by Mary Kennedy
“Just eccentric, not dangerous. A couple of people referred to him as ‘lacking social skills.’” Noah paused to signal the server for another bread basket and gave a broad wink to Ali. The two are coconspirators in my battle to resist carbs; they love to tempt me with bread, which is my downfall. As Oscar Wilde said, “I can resist anything except temptation.”
“That’s a good description.” I remembered how brusque Angus had been with me at breakfast the other day, although he’d certainly warmed up to Ali. “He was prowling around the halls when we started our inventory at the mansion this morning. He obviously wasn’t thrilled to see us, and he asked Lucy Dargos what we were doing there.” I paused as the server placed our salads in front of us. The house salad at Marcelo’s is a masterpiece with plump tomatoes, baby Bibb lettuce, artichoke hearts, and Parmesan croutons in a dressing made with olive oil, basil, and balsamic vinegar.
“That must have been awkward,” Sara said. “He probably realized Abigail was suspicious of him. Why else would she have you duplicate a job he’d already been hired to do?”
“It doesn’t really make sense,” I said, “unless Abigail knew that some items were missing. He definitely had his guard up. And I agree with Noah. There’s something a little off about Angus; he was sending out weird vibes today.”
“Do we know for sure things are missing from Beaux Reves?” Noah asked. “Or is it too early to tell?”
I quickly filled Noah and Sara in on the painting that the Harper sisters had shown us. “The painting appears in this book about the estate,” I told Sara. I patted my tote bag. “It’s a large landscape, a field of daisies, and it’s pictured hanging in the front hall. I brought the book along for you; Minerva and Rose thought you might be able to use it for your article.” I passed Sara the bag, and she peeked inside at the cover.
“It looks lovely. Be sure to thank them for me. But what’s the significance of the painting?” Sara asked.
“The book says it was hung in the front hall so visitors could admire it as soon as they walked in the door. It had a place of honor, and now it seems to have vanished. I can’t imagine Abigail ever selling it,” I added. “It was a gift from a great-aunt and had sentimental value, if nothing else.”
“Do we have any idea when it disappeared?” Noah asked.
“There’s no way to be sure, but Ali noticed it wasn’t hanging there when we had coffee in the kitchen the other day.” The two sailing paintings were squeezed together as if to fill a blank space on the wall.
“And this was after Abigail’s death,” Sara said thoughtfully.
“Exactly.” I sat back as the server placed a steaming dish of ravioli in front of me. I waited while she grated some Parmesan cheese on top, and then I sampled it. Perfection!
“What does the housekeeper say?” Noah asked.
“That it was sent out for cleaning.”
“Cleaning, really?” Noah shook his head. He obviously didn’t believe a word of it.
Ali nodded. “That’s her story and she’s sticking to it.”
18
“There’s something fishy going on. I’ve never heard of sending a painting out to be cleaned. An oil painting isn’t like a pair of pants.” Sara frowned before tucking into her lunch. “There must be some way of checking out her story.”
“Gideon,” I suggested. “He and Andre would know if paintings are cleaned, and maybe they can even help us find the shop.”
“We should have asked Lucy the name,” Ali said. “I didn’t even think of it, and she certainly wasn’t very forthcoming.”
“She probably wouldn’t have told you,” Sara said. “I bet the whole thing is a fabrication.”
I was sitting so close to Noah our thighs were practically touching, and he shot me a devilish grin as he inched a little closer. “Am I crowding you?” he said innocently. I’m sure he was enjoying the closeness as much as I was.
“Not at all,” I shot back. “I was just wondering what was in that manila envelope lying on the seat next to you.”
“Ah,” he said, lifting it up. “The crime scene photos. I got them from Sam Stiles last week.”
“Please don’t open them here,” Ali pleaded. “Just tell us what they reveal about her death.”
“Don’t worry, Ali. I’m going to give them to Taylor, and she can look at them later.” Noah paused as if wondering how much to say. He knows that Ali can’t bear to see or hear about anything violent. “Without going into detail,” he said finally, “I can tell you the photos and autopsy report are pretty conclusive. According to the coroner and the police, Abigail’s death was no accident. She was deliberately pushed down the stairs.”
