by Mary Kennedy
“Well, I certainly will, if you like them,” Ali said, passing a tray of lemon bars.
“That’s a lovely tray,” Rose said, admiring the hand-painted lacquered tray from a century ago. “Very colorful.”
“Speaking of trays,” Dorien cut in, “is there any news about the cookie platter at the book signing?”
“You mean the one with the shortbread cookies?” I asked.
“Yes, of course that’s what I mean,” Dorien said, allowing herself a tiny eye roll.
“That’s the one I brought,” Lucinda piped up. “I would have preferred to use a nice china platter, but you told me not to,” she said reprovingly.
“We wanted to keep things casual,” I said lightly. Our two plastic platters were stamped with the shop logo (we order them in bulk, online) and Lucinda’s cookies were on a blue plastic tray festooned with a bright red rooster. We decided to use high-end plastic dishes and forks that day to make cleanup easier. When the event was over, we’d planned on sweeping everything up into Hefty bags and dumping them into trash bins. I think plastic dishes and utensils bothered Lucinda’s sense of propriety, but she’d gone along with it.
“I believe the police are still examining everything,” Sara said. “I don’t think everything’s turned up yet.”
“I know that I saw a platter with a rooster on it,” Persia said firmly. “I had a pretty good look at it. It was right there in the middle of the table. I can still see it when I shut my eyes.” She snared a couple of Kahlúa brownies, one of our most popular pastries. “It couldn’t have just disappeared, could it? I don’t understand why it hasn’t turned up.”
“Don’t forget, there was that period of time when the shop wasn’t considered a crime scene,” I said patiently. “When the paramedics arrived on the scene, all they knew was that Sonia was in the throes of some medical emergency. There wasn’t any reason to preserve the evidence. It’s a shame it worked out that way.”
“It certainly is,” Sybil said. “If only we knew then what we know now,” she said darkly.
“I have the feeling the rooster platter will show up eventually,” Persia said. “I dreamt about it last night.”
“You did?” I moved my hand so quickly I nearly sloshed my iced tea over my plate. “Please tell us about it.” I leaned forward, eager to hear any details Persia might divulge.
“Well, I saw a roasted chicken being shoved into a brown paper grocery bag, and then it was tossed into a bin. When I went to retrieve it, the bin was empty.”
“And you think this relates to the missing plate, the plate the police are looking for?” Edward Giles asked. He gave her an impenetrable look and I wondered what he was thinking.
“Of course it’s related,” Persia retorted. “It’s only a hop, skip, and a jump from a roast chicken to a plate decorated with a rooster.”
“Surely some of these connections could just be coincidence?” Edward’s tone was mild.
“This isn’t a coincidence,” Persia said, clearly ruffled. “What I saw is relevant.” Edward, looking chastened, sat back and stared at the rug. I had the sinking feeling that he wouldn’t speak up again for the rest of the evening.
“Do you remember any other details?” Sybil asked. When Persia shook her head, she went on, “How I wish I could hop into the mind of the murderer and see his dreams.”
“Or her dreams,” I pointed out.
“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “If only I could will these things to happen,” she said fervently. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work that way.”
Sybil has no way of controlling which dreams she has access to, so it’s totally unpredictable. Sometimes her talent comes in handy, and occasionally it has nothing to do with the case. It’s a toss-up, like flipping a coin.
Some dreams have no particular meaning or symbolism and are simply “the residue of the day,” a collection of images we’ve seen or remembered during our waking moments. Dreams are like a collage, composed of thousands of potential images. Who knows what will float to the surface on any given night?
“So you can’t pick and choose whose dreams you want to visit?” Etta Mae Beasley asked.
I was glad to see that Etta Mae and Edward had decided to attend tonight’s meeting. I wasn’t sure whether they planned to continue with the Dream Club. Etta Mae seemed totally focused on the issue of the “stolen cookbook,” to the exclusion of everything else, and Edward seemed skeptical about dream work. At some point, I’d have to talk to them privately and see if the club was really a good match for them.
