Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (12 page)

“But what’s he doing in Savannah?” I whispered. I wanted to find out as much information as I could before he reached us. Luckily a couple of women tried to engage him in conversation, slowing down his progress, as he made his way across the veranda. Noah was always catnip to women, and judging from the flirtatious smiles tossed his way, I could see that nothing had changed. I was glad I had a few extra seconds to compose myself.

“I’m not sure. I heard he’s some sort of private investigator.” She grabbed a drink from a tray a waiter was passing and took a big sip. “Uh-oh, here he comes. I think I’ll make myself scarce.”

“No, Ali, please stay!” I pleaded with her, but she disappeared into the crowd, and suddenly I was face-to-face with Noah Chandler. We had had an intense two-year relationship when we both were working in Atlanta. I was a strategist for a consulting firm, and he was with the Atlanta field office of the FBI. I was away on business most of the time, and he was always flying across the country on assignments.

In hindsight, neither one of us had the time or energy to devote to a relationship. No wonder Noah and I didn’t make a go of it. The timing was off and we both were workaholics, too tired and irritable to invest time and attention in each other. After one major blowup, I moved to Chicago and tried to put the past—and Noah—behind me.

I thought I had. Until now.

15

“Taylor.” The low sexy voice was like a caress as he took both my hands in his and leaned in to kiss my cheek. It was such a polite, chaste kiss that no one would ever guess there had been anything between us. Certainly not a red-hot, sizzling love affair that had ended badly.

“Noah.” I drew back from his embrace as gracefully as I could and clasped my hands in front of me. He looked amused. “I didn’t know you were here in Savannah.”

Noah snared a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing waiter and handed one of them to me. I tried not to notice that his fingers lingered on mine for just a second too long, and I dipped my head to hide the rush of emotion that swept over me. Like they say, old memories die hard.

“I had a bit of a career change,” he said, letting his gaze skim over my black sheath. “I always liked you in black,” he said thoughtfully. “It suits your coloring.”

“Tell me about your new career,” I said, determined to draw the conversation back to safer channels. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Ali standing by the musicians, looking over at us, probably wondering how I was handling the unexpected reunion.

“I’m a private investigator now,” he said lightly. “I liked working for the Bureau, but I decided I’d be much happier being my own boss.”

“Here in town?”

Noah nodded. “I rented some office space in the Historic District. On Drayton Street, close to Lafayette Square.” His dark gaze held mine and then he said, “So what brings you to town? I heard you’d moved to Chicago.”

I played with my glass, stalling for time, wondering how much to say. “I came to see Ali for a quick visit and I decided to stay for a while.” I’d forgotten how his gray eyes flashed with electricity, and I felt a warm flush creeping up my chest. “I still have my place in Chicago, but I’ll be in town for a while to help Ali with her shop.”

“She’s opened a store?” He smiled. Ali’s checkered career history has always been a source of amusement to him. Noah is one of the most focused people I know, and he’s always zoomed in on what he wants, with the precision of a heat-seeking missile. He planned his career path carefully. First a bachelor’s degree in computer technology, and then a master’s in criminal justice, followed by a three-year stint with the Boston PD and then the FBI. The last I heard, he’d been accepted into the elite BAU unit at Quantico. I was surprised to see that he’d gone in a totally new direction. Somehow I never pictured him as a private detective.

“It’s a retro candy shop,” I told him. “She calls it Oldies but Goodies.”

“A retro candy shop.” He chuckled. “Ali’s always full of surprises.” He paused a beat and then said, “Would you like to grab a quick lunch at Oleander someday?” His dark gaze held mine. I must have looked puzzled because he added quickly, “Oleander is a little café on the Riverwalk. All the locals know it. Great food and you’re in and out quick. We could catch up—”

He broke off suddenly as a trim woman in a pink lace designer dress interrupted us with a short, bubbling laugh. She laid her hand gently on my arm. “Taylor, I’ve been looking all over for you! I want to welcome you to town and hear all about that delightful little candy store your sister opened! Andre has been talking nonstop about the two of you. He’s singing your praises!” She beamed a Hollywood smile at Noah; it was obvious the two of them knew each other. I felt a little pang of jealousy and tamped it down. “I’m so happy you and your sister could join us tonight. Welcome to Savannah.”

