Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery)

by Mary Kennedy

  “Welcome to Déjà Vu,” Ali said, pushing open the door. I stepped past a porcelain umbrella stand filled with lush pampas grass and followed her inside. “The owners are friends of mine. And”—she lowered her voice—“two of the most colorful people you’re going to meet in Savannah. Andre has a wicked sense of humor and Gideon . . . well, he’s a hoot, what can I say.”

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said. “Someone has an eye for color and design.”

  “Gideon studied floral design before he gave his heart and soul to the antique business,” Ali said. A bell tinkled softly when we entered the shop. I was immediately struck by the gleaming plank floors, the buttercream-colored walls, and the tin ceiling; the room seemed diffused with a soft golden light.

  “Ali!” A tall, wickedly handsome man in his mid-thirties swept Ali into his arms. “It’s been way too long. I thought you’d forgotten about us.”

  “Forget you and Gideon? Never,” Ali said, gently disentangling herself from his enthusiastic hug. “I brought my sister, Taylor, in to meet you. She’s visiting from Chicago.”

  “The Windy City!” he said, pumping my hand. “I love the Miracle Mile. Gideon and I went there last Christmas to check out the store window displays.”

  “Andre used to work as a set designer in Hollywood,” Ali said. “Then he gave it all up to move back to Savannah and open this shop with Gideon.”

  “My roots are here, Ali, and I just couldn’t stay away. Plus Gideon’s acting career was going through a dry spell, he didn’t want to go back to floral design, and we figured this was the time for a change.”

  “Gideon was an actor?”

  “Daytime soaps mostly,” Andre said, “before that market dried up. He did have a walk-on part on the new Dallas, and there’s always a chance he could be called back for a guest shot, but nothing is definite.

  “Working as an actor in Hollywood must have been an amazing experience for him,” I said, taking a quick look around the shop. It looked like they sold high-end European antiques with a sophisticated, cosmopolitan feel. A gorgeous Queen Anne settee in pale blue caught my eye, and when I glanced at the price tag, I nearly passed out.

  “Oh, that it was,” Andre said. “Of course, it was also an emotional roller coaster. The stories he could tell . . .” He motioned us to a rose damask love seat while he packed up a place setting of Limoges china. “You don’t mind if I work while we talk, do you? I’m doing the tablescapes for an event at the Walton estate tonight.”

  “Really,” Ali murmured, exchanging a look with me. “The Waltons? How interesting.” Our eyes met for a moment. The perfect opportunity to find out more about the mysterious Thomas Walton. This was either fate or an incredibly lucky coincidence. She edged into the conversation skillfully, Southern style, taking a meandering approach.

  “This is certainly a beautiful place setting, Andre,” she said, admiring the delicate floral pattern on the creamy bone china.

  “Very old, very precious,” Andre said, handling the dishes carefully. It looked like every place setting had half a dozen pieces, at least. “Jennifer has a dozen or so settings in this pattern, but not enough for a big crowd. So I offered to let her borrow mine, and she asked if I’d oversee the china and crystal tonight. They’re excellent customers,” he said with a conspiratorial grin, “so I figured it was the least I could do. Plus they invited me as a guest, so I figure I might make some good connections for the shop.”

  “How well do you know the Waltons?” I asked, trying to sound casual.

  “Well, Jennifer’s a peach, really a sweetheart,” he said. He stopped talking abruptly, and I could see he was going to need some persuasion.

  “And Thomas?” Ali prodded.

  Andre stood back for a moment, hands on his hips, and let out a short breath. “Well, far be it from me to gossip”—he gave a self-deprecating laugh—“but I don’t know how he made it in politics. Somehow he got lucky and picked up some well-heeled supporters. As my granny always says, even a blind hog finds an acorn now and then.”

  “You don’t like him?” I asked.

  “Honey, he’s a customer, I don’t like him or dislike him. Let’s just say I don’t trust him. I wouldn’t want to get on the wrong side of him, that’s for sure.” He turned and let his gaze sweep over me. “Say, how would you two ladies like to come with me tonight?”

