Emil Marchand, the family patriarch, had placed it.

  I stared at a photo of the front hall for a long moment and then passed the book to Ali, who was making hot tea for us. “Ali, take a look and tell me what you see,” I said.

  She peered at the book and said slowly, “It’s the front hall at Beaux Reves. I recognize the black-and-white Art Deco floor, the tray ceiling with the carved wood panels, but something’s off.” She frowned, took the book over to the sofa, turned on the reading light, and sat down.

  “I thought so, too.” I plunked down next to her. “I wanted to make sure it wasn’t my imagination.”

  “It’s not your imagination,” she said. “Something’s different about the front hall.”

  “You mean something has been added.” I peered at the book again, over her shoulder.

  “No, something has been taken away.”

  Ali has an excellent visual sense, an eye for color and design. “I think I know what it is,” she said excitedly. “There’s an extra painting here. See this lovely landscape?” She pointed to a large watercolor of daisies in a heavy gilt frame. “This painting wasn’t here the day we visited Lucy.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m positive.” She studied the picture for a moment. “According to the book, this photograph was taken ten years ago, so it’s relatively recent. Look at the two small paintings on either side of it.” She pointed to a couple of watercolors of young children playing with sailboats in a pond. The sun-dappled scene with the little boy and girl in sailor suits reminded me of the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. I had sat on the bank and watched children sail their boats there one sunny afternoon many years ago.

  Ali tapped her index finger on the page and continued, “On the day we visited, I remember that the two sailing paintings were squeezed together so tightly the frames were almost touching. Did you notice the same thing?”

  “No,” I said softly. “You see things that I don’t. I just saw a wall of paintings, and the colors and shapes washed right over me. I remember thinking that the paintings in the hall were beautiful, but I didn’t pick out any specifics.”

  I am always in awe of Ali’s creative energy. She absorbs colors and forms like a sponge and has the soul of an artist. She always teases me that I have the soul of an accountant because I am much more likely to be intrigued by numbers. In many ways, we complement each other and bring something unique to the table when it comes to running Oldies But Goodies.

  “I thought they were charming paintings, but I remember noticing they weren’t displayed properly. They would have made more of a statement with some blank wall space in between them.” She handed the book back to me. “Do you think this could be significant?”

  “I don’t know. The paintings might not really be missing. I suppose the Marchand family could have sold the daisy painting in the past ten years.” Even as I said the words, I knew that was unlikely. Abigail was a stickler for the past and for keeping the estate exactly as it was when her parents were alive. Perhaps they’d sent the painting out to be cleaned or reframed? Gideon or Andre might have some ideas on that.

  “I don’t think they’d ever sell the painting,” Ali retorted. “It would only increase in value as time went by, and the Harper sisters said that the family didn’t need the money. I can’t imagine Abigail breaking up the collection unless she was forced to do so.”

  I thought about the rumored thefts at Beaux Reves and the possible suspects: the housekeeper’s son, Nicky Dargos, and the grad student, Angus Morton. “I thought the thefts from the mansion involved small items,” I said. “Things that wouldn’t be missed right away. This painting is huge. Abigail would certainly miss it.”

  “That’s the first thing that occurred to me. But it’s possible this painting was taken after Abigail’s death. Do you remember how no one was allowed to explore the mansion at the memorial service? Guests could go inside to use the powder room, and that was it. The wall with the paintings wasn’t visible unless you stepped over the velvet rope. And no one would dare do that, although I bet a few people were tempted.” She poured tea for both of us, chamomile for her and Yorkshire Gold for me. “I wonder whose idea that was—the velvet rope?”

  “It must have been Lucy’s idea,” I said. “No one else is involved in running the house now that Abigail is gone. Lucy has no one to report to anymore. She’s the Queen Bee.”

  “Yes,” Ali agreed, “you’re right. With her mistress dead, she’s probably running Beaux Reves on her own.”

  I thought of the peremptory way Lucy had spoken to the estate manager, Jeb Arnold. She had certainly acted like she was in command. “Lucy has eyes like a hawk, and I have the feeling she doesn’t miss a trick. She told me she cleans one room thoroughly, from top to bottom, every day. If the painting disappeared in the past few days, wouldn’t she tell someone?”

  “Yes, but who would she tell? She didn’t dare say anything. It could have been her own son who pinched it.” Ali shook her head. “Are other things missing? We just don’t know.” She turned the page and gasped. “Taylor, here’s another picture of the front hall! And look at this hall table—do you remember it? A lovely mahogany piece with an oval top and claw feet. Probably early nineteenth century.”

