by Mary Kennedy
“Yes,” Dorien said flatly. “And never forget the power of the collective unconscious. That’s why we formed the Dream Club. Dreams are the royal road to the unconscious.” She shot Edward a meaningful look, and I wondered if he’d get the reference. “I suppose you know that?”
“That’s from Freud, right?” Apparently Edward knew his psychology.
“Yes, of course,” Dorien added in her blunt way. Edward looked unconvinced but trudged dutifully after Dorien. Etta Mae was as silent as a sphinx, her arms folded across her chest, until Sybil urged her forward.
“Edward and Etta Mae, you’re new to the club and you’ll be interested to know that we solved a murder once,” Persia offered, “just a few months ago.” She looped her arm through Etta Mae’s and fell into step behind Edward and Dorien.
“Really? I had no idea.” Edward brightened a little, his eyes widening with interest. He stopped to take a breath on the landing and then took the final step into the apartment. Ali bustled around the kitchen, grabbing a pitcher of iced tea from the refrigerator. She placed it on a lacquered tray on the coffee table with some cranberry-colored glasses and a platter of brownies, and urged everyone to help themselves.
“Actually, it was two murders,” Persia went on, settling herself on the sofa. Edward took a seat across from her and the Harper sisters squeezed together on a settee. Dorien grabbed a comfy upholstered chair, and the rest of us pulled over kitchen chairs.
Persia waited until she had everyone’s attention before continuing. “Looking back, we saw loads of hints in our dream material. A lot of imagery and symbolism. They were like premonitions. All we had to do was talk it out, and we came up with some amazing interpretations, didn’t we, Ali?”
“Yes, we certainly did,” Ali admitted. “That’s what dream interpretation is about: analyzing content and trying to pull out the secrets. I think we finally convinced Taylor that this isn’t just a lot of hocus-pocus.” She smiled at me and I looked at her fondly. We’d certainly become closer since I’d moved to Savannah to help turn her failing business around. And my skepticism about the Dream Club had all but disappeared. I’d seen the group in action and it was hard to not be impressed by their keen insights and their creative approaches to solving a murder.
That caught Etta Mae’s attention. “Really? You somehow tapped into your dreams to find the killer?”
Sybil nodded. “We just put our heads together and made a pledge to think about poor Chico every night.” Chico, a dance instructor who owned a studio right across from our shop, was murdered a few months ago and the Dream Club was instrumental in solving the crime.
“I’ve never heard of anything like that,” Etta Mae said skeptically. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her face rapt with interest. “You actually came up with the killer’s name?”
“It wasn’t quite that simple,” Dorien said testily. “I know you’re probably new to dream work, but—”
“As am I,” Edward interjected.
“But you have to remember that dream material is symbolic. So it’s not all black and white, cut and dry,” Dorien continued. She has an angular face, and her asymmetrical haircut had fallen into her eyes. She brushed it away hastily and her voice became more animated. “Everything is a symbol. So, think symbols when you dream. Something means something else. An object can represent a person, for example. A tree can symbolize your mother. Or even yourself.” She paused to peer at Etta Mae and Edward. “You really have to dig deep to make any progress in analyzing your dreams. You can’t just stay on the surface, because the truth lies hidden somewhere in your subconscious.”
“That’s true,” Ali piped up. “You can’t access the information in your waking state. You have to wait until you fall asleep, and then material rises to the surface. The moment you wake up, try to remember as much as you can about your dreams. We recommend keeping a pen and paper on your night table. If you wait until morning, it may be too late to recapture the dream. Just get in the habit of writing down a few key words, if you can. Does this make sense to you?”
“I think so,” Etta Mae said slowly. “It’s a lot to absorb all at once.” I found myself agreeing with her. I had been new to dream interpretation when I moved to Savannah, and I’d learned a lot from the members of the club.
“Just take it one step at a time,” I suggested. “No one picks this up immediately. It’s a process. Take your time and after a while, it will become intuitive. You’ll learn things about yourself that you never knew. All of us have secrets, and dream interpretation brings them out into the open. It makes the information available to us.”