“Just as we thought,” Ali said softly. Her eyes welled with tears, and I was glad Noah hadn’t opened the envelope. I’d look at the photos later today and give Ali a sanitized version of what had happened to poor Abigail.
I felt sad thinking about Abigail’s last moments. Had she recognized her attacker? It must have been so shocking to realize that her death would come at the hands of someone she knew and presumably trusted. It seemed certain that she had opened the door to her late-night visitor, so we had to assume it wasn’t a random act of violence.
Had she looked into her killer’s eyes as she was pushed down the stairs? Had she called out? I gave a little shudder, picturing the awful scene in my head. Wasn’t it suspicious that Sophie Stanton was supposed to be away for the night and Lucy Dargos claimed she didn’t hear a thing? How could anyone sleep that soundly? Her apartment is on the top floor of the mansion, but it still sounded odd to me.
“But there are a couple of other things,” Noah said. “Sam Stiles spotted something strange lying on the floor in one of the photos.”
“Something strange?” I asked.
“An object. It may have been accidentally kicked under a bookcase during the struggle.”
“What sort of object?” Ali asked in a tiny voice.
“I’m not sure. Sam asked the CSIs if they could enhance the photograph. It might be a piece of jewelry, I suppose. I had the impression it was a fragment of something.”
“Jewelry? Maybe an earring?” I remembered Abigail was wearing jewelry that day at lunch; something simple and tasteful. Probably expensive.
“Maybe. They won’t know anything else until it’s enhanced. And it may not even be important. It’s a shame they missed it when they processed the scene, though.”
“Did they go back and try to find it?” Sara asked.
“Yes, but no luck, I’m afraid. All I know is that it was shiny and Sam said she thought it had a fish on it.” A fish?
Ali frowned. “Well, doesn’t that tell us that it really was important? The killer must have taken the time to retrieve it and destroy it.”
“Not necessarily,” Noah pointed out. “It could have been discarded in the normal course of housecleaning. Someone could have swept it up.” I thought of Lucy explaining how she cleaned one room at a time from top to bottom. She prided herself on keeping Beaux Reves in excellent condition; every room was spotless. Could she have unknowingly thrown out a clue to Abigail’s death? We’d probably never know.
I mentally went down the list of suspects while the server refilled our iced tea glasses. One name drifted to the surface. Sophie Stanton. Sophie was still a wild card who stood to inherit a fortune. I wished I’d had more time to check out her tote bag. The passport had been on top, but where had her wallet been? Her driver’s license and credit cards?
There were other suspects, of course. Nicky Dargos and Angus Morton. Either one might have killed Abigail to cover up thefts from the mansion. Even though we’d just started our inventory, I was pretty certain objects were going to come up missing.
And there was the estate manager, Jeb Arnold, who feared he was going to be cut out of the will. Maybe he’d decided to kill Abigail before she changed her
mind and scratched him off the list of beneficiaries. But how much money did he expect to inherit? And was it really worth killing over? Both Lucy and her son had accused him of having a gambling problem. Could it be that some people were pressuring him to pay up? He’d seemed disheveled and had smelled faintly of alcohol at Abigail’s memorial service. Could it be his life was spinning out of control and he felt murdering Abigail was the only way out?
Another possibility was Laura Howard, who would acquire a prime piece of real estate as the last survivor of the tontine. Was that enough of a motive for murder? Possibly. But she was probably going to get the money eventually anyway since she was a few years younger than Abigail and would outlive her.
And if money was the motive, what about Lucy Dargos, who might have been getting a bit impatient for her promised inheritance? Or maybe she was trying to cover up her son’s misdeeds?
But I still kept circling back to Sophie, the woman from nowhere.