“No, I’ve never been able to master that art,” Sybil said. “There are some very famous people in the field who manage to target certain dreamers, but I don’t have that ability. I need to attend more conferences and work on my technique. It’s a skill and supposedly it can be acquired, with practice.”
“Well, this dream-hopping business is all so random, it hardly seems worth bothering with,” Dorien said in her caustic way. “I like dreams that are straightforward, you know. I prefer to get right down to things and not waste time.” She was tapping her foot impatiently and casting eager looks around the group as if she was dying to tell us something important.
I knew from experience we needed to address it right away. Otherwise Dorien would prove to be such a distraction that no one else would have the floor.
Ali must have sensed it, too, because she said gently, “Dorien, I think you have something to share. Would you like to go ahead?”
“Well, yes, I would,” Dorien said, taking a quick swig of iced tea. “I dreamt about a baby last night, and I have no idea why that’s significant.” A baby! Ali and I exchanged a look.
“Tell us more,” Ali urged.
“I just know it’s connected with Sonia’s death, but I don’t know how. That’s the part that’s driving me crazy. I can’t put the pieces together.” Dorien seemed especially keyed up and edgy tonight. She was blinking rapidly, the way she does when she’s excited, and she was lacing and unlacing her fingers.
“I think you may be on to something,” I said softly. My hope was that I could get Dorien to relax enough to get into a meditative state where she could recall more details of the dream. “Try closing your eyes,” I suggested. “Sometimes you’ll see the dream like a movie running in your head.”
“No, that doesn’t help me,” she snapped. “I just have to set my mind to remembering and it will come back to me, I know it will. Here’s the funny thing. I dreamt about the baby and then I woke up briefly because a car backfired outside. I was only awake for a couple of minutes and I willed myself to get right back into the same dream. And it worked. Weird, isn’t it?”
I nodded. I had heard this from several other club members. Some people are so in touch with their dreams, they can slip right back into them, even when the dream has been interrupted. It takes a certain skill to do this, and I’ve never mastered it.
“You say you willed yourself to get back into the dream,” Lucinda said. “Somehow you sensed the dream about the baby was important, but what other details struck you? I’m just curious about what you hoped to discover when you slipped back into the original dream.”
“Well, the baby was part of a celebration, I know that much. People were happy and dressed up and exchanging presents.”
“Like a party?” Etta Mae asked.
Dorien nodded. “Sort of. But I had the feeling it was bigger than a party, maybe a major event. And a baby was involved.”
“A christening?” Rose Harper suggested. “I do so love christenings, don’t you? Minerva and I went to the McNamaras’ christening last week. Their baby Charlie is only a month old and he’s just the sweetest thing.” She clasped her hands together and said, “There wasn’t a dry eye in that church at his baptism. They’d waited for a baby for so long, you see.”
Minerva reached over and put her hand on top of her siste
r’s. “We need to stay on topic, Rose.” She gave me a gentle eye roll and I smiled gratefully. I hated to cut Rose off, but she did tend to ramble.
“You don’t suppose your dream was about a christening, do you?” Rose asked Dorien. “Because I had a very similar dream about a baby. I figured it was because we attended little Charlie’s christening.”
“What happened in your dream?” Dorien asked. Her dark eyes were flashing and she’d scooted to the edge of the sofa.
“Well, the dream started out as a celebration, exactly like yours. And then”—Rose shook her head—“the dream veered off a little. There were people smiling and talking and boxes and boxes of presents—”
“Yes, that’s just like my dream,” Dorien cut in. “What happened next?” The room was deadly still and everyone was focused on Rose as she struggled with her recollection. I felt a little chill go through me as my mind darted back to Trudy and Sonia and Clare.
“Now, this is the part that seems a little crazy.” Rose chuckled. “Someone had painted a triangle on the floor. And in the middle of the triangle was a bassinet. A really pretty wicker one—it looked vintage, the kind they used to make in the old days.” She shut her eyes tightly and then opened them. “Two women at the party tried to step into the triangle, but only one was successful. She pushed the other woman aside.”