  “We’d love to, but we don’t have invitations,” Ali said quickly.

  “No problem.” Andre picked up a pale blue card with heavy embossing. “Gideon’s in Atlanta for an antique convention, and you can be my ‘plus one.’”

  “‘Plus one’?” Ali gave a little moue of disappointment. “But there are two of us.”

  “A minor point. You’ll be my ‘plus two.’ They can always squeeze in another guest.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked doubtfully. As much as I was interested in seeing the estate, especially after hearing about Lucinda’s dream, I didn’t feel like being a gate-crasher.

  “This is Savannah, honey chile,” Andre said with a grin. “We Southerners are used to making adjustments. I can make it happen with one phone call.”

  “You’re a genius, Andre,” Ali said, hugging him impulsively.

  “Now you two skedaddle and let me get back to work.” Andre gave us a wide smile. “I’ll meet you on the veranda at seven. They’re serving cocktails first and they’ve hired a string quartet. Don’t be late.”

  “It sounds heavenly,” Ali said.

  “Oh, it will be, girlfriend, it will be,” Andre promised. “A night to remember.”

  As we left the shop, I found myself mulling over Andre’s last words. A night to remember . . . Where had I heard that expression before? And then it came to me. Oh yes. A Night to Remember. A classic book about the Titanic. Was the evening going to be a total shipwreck?

  * * *

  “This is dazzling,” I said, admiring the live oaks lining the long curving driveway to the Waltons’ estate. It was a perfect Savannah night, with a touch of softness in the air, and I caught a whiff of late-blooming jasmine.

  “I must admit, I’ve really been looking forward to seeing this place,” Ali said. Her eyes shone and she looked beautiful in a navy blue cocktail dress. I was happy to see that her early melancholy had vanished and her sunny nature seemed to be reasserting itself. “It’s like something out of a storybook, isn’t it?” she asked. “An antebellum mansion, with porticos and balconies, and all these magnificent trees draped in Spanish moss. I can hear violin music coming from inside. It makes me think of Tara, the mansion in Gone with the Wind.”

  She gave a little sigh as we pulled into a circle paved with oyster shells under the portico. The Waltons had valet parking, and a young man rushed to open the car doors for us and take the keys. Our hosts were clearly pulling out all the stops for this fund-raising event. “I wonder what it would be like to live here,” Ali said in a low voice as we made our way to the mansion.

  A couple behind us was chatting about their recent trip to “the islands,” and debating the various merits of owning oceanfront houses on St. John and St. Barths. This was obviously a well-heeled crowd, and I wished I’d worn something a bit dressier tonight. My Ann Taylor sleeveless black shift was the only cocktail outfit I had in my suitcase. I’d managed to dress it up with some gold jewelry and a silk scarf I’d borrowed from Ali, but I couldn’t compete with all the designer fashions swirling around me.

  “What would it be like to live here? It would be expensive,” I said wryly. “Can you imagine the upkeep on this place? The landscaping probably costs more than I make in a year.”

  Ali laughed. “Taylor, you are always about the bottom line! Is that all you ever think about?”

  “Most of the time, yes. I have the soul of an accountant, remember?” Ali had said that to me once in the heat of an argument, and now it was a running gag between us.


  We were ushered into the foyer, and I caught a glimpse of twin stairways that spiraled up to the second story, a gleaming dark wood floor, tastefully faded oriental rugs, crystal chandeliers that sent sparks of light dancing around the room, and fragrant pots of magnolias everywhere. If Architectural Digest did a piece on Southern mansions, this would be a great place for a photo shoot.

  And then I stopped dead in my tracks and suddenly the beautiful furnishings didn’t matter anymore. I was drawn to the sound of sweet violin music and soft laughter coming from the veranda. The French doors were swung wide open, and I could see guests sipping cocktails while waiters in black tuxedos circulated with trays of food. I thought I spotted a familiar face among the elegant guests.

  I blinked and looked again. Were my eyes playing tricks on me?

  My heart was thudding with excitement; this was a man I never expected to see again. A man who once was everything to me. Bittersweet memories flooded me and I took a deep breath, willing my voice to remain steady.