“Where do things stand with Sophie Stanton?” I asked. As far as I was concerned, Sophie was the proverbial “mystery woman.” She’d appeared out of nowhere, claiming to be a long-lost relative, and Abigail had embraced her as “family.” There was talk that Abigail had changed her will, deciding to leave everything to Sophie, even though her lawyer had advised against it.
I wondered if Osteroff had done his own investigation on Sophie. Was it possible that the two of them were working together in some way? And how would we ever pry the truth out of Osteroff? If ever there was a guy who played his cards close to his vest, it was the prominent lawyer.
“I asked a friend at the DOJ to look into Sophie Stanton,” Noah said. “She’s never been fingerprinted, and she’s not listed in any of the international criminal databases. She looks clean to me.” He turned to face me. “Do you really think she’s the killer?”
“I just don’t know.” Details were piling up, and we still weren’t close to finding the truth. I put my fork down and was lost in thought. After a moment, Noah nudged me. “You’re letting some perfectly good ravioli get cold. Why don’t we all enjoy our lunch and we’ll meet again when we have something else to report.”
“Good idea,” I agreed.
* * *
It was such a beautiful day, Ali and I decided to walk along the Riverwalk on the way home. It was nearly four o’clock; the sun was dipping into the horizon, and the whole scene took on a golden glow. I realized we were only a few blocks from Chablis and decided this would be a good time to drop in on Gideon and Andre.
“We were just going to call you,” Gideon said minutes later, sweeping me into a hug. “Let’s have lemonade on the porch while we tell you the latest gossip. You’ll be surprised what we found out,” he said, giving me a devilish smile. No one loves gossip more than Gideon.
“And it’s related to the case,” Andre offered. “Maybe,” he amended.
“Now I am interested,” I said, dropping onto a wicker settee with Ali. We had to crowd together on one side because Bibelot the cat looked up and gave us a baleful stare. He’d claimed half the settee for himself and had no intention of moving.
Gideon waited until we were settled with lemonade and cheese straws. I waved away the cheese straws, but Ali decided to indulge while I watched enviously. I would love to have her metabolism.
“Two bits of information,” Gideon said dramatically.
“And you can decide whether they’re helpful to the case,” Andre added. “Are you ready?” When we nodded, he went on, “Laura Howard is going through a very messy divorce and stands to lose everything.” He raised his eyebrows. “That land from the tontine might be the only thing standing between her and a one-bedroom apartment.”
“She could be on her way to the poorhouse,” Gideon offered.
“The poorhouse! I can’t believe it.” I gave Bibelot a very gentle push so I’d have a few more inches of space and the black cat glared at me. I decided to cross my legs, scrunch to the side, and let the cat have his way. He stretched out his paws, gave me a sleepy look, and drifted back to dreamland. “She’s been married for years, and she lives in a classy part of town. There’s no way she could be hurting for money. I don’t see why a divorce would change anything.”
Andre nodded. “Trust me, it changes everything. She signed a prenup and hubby caught her with an old school friend who moved back to Savannah. She was having a ‘dalliance,’ as they call it down here. Plus her husband has connections out the wazoo and hired the best divorce lawyer in town. And he has some girlfriend on the side, so he’s eager for a divorce. Laura is going to be stuck with some third-rate ambulance chaser from a low-end firm. No high-profile attorney is going to go up against her husband in court. They’d be blacklisted. It’s not worth crossing him.”
“You said she had a dalliance,” Ali said in amazement. “Why, she’s a grandmother! How old is she? I thought she was one of Abigail’s contemporaries.”
“She’s younger than Abigail,” Gideon offered. “And if you remember her from the memorial service, you must have noticed she’s pretty well preserved.”
“She’s had a lot of work done,” Andre said archly. “Her friends say she’s gone under the knife a few times. That’s how she keeps that youthful glow.”
“Wow, I still can’t believe it,” Ali said. “Breaking up a longtime marriage over someone from her past.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What was she thinking? And at her age . . .”
Gideon laughed. “Age doesn’t really matter. You know what my aunt Emma always says: Just because there’s snow on the roof doesn’t mean there’s not a fire blazing in the hearth.”
