by Mary Kennedy
Right now, our first priority was Desiree’s bedroom. Even though I’m left-brained, I had the gut feeling that the key to Abigail’s death was somehow linked to Desiree’s murder all those years ago.
The room was “girly,” with its sunny yellow walls and charming white pointelle bedspread embroidered with daisies. I ran my hand lightly over the spread, admiring the fine handiwork. There was nothing out of place. Either Desiree was a compulsive neat freak, or Abigail had ordered the room tidied up after her death. It seemed more like a guest room than a bedroom belonging to a family member. There were few personal items in sight. A skirted vanity table held a silver comb-and-brush set, a small jewelry box, and what looked like an antique pedestal mirror.
“Empty,” Ali said, pulling open a drawer under the vanity top. “Not even a lipstick. And someone has cleaned out the jewelry box. It’s odd, isn’t it?” She stood up, placing her hands on her hips. I had the feeling the closet and bureau drawers would also be empty. My optimism was quickly evaporating.
“It’s very strange. I thought Lucy said the room was kept exactly as it was when Desiree was alive. Someone has obviously gotten rid of her clothes and all her personal effects.” And this could have happened in the past few days, since Abigail’s death, but we had no way of knowing.
“Why would Lucy lie about something like this?” Ali asked.
“Who knows? Maybe she never thought we’d check. Or maybe someone raided the room in the past few days.” I paused. “Someone Lucy might be protecting.”
“Nicky,” Ali said. She raised her eyebrows. “That would explain a lot. And it’s not just valuables that are missing. What about photographs and keepsakes?” She lifted down a lovely hand-painted box from a shelf. “This might be promising. It looks like the kind of box you’d use to store letters.” She lifted the lid and showed me the contents. “Empty. I’m afraid we’ve struck out again.”
“Try the closet, and I’ll check the nightstands,” I suggested. Matching walnut nightstands were on either side of the bed. “Not a thing,” I muttered a moment later. Could Lucy have removed everything from the room when Norman Osteroff had called to instruct her to give us free access to the house? Or had Nicky cleaned it out after Abigail’s death?
Ali frowned as she flung open the closet doors. “Nothing here. At least nothing interesting.” She pulled out a silk Japanese-style dressing gown, splashed with pink and magenta on a midnight blue background, and laid it carefully on the bed to inspect it. “Nothing in the pockets.”
“What do you suppose has happened to her jewelry?” I asked. “That’s what I can’t understand. Remember that newspaper clipping Minerva showed us? Desiree was wearing some pretty serious bling when she was photographed for the society section.”
I nodded. “I remember. It was probably worth a small fortune. Do you suppose Abigail has the jewelry stashed in a safe somewhere? After all, there are strangers in the house this summer, and maybe she didn’t completely trust Angus or Sophie Stanton.”
“That’s a good point.” I sat on the edge of the bed to think. “Abigail could have the jewelry tucked away somewhere, and she could have given Desiree’s clothes to charity. And any odds and ends or makeup or perfume”—I glanced at the pristine vanity table—“might have just been thrown out.” There was one empty perfume atomizer on the table, and it looked elegant, made of gold filigree in classic Art Deco style.
“So that would account for the clothes and jewelry. That still doesn’t explain the lack of personal items. Letters, souvenirs, photographs. Maybe even a diary.”
“You’re right.” I stared at the paintings on the wall. A selection of pastels and watercolors, mostly pastoral scenes and a couple of seascapes. A field of flowers and a small painting of Beaux Reves, with the shutters thrown open to catch the sunlight. It reminded me of the one I’d seen in Osteroff’s office. I didn’t know enough about art to know if the paintings were valuable, and I snapped a few pictures with my phone. We might be able to check them against the inventory or show them to Gideon and Andre.
“I don’t see anything else to look at here,” Ali said. She glanced at her watch. “Do you?”
