A Premonition of Murder

by Mary Kennedy

  But Ali’s “Chia Nibblers” were another story. They had an odd taste, and I noticed Sam swallowed the cracker quickly before taking a large swig of coffee. She coughed twice and gave me an apologetic glance. Not all of Ali’s culinary adventures are wildly successful, but she enjoys dreaming up new recipes and tweaking old ones.

  “I can’t stay,” she said. “I’m on duty tonight, and I’ve got to get right back to the precinct house. I just stopped by to give you a photo of something we found in one of the crime scene photos.” She opened an envelope and passed me a shot of the upper landing at Abigail’s. “It’s a little hazy, but my tech guy enlarged it as much as he could. I don’t know how the CSIs missed it when they swept the scene, but somehow they did.” She shook her head in dismay. Sam runs a tight ship and doesn’t tolerate any slipups. “Take a look and see what you think.”

  Sam was right. The photo was grainy, a poor-quality shot of the second-floor landing at Beaux Reves. A shiny object about the size of a dime was peeking out from under a bookcase, and someone had circled it with a Magic Marker. This was the photo Noah had mentioned at lunch.

  “What is it?” I asked. I stared hard at the object but couldn’t identify it. Something stirred in my brain. It looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place it.

  “I wish I knew,” Sam said wryly. “Everyone seems to have a different idea.”

  “Did it fall off something? Could it be a button?”

  “I don’t think so. It’s not the right shape; it looks more like a rectangle than a circle. It might be a piece of jewelry. I suppose it could have been pulled off in a struggle,” Sam said grimly.

  “Does it match anything Abigail was wearing that night?”

  “No.” Her tone was flat, resigned. “And Lucy Dargos insists that Abigail didn’t own anything like that.”

  “What’s your best guess?” I’d learned in the past that Sam’s instincts are usually right on target and she has a keen sense of intuition. Her first guess is usually the right one.

  “I’m not sure,” she said, tilting her head to one side, peering at the photo. “It could be a medallion or a pendant, I suppose. Maybe it was attached to a chain and when Abigail pulled at her attacker, it broke off.” She shook her head and finished her coffee. “It’s driving me crazy.”

  I took a closer look at the shiny object, which seemed to be winking back at me. Was it an earring? Possibly. But Lucy had said it didn’t belong to Abigail, so did that mean her attacker was a woman?

  “What’s your best guess?” Sam asked.

  I thought for a moment. It looked like an enameled piece of jewelry and appeared to have a fish design etched in black on a tan background. Only half of it was visible, but it struck a chord with me. There was an immediate sense of recognition. “Is that a fish?” I saw two rounded lines intersecting to form a caudal fin, or tail.

  Sam nodded. “Yes. You have a good eye. It’s a primitive design, a line drawing.” She pulled out a sketch. This is what one of our CSIs thinks the whole image would look like.” When I glanced at it, I felt a sudden jolt of recognition and gave a little gasp of surprise. “What do you see, Taylor? Do you recognize it?”

  “Not exactly,” I said slowly, “but I know I’ve seen that fish design somewhere before.” I squinted my eyes and tried to concentrate. Nothing came to mind. A fish, a fish. Where have I seen a fish?

  “Of course, we have no way of knowing how long it was under the bookcase. And it might not be connected to the case at all. It’s just one of those loose ends that nags at me.” She paused and lowered her voice. “Noah told me he gave you the crime scene photos. Did you take a look at them?” She leaned down to pet Barney, who was winding himself around her legs. “I know Ali doesn’t want to see them.”

  “No, she doesn’t,” I agreed. “I looked them over, but I didn’t say much to Ali because she gets so upset.” I hesitated. “From what I gather, you think Abigail was pushed because of the position of her body at the bottom of the stairs?”

  “Yes, she was splayed out on the floor in the foyer, on her back. That’s significant. It looks like there was a struggle on the stairs and she managed to turn to face her attacker on the landing.” I nodded, imagining the scene. “So she fell down the stairs backward. She was pushed. If she’d tripped over the hall rug she would have fallen headfirst. In any case, the killer was too strong for her, although she did put up a struggle. The bruises on her arms match stains and tissue samples from the wall.” I must have blanched because she said quickly, “Sorry, I shouldn’t have been so graphic.”

