Dream a Little Scream

by Mary Kennedy

  Persia helped herself to a thumbprint cookie and chewed it appreciatively. “If you like, I can ask someone at the office about the best way for you to proceed. It sounds like Sonia’s company might not be taking your complaint seriously, and you should probably seek legal counsel before going any further. The lawyers at my firm don’t charge for an initial consultation, if that helps.”

  “It sure does, and I appreciate your offer,” Etta Mae said, brightening. “Sonia sure didn’t take me seriously, and I guess I was just plain naïve to think anyone else at the company would step in and do the right thing. I’ll call your office tomorrow and set up an appointment,” she said. “That’s mighty kind of you.”

  “Glad to help,” Persia told her. “It never hurts to explore your options.”

  I wasn’t even sure if Etta Mae had a case against Sonia Scott, Inc., but I’m no lawyer and she was wise to consult with one.

  I glanced at Etta Mae. She seemed an honest, forthright sort of woman, even though she could be volatile and would probably hold a grudge. Still, I couldn’t really picture her as a cold-blooded murderer. There was something so down-home and ordinary about her, I just couldn’t imagine her serving anyone a plate of deadly cookies.

  And deep down, the thought that a Dream Club member might be responsible for someone’s death was appalling. These were our friends and neighbors, people we welcomed into our home every week. Was it really possible I could be sitting across from a killer and not even realize it? Wouldn’t there be alarm bells going off in my head?

  I wasn’t even sure who the police were looking at in Sonia’s death. Sam had avoided coming to the Dream Club meetings because she either was busy or felt it better to distance herself. After all, Etta Mae was a member of our group. It was a touchy situation.

  Would anyone be indicted for Sonia’s death? The evidence was all circumstantial and a grand jury would have to decide if someone should be charged. At this point, it was up in the air and I couldn’t even hazard a guess.

  “I brought my family cookbook in case anyone wants to take another look,” Etta Mae said shyly.

  “I’m so glad you did. I bet it’s a gold mine,” Minerva said. “I just love these old family recipes.” Minerva reached for the cookbook and carefully flipped through it while the rest of us refilled our plates. Suddenly she gave a little gasp of surprise. “Why, Etta Mae,” Minerva said, “did you know there’s a recipe for benne biscuits in here?” She exchanged a knowing look with her sister Rose, who leaned forward to read the recipe.

  “No, I didn’t,” Etta Mae said, widening her eyes. “Have you heard of them? I don’t seem to recall that recipe at all.”

  Dorien cleared her throat. “Benne biscuits are sesame seed cookies,” she said flatly. “You didn’t know that, Etta Mae?”

  “Well, I just told you I didn’t,” Etta Mae retorted. Then the significance of Dorien’s comment hit her. An angry flush began to creep up her neck, and her face suddenly was mottled with red patches. “If you think these cookies had something to do with—” She broke off suddenly. “Well, what exactly are you implying?” Her lips had thinned into a hard line and her eyes were as dark and cold as river rocks.

  “Nothing,” Dorien said, shrugging. “It’s just a coincidence, that’s all.”

  “Sales are way up,” Etta Mae said bitterly. “The sales of Sonia’s cookbook,” she added when Minerva shot her a puzzled look. “Ironic, isn’t it? All it takes is a dead author and a book shoots its way to the top of the New York Times list.”

  “I think all Sonia’s books have been bestsellers,” I said gently. I didn’t want to add fuel to the fire, but Etta Mae seemed intent on throwing herself a pity party, and we were all reluctant guests. I tried to think of a way to bring the conversation back to more neutral topics but drew a blank.

  “Well, her latest cookbook is the best she’s ever had because she stole my recipes,” Etta Mae insisted. “It was like a gift from heaven.”

  “That may be true,” Persia said in her calm voice. Persia is often the voice of reason when the Dream Club conversations grow heated. “But who knows, you may have your day in court, after all. Wait and see what the attorney says when you come into the office. You may be pleasantly surprised.”