“Probably not.” I hesitated. “There’s just one thing. That painting on the far wall. It seems out of place, doesn’t it?” I pointed to a small painting of an Egyptian pyramid. It was in bold tones of sand and copper, a desert scene. “It doesn’t look at all like the other paintings; it’s not in the same style and the colors are all wrong.”
“Maybe Desiree was sick of flowers and sailboats,” Ali said.
“Or maybe it’s here for a reason.” I thought of the poem, “Ozymandias,” that Abigail had included in her memorial service. I remembered thinking at the time that it was an odd choice. Was Abigail trying to tell us something? She obviously had her suspicions or she wouldn’t have told Osteroff that she wanted us to check the inventory at the mansion.
It sounded like she didn’t trust Lucy. Or Osteroff. Or Angus. And she certainly didn’t trust Nicky Dargos.
“‘Ozymandias,’” Ali said softly. “That was another name for an Egyptian pharaoh, Ramesses II. And that painting is set in the Egyptian desert, so . . .”
I sprang off the bed and raced to the painting. I tried to lift if off the wall, and nothing happened. “It’s stuck to the wall. Something’s wrong. It’s practically welded in place.”
“Wait, I see a tiny medallion on the bottom of the frame. Try pressing that.” Ali’s eyes were glowing with excitement. I touched the medallion, and the frame swung open, revealing a square niche in the wall. It was about a foot wide, a foot high, and pitch-black inside.
“Bingo,” I said. “How did you think of that?”
“The tomb scene from Raiders of the Lost Ark.” She grinned and then suddenly raised her finger to her lips, her gaze drifting to the open doorway. “Shh!” My hand froze in midair at the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Lucy was trudging up the steps, singing softly in Spanish. “Quick,” Ali urged.
I reached inside, my heart thumping so loudly I was sure it could be heard two rooms away. The niche held a collection of papers, and I grabbed the first one I could reach and jammed it into my pocket. I closed the door to the portal just as Lucy passed by in the hallway. She was armed with a hand vacuum and the boom box, and apparently was in the midst of cleaning.
“Everything okay in here?” Her tone was cheerful, and if she was suspicious, she was covering it well.
“It’s fine,” I said, forcing a smile. “We just finished up, and we’re going to meet some friends for lunch. We’ll be back tomorrow morning if that’s okay.”
“Yes, sure,” she said. “I know you have a job to do.”
She sounded so pleasant I wondered if I’d been wrong to suspect her of anything. She didn’t have any motive to murder Abigail, unless her son, Nicky, really was helping himself to treasures from Beaux Reves. If Abigail had found out and threatened to go to the police, I could imagine Lucy doing anything in her power to stop her.
And there was that pesky issue of the thirty million dollars’ inheritance. Unless Abigail had changed her will—which we wouldn’t know until the reading next week—Lucy stood to inherit a fortune. A million dollars for every year she’d spent working at Beaux Reves. Abigail was in good health and could have lived for a long time. Had Lucy become impatient for the big payoff?
Lucy continued down the hall, and Ali let out a deep whoosh of air as if she’d been holding her breath. “Wow, that was close,” she said in a breathy voice. “What do you have there?” she said, eyeing my pocket.
“Let’s wait till we’re outside to look,” I told her, making tracks for the stairs. I barely stepped into the bright Savannah sunshine before pulling a creased piece of paper from my pocket. “It’s written to Desiree,” I said to Ali as we stood on the portico. “It looks like a love letter.”
“A love letter
?” She peered over my shoulder. “‘My darling Desiree, I can hardly wait to see you tonight. You are the light of my life. Sending you a gardenia to wear in your hair. Hoping they’ll play our song and I can take you in my arms. Your conquering hero.’”
“I don’t know what to make of it, do you?” I folded the letter carefully and placed it in my purse.
“A gardenia,” she said slowly. “Wasn’t Desiree wearing a white flower in her hair in that clipping from the society column? It could have been a gardenia.”
