A Premonition of Murder (26 page)

28

Sara stopped by around eleven. The breakfast crowd had thinned out and I was glad we had a little downtime before lunch. I was eager to bring her up to speed on the investigation and share notes.

“Want a cinnamon roll?” I offered. “There's just one left. It must have your name on it.” I put it on a plate and pushed it toward her.

Sara loves all pastries, but cinnamon rolls are her favorite. Ali rolls them in candied pecans before baking and adds a touch of real maple syrup in the batter. She found the recipe in an old church cookbook the Harpers gave her. The original recipe said “serves a hundred,” and Ali had a laugh while trying to whittle down the ingredients.

“I'd better save it for later,” she said, helping herself to hazelnut coffee. “Tell me about the crime scene last night,” she said, whipping out her narrow little notebook. “I wish I could have been there. Everyone at the paper's talking
about it, and the police have clammed up. They're saying that it's under investigation. Under investigation! That could mean anything.” She nodded toward Ali. “Noah told me you were the only two outsiders at Beaux Reves last night.”

“Ali doesn't handle crime scenes very well,” I said protectively. “I'm afraid if she'd seen the bathtub, and imagined Lucy being pushed underwater, she'd have nightmares for weeks.”

“She might,” Sara agreed. She eyed the cinnamon roll, cut off a tiny piece, and popped it in her mouth. I knew what was going to happen next. She was going to slice off little slivers and eat them one by one until the entire roll was all gone. “Noah said something about a boom box?” She had her ballpoint pen poised over the notebook, and I hesitated.

“This is off the record, right?”

“Of course.” She immediately put her pen down, looking aggrieved. I quickly explained about the short cord and that it was impossible for Lucy to have balanced the boom box on the edge of the tub. My guess was that someone had tossed the boom box into the water to make her death look accidental. “It certainly sounds suspicious,” Sara said when I'd finished. “What's Noah's take on all this?”

“He's waiting for the coroner's report. Sam thought she saw bruises on Lucy's back, but that could fit either theory. Someone could have simply overpowered her, held her down and drowned her, or the killer may have shocked her first. She'd be easier to subdue that way.” I gave a little shudder. “They could have flipped her over, facedown in the water, and applied enough pressure to her back to drown her.”

“Who found the body?'

“Jeb Arnold. The estate manager.”

“Really?” She glanced toward her notebook as if she was tempted to write something down, but restrained herself.
“That's odd. Why was he in the house?” I could see her hand creeping over toward her pen.

“You promised,” I reminded her. “Off the record.” We moved to a couple of armchairs so customers could have the bar stools at the counter.

“I know, don't worry. No notes. What happens in the candy shop stays in the candy shop,” she said teasingly. “But was Lucy really alone in the mansion last night? Where was everyone else?”

“Lucy's son, Nicky, was in town, staying with his girlfriend. At least that's what Sam said. And as for Sophie and Angus, I know the police interviewed them at Beaux Reves, but I don't know if they were there when Lucy was murdered. They were just leaving when Noah and I arrived.”

“There's something odd about those two,” Sara said thoughtfully. “Angus seems like someone out to make a buck, and Sophie is”—she hesitated—“well, I don't know what she is. I just can't figure her out. I think it's strange the way they covered for each other the night of Abigail's death, don't you?”

“Yes, I do. Angus got the name of the restaurant wrong, but Sophie quickly corrected him. If they're working together, she's clearly the brains of the operation.” I remembered how unemotional Sophie had been over Lucy's death when she and Angus passed us on the flagstone path leading up to the front door. “I've been meaning to ask you something,” I said. “I overheard Sophie saying that Lucy's death would be A-1. Does that expression mean anything to you?”

Sara blinked in surprise. “A-1? It's a term reporters use all the time. If something is really big, a breaking story, we might say, ‘That's A-1.' It means it will make the front page of the paper. Where did you hear that?”

“Sophie said that to Angus. But most people wouldn't know what it meant, would they?”

“I don't think so. I've only heard it from reporters.” She hesitated. “I doubt Angus has a journalism background, but do you think Sophie does? We know so little about her.”

“All I know is that she was studying up on the south of France in case Abigail asked her anything about Sans Souci. I saw a guide book in the bottom of her tote bag. She'd highlighted certain phrases and she repeated them word for word. There's something going on there, I just know it.”

I watched as Sara tapped her fingertip on the cover of her skinny little notebook. “And another thing. I guess it's a coincidence, but she carries one of those narrow little notebooks like you do.”

“She carries a reporter's notebook?” she asked, leaning forward. “Are you sure?”

“I'm positive. It looks just like yours.”
A reporter's notebook?
“Why do you call it that?”

Sara held up the notebook. “Because guys can fit them in their pockets,” she said. “It goes back to the days when only men were journalists. It's just a tradition; we all carry them.”

“So Sophie could be a reporter?” This put a totally different spin on things.

“It's possible,” Sara said. “This is something I need to check out right away.” She drained the last of her coffee. “Oh, by the way, I finally met up with that former society reporter, the one who covered the ball.” Sara laughed. “I don't know whether to believe it or not, but she had quite a story to tell.”

“About Desiree?”