“You saw the woman who stepped into the triangle?” Ali asked. “Who was she?”
“No, dear, I never got a look at her face. She was tall and blond; that’s all I can tell you.”
“What happened next?” My mouth went dry and my voice was hoarse. A triangle. Two women and a baby.
“She walked right up to the bassinet and scooped out a baby! The loveliest little baby you’ve ever seen, with bright red hair, and crying for all she was worth. She held the baby close to her and just smiled and smiled. But the other woman started to cry. Then she turned around and left the party. It was very sad and my heart went out to her. She hung her head and put her hand to her heart as if she was devastated.” Rose sat back and rested her hands in her lap. “And that was the end of the dream,” she said softly. “I have no idea what any of it means. What do you all think?”
“The baby was the present,” Dorien said in an awed tone. “Both women wanted the baby, but only one woman could have it.”
“It certainly seems that way, doesn’t it?” Rose answered. “It reminds me of the story of Solomon in the Bible.”
“Two women and a little baby.” Dorien blew out a breath. “But how does this relate to the case? I was thinking hard about Sonia Scott before I went to sleep. I asked my subconscious to send me a dream message.” She shrugged and gave a helpless gesture with her hands. “But the message makes no sense, no sense at all.”
And Dorien has no idea that her prayers were answered, I thought.
Ali and I exchanged a look. “I think it’s time to tell everyone exactly what happened today when we visited Clare Carpenter,” she said. “And what we saw.”
17
The room was eerily silent as Ali recounted every detail about our visit to Clare Carpenter and what we suspected about Trudy’s birth. I chimed in with Noah’s revelation about Reggie Knox, the ex-con who was living in a seedy neighborhood with Trudy. All that would change, I assumed, as soon as Trudy had access to Sonia’s enormous fortune. But that meant Reggie Knox would have access to it as well, and I found myself fearing for Trudy’s safety.
Persia gave a long exhalation that ended in a sigh. “The whole story is so sad. How could a girl from a good family end up like that? It just doesn’t make sense.”
“We’re not here to judge Trudy and the choices she’s made,” Sybil said slowly. “We need to focus on how it fits into the bigger question of who killed Sonia.”
“Well, we certainly have a new suspect,” Sara pointed out. “Reggie Knox is at the top of the list, as far as I’m concerned. He certainly had motive, and now we have to figure out if he had means and opportunity. We need to track down where he was and what he was doing the day of the book signing.”
“That’s a good idea, but there weren’t many men at the book signing,” Ali pointed out, “and I think we would have noticed him. He sounds like a thuggish type. He would have stood out like a sore thumb.”
I had to admit, Ali was right. Everyone at the book signing was so polite and well mannered, it was impossible to think of an ex-con in our midst. If Reggie Knox had a credible alibi for that date and time, then he was in the clear. We would be able eliminate him from the suspect list very quickly. Unless he had an accomplice, of course.
“Lucinda,” Sybil said suddenly, “I’d like to hear more about Trudy. Do you remember what she was like at the Academy? Maybe she was troubled back then and no one noticed. Did she seem lonely, or maybe sad and confused?”
“Not as far as I know, but I don’t recall too much about her,” Lucinda said in her diffident way. “I certainly never heard any complaints about her from the teachers. From what I remember, she was a shy girl who kept to herself. She didn’t have many friends and was something of a loner.”
“But she may have been troubled?” Sybil persisted.
Lucinda hesitated. “You know, in those days, we didn’t know much about depression or mood disorders, and I suppose Trudy could have needed help. We used to think teenagers were just moody and we hoped they’d grow out of it.” She sipped her iced tea and put it down carefully on a coaster. “But now that I think of it, yes, I suppose Trudy might have been depressed. We just didn’t recognize the signs back then. No one bullied her, I’m quite sure of that.”
I thought of Trudy and her DUIs and the fact that she lived with a known criminal and drug dealer. That certainly fit the profile of someone who’d had a troubled adolescence and had never received counseling or medication for depression.