  “I do remember seeing that table.” I don’t know much about antiques, but I remember that Gideon had shown us a similar table in his shop and pointed out the claw feet, or toe caps as they’re sometimes called. They’re decorative brass fittings attached to the ends of table legs.

  “But it’s not the table that’s important,” Ali went on quickly, “it’s what’s sitting on it. The resolution isn’t very good, but you can see a crystal globe on the table. It could be a crystal ball, like something a fortune teller would use, or maybe it’s some kind of a paperweight.” She angled the light so it shone directly on the page of the book. “I know that globe wasn’t there on the day we visited. I’m absolutely positive. Instead, someone placed that beautiful orchid plant there—the lady’s slipper, the one I pointed out to you.”

  “The five-thousand-dollar orchid,” I said. “I remember thinking how extravagant it was.”


  “Maybe so, but it’s not as pricey as the piece of crystal in this picture. I wonder what happened to it. Do you suppose someone has been ransacking the mansion after Abigail’s death? If they plan on stripping the place bare, this would be the time to do it. There’s no one to stop them.”

  Barney wound himself around my legs, signaling that it was time for his late-night snack. I don’t know if the cats just like the attention or if they are genuinely hungry, but we’ve gotten into the habit of feeding them a small treat before we all go to bed. I opened a can of sardines and spooned out a small amount into two dishes. The smell made me turn my face and crinkle my nose in disgust, but then I’m not a cat.

  “How shall we handle this?” Ali asked. “We need to figure out if the items are really missing or if they were sold off.”

  “You’re seeing Angus tomorrow morning, aren’t you?” I put the cat food dishes down on the floor and was immediately rewarded with a chorus of grateful meows. Since both Barney and Scout are rescues, they have what the vet calls “stray cat syndrome.” Even though they have plenty to eat, they remember their days of going hungry and tend to wolf down their food if given the opportunity.

  “Yes, I’m meeting him very early for coffee, and I’m bringing the children’s tea set that Gideon loaned to us. Do you think I should bring the book and show him the photos? If I do, he’ll know we’re on to him.”

  “Not if you play it right. You could ask him if the painting and the piece of crystal were sold. You don’t have to accuse him of anything.” I grinned. “You can pretend you’re studying up on the history of Beaux Reves because you’re interested. Just turn on the charm, and I bet you’ll catch him off guard.” I glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven, time to turn in. “Just make sure you meet us at Marcelo’s for lunch at noon tomorrow. Noah and Sara will be there, and we can compare notes.”

  * * *

  I was surprised at the seven-o’clock phone call from Norman Osteroff the next day. Sara had already left for her early morning meeting with Angus, and both Barney and Scout were curled up snoozing at the foot of the bed. I’d heard Dana putting around down in the shop a few minutes earlier. I remembered she’d said she wanted to get an early start on a new window display, and I planned on lending a hand. I’d just gotten out of bed and padded to the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker.

  I looked at the caller ID screen and blinked in surprise. The pompous lawyer certainly believed in the adage “the early bird catches the worm.”

  “Ms. Blake,” he said formally, “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  “Of course not,” I said blithely, glad that I wasn’t on Skype. “I’ve just returned from my six-mile run and was going to do a few dozen sit-ups.” Okay, what I really said was, “No problem,” in my early morning croak. “I’m plugging in the coffeepot and planning my day.”

  “That’s why I wanted to catch you early.” His voice was crisp, businesslike. “My secretary left on vacation, and I just realized she sent you a letter by mistake. The letter is intended for you, but she should have placed the letter on my desk and I would have shared it with you in person.” He made a little wheezing noise that I suppose was irritation. “I’m sorry for the short notice, but you and your sister need to stop by my office this morning. It’s very important.”

  He paused as if he wanted me to say something more, but I didn’t give him the satisfaction. It was taking all my powers of concentration to plug in the coffeemaker, measure out the hazelnut super-octane coffee, and fill the canister with filtered water. Barney and Scout were winding themselves around my legs, probably wondering why I was bothering myself with such silly human pursuits when I should be spooning out their breakfast.

  “Yes, well,” he went on, “I’ll expect you both at my office at nine sharp to give you a letter from Mrs. Marchand. It was delivered by messenger the day after she invited you to Beaux Reves for lunch.”

  That got my attention, and I dropped the measuring cup onto the counter, which sent Barney running for cover under the sofa.

  “A letter from Mrs. Marchand? We never received it.” I couldn’t get my mind around the idea that I needed to trot over to his office to receive a letter. Couldn’t he just tell me the contents over the phone?

  “I must give it to you in person,” he said flatly. “Both you and your sister will need to be here. I can’t say any more at the moment. Please just be at my office at nine sharp. I apologize for any inconvenience. I will certainly reprimand my secretary.” He’ll probably dock her a week’s wages, I thought glumly. I doubted Osteroff believed in the adage “To err is human; to forgive, divine.”