  “Do you really believe that?” A flicker of hope flashed on Etta Mae’s broad face.

  “You never know.” Persia’s tone was gentle. “Most of the time, right prevails. Justice is blind, you know.”

  Etta Mae snorted. “At least she’s supposed to be,” she said, her brashness back. “Sometimes I have to wonder, though.”

  “Just don’t be in too much of a hurry to have your day in court,” Persia cautioned. “The wheels of justice move slowly, I’m afraid.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Etta Mae said with a glint in her eye. Etta can be abrasive, but she seemed genuinely grateful for Persia’s help.

  18

  “Any more dreams to report?” Ali said brightly. She sneaked a peek at her watch. She likes to bring these meetings in under two hours, and we were running late tonight.

  “I had an anxiety dream,” Edward Giles said suddenly. He gave a sheepish smile, as if he was embarrassed by what he was going to relate.

  “Why don’t you tell us about it.” Ali gave him an encouraging smile and passed a plate of buttery springerle cookies to Persia. She’d found an antique cookie mold with a sailing ship on it and couldn’t resist trying it out.

  Edward waved away the cookies, leaned forward, and rested his elbows on his knees. “It was very similar to something I read about in a dream interpretation book.” He reached into his pocket and laid a paperback dream guide on the coffee table. “I don’t know how reliable these things are,” he said, a faint touch of pink coloring his pale face. “I suppose I should have asked you for a recommendation, but the lady at the Corner Bookstore said this was a popular one.”

  I glanced at the title. I was relieved to see he’d picked one of the classic books in the field.

  “Well, there’s good and bad out there,” Dorien said. “Some dream books are so vague, they’re not worth the paper they’re printed on. It’s like reading your horoscope in the newspaper. You can make anything you want out of it. They keep the details really fuzzy so they apply to everyone.”

  “Anyway,” Edward went on, “I dreamt I was driving alone at night in the country; I think it was the marshlands right outside of town. The night was very dark, with no stars, and I felt confused. Suddenly I didn’t know where I was, and I was running low on gas. I felt myself gripping the steering wheel very tightly”— he demonstrated by clenching his fingers into fists—“and I was having trouble controlling the car. It seemed to have a life of its own, and it was swerving all over the road.”

  “I had a dream just like that last week,” Dorien whispered. When Edward glanced up, she quickly apologized. “Please go on. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Edward nodded, his face tense. “I was going faster and faster. I felt like things were spinning out of control.” He stopped and heaved a sigh. “Then suddenly the road changed into a train track.” He shook his head, puzzled. “I don’t know how that happened, but I was driving down the railway tracks in the pitch dark and the car was bouncing from side to side off the rails. I tried to get ahold of myself, and then I saw that the track was going to end in just a few yards. Somehow I knew there was a cliff ahead and the car was going to go right over it.” His voice was low and hushed and he looked around the group.

  “Good heavens,” Minerva murmured. “What did you do?”

  “I tried to slam on the brakes, but they weren’t working. Nothing in the car worked; it was out of my control. I was trapped. I knew I was going to die.” There was dead silence in the room. All of us were caught up in his story.

  “The car kept on speeding down the tracks, and the drop-off was getting closer and clo
ser. I knew I’d be a goner any second because the car was going to plummet over the cliff. It was inevitable. I tried to prepare myself for the end, and then, to my horror, I realized I wasn’t alone in the car.”

  “You weren’t alone?” I said, my breath catching in my throat.

  “My nephew William was strapped into his car seat right next to me.”

  “Oh no!” Rose said, her hand flying to her mouth. “That poor little child.”

  Edward nodded solemnly. “Something terrible was going to happen to him, and there was no way I could save him.”

  He rested his fingertips on his forehead and hung his head. He had described the dream so vividly, all of us had been affected. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath and let out a little puff of air.

  “That must have been horrible for you,” I said when the silence had gone on for a while. “It sounds absolutely terrifying, Edward.”

