A Premonition of Murder (13 page)

“There was another piece to the dream,” Persia said excitedly. “I just remembered it. I was walking through the museum with a clipboard, making notes on all the beautiful objects I saw. I had a sense of pride. I knew I had an important job to do and I couldn't make any mistakes.”

“But what was your job exactly?” Etta Mae asked. “Were you nervous about it?”

“Oh no, I wasn't nervous at all. It seemed fun and exciting.” Persia tilted her head to one side, considering the question. “Was it a job? I'm not sure. I think I was doing some sort of assessment or evaluation, but that part wasn't really clear.”

“The clipboard makes it sound official,” Minerva noted.

“Yes, it does.” Persia reached for a Kahlúa brownie, one of her favorite goodies.“That's really all I have.” Unlike Etta Mae, she wasn't the least bit embarrassed by the sketchy details in her dream. Persia has been doing this a long time, and she knows that sometimes all you have to go on are dream fragments, and it's impossible to get a sense of the complete story.

Ali and I exchanged a look, and I wondered if we both were thinking the same thing.
Has Persia been dreaming about Angus Morton?
Sybil is the dream-hopper in the group, not Persia, but Persia's dream could have been called “A Day in the Life of Angus Morton.” Persia has never met Angus and I don't know how she tapped into his experience, but it seemed like more than just a coincidence.

I could picture Angus performing the job Persia described in her dream, taking inventory and assessing the value of priceless objects. But no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't see anything beneath the surface. I decided that the dream might not have any deep significance after all.

Ali glanced at her watch. “Time for one more,” she said. “Anyone have anything?”

“I wish I did,” Lucinda said solemnly. “I tried to dream about that young woman standing on the dock again, but it just didn't happen.”

“I had a dream about horses running through a field,” Dorien blurted out. “It was one of those dreams you have right before you wake up. I could hear their hooves thundering across the grass.”

“Wild horses?” Etta Mae asked, interested. I knew her family had kept horses when she lived in Tennessee.

“No, I'm pretty sure these belonged to someone. I saw a vague image of a ranch house in the background and a corral.” She shook her head and spread her hands out in front of her. “That's it.”

Ali waited to see if Dorien was going to add anything more and then stood up. “See you all at the next meeting,” she said. She wrapped up some brownies for the Harper sisters, who handed her a tote bag.

“This is a book for Sara,” Rose Harper said. “We thought she might like to borrow it for her article on Beaux Reves.
It's out of print, but it contains some really lovely photos of the interior of the mansion from years ago. It's interesting to see what was popular in home décor back in the twenties and thirties—all those Tiffany lamps. And there's even a photo of a Valentine's Day ball that was held at the mansion.”

“Really? This is wonderful; I know Sara will love it. She'll keep it for a few days and give it back to you,” Ali said.

“No hurry,” Rose said with a little flutter of her fingers. “She might find something useful, some information you can't really find in guide books.”

“Very kind of you,” I said, giving Rose a brief hug.

15

“This is a fascinating book,” I said to Ali when everyone had left. “It's a shame it went out of print.”

“If you really like it, we could try to find a used version and give it to Sara for her birthday. It's coming up next month.”

“Good idea. I think I'd like to order one for myself.” I flipped through the pages, struck by the beauty of Beaux Reves through the ages. It was not only a gorgeous tribute to a magnificent estate, but doubled as a photo album of the Marchand family.

I spotted a photo of Desiree, looking as beautiful and carefree as I'd expected, standing next to Abigail, who was staring thoughtfully at the camera. It was obvious from Abigail's solemn bearing that she was the “responsible” sister, and her arm was looped protectively around Desiree. The two girls must have been teenagers in the photo, and they
were standing in a paddock on the estate, feeding treats to a chestnut horse with a white star on his face.

I suddenly flashed back to Dorien's dream about horses. It couldn't be related to Desiree and Abigail, could it? Dorien mentioned a ranch house and horses running inside a corral, but there wasn't anything like that at Beaux Reves. At least not in the present day.

According to the text, not much had changed at Beaux Reves in the last seventy years. The author claimed that the family liked to keep each piece of furniture and every painting and sculpture exactly where Emil Marchand, the family patriarch, had placed it.

I stared at a photo of the front hall for a long moment and then passed the book to Ali, who was making hot tea for us. “Ali, take a look and tell me what you see,” I said.