Her eyes were glittery, heavily lined with kohl, and she was smiling too much, talking too fast, acting just a little too animated. I suspected she’d been hitting the Cristal pretty hard before the party began. “I declare, if those caterers don’t serve dinner soon, I’m not going to tip them a penny. You all must be starving!”

Now it all fit. This trim, slightly tipsy blonde had to be Jennifer Walton, our hostess.

“Thank you so much for inviting us tonight, Mrs. Walton,” I said quickly. I still felt a little awkward at tagging along on Andre’s invitation. The classic uninvited guest.

“My pleasure,” she said, slurring her words a little. “And call me Jennifer.” She took a healthy swig of champagne. “How do you two know each other?” she asked, tucking her arm through Noah’s. It was a very proprietary gesture.

“We both worked in Atlanta,” Noah interjected. “That was a couple of years ago.” His tone was completely flat, his expression unreadable. I could have been a coworker, a distant acquaintance, someone of no importance to him. “I was surprised to run into Taylor tonight. I had no idea she was in Savannah with her sister.”

“So you two met in Atlanta!” She clapped her hands together. “How lovely—it’s one of my favorite cities. Tom and I sneak away to Atlanta for a romantic weekend whenever we can.” She narrowed her gaze at me, obviously fishing for information and trying not to show it.

She gave a lascivious wink. “You know what they say. All work and no play makes Tom a dull boy. I keep telling him life is more than politics. He has to have some fun! I know I do.” Interesting the way she turned the conversation away from me to herself. I had to admire her skill. “Taylor,” she said, suddenly shifting gears, “would you mind if I stole this handsome man away for a while? I need to talk to him about a business proposition.” She gave an apologetic smile. “I know it’s terribly bad manners to talk business at a social event, but this can’t wait.”

“Please, go right ahead.” I smiled through gritted teeth.

“Enjoy the rest of the evening, Taylor,” she said, turning her smile up to full wattage. “I’ll be sure to drop by your sister’s little store very soon.”

Little store?
So condescending. She may be a spectacular hostess, but there was something off-putting about the woman. A cold kettle of fish, as my granny would say.

“Give my best to Ali,” Noah said as he was led away. I nodded, wondering if I would see him again. Did I want to? I wasn’t sure. And what was his relationship with Jennifer Walton?

I wandered over to a buffet table and helped myself to some tiny crab puffs. They had an elaborate selection of hot and cold hors d’oeuvres, served on antique silver trays from a pair of mahogany neoclassical sideboards. Savory cheese straws, tiny biscuits filled with goat cheese and chives; mini freshly cut sandwiches filled with smoked salmon, cucumber, tomato, and cheese. Eye-catching and delicious. These were all things that we could serve as part of Ali’s “light lunches and snacks” menu.

Savannah is known for its fabulous food, and this would be a good time to start collecting recipes. I stepped back into the drawing room and took in the opulent surroundings. From the creamy ivory curtains to the museum-quality antiques, no expense had been spared in restoring the mansion to its former glory.

“I love the pineapple finials, don’t you? Jennifer ordered them last month from a specialty shop in town. So very Savannah,” a middle-aged woman murmured. “And she repeated the motif with the door knocker. She has excellent taste, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I do,” I said warmly. I wondered what a pineapple finial was, and glanced around for a clue. I couldn’t tell if the woman was staring at the pale gray silk wallpaper or the seascape in the ornate gilded frame. If the seascape was a Winslow Homer, it was worth a small fortune. There was a muted floral pattern on the wallpaper, but nothing even vaguely resembling a pineapple. “This is my first time visiting the estate, and I have to say, I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed. I’m Taylor Blake,” I said, sticking out my hand.

“Hildy Carter.” She shook hands, and I noticed she was wearing a ruby the size of a walnut. “Yes, it’s a lot to take in. This is one of the best restorations I’ve seen, and I’m in the business.”