  “My sister has already left for an appointment, but I’ll be there,” I said. “And please don’t worry about—” Before I could say another word, he’d rung off. Norman Osteroff was clearly not a man who cared about social niceties.

  I showered quickly, gulped two cups of coffee, and raced downstairs to help Dana. As it turned out, she didn’t need my help at all. She had everything under control. The shop was spotless, the counters gleaming, the candy bins neatly stocked. She was standing on a ladder, redecorating the shop window with a selection of white wicker baskets hanging from the ceiling at various heights. Each basket held a selection of candy and a wicker wheel barrow was overflowing with jelly beans.

  “I found them on eBay,” she said proudly. “The wicker wheelbarrow was really a plant stand but I think it looks great filled with penny candy. What do you think?”

  “I think you’re a genius. Make sure you reimburse yourself out of petty cash, and if you need me to write you a check, just let me know.”

  “It’s colorful, isn’t it?” she said happily. She stepped down off the ladder to admire her work and I stepped back into the shop.

  An enticing aroma of hazelnut coffee wafted through the room, and I detected a whiff of cinnamon. “And it looks like you’ve already gotten things started for the breakfast and lunch crowd.”

  She nodded. “All taken care of. I made that recipe for baked French toast last night and popped it in the oven a few minutes ago. It smells good, doesn’t it? I added extra cinnamon and some candied pecans to the recipe Ali gave me. I think it’s going to be a hit.”

  She’d already started pots of tea brewing for our early morning visitors and pulled out trays of goodies from the freezer. Cinnamon rolls were thawing on the counter, ready to be slid into the oven, and the soup of the day was already simmering in a stockpot. I lifted the lid to take a peek. Potato and leek, one of my favorites. Fresh croissants and apple cider donuts—a new item—were arranged on trays and covered with clear plastic wrap.

  “I need to go out early, and I was so afraid I was leaving you in the lurch. I was feeling a bit guilty.”

  “No need to feel guilty,” she said with a grin. She hopped onto a stool to pour herself a cup of coffee. “Ali has all the sandwich spreads made and labeled in the refrigerator, and she showed me how to use the new panini maker. And we still have some of Caroline’s cheese straws left over, so I thought I’d serve them as freebies with soup orders. We should probably think of some signature item we could serve, something with our logo on it.”

  “Good idea.” I nibbled on a croissant and tried the new ginger-peach jam that Ali had made. It was delicious. The candied ginger raised it to a new level. Did I dare have a second croissant? I debated for a moment and then grabbed a small one. After all, I had to keep up my strength for my meeting with the dour lawyer Norman Osteroff.

  16

  “Good morning,” Osteroff said formally, half an hour later, ushering me into his office. He was dressed in a black suit with a gray tie, either in honor of Abigail’s passing or as a nod to his own somber personality. “My assistant has taken the entire week off, so I’m afraid I can’t offer you a beverage.” He pursed his lips in disapproval and made a faint rattling noise in his throat, as if she’d committed an unthinkable act.
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  “That’s fine,” I said quickly. The last thing I wanted to do was linger over coffee with him. I decided to get straight to the point. “I can only stay a few minutes—you mentioned a letter from Abigail?” I slid into one of the upholstered leather chairs while he settled himself at his massive desk. He looked pale and tired, I noticed, with dark circles under his eyes and hollows in his cheeks. Had he been genuinely fond of Abigail and mourning her death? The man seemed so cold and devoid of emotion, it was hard to tell. As Minerva Harper once said, The man has about as much warmth as a wet flounder.

  “I discovered that a letter has already been mailed to you,” he said slowly, “but I wanted to meet with you and put it in context.” I waited while he tapped his fingers on the desktop. I had the feeling he was weighing his words carefully. He picked up an envelope and fingered it as if debating whether to open it. “This is a copy of the letter Abigail wrote, and it contains a most unusual request. In fact, in all my years practicing law, I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite like it.”

  He paused and stared out the window at his view of the Historic District. It was a beautiful day in Savannah, the air soft and balmy, and I wondered why he never opened the windows. The office, with its heavy furniture and dark colors, made me feel claustrophobic. The air was stifling, and I couldn’t wait to get back outside into the warm Georgia sunshine.

  “The letter?” I prompted him. He passed it silently across the desk to me, and I quickly skimmed the lines. It was a request, all right, and I was taken aback. Make an inventory of my belongings; I have designated certain items to be donated to specific charities. I am trusting you, my dear friends, to make sure this is done according to my wishes.