She peered at the book and said slowly, “It's the front hall at Beaux Reves. I recognize the black-and-white Art Deco floor, the tray ceiling with the carved wood panels, but something's off.” She frowned, took the book over to the sofa, turned on the reading light, and sat down.

“I thought so, too.” I plunked down next to her. “I wanted to make sure it wasn't my imagination.”

“It's not your imagination,” she said. “Something's different about the front hall.”

“You mean something has been added.” I peered at the book again, over her shoulder.

“No, something has been taken away.”

Ali has an excellent visual sense, an eye for color and design. “I think I know what it is,” she said excitedly. “There's an extra painting here. See this lovely landscape?” She pointed to a large watercolor of daisies in a heavy gilt frame. “This painting wasn't here the day we visited Lucy.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'm positive.” She studied the picture for a moment. “According to the book, this photograph was taken ten years ago, so it's relatively recent. Look at the two small paintings on either side of it.” She pointed to a couple of watercolors of young children playing with sailboats in a pond. The sun-dappled scene with the little boy and girl in sailor suits reminded me of the Luxembourg Gardens in Paris. I had sat on the bank and watched children sail their boats there one sunny afternoon many years ago.

Ali tapped her index finger on the page and continued, “On the day we visited, I remember that the two sailing paintings were squeezed together so tightly the frames were almost touching. Did you notice the same thing?”

“No,” I said softly. “You see things that I don't. I just saw a wall of paintings, and the colors and shapes washed right over me. I remember thinking that the paintings in the hall were beautiful, but I didn't pick out any specifics.”

I am always in awe of Ali's creative energy. She absorbs colors and forms like a sponge and has the soul of an artist. She always teases me that I have the soul of an accountant because I am much more likely to be intrigued by numbers. In many ways, we complement each other and bring something unique to the table when it comes to running Oldies But Goodies.

“I thought they were charming paintings, but I remember noticing they weren't displayed properly. They would have made more of a statement with some blank wall space in between them.” She handed the book back to me. “Do you think this could be significant?”

“I don't know. The paintings might not really be missing. I suppose the Marchand family could have sold the daisy
painting in the past ten years.” Even as I said the words, I knew that was unlikely. Abigail was a stickler for the past and for keeping the estate exactly as it was when her parents were alive. Perhaps they'd sent the painting out to be cleaned or reframed? Gideon or Andre might have some ideas on that.

“I don't think they'd ever sell the painting,” Ali retorted. “It would only increase in value as time went by, and the Harper sisters said that the family didn't need the money. I can't imagine Abigail breaking up the collection unless she was forced to do so.”

I thought about the rumored thefts at Beaux Reves and the possible suspects: the housekeeper's son, Nicky Dargos, and the grad student, Angus Morton. “I thought the thefts from the mansion involved small items,” I said. “Things that wouldn't be missed right away. This painting is huge. Abigail would certainly miss it.”

“That's the first thing that occurred to me. But it's possible this painting was taken after Abigail's death. Do you remember how no one was allowed to explore the mansion at the memorial service? Guests could go inside to use the powder room, and that was it. The wall with the paintings wasn't visible unless you stepped over the velvet rope. And no one would dare do that, although I bet a few people were tempted.” She poured tea for both of us, chamomile for her and Yorkshire Gold for me. “I wonder whose idea that was—the velvet rope?”

“It must have been Lucy's idea,” I said. “No one else is involved in running the house now that Abigail is gone. Lucy has no one to report to anymore. She's the Queen Bee.”

“Yes,” Ali agreed, “you're right. With her mistress dead, she's probably running Beaux Reves on her own.”

I thought of the peremptory way Lucy had spoken to the estate manager, Jeb Arnold. She had certainly acted like she
was in command. “Lucy has eyes like a hawk, and I have the feeling she doesn't miss a trick. She told me she cleans one room thoroughly, from top to bottom, every day. If the painting disappeared in the past few days, wouldn't she tell someone?”

“Yes, but who would she tell? She didn't dare say anything. It could have been her own son who pinched it.” Ali shook her head. “Are other things missing? We just don't know.” She turned the page and gasped. “Taylor, here's another picture of the front hall! And look at this hall table—do you remember it? A lovely mahogany piece with an oval top and claw feet. Probably early nineteenth century.”

“I do remember seeing that table.” I don't know much about antiques, but I remember that Gideon had shown us a similar table in his shop and pointed out the claw feet, or toe caps as they're sometimes called. They're decorative brass fittings attached to the ends of table legs.