  “That’s all right,” I said. I have a stronger stomach than Ali, but I find these images disturbing, too. “How does the hall rug come into this? I don’t remember hearing about it.”

  Sam gave a short laugh. “The housekeeper, Lucy Dargos, tried to convince us that Abigail must have tripped on a little area rug on the landing. I didn’t buy it. The rug was at the top of the stairs, looking a bit rumpled, but something about the scene just didn’t seem right.”

  “You think the area rug was a cover-up?”

  Sam shrugged. “I suppose it could be. Or maybe Lucy just couldn’t accept the fact that someone murdered Abigail. It might have seemed so shocking that she was grasping for another explanation.”

  I grabbed the photo. “Is this the rug?” I pointed to a small burgundy Oriental at the top of the stairs. It was rumpled, just as Sam had described. “Because I don’t remember ever seeing that rug there before. And I’ve been upstairs twice in the mansion and walked right past that landing. I think I would have noticed it.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said as we heard the Dream Club members trooping up the stairs. “Another piece of the puzzle,” she said softly. “I’d better go; let me know what else you find out tonight.”

  “I will,” I promised. “Wait, just one more thing,” I said as she turned to leave. “What did you think of the love letter Desiree had squirreled away in her bedroom? Noah said he’d drop it off at the station house for you.”

  Sam gave me a thumbs-up. “Excellent detective work.” She grinned. “We may have to hire you and Ali as consultants.”

  “Did you go back and check to see what else was hidden in the wall?” I’d managed to grab the letter and replace the picture before Lucy caught me. I had the feeling there were more papers stashed away inside, but I’d had only seconds to spare. I could still see Lucy standing in the hall with her hand vacuum cleaner and boom box.

  Jeb had probably forgotten to buy a charger for her iPod—and Nicky couldn’t be bothered—so Lucy had to lug the boom box from room to room and plug it in each time. Apparently she liked to listen to Latin music while she worked. Maybe it made the drudgery of caring for Beaux Reves easier to bear.

  “Yes, I sent a couple of detectives back to Beaux Reves an hour ago,” Sam went on. “And they made sure Lucy stayed in the kitchen, so she wouldn’t know what they were doing.” She paused to toss her paper cup in the wastebasket. “That was a great hiding place. You and Ali were clever to spot it. Not much was there, except for a few newspaper clippings and some theater ticket stubs. You found the only valuable item, as far as I can tell.”

  “And the letter’s not really valuable unless we can figure out who wrote it, is it?”

  “Afraid not. Let me know if you come up with any hints.”

  I heard Ali greeting the guests, and my mind was whirring. Had Lucy deliberately tried to mislead the police? Had she placed the rug at the landing after the fact, in a clumsy attempt to cover up a murder?

  “There’s one other thing,” Sam said, “and I don’t know what to make of it.” She leaned against the counter, and I could see she was tired. “The techs managed to lift a palm print off the hall banister.”

  “No fingerprints?”

  “No, just a palm print, and it was smudged with a greasy residue. But the important thing is the t
race elements in the residue. There’s no way to tell if they came from someone’s palm or from the banister itself.”

  “What kind of trace elements?” Sam had me intrigued.

  “That’s what’s odd. The sample doesn’t match any commercial cleaning product we can find. We ran the ingredients through a database.”

  “That’s because Lucy makes her own furniture polish,” I said quickly. “She’s very proud of it. I remember her telling me fresh lemon juice was one of the ingredients. She keeps the polish in an antique bottle with a glass stopper on the kitchen counter.”

  Sam raised her eyebrows. “We found the antique bottle, but the ingredients don’t match up with the smudge on the banister. The residue mixed in with the palm print contains lanolin and saddle soap. The lanolin isn’t a surprise, but the saddle soap certainly is.”

  “Saddle soap?” Saddle soap means horses. I immediately flashed to Dorien’s somewhat hazy dream about horses in a corral. But there were no horses at Beaux Reves, so we hadn’t attached much importance to it.