“Can you recall anything specific about her, something that stands out?” Ali asked.
Lucinda frowned, a faint line appearing between her eyebrows. “She liked to write; I remember that much,” she said. “She showed real talent. In fact, one of her stories was published in a regional newspaper and was reprinted in the yearbook. Would you like me to look it up? I saved a complete set of yearbooks when I left the Academy. A bit sentimental of me, but the Academy was such a big part of my life,” she said apologetically.
“Of course it was,” Ali said warmly. “I’m sure you have a lot of fond memories of those years. Do you think you’ll be able to locate the yearbook with Trudy’s story?”
“I know I can,” Lucinda replied. “I’ll look it up tonight. Do you think it might be helpful?” she asked eagerly.
“I do,” I told her. “Any light we can shed on Trudy would be good at this point.”
The rest of the meeting went smoothly. Etta Mae took the floor briefly to announce she was having what she called “angry” dreams with flashes of red and black. “I see a lot of jagged lines,” she said in her abrupt way. “I’m opening my mouth to scream at someone. I’m absolutely furious with them. But when I open my mouth, no sound comes out.” She paused and took a deep breath. “I’m so angry and then I start to feel panicky. The other person is just standing there laughing at me. I see red and black shards of glass everywhere. They make a crunching sound under my feet. And there are also shards of glass hanging from the ceiling. I can feel myself getting madder by the minute, and finally I’m so upset I wake myself up.” She shook her head as if to dispel the dream. “I sat up in bed trembling and my heart was beating like a rabbit’s. It took hours to go back to sleep.”
“Talk about ‘seeing red,’” Sybil murmured. “That’s a classic image, both in real life and in dreams.”
I nodded. What Etta Mae was describing sounded like an anger-aggression dream. Sometimes the dreamer is so caught up in a red haze of rage she feels engulfed, as if flames are leaping around her.
“Did the person
make you feel like you were talking to a brick wall?” Sara asked. “I’ve had dreams like that, and it’s usually when I’m on the outs with someone and they’re not listening to a word I say. It happens when I feel really helpless and vulnerable about a situation in my life. It could be a job or a relationship. Maybe you feel the same way,” she said sympathetically.
“That’s it exactly,” Etta Mae said. “You hit the nail on the head. I feel like I have no power with the executives at Sonia Scott, Inc., and when I wake up, I’m just exhausted, really drained.”
“You’re still thinking of the family cookbook,” Minerva said, “and I can imagine how much it means to you. It’s your heritage. I’m not surprised you’re upset over this, my dear. Is there anything new on that front?”
“Not that I know of,” Etta Mae said glumly. “They’re keeping me in the dark, and that’s the truth.” She set her glass down with considerable force and Barney jumped off his windowsill perch, looking annoyed. “I doubt they’ll even bother to respond to my letter, and I bet I’ll have to hire a fancy lawyer to get any results.” She paused. “With no guarantee I’ll even win,” she said sadly. “How can one person go up against a whole corporation? It’s like David and Goliath.”
“This might be a difficult time to find resolution,” Persia suggested. “I work for a law firm, as you know, and we handle a lot of corporate issues. When a CEO dies suddenly, sometimes the whole company is thrown into disarray. I’ve seen it happen, and it’s utter chaos. There’s juggling for power among the key executives, and business suffers. Even routine matters get pushed aside, and something like your plagiarism charge might be buried on someone’s desk. The problem is, no one is going to consider it a priority at a time like this. The company might be going through a crisis. Sonia’s death could have enormous financial repercussions. I wonder how the stock is doing. If it takes a tumble, you can be sure they’ll be hearing from their investors.”
“I see what you mean,” Etta Mae said sadly. “I think you’re right that my complaint is probably stuck on the back burner. Let’s face it, it’s small potatoes compared to everything else they’re dealing with right now. But what’s the answer? The more time that goes by, the more likely it is they’ll get away with it. I have to act now if I want to get any justice. That Olivia knows all about it, but she’s definitely not on my side.”
