by Mary Kennedy
“That’s right,” Sara said. She riffled quickly through her notes. “But I thought I remembered there was something a bit off about his alibi? Or maybe I imagined it.” Sara is very organized with her note keeping and uses color-coded tabs to indicate direct sources, police reports, interviews, witness statements, and more. “Wait, here it is!” She held up an index card triumphantly. “Angus told the police he had a late dinner at the Seven Sisters in downtown Charleston that evening. He paid by cash, so there’s no record of it,” she added with a frown. “This doesn’t sound too convincing to me. That’s hardly a solid alibi. Most restaurants close before ten o’clock.”
I found myself wishing that Sam Stiles could have stayed for the whole meeting tonight. She’d excused herself early because she was needed back at the station. I would have liked to have heard her thoughts on Angus.
“Because if Angus had money problems and a shady past at a museum,” Sara went on, “he’s looking better and better for Abigail’s murder.”
Persia shrugged. “He does have an alibi. As far as being at the restaurant, I mean. He says he ran into someone from Beaux Reves who was having dinner at the same restaurant that night.”
“Who?” the Harper sisters chorused.
“Sophie Stanton.” Sophie Stanton? I was flabbergasted. What are the odds of that happening?
“Are you sure about this?” I asked.
“Yes, that’s what he told the police,” Persia said calmly. “Remember when Sophie Stanton said she was visiting a friend in Charleston on the night Abigail was killed? Apparently she had dinner at the Seven Sisters.”
“So they alibied each other?” I asked. “Didn’t that raise some eyebrows with the Savannah PD?”
“Well, no one has ever discovered a connection between those two,” Sybil pointed out. “So I suppose it was just one of those odd things that happen in life. Probably the police didn’t think too much of it. And neither Sophie nor Angus were considered suspects back in the beginning.”
“I have the feeling you don’t think either one of them committed the murder,” I said to Sybil. “Did you have a dream? Or is this just intuition?”
“Just intuition,” she said. “And maybe a dream or two,” she acknowledged. “I’ve been having dreams about water ever since Abigail’s death.” She paused and looked around the group. “And remember how we always believed that Desiree’s death is somehow linked with Abigail’s?” She sat back and folded her arms over her chest, her gold bangle bracelets clanking together. Sybil’s voice was soft, hypnotic, and we waited for her to continue. “Well, I don’t know about the rest of you, but I still believe it. Lucinda dreamt about the girl in the white slip dress walking along the riverfront at night, and that’s when I started dreaming about dark water. I haven’t given up on the idea of solving both murders at once.”
“You think they were murdered by the same person?” Dorien asked.
“I do. And I don’t think it was Angus or Sophie. I think we’re on the wrong track,” Sybil said flatly.
“Well, if they both have an alibi,” I said slowly, “I guess we could cross them off the list.” Yet I felt strangely reluctant to cross them off completely. Sybil might think they were innocent, but I had a gut feeling that something was off about those two. I had the strange sense that they were connected and that there was more to their relationship than met the eye. Did that mean they were murderers? Maybe, maybe not.
Minerva put down her glass of tea and blinked. “Wait a minute, everyone. Persia, did you say they were having dinner at the Seven Sisters in Charleston?”
“Yes, that’s what I heard at the office. I know it seems odd that they both had dinner there the same night, but it’s not impossible,” she added. “They ran into each other just by chance at the Seven Sisters.”
“Oh, but I’m afraid it is impossible, my dear,” Minerva said. “Totally impossible.”
“Yes, completely out of the question,” Rose echoed. “It never happened. I’m afraid someone is telling a fib.” She tut-tutted. “In fact, two people.”
“And why is that?” Ali was perched on the edge of the love seat and leaned forward to catch Minerva’s reply.
“Why? Because we’re friends with the owner, Marilyn Nettles,” Minerva said firmly. “Such a dear person. We go way back.”