  “Yeah, weird, isn’t it?” Sam muttered. “We’re still working on it.”

  * * *

  “What’s on the menu tonight?” Persia asked, dropping onto the settee. Persia, who is a great cat lover, scooped up Barney and held him upright on her lap, looking straight into his eyes. Barney is a dignified cat who normally wouldn’t stand for this sort of behavior, but Persia has such a winning way with cats, he tolerates it.

  “Who’s my handsome boy?” she crooned, gazing straight at him. Barney gave her a long, slow blink in return, which is a sign of affection in the feline world. Persia kissed him lightly on the forehead, placed him in her lap, and he immediately curled up nose to tail to take a snooze. People who think cats are standoffish and aloof should meet Barney. He melts into a love bug when he’s around a cat lover like Persia.

  “I’m still tinkering with that lemon squares recipe,” Ali said, placing a platter of delectable pastries on the coffee table. “I used a little more fresh lemon rind in these and just a touch of honey. I think they have a really nice, tart flavor. Tell me what you think.”

  “Why would you tinker with the recipe, my dear?” Minerva Harper asked. “The last batch you made was sheer perfection. A touch of sweetness and that lemony tang.” She sighed happily, spread a napkin on her lap, and reached for one of the pastries.

  “They were heavenly,” her sister Rose agreed. “In fact, I was going to order some for next month. I’ll need enough to feed a crowd; we’re planning a going-away party for the pastor. They’d be perfect for the Victorian tea we’re hosting. Delicious and elegant.”

  “I’m so glad you liked them,” Ali said, flushing a little. “But you know me, I love to experiment with recipes. I don’t like to make the same thing twice.”

  “Yes, my dear, we certainly do know that.” Minerva winked at Rose and I tried not to smile. Ali’s “wheat germ sandies,” studded with chunks of candied tofu, were memorable—and not in a good way. I was relieved when that recipe was finally retired. In spite of Ali’s best efforts, there was no way to make those cookies edible. Ali still insists they were one of the “healthiest” things she has ever cooked. I had to remind her that they could hardly be called “healthy” if no one ate them. Even Boris, the dog who lives next door, turned up his nose at them.

  “Who’s going first?” Ali asked.

  “Are we talking dreams or talking about the case?” Lucinda said, leaning forward. She was perched on the edge of her chair, dressed in one of her drab but expensive suits. I remembered her telling me she had a charity board meeting in town earlier today, so I supposed that was why she was dressed up.

  “Well, either one,” Ali said, surprised. “If anyone has anything new to add to the case, I suppose we should deal with that now, and then turn to dreams.”

  “I have some news,” Lucinda said. She was almost breathless with excitement and waved away the pastry tray when Dorien passed it to her. We had a full house tonight, and I was happy to see that Sara had managed to make the meeting.

  “Well, don’t keep us in suspense,” Sybil said.

  20

  “It’s not a dream,” Lucinda said, drawing out the moment, “but it’s a clue. At least I think it is. I suppose it falls under the category of gossip, now that I think of it.” Dorien gave a tiny eye roll, apparently impatient with Lucinda’s theatrics. I feel more sympathetic to Lucinda and try to give her some leeway. She’s rarely at the center of any gathering, and I could see she was enjoying her moment in the sun.

  “Gossip isn’t always a bad thing,” Minerva said gently. “Sometimes it gives us insights we wouldn’t get any other way. We’re eager to hear your news, Lucinda.” She nodded encouragingly, put down her sweet tea, and gave Lucinda her full attention.

  “Some of you may remember that I have a nephew at Tulane,” Lucinda began. Her eyes flashed with excitement.

  “Yes, we remember, dear; you must be very proud of him,” Rose said politely. “But how does this relate to the case?”

  “I’m getting to that,” Lucinda said quickly. “I happened to talk to Troy over the weekend, and he’d read about Abigail’s death. So we chatted about that for a few minutes and then he dropped a bombshell.”

  “A bombshell?” Sara asked. She was juggling a plate of pastries on her lap and had her tiny notebook balanced on the arm of an upholstered chair.