  “Ali,” I said urgently, clutching her arm, “look over on the right, out on the veranda. The man in the navy blazer talking to the girl with long blond hair. Is that who I think it is?”

  She followed my gaze to the tall, broad-shouldered man with coolly assessing eyes. He was raising a champagne glass to his lips and we saw him in profile, just a quick glance of finely aristocratic chiseled features and artfully tousled black hair.

  Then the crowd shifted and he turned in our direction. For one long moment, our gazes locked and he nodded, his lips curving into a sexy, lazy smile that I remembered all too well. He gave me a long, slow, intimate look. I swallowed hard, trying to ignore the tingling feeling that was running up my spine. All my senses seemed to have gone on hyperalert, and I tried to tune out the cacophony of music and conversation so I could concentrate on what my sister was saying.

  “Yes, it’s Noah,” she said softly. “Someone told me he was here in Savannah, but I wasn’t sure.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?” My heart jumped again as I watched Noah murmur to the young woman in the low-cut black satin dress with spaghetti straps. He leaned in close to her, and she threw her head back and laughed, her caramel blond hair streaming down her back. My stomach clenched watching them, but I tried to keep my expression neutral.

  “I wasn’t sure,” Ali said. “Someone said they thought he’d moved to Charleston or Hilton Head. He’s left the FBI, you know. He didn’t tell you?” She paused, watching me closely, her eyes clouded with concern.

  Did she think I was going to fall apart because my ex and I happened to turn up at the same event? If he really did live in Savannah, we were bound to run into each other eventually. I would have liked to have had time to mentally prepare myself, but it was too late for that now.

  I shook my head. “I have no idea what’s going on in his life. We didn’t stay in touch, Ali.” I took a deep breath as Noah said something to the girl and then turned to move toward us. She placed her hand on his arm in a playful gesture, as if to restrain him, and then grinned and released him. If this was his date for the evening, he was robbing the cradle, I thought sourly. Noah was my age, and the girl looked to be in her early twenties. And drop-dead gorgeous. She was toying with her glass, staring at me with frank curiosity.

  “But what’s he doing in Savannah?” I whispered. I wanted to find out as much information as I could before he reached us. Luckily a couple of women tried to engage him in conversation, slowing down his progress, as he made his way across the veranda. Noah was always catnip to women, and judging from the flirtatious smiles tossed his way, I could see that nothing had changed. I was glad I had a few extra seconds to compose myself.

  “I’m not sure. I heard he’s some sort of private investigator.” She grabbed a drink from a tray a waiter was passing and took a big sip. “Uh-oh, here he comes. I think I’ll make myself scarce.”

  “No, Ali, please stay!” I pleaded with her, but she disappeared into the crowd, and suddenly I was face-to-face with Noah Chandler. We had had an intense two-year relationship when we both were working in Atlanta. I was a strategist for a consulting firm, and he was with the Atlanta field office of the FBI. I was away on business most of the time, and he was always flying across the country on assignments.

  In hindsight, neither one of us had the time or energy to devote to a relationship. No wonder Noah and I didn’t make a go of it. The timing was off and we both were workaholics, too tired and irritable to invest time and attention in each other. After one major blowup, I moved to Chicago and tried to put the past—and Noah—behind me.

  I thought I had. Until now.

  15

  “Taylor.” The low sexy voice was like a caress as he took both my hands in his and leaned in to kiss my cheek. It was such a polite, chaste kiss that no one would ever guess there had been anything between us. Certainly not a red-hot, sizzling love affair that had ended badly.

  “Noah.” I drew back from his embrace as gracefully as I could and clasped my hands in front of me. He looked amused. “I didn’t know you were here in Savannah.”

  Noah snared a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one of them to me. I tried not to notice that his fingers lingered on mine for just a second too long, and I dipped my head to hide the rush of emotion that swept over me. Like they say, old memories die hard.

  “I had a bit of a career change,” he said, letting his gaze skim over my black sheath. “I always liked you in black,” he said thoughtfully. “It suits your coloring.”