“Yes, we do,” Rose agreed. “Why, I remember when Marilyn had her coming-out ball; she was such a sweet young thing. The prettiest girl in Savannah, they said. And there were some lovely contenders that year, as I remember. But Marilyn was the fairest of them all. She used to live right here in Savannah before she moved to Charleston, you see. So that’s how we know her and her family.” That made sense. The Harper sisters seem to know everyone who has lived in Savannah for the past seventy-five years.
“But the restaurant,” I cut in quickly. “The Seven Sisters.” I didn’t want to be rude, but this was no time for a trip down memory lane and I knew I had to get Rose back on track fast.
“Oh my, yes, the restaurant,” Rose said. Her eyes had taken on a faraway look. “Her dear mother started it and Marilyn continued it. She uses all of the original recipes, and you can feel her mother’s presence in every dish she prepares.”
Dorien was practically vibrating with impatience. “But the restaurant,” she said bluntly. “What do her mother and her recipes have to do with Sophie and Angus? Either they ate there that night or they didn’t.”
“Oh, but I was getting to that,” Rose said with a slight reproach in her voice. “You see, Marilyn’s dear mother, Dianne Nettles, passed away on May eighteenth. So every year, on that date, the restaurant is closed to honor her. It’s a family tradition. Abigail died on the evening of the eighteenth. The police had no way of knowing about the memorial day for Dianne Nettles, but I assure you, Sophie and Angus are lying. They couldn’t possibly have eaten at the Seven Sisters that night because the restaurant was closed.”
There was dead silence in the room, and Rose’s words seemed to hang in the air. The restaurant was closed. Dorien opened her mouth to say something and then snapped it closed quickly. All of us were trying to make sense of what we’d just heard. Angus and Sophie were lying, and each was protecting the other. I felt vindicated because I’d had the strong suspicion all along that something was going on with those two. Why did they lie about being at the restaurant? This put a new spin on things.
“Up until now,” Ali said slowly, “I had no idea there was any connection between Sophie and Angus.”
“I don’t think any of us did,” Persia said. She gave the Harper sisters an admiring glance. “You two always amaze me. I just don’t understand how you can know so much about everyone in Savannah.”
Rose laughed. “Well, there’s no secret, dear.” She reached over and patted her sister’s hand. “We’ve just lived here a long time. And we’ve kept our ears open. It’s surprising how much you can learn about people when you listen. Savannah is like a small town in some ways. People love to talk, and everyone knows everyone else’s business.”
We turned to dream interpretation then, and Etta Mae described another dream about a love letter written in “navy blue ink.” My mind shot back to the letter we’d uncovered behind the painting in Desiree’s room. Could that be the letter Etta Mae was dreaming about? This was the second time she’d had that identical dream.
“It’s always significant when you return to the same dream material,” Sybil said. “Usually it means that the issue isn’t settled in your mind, or that you didn’t quite understand the meaning of the dream.”
“Well, I certainly don’t claim to understand the meaning,” Etta Mae said a little defensively. “It’s just a letter. I don’t know what to make of it. It’s sort of old and wrinkled, like someone wrote it a long time ago.”
“And you say it was written on cream-colored paper with navy blue ink,” I said softly.
&nbs
p; “Yes, that’s about the only part that’s really clear to me.” Etta Mae twisted her hands in her lap. “I had the feeling I was supposed to do something about the letter, but that part’s kind of hazy.” She shook her head and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get the hang of this.”
“You will, I promise you,” Sybil said gently. “Maybe all you were supposed to do was tell us about the dream, and that’s exactly what you did. You gave us a reminder tonight about the letter. Sometimes that’s enough. You fulfilled the message in the dream.” She looked around the group. “Did anyone else have a dream about a letter?”
“No,” I spoke up, “but there is a letter involved in the case. Or it could be involved; we’re not sure. We just discovered it.” I quickly filled everyone in on the letter we’d found in Desiree’s room.
Persia clapped her hands delightedly. “You see, Etta Mae? That’s got to be the letter you saw in your dream. You led Taylor and Ali right to it. Everything is connected, and it all comes out in dream material. This could be a major break in the case, and it’s all because of you.”