I thought back to the faded clipping that the Harper sisters had given us. “She was wearing a flower, yes. I’d like to look at that picture again—” I stopped talking when I heard a door slam and then voices at the side of the house. Raised voices, and one of them was Lucy’s. Lucy must have slipped down the back staircase, because it sounded as though she was standing outside, at the edge of the patio, arguing with someone. Ali and I edged closer.
“You know what you have to do.” Lucy’s voice was tight with anger. “Don’t come whining to me. You got yourself into this mess, and now you’ll have to sell it. That’s the only thing you can do. See how much they’ll give you for it. Maybe it’s worth big bucks; maybe it’s a fake.”
“Easy for you to say,” a man’s voice retorted. “You win either way.” He gave a derisive snort. “Come next week, you’ll probably be thirty million dollars richer.”
“That’s if she didn’t change her will,” Lucy said coldly. “Anything could happen. I gave thirty years of my life to this place, and I could be out in the cold with you.”
“What do you mean, out in the cold with me? Did she cut me out of the will?”
“Who knows?” She gave a harsh laugh. “Why should you get any money? Maybe she wanted to teach you a lesson. She knew you gambled your paycheck away. She told me one time she didn’t want to throw good money after bad.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” the man said with a snort. “I’m going into town.”
“Jeb,” she called after him, “get me a charger for my iPod. Nicky never got around to it.”
“If I have time,” he muttered.
Footsteps were heading toward the end of the portico, and Ali and I flattened ourselves against the stucco wall as a man rushed by. Jeb Arnold, the estate manager. We waited until he got into his Jeep and then made our way down the driveway. Lucy had advised him to sell something. But what?
“Jeb Arnold,” Ali said thoughtfully. “I wonder how he fits into all this. Did you know he had a gambling problem?”
I nodded. “Nicky Dargos made some crack about him playing the ponies when we were sitting in the kitchen for breakfast.” She looked surprised and I added, “You were playing up to Angus and probably didn’t hear it.”
“I didn’t,” she admitted. “How does all this fit together?”
“I’m not sure. Let’s hope our friends can help us.”
* * *
We zipped into Marcelo’s at two o’clock sharp and spotted Sara and Noah talking animatedly at a booth in the back. Business was bustling at the popular Italian eatery, and delicious smells were wafting in the air. A server hurried by balancing steaming plates of ravioli, and I nearly cried with joy. The rich tomato aroma mingled with the scent of fresh basil, and I could almost taste the crusty Italian herb bread, fresh out of the oven.
“Are we late?” Ali said, slipping into the booth on Sara’s side. That left me free to squeeze in next to Noah, and I had to admit, I liked the idea. Noah smiled at me as I settled in, and his eyes skimmed appreciatively over my outfit. I’d dressed carefully in a gauzy peasant top in ocean colors and white linen pants. I’d added espadrilles and silver hoop earrings, casual but a lot dressier than my usual workday attire at the shop.
I have no idea where our relationship is headed, but I always seem to dress up a little when I think I may be seeing him. I wasn’t even aware I was doing this, but Ali pointed it out to me. Sisters know all our secrets, even the ones we don’t know ourselves.
“Very nice,” he murmured under his breath.
“Let’s order,” Sara said. “I’m starved.” The server appeared as if by magic and we all made the same choice—ravioli with marinara sauce and iced tea. Sara looked at me and raised her eyebrows. “You’re not going to make her take the bread away, are you?”
“No, I couldn’t be that cruel,” I teased her, reaching for a piece of the crusty loaf. “I know how much you love homemade bread.”
Noah quirked an eyebrow. “I never know when Taylor is going on one of her no-carb kicks,” Sara explained. “She’ll send the bread basket back to the kitchen unless I watch her like a hawk.”
“A no-carb kick?” Noah asked. He looked genuinely puzzled.
“Please, no diet talk,” I urged. “We have to get right to work.”
“Where do things stand with your inventory at Beaux Reves?” Sara asked. I’d texted her that morning to tell her about Abigail’s surprising request and explained that we’d be spending the morning at the mansion.