  She’d brought Remy, who was curled up by the fireplace. Remy is, without a doubt, the world’s best-behaved dog. She had stared inquisitively at the cats when she first met them, and then like a proper canine guest, had kept to herself and never looked at them again. She’d been dozing but woke up and gave a low woof when Sara spoke up. “Hush, Remy,” Sara said softly. She held her hand out, palm up, and Remy promptly went back to sleep.

  “Troy told me he knew Angus! How odd is that?” Lucinda went on. “They’re not really friends, of course—more like acquaintances; they travel in the same circles. Troy knew all about Angus going to grad school someplace in the northeast and snaring a summer job in Savannah. Apparently Angus is friendly with one of Troy’s old fraternity brothers.” She paused. “And the fraternity brother gave Troy an earful about Angus.”

  “An earful? What did he tell him?” Sara said. She quickly scarfed down a brownie and put her plate on the coffee table so she could take notes more easily. Sara is used to eating with one hand and taking notes with the other. When I try it, I end up with lemon meringue in my lap.

  “Well, for one thing, Angus is hurting for money.”

  “That wouldn’t be unusual for a graduate student,” Rose said gently. “All these young people seem to be burdened with student loans these days. In my time, we never had to deal with debt like that. My heart goes out to them.”

  “But this is more than just student loans, Rose,” Lucinda said. “Apparently he was in such dire straits that he was going to have to drop out of school completely unless he figured out a way to make money over the summer.”

  “Maybe he did figure out a way to make money,” I said wryly. Lucinda looked puzzled. I hadn’t mentioned that I suspected both Nicky Dargos and Angus of selling off antiques from Beaux Reves. “Sorry,” I said when she stopped talking. “I was just thinking aloud. Please go on.”

  “Now, this part may be gossip, because I’m not sure he was ever officially charged with anything . . .”

  “Charged with something? Good heavens. You mean he has a police record?” Rose said excitedly. Lucinda’s comment certainly had caused a stir in the room. Dorien’s eyebrows had shot up in surprise, and Sara was scribbling furiously in her notebook.

  “Not quite,” Lucinda admitted. “It seems there were some items missing from a local museum in Boston, one of the smaller ones. It was poorly staffed, and Angus was assigned to do an inventory.”

  “An inventory!” Minerva said. She and Rose ex
changed a look. “History repeating itself,” she said grimly. “Poor Abigail. She prided herself on being a good judge of character. She never would have hired Angus for the summer if she knew there’d been a hint of scandal in his past.”

  “How did she find Angus?” I asked.

  “She answered an employment ad placed in an art magazine,” Minerva said. “I remember she checked his references and they seemed fine. He was visiting Savannah this past spring, and she asked him to tea at the mansion. She said he had an impressive résumé, and when she took him on a tour of Beaux Reves, he seemed knowledgeable about the artwork and antiques. The fact that she met him in person is what swayed her, I think. Normally, she would never hire anyone who didn’t have a strong recommendation from someone she knew and respected.”

  “Maybe Angus forged his reference letters,” Ali said. “I can’t imagine anyone writing him a letter if they knew his history.”

  “I suppose it’s possible,” Rose said. “Abigail could be taken in by people, I’m afraid. She said her motto was, Trust, but verify. Yet at the same time, she relied heavily on instinct. If Angus turned on the charm during his meeting with her, that could have swayed her. She might not have checked his references too carefully.”

  I found it hard to imagine Angus turning on the charm for anyone—he’d certainly been unfriendly with me—but maybe he could be personable if there was something to gain. And he’d managed to secure a spot at Beaux Reves, in spite of having been under suspicion at the Boston museum. Was he really innocent or had he talked his way out of it? As Minerva says, where’s there’s smoke, there’s fire. Angus was a cool customer, and I found it hard to get a handle on him.

  “There’s something I’m puzzled about,” Sara said abruptly. “Did Angus have a firm alibi for the evening Abigail was murdered?”

  “I think someone in the office said he was in Charleston that day.” Persia works as a paralegal, and Abigail’s murder was the talk of the law firm.