by Mary Kennedy
“Not necessarily. He’s one of the best lawyers in town, and he has the reputation of holding his cards close to his vest. People may not like him, but they respect him.”
“Osteroff isn’t all bad,” Ali piped up. “He likes horses.”
Noah laughed. “Well, then he does have some redeeming features. How did he happen to mention horses?” I explained that his trophy wife raised what looked like Arabian horses and Osteroff seemed to have a soft spot for them. “Any leads on the mystery houseguest?”
“Not a word. All the Harper sisters could tell us was she’s called Sophie Stanton and she popped up out of nowhere. I’m not even sure what the relationship is to Abigail. Abigail did tell Minerva once about a long-standing family feud and it seems the European relatives were estranged from the Americans for quite some time. Maybe even decades.”
“Don’t you think it’s odd that she suddenly turned up now?” Noah asked.
“Very,” I replied. “I’m not really sure what to make of it. We asked Osteroff about her, but he denied even knowing her. He pretended he didn’t know what we were talking about. Now that Abigail is gone, I don’t think anyone in town would even recognize her. Is there any way you could check her out for us?”
“I could run her name through a couple of databases,” Noah offered, “but unless she has a driver’s license or something to connect her to Savannah, I don’t know what I’ll find. She may not even be using her real name. Sophie Stanton, you said?”
“Yes. I’ll double-check with the Harper sisters tonight. I wonder if Stanton is her maiden name or her married name. I guess we could start there.”
“And she came over from Europe?”
“South of France, I believe.” I closed my eyes for a moment and leaned back, enjoying the warm sunshine on my face. It was so calm and peaceful with the gurgling fountain and the songbirds in the magnolia trees. If I’d been sitting here alone, I think I would have dozed off. Instead I sat up, blinked a couple of times, and blew out a little puff of air, determined to shake off my fatigue. We were smack in the middle of a murder investigation, and I had to stay focused.
“Then she must have a passport,” Noah said. “I’ve got some friends over at the State Department. I can ask someone in the Bureau of Consular Affairs to check it out for us.” Noah has a strong network of friends in high places, and I’m always impressed by his ability to access information so swiftly.
“Let’s recap,” he continued. “Did anyone ever meet Nicky Dargos, Lucy’s son?”
I shook my head. “He was out when I called at Beaux Reves, and he wasn’t around the day we had lunch there. I can ask the Harper sisters if they’ve met him, but I doubt it. I think they would have mentioned it.”
“And no one’s met this Angus fellow, the grad student.”
“No, and I’m really eager to talk to him.” I thought fast, remembering I’d asked Lucy if he might like to take a look at some of our basement “finds.” “Lucy wasn’t too keen on my meeting him even when I told her I’d pay him to appraise some china we’d found in the basement of the shop.”
“What china?” Ali said, feeding the last of the bread to the robin.
“There isn’t any. I just said that to get my foot in the door with him.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” Noah said, and there was a look of admiration on his face. “Good thinking, Taylor. I’d do it sooner rather than later, if you can swing it. Don’t wait for Lucy to set up a meeting; do it yourself.”
“I don’t have any contact information,” I said doubtfully.
“He must have a cell phone,” Noah said, pulling out a tablet. “Angus Morton?” I nodded and his fingers raced over the screen. “Got it,” he said a moment later and turned to me. “I texted it to you.”
“What if he asks me how I got his phone number?”
“You’ll think of something; you’re creative.” He stood up, finished up the last of his lemonade. “So do we have a plan?”
“We do,” I agreed. “I need some face time with Nicky Dargos and Angus Morton.”
“And I’m going to find out some more about this mysterious relative, Sophie Stanton,” Noah said. “Is she really a long-lost relative, or is she a scam artist?”
“She’s out of town at the moment, according to the housekeeper, but I suppose she’ll have to come back eventually.” I paused. “I wonder why she didn’t come rushing back the moment she realized Abigail had died. It makes me think they weren’t that close, after all. The whole situation is strange.”