“That’s good to know,” Etta Mae said after a long moment. She’s afraid of something, I decided, but what? A shadow of discomfort darkened her face and she shifted uneasily in the chair. Her eyes were suddenly narrowed, shuttered, as if she was hiding something. The impression flitted by so quickly, it was almost subliminal, but I felt a little tingle go up my spine. Etta Mae set down her teacup very carefully before continuing. “I never thought of writing down my dreams. Usually when I wake up, I can’t even remember them, and then something happens during the day that suddenly makes me think of them.”
“That happens to all of us,” Persia interjected. Persia loves bold colors and was wearing a bright yellow tunic top stenciled with Toucans. Matching yellow earrings the size of Necco Wafers dangled from her ears. “A sound, a song, maybe a sunset—something triggers a memory and suddenly the whole dream comes right back to you.” Etta Mae nodded, as if she agreed.
“Sometimes I can even scribble down a few words and then ease right back into the dream,” Ali continued. “Not always, but that’s a very valuable skill to learn.”
“This is all very interesting, but I really don’t see how you could gather real evidence from dreams,” Edward said slowly. He leaned back in his chair, reached for the pipe in his pocket, and then changed his mind. “If dreams are just re-creations of what a person has seen and experienced, then why would they be any more helpful than just straightforward remembering? Why not just approach the issue logically and write down everything you’ve seen and heard? That seems to be far more sensible.”
He nodded after he finished this little speech, and he reminded me of some professors I’d encountered in graduate school. Not quite smug, but certainly sure of himself. I wondered how open he would be to new ideas. There’s a lot of give-and-take in the Dream Club, and everyone is encouraged to voice his or her opinion. Would Edward really be a good addition to the mix?
“I think you’re speaking as a researcher,” Lucinda said in her breathy little voice. “I used to be an educator, too, and I never thought I’d be able to switch gears and turn off my ‘left brain.’” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It’s all about right brain in the Dream Club.”
“Lucinda is right,” Sybil said with a touch of exasperation. I could see that Edward was what the group would call a “doubter,” someone who was interested in dreams but not convinced of their power. I felt the same way when I first came to Savannah. I was secretly amused at Ali’s faith in the Dream Club and had no idea that their insights would prove to be so valuable. “Even if someone had total recall—which most of us don’t—dreams offer us new insights into everything our senses tell us. Dreams can highlight important issues for us, things that seemed inconsequential at the time.”
“The reason dreams are so difficult to interpret, Edward, is because they’re very complex,” Persia offered. “It takes real skill to make sense of them, and I learn something new every week.”
“I hope I can get some tips, too,” Etta Mae said. “All the women in my family have the gift of prophecy, and that’s why I wanted to join this group.” She helped herself to a brownie, and then she went for a quick change of subject. Was it deliberate? “This is delicious,” she said, inspecting it. “How’d you get it so moist?” she asked, taking a bite.
“Kahlúa is the secret,” Ali told her. “You can’t really taste the alcohol, because it burns off in cooking, but it gives it a very nice flavor.” She waited a beat and then said, “You mentioned earlier that you had a bad experience with Sonia. Would you like to tell us more about it?”
Etta Mae’s face twisted into a frown and she let out a low, strangled laugh. “Unpleasant? You could say that. She stole something precious from me and my family.” She looked around the circle. “She comes across sweet as pie on television, like the next-door neighbor you wish you had, but trust me, it’s all an act. The woman’s a thief.”
“That’s a very serious accusation,” Lucinda said reproachfully. There’s still something of the schoolmarm about Lucinda, even though she retired from her headmistress job a few years ago. “I hope you have evidence to back up your statement.”
“You bet I do!” Etta Mae cackled. She gestured to her tote bag. “The proof’s right in there. Her new book proves it. It’s a total rip-off of my family recipes. I’m so glad you loaned it to me, Ali. I’ll return it to you.” She laid it on the coffee table. “I have my own copy from the book signing. And now I have something really interesting to show you.” She reached into a tote bag and pulled out a battered leather-bound book the size of a scrapbook.