  “Tell me about your new career,” I said, determined to draw the conversation back to safer channels. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ali standing by the musicians, looking over at us, probably wondering how I was handling the unexpected reunion.

  “I’m a private investigator now,” he said lightly. “I liked working for the Bureau, but I decided I’d be much happier being my own boss.”

  “Here in town?”

  Noah nodded. “I rented some office space in the Historic District. On Drayton Street, close to Lafayette Square.” His dark gaze held mine and then he said, “So what brings you to town? I heard you’d moved to Chicago.”

  I played with my glass, stalling for time, wondering how much to say. “I came to see Ali for a quick visit and I decided to stay for a while.” I’d forgotten how his gray eyes flashed with electricity, and I felt a warm flush creeping up my chest. “I still have my place in Chicago, but I’ll be in town for a while to help Ali with her shop.”

  “She’s opened a store?” He smiled. Ali’s checkered career history has always been a source of amusement to him. Noah is one of the most focused people I know, and he’s always zoomed in on what he wants, with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He planned his career path carefully. First a bachelor’s degree in computer technology, and then a master’s in criminal justice, followed by a three-year stint with the Boston PD and then the FBI. The last I heard, he’d been accepted into the elite BAU unit at Quantico. I was surprised to see that he’d gone in a totally new direction. Somehow I never pictured him as a private detective.

  “It’s a retro candy shop,” I told him. “She calls it Oldies but Goodies.”

  “A retro candy shop.” He chuckled. “Ali’s always full of surprises.” He paused a beat and then said, “Would you like to grab a quick lunch at Oleander someday?” His dark gaze held mine. I must have looked puzzled because he added quickly, “Oleander is a little café on the Riverwalk. All the locals know it. Great food and you’re in and out quick. We could catch up—”

  He broke off suddenly as a trim woman in a pink lace designer dress interrupted us with a short, bubbling laugh. She laid her hand gently on my arm. “Taylor, I’ve been looking all over for you! I want to welcome you to town and hear all about that delightful little candy store your sister opened! Andre has been talking nonstop about the two of you. He�
�s singing your praises!” She beamed a Hollywood smile at Noah; it was obvious the two of them knew each other. I felt a little pang of jealousy and tamped it down. “I’m so happy you and your sister could join us tonight. Welcome to Savannah.”

  Her eyes were glittery, heavily lined with kohl, and she was smiling too much, talking too fast, acting just a little too animated. I suspected she’d been hitting the Cristal pretty hard before the party began. “I declare, if those caterers don’t serve dinner soon, I’m not going to tip them a penny. You all must be starving!”

  Now it all fit. This trim, slightly tipsy blonde had to be Jennifer Walton, our hostess.

  “Thank you so much for inviting us tonight, Mrs. Walton,” I said quickly. I still felt a little awkward at tagging along on Andre’s invitation. The classic uninvited guest.

  “My pleasure,” she said, slurring her words a little. “And call me Jennifer.” She took a healthy swig of champagne. “How do you two know each other?” she asked, tucking her arm through Noah’s. It was a very proprietary gesture.

  “We both worked in Atlanta,” Noah interjected. “That was a couple of years ago.” His tone was completely flat, his expression unreadable. I could have been a coworker, a distant acquaintance, someone of no importance to him. “I was surprised to run into Taylor tonight. I had no idea she was in Savannah with her sister.”

  “So you two met in Atlanta!” She clapped her hands together. “How lovely—it’s one of my favorite cities. Tom and I sneak away to Atlanta for a romantic weekend whenever we can.” She narrowed her gaze at me, obviously fishing for information and trying not to show it.

  She gave a lascivious wink. “You know what they say. All work and no play makes Tom a dull boy. I keep telling him life is more than politics. He has to have some fun! I know I do.” Interesting the way she turned the conversation away from me to herself. I had to admire her skill. “Taylor,” she said, suddenly shifting gears, “would you mind if I stole this handsome man away for a while? I need to talk to him about a business proposition.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I know it’s terribly bad manners to talk business at a social event, but this can’t wait.”