“But it's not the table that's important,” Ali went on quickly, “it's what's sitting on it. The resolution isn't very good, but you can see a crystal globe on the table. It could be a crystal ball, like something a fortune teller would use, or maybe it's some kind of a paperweight.” She angled the light so it shone directly on the page of the book. “I know that globe wasn't there on the day we visited. I'm absolutely positive. Instead, someone placed that beautiful orchid plant there—the lady's slipper, the one I pointed out to you.”

“The five-thousand-dollar orchid,” I said. “I remember thinking how extravagant it was.”

“Maybe so, but it's not as pricey as the piece of crystal in this picture. I wonder what happened to it. Do you suppose someone has been ransacking the mansion after Abigail's death? If they plan on stripping the place bare, this would be the time to do it. There's no one to stop them.”

Barney wound himself around my legs, signaling that it was time for his late-night snack. I don't know if the cats just like the attention or if they are genuinely hungry, but we've gotten into the habit of feeding them a small treat before we all go to bed. I opened a can of sardines and spooned out a small amount into two dishes. The smell made me turn my face and crinkle my nose in disgust, but then I'm not a cat.

“How shall we handle this?” Ali asked. “We need to figure out if the items are really missing or if they were sold off.”

“You're seeing Angus tomorrow morning, aren't you?” I put the cat food dishes down on the floor and was immediately rewarded with a chorus of grateful meows. Since both Barney and Scout are rescues, they have what the vet calls “stray cat syndrome.” Even though they have plenty to eat, they remember their days of going hungry and tend to wolf down their food if given the opportunity.

“Yes, I'm meeting him very early for coffee, and I'm bringing the children's tea set that Gideon loaned to us. Do you think I should bring the book and show him the photos? If I do, he'll know we're on to him.”

“Not if you play it right. You could ask him if the painting and the piece of crystal were sold. You don't have to accuse him of anything.” I grinned. “You can pretend you're studying up on the history of Beaux Reves because you're interested. Just turn on the charm, and I bet you'll catch him off guard.” I glanced at the clock. Nearly eleven, time to turn in. “Just make sure you meet us at Marcelo's for lunch at noon tomorrow. Noah and Sara will be there, and we can compare notes.”

*   *   *

I was surprised
at the seven-o'clock phone call from Norman Osteroff the next day. Sara had already left for her early morning meeting with Angus, and both Barney and Scout
were curled up snoozing at the foot of the bed. I'd heard Dana putting around down in the shop a few minutes earlier. I remembered she'd said she wanted to get an early start on a new window display, and I planned on lending a hand. I'd just gotten out of bed and padded to the kitchen to turn on the coffeemaker.

I looked at the caller ID screen and blinked in surprise. The pompous lawyer certainly believed in the adage “the early bird catches the worm.”

“Ms. Blake,” he said formally, “I hope I didn't wake you.”

“Of course not,” I said blithely, glad that I wasn't on Skype. “I've just returned from my six-mile run and was going to do a few dozen sit-ups.” Okay, what I really said was, “No problem,” in my early morning croak. “I'm plugging in the coffeepot and planning my day.”

“That's why I wanted to catch you early.” His voice was crisp, businesslike. “My secretary left on vacation, and I just realized she sent you a letter by mistake. The letter is intended for you, but she should have placed the letter on my desk and I would have shared it with you in person.” He made a little wheezing noise that I suppose was irritation. “I'm sorry for the short notice, but you and your sister need to stop by my office this morning. It's very important.”

He paused as if he wanted me to say something more, but I didn't give him the satisfaction. It was taking all my powers of concentration to plug in the coffeemaker, measure out the hazelnut super-octane coffee, and fill the canister with filtered water. Barney and Scout were winding themselves around my legs, probably wondering why I was bothering myself with such silly human pursuits when I should be spooning out their breakfast.

“Yes, well,” he went on, “I'll expect you both at my office at nine sharp to give you a letter from Mrs. Marchand. It was
delivered by messenger the day after she invited you to Beaux Reves for lunch.”

That got my attention, and I dropped the measuring cup onto the counter, which sent Barney running for cover under the sofa.

“A letter from Mrs. Marchand? We never received it.” I couldn't get my mind around the idea that I needed to trot over to his office to receive a letter. Couldn't he just tell me the contents over the phone?