“A good quote,” I agreed. “And the second bit of gossip?” I prompted. Gideon had soft rock music playing in the background and a gentle breeze was wafting through the screens onto the porch. It was so relaxing I knew I could sit there for hours, but Ali and I had to get back home and prepare for the Dream Club meeting tonight.
“This is another big surprise,” Andre said. “Jeb Arnold is trying to sell some arts and antiques to our fellow dealers here in town.”
“Jeb Arnold!” My jaw dropped open and Ali nearly choked on her lemonade.
“I told you this would be a surprise,” Andre said with a grin. “You didn’t have any idea?”
“Well, I suppose we should have.” I reached for a cheese straw in spite of my best resolutions and started munching away. I eat when I’m under stress, and this latest news was like a bolt from the blue. Had we been looking in the wrong direction all the time? I thought Jeb Arnold was a bit player in the drama, but all of a sudden he was front and center. “He’s rumored to have a gambling problem, and maybe someone is pressuring him to pay up or else.”
Ali gave a final sputter and composed herself. “We heard Lucy Dargos talking to Jeb this morning,” she began, “and she advised him to ‘start selling some things.’”
“Gideon, do you know what he was trying to peddle?” I asked. I thought of the missing painting in the front hall that had supposedly been sent out for cleaning. Was that one of the items on his list?
“Paintings, antiques.” Gideon fluttered his hands. “Apparently, he brought in some photos of the items he was selling.”
“They must be items from Beaux Reves,” I said. “Maybe he’s been stealing for years. The inventory is so huge, it would be hard to tell if a few things were missing here and there.” I wondered how the police would handle this. If it was just hearsay, how would they ever prove it? If only we could get our hands on those photos.
Jeb didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would crack under pressure, but I planned on mentioning his antique shop visits to both Detective Sam Stiles and Noah. “I don’t suppose he had the items with him?” If there were security cameras in the shop, the police could nail him. Once he was faced with the evidence, he might admit to the thefts and then maybe confess to Abigail’s murder. Or was I getting ahea
d of myself?
“No, he was too smart for that, and he didn’t leave the photos with the dealers,” Gideon said. “So there’s no evidence trail to follow. I guess we can’t assume the items were from Abigail’s estate, but I think they must be.” He gave a little sniff. “I can’t really picture Jeb Arnold as a collector, can you?”
“I certainly can’t,” I said grimly. Interesting. All this time, I was sure that Angus or Nicky—or possibly both—were responsible for thefts from the mansion. But maybe I’d been on the wrong track all along. “Do you remember any specifics?”
Andre and Gideon exchanged a look. “There was that crystal ball that he tried to peddle to one of our friends,” Andre said excitedly. “It was supposed to be vintage, and I bet it was worth a pretty penny. We didn’t see the photo, of course, but Kevin from Forgotten Treasures said it was fabulous. He’s actually thinking of making an offer on it.”
“The crystal ball is from the mansion,” I said. “I’m sure of it. Be sure to tell your friend he’d be buying stolen goods.”
“We’ll warn him,” Andre said soberly. “That’s the last thing he wants to get involved in.”
I remembered the lady’s slipper orchid I’d noticed on the hall table. According to the book from the Harper sisters, a crystal ball once sat there. Was that the crystal ball Jeb Arnold was peddling? How many crystal balls could be floating around Savannah? The estate manager must surely be desperate for money to make such a brazen move. If gambling debts were involved, Jeb Arnold might decide it was a matter of life and death. Namely, his own.
19
“Are you sure you can’t stay for the meeting? Everyone will be so disappointed.” It was nearly seven in the evening, and Sam Stiles was standing at our kitchen counter, nibbling on a homemade cracker. Ali was experimenting with a recipe for pumpkin crackers with chia seeds that she planned on serving with baked Brie tonight. The baked Brie is always a hit; she tops it with cranberries and almonds before wrapping it in flaky pie crust. We serve it downstairs on toasted baguette rounds and always sell out before the lunch crowd leaves.