I smiled and kept quiet. The dream about the letter could be sheer coincidence, but Etta Mae looked so pleased I didn’t want to burst her balloon. Some people in the group think that every dream has some significance, but I tend to take a more stringent approach. Unless I absolutely can link a dream to a specific detail in the case, I don’t pay much attention to it.
“So where do things stand?” Sybil asked, after we’d heard a couple of ho-hum dreams about traveling with pets. Some nights are slow nights for the Dream Club, and this was one of them. No one really had anything inspiring to report, and Minerva said she’d taken some allergy medicine and hadn’t dreamt at all.
“Where do things stand with the case? I wish I knew.” I poured myself a final glass of sweet tea. I had the feeling Ali was going to wrap things up pretty quickly.
“Have you heard the news about Laura Howard’s divorce?” Rose Harper asked. “Such a shame, after all those years. I’ve always had my suspicions that her husband would pull something like this. Of course, I couldn’t say a word to Laura about him; she always defended him. Really a dreadful little man. Laura is much too good for him.” She paused and reached for the last lemon square with an apologetic glance at Minerva. “There are times when I really wish I hadn’t been right about someone, and this is one of them.”
“We just heard the news about Laura’s divorce today,” I said, giving a quick rundown on what Gideon had told us. “Gideon said Laura couldn’t break the prenup, and it looked like she was going to be out in the cold—”
“But thanks to the tontine, she won’t be,” Minerva said shrewdly. “She could sell off that piece of property tomorrow and make a fortune.”
“And make an even bigger fortune if she held on to it,” Rose chimed in. “I looked it up online last night and nearly died when I saw how much it was worth.”
“You looked it up?” Etta Mae asked.
“City tax records,” Rose said crisply. “Once you find out what the taxes are on a particular property, you have a pretty good idea what it’s worth.”
“Rose, sometimes you amaze me,” Sybil said in a tone of wonderment. Rose is full of surprises. She’s an octogenarian yet is so computer savvy she researches everyone’s genealogy as a hobby.
“I do have a suspect that I’m leaning toward.” I hesitated. “But I don’t know if the rest of you will agree with me. I’m not even sure Ali and I are on the same page about this.”
“Who is it? I thought you were circling back to Sophie Stanton, but you weren’t clear on the motive.”
“I’ve moved away from Sophie Stanton as the killer,” I said mildly. “For the moment, at least. I’ve got someone else in my sights right now.”
“Even after what you’ve learned tonight?” Persia asked. “Sophie lied to the police. She covered up for Angus, and that tells me the two of them must be up to something. Doesn’t that put her back at the top of the list?”
“Not necessarily. Sophie and Angus may be covering up something, and they do seem like shady characters. But does that make them killers?” I reached down to pat Barney, who was trying to climb up the side of the love seat. “I have someone else in mind. Every time I think about the case, I keep coming back to her.”
“Her?” Ali asked.
“Lucy Dargos.” Dorien gave a sharp cackle, Lucinda tut-tutted, and Ali looked perplexed.
It was obvious no one in the group agreed with me, but being Southern ladies, they were too polite to say so.
“Am I the only one who thinks she did it?” I asked. “Seriously?” A long beat passed.
Finally Minerva looked over at me and winked. “The cheese stands alone,” she said with a smile.
21
If Lucy Dargos suspected that I was harboring such dark thoughts about her, she gave no sign when I arrived at Beaux Reves the following morning. Ali had decided to stay in the shop and help Dana plan a series of tea tastings that we hoped would bring in some business.
I realized we’d been shoving a lot of extra work on Dana lately, expecting her to come up with new marketing campaigns, take charge of decorating the shop window, and generally run the place while we were absent. It was way too much work for one person, even for someone as energetic as Dana. So Ali urged me to go to the mansion by myself and said she’d touch base with me in the afternoon.