“Your family cookbook,” Minerva said. “You carry it with you?”
“I thought we could pass it around,” Etta Mae said with shy pride. “It’s kind of fragile, so I’d appreciate if you turn the pages real carefully. Some of the recipes were glued in there more than a hundred years ago, so you have to watch they don’t slip out. They’re hanging by a thread. I’m surprised it’s lasted as long as it has.”
“You gave this to Sonia?” I asked.
Etta Mae nodded. “I sure did. I sent a copy, of course, not the original, and I mailed it to her headquarters in Chicago.” She gave a little snort. “A month or so later, I got a form letter saying they didn’t accept unsolicited recipes. The letter wasn’t the least bit friendly, and I was miffed. All my original recipes are in here.” She laid it carefully on the coffee table. “Have a look, if you like.”
“I’d love to!” Minerva said, reaching for the cookbook and laying it carefully on her lap. “Oh, I love the way it’s divided up. There’s one section just for family celebrations and another for church suppers.” She turned the pages and smiled. “Here’s a macaroni casserole that feeds a hundred people. That must have been quite a party.”
“What’s a ‘Repent at Leisure’ cake?” Rose asked, peering over Minerva’s shoulder.
Etta Mae laughed. “That’s sort of a joke. It’s for bridal showers.” When Rose looked puzzled, she quickly said, “You know the saying, ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’?”
“Oh, I see,” Rose said with a bemused expression on her face. “Very clever. And here’s Aunt Sally’s Best-Ever Funeral Cake and Uncle Jed’s Delectable Pork Belly Casserole,” she said when Minerva turned the page. “Oh my, such colorful names.”
“The recipes are great for family events,” Etta Mae said proudly. “I still make some of them, but I’ve never managed to make the pie crust the way they did back then. And my biscuits aren’t as light and fluffy as my grandma’s. I don’t know what her secret was, but they almost floated off the cookie sheet. Mine are pretty good, but they’re like hockey pucks compared to hers. I guess she took that secret to the grave with her,” she said glumly.
“Sonia knows what she did. That may be her name on the cover of her shiny new cookbook,” Etta Mae said, her mouth suddenly twisted into a snarl, “but the recipes in there? They’re mine, all mine.”
4
My cell chirped then, and the room fell silent as I flipped open the lid. It was Sara; I heard hospital sounds in the background. I took the phone out to the balcony, still reeling from Etta Mae’s surprising pronouncement.
“Sonia didn’t make it,” Sara said in a wobbly voice. “I don’t think she even had a pulse when she was admitted.” My heart hammered in my chest. I hadn’t known Sonia personally, but sudden death is disturbing, and I felt a chill pass over me.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said softly. “Whatever hit her, must have hit very fast.”
“She looked ashen, almost blue, when they wheeled her into the ER.” I didn’t realize I’d been holding my breath and blew out a little puff of air. I glanced back inside to the living room, where everyone was looking at me expectantly.
“Sonia’s dead,” I said quietly to the group. Persia gasped, but everyone else was silent. Etta Mae had a strange, vacant smile on her face. I walked back out on the balcony with the phone still clasped to my ear. “What’s the official word?”
“Nothing yet; it’s too early to tell,” Sara told me. “No cause of death, not a word. Her publicist is rushing to get an obit ready for the paper. I think it will just say she died suddenly and not give any details.” She sighed and a long beat passed.
“Do they”—I paused, choosing my words carefully—“suspect foul play?” I realized I was digging my nails into my palm so tightly my knuckles were turning white.
“I think so.” Sara had lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sam Stiles is coming back to the shop to gather up all the food and plastic plates as evidence and to take a quick look around. You haven’t touched anything, have you?”
“No, of course not. The club members are still here, though. We’re sitting upstairs, and Ali is trying to get some clarity on what happened.”