  “Yes, it was,” he admitted, looking up at me. “It’s gotten so I’m afraid to go to sleep at night.”

  “Because you wonder if you’ll have that dream again,” Sybil ventured.

  “That’s it.” He rubbed his hands together as if he needed to restore the circulation. “I don’t think I could face it again. I had chest pains when I woke up.”

  “Chest pains? Edward, that’s awful,” Persia blurted out. “You need to tell your doctor about this. Please don’t delay; it could be something serious.”

  Edward gave her a wan smile. “I think I was just stressed out from the dream. And from some other things going on in my life,” he said cryptically. “I don’t hold much stock in doctors,” he said. “I try to eat right and I walk five miles every day. And I take my vitamins. I’m a tough old bird, you see.”

  “That’s all well and good,” Minerva spoke up, “but you still might need to be evaluated and maybe have some cardiac tests done. Better safe than sorry. Right, Rose?” she said, turning to her sister.

  “Right,” Rose agreed. “I used to get nightmares all the time, and it turned out that I had an arrhythmia.”

  “That’s an irregular heartbeat,” Minerva explained.

  “It’s like the chicken-and-egg question,” Rose went on. “When my heart goes into a crazy rhythm in my sleep, my body knows something is wrong and my mind conjures up a dream to make sense of it. The doctor told me this might be the source of my nightmares. I can wake up with my heart pounding for no reason at all. I’m not stressed out or worried about anything, it just happens.” Rose looked around the group and folded her hands in her lap. “I have to turn on the light and read for a little while to distract myself and calm down. Then I can go back to sleep and have a peaceful night.”

  “I think my situation is different,” Edward said doubtfully. “Everyone in my family has good strong hearts. I think these nightmares I’m having are all in my head. I’m letting myself get all upset about something I have no control over.” He hesitated and I wondered if he was going to say more, but then he sat back and folded his arms over his chest. He wasn’t ready to divulge what was troubling him. We’d just have to be patient and hope he’d decide to share it with us.

  “I still think you should go for a complete checkup,” Persia said.

  “This little nephew who was sitting beside you,” Sybil asked, “is this someone who is a big part of your life? You know, Edward, in dreams, one character is sometimes substituted for another. Your dream character might represent a particular quality in someone you know. For example, if you’re dreaming of a baby, you might really be thinking of someone who’s helpless and vulnerable. Your subconscious translates that person into a baby or a small child in your dream.” She smiled. “Another possibility is that you really do have a nephew who’s an infant and you’re concerned about him.”

  Edward was listening carefully and nodding. “That’s interesting. Well, I can tell you this much: my nephew William is all grown up now, but yes, he’s definitely important to me.” A smile crossed his weathered face.

  “Does he live here in Savannah?” I wanted to keep Edward talking and keep the thread of the conversation going. Edward rarely opens up, and this might be the perfect time to get to know him a little better.

  “He went to college here in Savannah,” Edward said, “and then he went off to do other things.”

  He gave an abrupt nod of his head as if punctuating his thought. I had no idea what the “other things” referred to, and I was pretty sure Edward wasn’t going to enlighten me.

  It seemed this would be a good time to end the meeting, and Edward surprised me by asking if anyone would like to borrow his dream book. Lucinda enthusiastically said she would, and Edward handed it to her. I figured this was a very good sign. Up until that point, I wasn’t really sure if Edward was planning on staying with the group.

  “Is it all right if I stop by tomorrow morning?” Lucinda asked me as she as she was leaving. “I’m going to be over this way and I’d like to drop off the yearbook.”

  “Of course,” Ali told her. “We’re going to be up at the crack of dawn.”

  “We are?” I said archly.

  “Cooking classes,” Ali said brightly. “We need to get started on them.” When Lucinda gave her a blank look, she added, “It’s a new project we’re trying out; it’s still in the planning stage. Don’t worry, we’ll tell you all about it when we have the kinks worked out. We’ll be featuring cupcakes from Sonia’s latest book.”