“She’ll have to return to Savannah at some point. We’ll probably meet her at Abigail’s funeral,” Ali said. “If she’s really a relative and she’s staying at Beaux Reves, it would look pretty odd if she didn’t show up.”
“It would definitely raise some eyebrows. I can’t wait to have a chat with her,” Noah said, his eyes darkening.
* * *
“My dream was very strange. I felt like I was trapped in an Agatha Christie novel.” Minerva paused to take a tiny bite of an éclair. Chocolate éclairs are a new item on the café menu, and I wondered how they would hold up in the refrigerator overnight. The pastry was so thin and flaky that we might have to make them fresh each day.
I turned my attention back to Minerva. The Dream Club was in session, again; we needed to meet daily to keep up with all the new developments in the case. Minerva had asked to go first that evening. The summer heat was still bearing down on us, even though the sun had set, and I’d made extra pitchers of sweet tea to serve with the brownies and éclairs.
“An Agatha Christie novel? It sounds like fun. Which one was it?” Persia jumped in. Persia is a great Agatha Christie fan and is something of an expert on the famous mystery writer.
“And Then There Were None,” Minerva replied. “Her most popular book, I believe.”
“I read that book. She said it was the most difficult book of her career,” Ali said softly. “Interesting that you would think of that, Minerva. I wonder what the significance could be?”
“Yes, but what’s the connection with the dream?” Dorien asked. “Do you mean someone mentioned the book in your dream, or—”
“No, no one mentioned it,” Minerva said firmly. “But the name of the book just flew through my mind. In my dream, I was saying it over and over to myself, under my breath, like a mantra.”
“It sounds odd and a little sinister,” Sybil offered. “What was the mood of the dream? Did you have a sense of foreboding?” I’d learned from Ali that it’s best to focus on the emotional content of the dream. It’s more reliable than the actual details. When someone in the Dream Club recounts a dream, I listen very carefully for any underlying emotions—desire, fear, anxiety, or happiness.
“Yes, a very strong sense of foreboding,” Minerva continued. Her voice wobbled a little, and she gave a nervous laugh, touching her throat. “It’s odd, but the feeling is still with me. I felt that something dreadful was going to happen from the moment I pulled open these giant oak doors. They looked almost medieval, with black hardware, the kind of door you would see in a castle with a moat. I stepped inside and found myself standing in a great hall with dark wood paneling and high ceilings. A very fancy floor, some sort of mosaic tile.”
“It sounds like a museum,” Lucinda said under her breath. I glanced at her and wondered if she was thinking of a particular building in Savannah.
“I was surrounded by a circle of women, and there was a lively conversation going on. I didn’t recognize anyone in the group, and I was wondering how I should introduce myself”—she paused dramatically—“when it happened.”
“When what happened?” Sybil asked.
“The women started disappearing,” Minerva said breathlessly. “One by one.”
“What do you mean ‘disappearing’?” Dorien’s tone was brusque. She picked up an éclair with her napkin, scrutinized i
t as though she were examining a counterfeit bill, and then replaced it on the serving tray. Dorien is persnickety about everything, especially food. She’s struggling to make a living from her catering business, and I sometimes wonder if she’s jealous of our success with our little café downstairs.
“I can’t explain it,” Minerva said, “but I knew the women were dying off. One by one, their images would grow fainter; each woman would turn into a shadow and then she would disappear completely.”
“Did the women speak to you?” Persia asked. “Did any of them reach out to you for help?”
“Not a word. And no one made a move toward me. I’m not even sure they realized I was there.” Minerva hesitated. “I had the sense that all this had taken place a long time ago. There was nothing I could do in the present to help them. It seemed sad but inevitable.” She turned to Ali. “Does this make sense to you?”