“Clarity? Oh, please,” Sara said with a note of exasperation. “Forget about clarity.” I remembered that Sara was initially skeptical about the Dream Club and our mission. She said it all seemed a little too New Age for her taste, and she preferred to stick to hard facts. She’d warmed up to us a little, but she still remained something of a skeptic. “Here’s what you need to do,” she said, her voice suddenly stronger. “Taylor, you need get everyone out of the shop before Sam gets there. Send them home, on the double.”
“But I told you, we’re upstairs. We’re not even near the shop.” I glanced inside at the group gathered around the coffee table. They were talking in low voices and glancing curiously at me. Now that they knew Sonia had died, there were going to be endless speculations and theories as to what could have happened.
“Doesn’t matter,” Sara insisted. “You don’t have to explain anything. Just send them on their way. You can have an emergency meeting later in the week if everyone feels up to it. Clear everyone out right now, or it’s going to be awkward. Sam will be right over, and she’ll have some detectives with her. The scene has already been contaminated; don’t make it worse.”
Dorien was reluctant to leave, but after I explained the situation, everyone gathered up their things and headed downstairs. I noticed Etta Mae had carefully returned her family cookbook to her tote bag. Edward seemed eager to make his departure and his expression made it clear he was shaken by the day’s events.
“We’ll meet later in the week,” Ali promised.
“You can count on it,” Dorien said firmly. I saw her whisper something to the Harper sisters as they walked slowly down the sidewalk toward their flower shop. Probably discussing her theories about Sonia’s death, I decided. I poured myself a large glass of ice water and waited for the Savannah-Chatham Metro PD.
• • •
When Sam arrived, she was all business. She snapped on a pair of gloves and started issuing directions to the two police officers who accompanied her. “Bag everything you can,” she said, pointing to the buffet table. “Don’t forget the trash.” The trash? Ali and I exchanged a look.
“Anything special we’re looking for?” a tall cop with a buzz cut asked.
“A missing EpiPen. Maybe two of them. Sift through things carefully; the pen could be broken or crushed.”
Or someone could have pocketed it, I thought. It would have been easy to do in all the commotion
after Sonia collapsed. I tried to remember who was around Sonia’s purse when everything went south, but the only person I could remember was Olivia. And she’d seemed genuinely distraught as she foraged through her boss’s purse, desperately trying to find the EpiPen. Olivia said she carried a backup pen for Sonia, I remembered, and I wondered if she’d ever located it. Was it possible that someone had swiped both EpiPens, leaving Sonia to die of suffocation as her throat swelled up?
“And Olivia Hudson mentioned Sonia’s necklace is missing, so maybe you could take a quick look around for it,” Sam continued.
“Her necklace?” Ali asked. “Is it valuable?” I tried to recall what Sonia was wearing this morning and remembered she was sporting a silk print blouse in bright yellow. It was unbuttoned at the collar and I remember seeing a thin silver chain glinting around her neck.
“I don’t think so. She said it’s costume but it has sentimental value. The family might want to have it back.”
“Why would anyone take it?” I asked. I was standing in the middle of the shop as the crime scene techs made their way through the room, bagging evidence and taking photos.
“Probably no one took it,” Sam said. “It might have slipped off when the paramedics were working on her, or maybe someone removed it at the hospital. Olivia says she never took it off. Apparently Sonia was very superstitious and she thought something terrible would happen if she didn’t wear it.”
“Poor Sonia,” Ali said. “Something terrible did happen,” she added sadly.
I turned to Sam. “Then a necklace isn’t really important, right?”
“No, it’s just one of those nagging details. You know how compulsive I am.” She gave a rueful smile and walked along the long heart pine buffet table, inspecting the dishes.
I knew exactly what she meant. Sam always says that “the devil is in the details,” and she wouldn’t rest until every nagging little question was resolved. That’s how she managed to close so many cases with the Savannah PD and make detective in a very short time. Once the evidence was collected, Sam asked for the guest book that was kept in the front of the shop. “I’ll need to keep this for a few days.”