  “I can be here at nine tomorrow morning, if that’s not too early?” Lucinda said timidly.

  “That’s perfect,” I said. “We’re experimenting with the recipe I found online for donut cupcakes, and you can be the first person to try them.”

  “Donut cupcakes? They sound delicious,” Minerva piped up. “Would it be inconvenient if Rose and I stopped by, too? I need some candies and cupcakes for my bridge club.”

  “The more, the merrier,” Ali said gaily. “The coffee will be on and the cupcakes will be fresh out of the oven.”

  “Sounds heavenly,” I heard Rose murmur to Minerva as they headed out the door.

  • • •

  “Do these seem a little heavy to you?” I asked Ali the next morning. It was eight thirty and I’d just slid the first pan of donut cupcakes out of the oven. We’d experimented with two different recipes, trying to get exactly the right texture and topping. I knew our beta tasters would let me know if we’d succeeded.

  “They look delicious,” Ali said, admiring the streusel-topped creations I’d put on the cooling rack. “They don’t seem heavy at all,” she said, lifting one up and inspecting it. “They smell delicious and they don’t need frosting with that yummy streusel topping. You know, these would be easy to pack and ship to our distance customers.” She gave a rueful smile. “That is, if we ever have any. The way things are going with the shop, we may need to set our sights on a national customer base.”

  Ali and I have been toying with the idea of creating a mail-order business so we could ship our baked goods all over the country. It’s an exciting concept, but somehow we’ve never had the time to go over the logistics. Was it realistic or just a dream? I needed to take a cold, hard look at it from a business point of view before we got too involved. I wasn’t really sure how our pastries would hold up in the mail. We use fresh ingredients in our baked goods, with no trace of additives or preservatives. How long would they stay fresh and tasty? This was going to take some serious thought.

  “All in good time,” I told her. “Besides, once Sonia’s murder is solved, this cloud over the shop will disappear.”

  Lucinda arrived at nine o’clock on the dot, with the Harper sisters right behind her. After we were settled at the kitchen table, Lucinda pulled out the Academy yearbook, her eyes sparkling with excitement. “I found a few photos that you might find interesting. We could start with Trudy’s senior picture.” She placed the book in the center of
the table and we all leaned forward to take a look.

  “Trudy Carpenter,” Minerva said. “She looks sort of quiet and subdued, doesn’t she?” She pointed to a picture of solemn-looking girl with pale skin and long red hair. In this picture, Trudy was about five years older than she’d been in the photo in Clare’s locket, but the high cheekbones and the wide, expressive eyes were the same. Once again, the resemblance to Sonia was striking.

  “Yes, she was rather quiet,” Lucinda agreed. “And she kept to herself. If you look at her activities, you’ll see that she wasn’t really involved with her classmates. See, nothing is listed under her name. No band, no Spanish club, no volleyball.”

  “Maybe she wasn’t much of a joiner,” Ali pointed out. “Some people enjoy spending their free time alone.” She glanced at me and I nodded. I remember that Ali hadn’t joined any clubs in high school and college, preferring to take long walks in the woods or curl up with a novel in front of the fire.

  “She was in AP English,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, and I almost forgot to show you that poem she wrote.” She dug into her bag and pulled out a couple of handwritten pages on lined paper. “She was quite creative. I don’t know why I saved it, but something in it just touched me.”

  I unfolded the pages and began to read. The poem sounded like it was written by an unhappy teen, full of angst and drama, secret sorrow and broken promises. “It seems like she was going through a bad time,” I said quietly. “She mentions betrayal. Did something happen in her senior year?”

  “Not that I know of,” Lucinda said. “Come to think of it, she did seem more withdrawn that year. Maybe it was just the idea of graduating and going on to the next stage of her life. All of her classmates were preparing for college, and it seemed Trudy had no plans at all. She might have lost her way. I was never sure why.”