“Yes, and her beau, as she insisted on calling him. You'll never guess who Desiree was dancing the night away with—Norman Osteroff!”

“Norman Osteroff?” I was stunned. “But he's so . . .” I groped for the right word.

“Boring? Stuffy? Awful?”

“All of the above. I just can't believe he could have had something going with Desiree. She was beautiful and vivacious, besides being filthy rich. She could have had anyone she wanted. Is this society reporter even credible?” I saw Ali ringing up some orders, and I knew she'd be joining us in a minute or two.

Sara nodded. “She's very credible. She's retired now, but she covered all the society events in Savannah, back in the day. She was something of a celebrity herself. Everyone invited her to their parties and they knew she would be the soul of discretion. Don't forget, nobody was writing tell-all books in those days. Quite a lot of hanky-panky went on, as the Harper sisters like to say. And none of it ever made the paper. People were more discreet back then.”

“Interesting. But what exactly did she say about Norman and Desiree? I just can't imagine those two as a couple.”

“I know it seems like a stretch, but she was quite definite about it,” Ali said. “Did you suspect anything like this?”

I told Sara about the yearbook page Noah had shown me last night. “Norman was described as Norman the Conquerer in college,” I said. “Hard to believe, isn't it? I assume it referred to his debating skills, not his way with women.”

“
Norman the Conquerer?
Doesn't that remind you of that love letter you found hidden away in Desiree's room?”

“Yes, whoever wrote that note signed it, ‘your conquering hero.' Of course, that could mean anything. I still can't get my head around the possibility that Norman and Desiree could have been romantically involved.”

“Stranger things have happened,” Sara said, glancing at her watch. “I've got to run. What are your plans for today?” She picked up her car keys, and I noticed she had a little charm hanging from them. It had two fish swimming in
opposite directions and the word “Pisces” written underneath it. So Sara was a Pisces? Hadn't I come across someone else who was a Pisces? And wasn't there a fish involved? She gave me a puzzled look and shoved the car keys in her bag.

“I need to go back to Beaux Reves,” I said firmly. “Minerva and Rose told me they were sure that Abigail kept a diary, or maybe an appointment book. She was afraid she was getting forgetful in her old age, so she made it a point to write everything down. Think of what it would mean if we could find it.”

“Find what?”Ali asked, finally joining us.

“I was just telling Sara about Abigail's diary or date book. The Harper sisters seemed convinced that she had one. The police looked for it, but nothing turned up.”

“It would be a gold mine if you could find it,” Sara said, tucking her notebook and pen into her purse. “The key is in that book. If only you could figure out who she invited to the mansion that night, you'd have the killer. I'm sure of it.” She started toward the door and then turned back. “Taylor, please be careful if you're going to the mansion alone today. Anything could happen.” Just for a moment, a look of fear crossed her delicate features. “I'm worried about you and I don't know why.” She laughed. “I sound like Sybil, but I swear I felt a dark shadow pass over you when you mentioned going back to that place.”

“I'll be careful.” I felt a tingling at the back of my neck at her words. I remembered when Ali and I had sat on the sun-splashed patio of Beaux Reves for lunch. I'd felt a dark presence sweep over the table as if the Angel of Death had dipped his wings into the air above us. A chill had gone over me in spite of the bright Savannah sunshine. I felt a quivery sensation right now. Was this some sort of premonition, or just a case of nerves? Maybe I was still shaken up from the
crime scene visit last night. That would be the most rational explanation.

“You don't have to worry about her going alone, Sara,” Ali said firmly. “We're both going to Beaux Reves today.”

“Ali, are you sure? I didn't think you were up to it—”

“Not another word about it,” Ali said. “We're in this together, sis. No matter what happens.”

*   *   *

“The place to
start is in the library,” I said in a low voice to Ali. Sam Stiles had left a message that we were free to explore the mansion today and told us the front door would be open. Jeb Arnold was working somewhere on the estate, but he was nowhere in sight as we walked up the flagstone path.

I felt a little shiver go through me as I remembered the previous evening. I'd walked up that same path and been ushered into a crime scene. We entered the front hall, and I tried to dispel the creepy feeling that the scent of death hung over the place.

“The painting is still missing,” Ali said. I nodded, looking at the blank space on the wall. Now that Lucy was dead, we might never find out where the painting had been taken. I didn't believe her story that it had been removed “for cleaning,” and figured it was hidden away somewhere. Or sold. In any case, another piece of Beaux Reves's history, gone forever. Since I'd discovered the fake William Gilbert in the basement, the police had decided to turn over all the Beaux Reves paintings to the FBI's rapid deployment art crime team. An elite team of fourteen agents are assigned to cover art thefts and forgeries. They're the best in the business, and I had no doubt that they'd find a lot more forgeries in the
collection. It was sad to think Abigail had been chiseled out of valuable pieces of art, probably by people she trusted.

A text from Noah came in as we stood in the hall.
Sam told me you were headed to Beaux Reves. Checked into Norman's financials. Large deposits transferred from Desiree's account to his. Be careful.
I quickly texted him back that I had Ali with me and that I was fine. So there was some financial funny business going on with Desiree's money? I tried to put this together with what Sara had told me about Norman and Desiree being romantically involved. Nothing made sense.