“Come in,” Lucy said, smiling as she opened the massive front doors to the estate. “Coffee is in the kitchen, and I just took some ensaimadas out of the oven.”
Lucy’s ensaimadas are out of this world. I’d sampled them the last time I had coffee in the kitchen and was tempted to ask her for the recipe. They’re a Spanish version of sweet rolls and are basically buttery pastry brushed with cinnamon and honey before baking. I could smell the delicious aroma as I stepped into the front hall.
I looked up the beautiful walnut stairs to the second-floor balcony, and she followed my gaze. The coffee was tempting, but I hesitated. There’s so much work ahead of me. Do I really have time to be snacking in the kitchen? She smiled and shook her head as if she’d read my thoughts. “You can work later,” she insisted. “The ensaimadas are best when they’re hot from the oven.”
“You win,” I said, caving. Now that I saw Lucy in her work environment, so welcoming and friendly, it was hard to believe I’d pegged her as a killer just last night. There was something so disarming about her wide smile and embroidered apron that I wondered if my initial suspicions about her were off target.
The ensaimadas were calling to me with their sugary little voices, and I dutifully trotted after Lucy as she made her way to the kitchen. But then I stopped dead in my tracks. The painting was still missing. I gestured to the blank spot on the wall and tried to keep my voice casual. “It’s still not back?”
“Oh, the painting,” she said dismissively. “I don’t know why you trouble yourself with that.” She gave a wide smile, waggling her fingers at me. “No importa, no importa,” she said in her lilting voice. Was she trying to charm me? Or was I barking up the wrong tree with my missing-painting theory?
“They’re still cleaning it?” I asked.
She sidestepped the question. “It will be back soon. Maybe later this week. Come, come,” she said, hurrying into the kitchen. “You can have coffee with Miss Sophie.”
Miss Sophie? Another chance to talk to the cool mystery guest, and this time I was going to press her harder. I smiled and slipped into a chair directly across from her at the wide kitchen table. She put down her newspaper and frowned, a line appearing between her eyes.
“Hello, Sophie,” I said as Lucy slid a cup of coffee toward me. “How nice to see you again. I wasn’t sure you would still be living at Beaux Reves.”
Sophie paused, probably wondering exactly how rude she dared be. “I’m here for the time being,�
�� she said vaguely. “Since Abigail passed away, things are in a bit of disarray.”
“Disarray?” I tried to look puzzled. “It looks like Lucy has everything under control,” I said, which earned me a deeper frown.
“My plans, I mean,” she said irritably. “I expected to be here for the entire summer, but now”—her shoulders lifted in an elegant shrug—“things are a bit uncertain.”
She looked like a million dollars in a tailored white linen suit with trousers and a black silk blouse, open in a deep V neck, showing off a chunky gold necklace. I could picture her on a yacht in the south of France or maybe lunching outdoors at a ritzy hotel along La Croisette in Cannes. Her open tote bag was perched on the seat next to her, and I could see some papers peeking out of the top. If only she’d excuse herself for a moment, I’d love to get a look inside that bag. Why is she really staying in Savannah? Is she waiting for the reading of the will?
Lucy was humming softly to herself, listening to a Latin song on the clunky boom box. Sophie wasn’t in a chatty mood, so I helped myself to one of the ensaimadas and munched away, planning my explorations for today. I’d brought my inventory list with me and scanned it as I ate. I could feel Sophie’s eyes on me, but I refused to look up. She moved restlessly in her chair, and I knew she wanted to ask me something.
“You’re going over certain rooms in the house? Both the public rooms and the private rooms?” She didn’t hide her curiosity as she tried to read my list upside down from across the table. For once she sounded genuinely interested, not just irritable and unpleasant.
“Yes, I have a few items I need to track down today. I’d like to wind everything up by the end of the week, and I’m making a note of anything that seems to be misplaced.” I saw Lucy’s back stiffen at the word “misplaced,” and her hand stopped in midair as she rinsed out the cups in the sink. I wondered if Nicky had been helping himself to the items I was looking for.