“Yes, it does,” Ali said in a gentle voice. “Time and space have no meaning in dreams, so we can easily visit a scene from the past. Somehow we know it’s the past even though no one spells it out for us. There’s a sense of distance, as if what we’re seeing and experiencing took place in another time.”
“These women,” Ali asked, “how were they dressed?”
“Oh, they were very well dressed, in bright colors and heels. They looked like socialites.”
“Socialites?” Dorien snorted. She has had a hardscrabble life, and she often makes jabs at anyone she considers to be in a higher social class. “You mean a bunch of stuck-up snobs?”
Minerva shook her head. “No, that’s not what I mean at all. They were dressed the way people used to dress for cocktail parties.”
“No one really dresses up much anymore,” her sister Rose chimed in. “Just last month, I saw someone wearing jeans to a concert at the Savannah Philharmonic. Can you imagine? And the jeans looked like they were spray-painted on her. She was wearing a blazer over them, but still, in my day, we were taught to dress for the occasion. My mother would have had a conniption if I’d gone to a symphony dressed like that. I would have been grounded for weeks.”
“We were raised in a different time, my dear,” Minerva said, reaching over to pat her hand.
“Who has an interpretation for Minerva?” Ali asked brightly. I wondered who would speak up; this was one of the most difficult dreams we’d been called on to analyze. I was completely stumped and didn’t have anything to contribute.
“Are you sure you’re not leaving something out?” Dorien asked bluntly. I wished she hadn’t worded it quite that way, but Dorien is not known for her tact. Minerva is forgetful, and we all knew she may have omitted a key element, but I would have said it more gently.
“Just one other thing,” Minerva said. “There was a little gold box in the dream. It looked like it might be something you keep jewelry in. It was sitting on a pedestal table. From time to time, the women would glance over at it, and I wondered what it contained.”
“Minerva,” I said suddenly. “You said that you kept thinking of the title of the Agatha Christie novel, And Then There Were None. That must be related to the dream in some way. Did all the women really disappear?”
Minerva smiled. “Not quite. At the end of the dream, there was one woman left in the circle. She walked right past me as if I was invisible and picked up the gold box. She smiled as she lifted the lid . . .”
“Yes,” Lucinda said breathlessly. “And then . . .”
“And then I woke up.” Minerva gave an apologetic smile. “So now I’ll never know what would have happened next.”
“And neither will we.” Dorien snorted.
“You might be able to return to the dream some night, if you concentrate hard enough,” Sybil suggested.
Minerva shook her head. “I know some people can do that, but I’ve never been able to.” She made a little fluttery motion with her hands. “I wish I could give you more to go on, but that’s all I have.”
We were all silent for a moment, and Ali pulled Barney onto her lap. The gray tabby had been circling the coffee table even though he knows he’s not allowed to sample—or even sniff—the goodies. He immediately started purring and pushed himself against her. His calico companion, Scout, was snoozing on the windowsill.
“I have to admit, I’m stumped,” Etta Mae said. “I’m new to this whole dream interpretation thing, and I’m just not getting anything from this one. Were the women real or were they supposed to be ghosts? Maybe they were murdered,” she said uncertainly. “But I guess that doesn’t make sense, either.”
“I’m not sure,” Minerva said, giving a little shrug. “I just know that I felt helpless standing there, as if I were watching a scene from the past. It had this awful sense of inevitability, and I knew there was nothing I could do to change the outcome.” She paused and the room was very still. “I think all the women were dead.”
“You mean all except the very last one, holding the gold box,” Rose offered.
Minerva nodded. “Yes, you’re right, my dear. All except one.”
8
A few people asked Minerva more questions about the dream, but after a little while, it was obvious that we weren’t going to come up with any useful interpretations. Minerva couldn’t think of anything in her everyday life that would prompt such a dream, and her sister Rose couldn’t add anything to the discussion. Everyone was baffled.