“We’re just scratching the surface,” I told her. “We started with Desiree’s room, and guess what we found?” I pulled the letter out of my purse and Sara scanned it before passing it to Noah. “It was hidden in a niche in the wall behind a painting.” It suddenly occurred to me how lucky we’d been. If I hadn’t spotted that Egyptian painting and remembered the poem at Abigail’s memorial service, we’d never have come across the letter.
“This is fantastic,” Sara said softly. “I bet it was written by her beau, her escort to that fancy ball. He mentions ‘our song,’ and he wants to take her in his arms.” She gave a little sigh. “This is so romantic.”
“This needs to go to the police,” Noah said with a frown. “Do you want me to drop it off for you? I’m going to the precinct right after lunch.”
“Thanks.” I passed back the note, and he carefully tucked it into a little evidence bag. “I’ll be interested to see what Sam thinks about it. She told me she’s coming to the Dream Club meeting.”
Noah shot me a level gaze. “The police said they went through the house with a fine-tooth comb, but apparently it wasn’t fine enough. You found something the cops missed. If I know Sam, heads will roll. She’s not a fan of sloppy police work.”
Noah knows our friend Detective Sam Stiles from the Dream Club, and his nephew, Chris, is a rookie officer on the force and reports to her. Sam has the reputation of being a tough, no-nonsense detective who has no patience for slackers and doesn’t tolerate mistakes.
She’s something of a skeptic about dream interpretation, but attends the meetings when she can. She initially showed up because of her friendship with Dorien Myers, the rather caustic longtime group member who fancies herself a psychic.
“But Beaux Reves is huge and there’s a lot to look at,” Ali said. I knew Ali would step in to defend the police; she can’t stand to see anyone criticized. I’m not as forgiving as she is, but I think this time she was right. Beaux Reves is overwhelming. No police department would have the resources to go over every room. And in the early days, it wasn’t even clear if a crime had been committed. The first responders assumed it had been an unfortunate accident and that Abigail had taken a fatal tumble down the stairs.
“It was just sheer luck that Taylor spotted that painting,” Ali went on, “and it reminded her of the poem at Abigail’s memorial service. The police probably only spent a few minutes in Desiree’s room since there was no reason for them to turn the place inside out. No one uses it, and it looks almost like a hotel room. You’d never think there was anything valuable tucked away there.”
“What’s the significance of the gardenia in the note?” Sara asked.
“Maybe you could help us with that. Can you look in the archives and see if you can find the original photo?” I asked Sara. “The newspaper clipping from the Harper sisters was a bit faded. I’d like
to see if Desiree really was wearing a gardenia that night.”
“I can try to find the photo—no worries.” She whipped out her notepad and scribbled a few words. Even though Sara has every electronic gadget under the sun, she still prefers to take notes the old-fashioned way, with a ballpoint pen and a tiny notepad. “And I have a new lead,” she went on. “I came across the byline of a society reporter who retired a few years ago. Harriet Dobbs. She’s going to tell me what she recalls about the ball and the guests. She didn’t want to discuss it over the phone, so I’m planning to see her later this week.” She paused to nibble on a breadstick.
“Why wouldn’t she discuss it on the phone?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” Sara said. “Old-school, I guess. For all I know, she wants to talk off the record.”
“Do you think she has information that’s important to the case?”
Sara nodded. “I think she may know who Desiree was with that night. The more we know about Desiree’s last hours, the better.”
“We still think Desiree’s murder is connected with Abigail’s, don’t we?” Ali asked.
“This might be the break we need to connect the two cases.”
“It could be,” Noah said. “But we still don’t have a motive. I’ve been following up on Nicky Dargos, the housekeeper’s son, and Angus Morton.”
“Any surprises with either one of them?” Ali asked. “I had coffee with Angus this morning, and there’s something creepy about him.”
“No surprises, just what we already knew,” Noah offered. “Nicky has a record in juvie, and Angus has the reputation for being odd and a little standoffish.”
“Do you mean ‘odd’ as in dangerous, or just quirky?” Sara asked.