“Really?” I murmured politely.

“I run a decorating business in Savannah.” She was stuffed into a black cocktail suit a couple of sizes too small and was wearing a white silk blouse with pearls.

“That must be fun; there seem to be so many grand old homes here.”

“Yes, there are, but it’s a cutthroat business. And sometimes customers aren’t as loyal as you’d like them to be. They latch on to the flavor of the month. Out with the old, in with the new,” she said with a trace of bitterness. “Are you visiting family here?”

“I am.” I wasn’t sure how she’d pegged me as a visitor, not a resident, but maybe it was the Northern accent. When I told her about Ali and the shop, her smile fell right off her face. She was probably disappointed when I mentioned that we lived in a small apartment on the second floor. Ali’s little two-bedroom flat above the shop was filled with yard-sale finds and done up in shabby chic décor. We certainly weren’t the type of high-end customers she was looking for.

“I just realized your sister’s shop is right across the street from Chico’s,” Hildy said, her hand flying to her mouth. “Good heavens, what a terrible thing that was. Do they know what happened to him?”

I shook my head. “It seems unclear. The police are still investigating.”

“Well, far be it from me to speak ill of the dead, but let’s just say that I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if someone murdered him. You know what they say,” she said, nodding grimly, “if you play with fire, you’re bound to get burned.” For a split second, Lucinda’s dream flashed through my mind. Hadn’t she seen flames leaping all around the dancing man with no face? I remember being stuck by that image. But what could the connection be between Chico and the Waltons?

“That dance instructor broke a lot of hearts here,” Hildy went on, “and you know what they say about karma. It comes right back and smacks you every time.” I must have looked distracted because she took a step closer, her tone solicitous. “Is everything all right, dear?” Hildy asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I assured her. “It’s just a bit warm in here, and I need a breath of air. Would you excuse me while I freshen up?”

“Of course, and if you or any of your friends ever need a decorator, here’s my card.” She pulled out an expensive embossed business card and pressed it into my hand. “Enjoy your stay, dear.”

I quickly made my way to the downstairs powder room, which was like something out of a movie.
Architectural Digest
meets antebellum. The pale peach wallpaper was stenciled with delicate ferns, and the crown molding was dripping rosettes and curlicues. The attention to detail meant hand-carved, I decided. A creamy bisque porcelain bowl had been dropped into an antique marble-topped mixing stand, which served as a counter. I quickly splashed some water on my face and dabbed on some lipstick. I was about to reach for the doorknob and paused when I heard voices outside.

“I think someone’s in there, we’ll have to wait,” a female said in a bored, slightly nasal voice. Her accent was decidedly not Southern, and I quickly pegged it as Long Island. She tapped lightly on the door and twisted the knob. “Damn it, what’s she doing? Writing her memoirs?” She gave a loud snort.

“We could go upstairs,” her friend suggested. “There’s a bathroom right at the top of the stairs.”

“I wouldn’t recommend it,” Ms. Long Island said with a sigh. “The last time I tried that, I wandered down the wrong hallway and Jennifer accused me of snooping in her bedroom. Can you believe it?” Her voice rose to an angry spiral. “That woman is paranoid, especially when she’s had too much to drink.”

“Hah! Which is like all the time. I know, she can be a real be-otch. So is it true what they’re saying about Chico?”

A pause and then, “I don’t know. But even if it is, so what? What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, as they say.”

“What does that mean exactly? I never understood that saying. Hey, I just remembered there’s another bathroom out in the pool house. I can’t wait another minute.”

The voices faded then, and I quickly unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway. I was shaken and confused by what I’d heard. Chico was involved with the Waltons. But how? It seemed unlikely they would move in the same social circles. The dance instructor and the politician and the politician’s wife? None of it made sense.

The conversation I’d overheard between the two women was cryptic to say the least. And the quote from the womans’s granny buzzed in my brain.
What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander
. Did that mean Jennifer Walton was fooling around? And that Thomas Walton was doing the same thing? There seemed to be some murky secrets buried in his past, but I thought they had to do with shady business dealings, not adultery.