We decided to move on and tackle Lucinda Macavy’s dream. “I was standing at the Savannah port,” she began, “and I met a woman carrying a suitcase. It was an old-fashioned suitcase, not like the modern ones with wheels. This was a beat-up tan leather suitcase, and it had decals stuck all over it. It looked like the handle was half off and she was struggling to carry it.”
“Decals?” Persia asked. “What do you mean?”
“Travel decals. I guess they were all places the woman had traveled to.” She shrugged. “I think people used to do that. In the old days, travel was a big thing. It wasn’t as commonplace as it is today.”
“I remember that from my grandmother’s day,” Sybil offered. “Was the dream set in the past?”
“Oh no, it was in the present day,” Lucinda said. “I’m sure of that because I was standing outside the Riverfront Café. I recognized the umbrella tables.” She paused as Ali passed the éclairs. “The woman greeted me, said she was new to Savannah. She added that she could really use a friend.”
“A stranger comes up to you on the docks and says she really needs a friend?” Dorien gave a harsh laugh. “That would be enough to make me suspicious right off the bat. I bet she wanted to steal something or involve you in some scam.”
“Not necessarily,” Etta Mae jumped in. “Lots of Southern folks are friendly, you know. My aunt Tillie was like that. She liked to say that she never met a stranger. If you stopped by her house, you were invited in for sweet tea and cookies, whether she knew you or not.”
“My grandmother was the same way,” Persia exclaimed. “She invited perfect strangers for Thanksgiving dinner with her because she couldn’t stand the thought of them eating alone.”
I exchanged a look with Ali. Things were getting off track, but I knew Ali could rein the discussion back in. When you have a small group of friends meeting every week in a Dream Club, it’s very tempting to slide off topic and just chat. It’s Ali’s job to make sure that doesn’t happen.
“But getting back to your dream, Lucinda,” Ali said gently.
“Oh yes, the dream.” Lucinda reached for a coaster and carefully set her sweet tea on it. “I didn’t really know what to make of it. After she said she needed a friend, she just stared out into the water. She was talking under her breath, but her words weren’t really directed at me. It was as though she was talking to herself.”
“Did you recognize anything she was saying?” Rose Harper asked.
“I think they were Bible verses,” Lucind
a replied. “One was ‘The last shall be first and the first, last.’”
“What in the world does that mean?” Etta Mae asked.
Lucinda shook her head. “I have no idea. And she said something else, ‘Many are called but few are chosen.’” She looked around the group. “Does anyone have any ideas?”
“Tell us a bit more. What did she look like and how old was she?” Persia asked.
“Youngish, I’d say midthirties. Quite attractive with blue eyes and strawberry blond hair. I suppose you’d say she was a ‘looker.’ She certainly attracted some male attention as she strolled along with her suitcase.”
“I’m afraid I’m drawing a blank,” I said after a couple of minutes. “I can’t come up with anything.”
The woman in the dream didn’t resemble Desiree, who was spotted in a white silk slip dress, swinging her high heels with one hand. And I had no idea what the suitcase signified. It sounded like something from years gone by. I was interested in the quote about a few being “chosen.” What were they chosen for? A political office? A club? None of it made sense to me.
After a few more desultory comments, Sybil offered one of her dream-hopping episodes. She had traveled back in history and found herself in a gorgeous early nineteenth–century mansion, Château Malmaison in Paris. “It was fascinating,” she began. “You probably remember that Josephine built the place for herself and Napoleon. She assumed he would be delighted, but at first he was quite angry with her. He was outraged at the expense.”
“Just like a man,” Dorien sniped.
Sybil ignored her and went on, her eyes sparkling. “Josephine was sleeping in this enormous bed with an elaborate headboard, dreaming about the improvements she was going to make to the mansion. It was quite run-down when she bought it. She was going to add formal gardens and a greenhouse with hundreds of pineapple plants. Pineapples were practically unknown in Europe at that time and were considered exotic. Wealthy people used to serve them for dessert.”
