Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (27 page)

“It can also suggest
love
,” Sybil said, not missing a beat. “If I’m not mistaken, those two were lovers.”

“And the car and the winding road were symbolic, hinting that they were taking a journey through life together?” I asked.

Sybil snorted. “I don’t think you need any fancy-pants interpretation for this one, Taylor. I think the dream represented exactly what was going on. Chico and Jennifer were driving off somewhere, heading for a night of illicit passion.” She nodded her head and sat back with a satisfied smirk.

Illicit passion?
I tried not to smile. Who talks like that anymore? It sounded like a phrase out of a pulp romance novel from a hundred years ago.

“Well, this is certainly something that the police should look into,” Persia said. We were silent for a moment, and I noticed Persia’s mouth was pulled down in a frown. I guessed she was unhappy that Sybil had come up with such a flashy dream, after all.

“Persia, did you have any interesting dreams last night?” Ali asked politely.

“Nothing to match Sybil’s,” she admitted.

After another round of fresh-squeezed lemonade, Sybil and Persia headed home, loaded down with a collection of vintage candy for the block party that evening.

“Well, what did you think of that?” Ali asked, the minute they were out the door.

I sighed. “I don’t know what to think. Sybil was certainly convincing.” I hesitated, wondering how to broach the subject. “Ali, I’ve been meaning to ask you something. Do you think people in the Dream Club ever make up these dreams, just to have a good story?”

“Taylor! That would be completely unethical.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “Our club is based on the study and interpretation of dreams. Honesty is key. If I thought anyone was trying to mislead us, I’d ask her not to come back. We have a strict honor code, and I expect everyone to abide by it. I won’t tolerate deception.”

“Wait, slow down a minute,” I said placatingly. “I wasn’t really talking about deception, just someone spicing up a dream to make it sound a bit more intriguing. Would that be so bad?”

“It wouldn’t if we regarded dreams as entertainment,” she said primly “But we don’t. We look at them as messages from our subconscious. Dreams exist to alert us to something or someone in our waking lives that needs our attention. Whether it’s a celebration or a warning.”

Ali’s mouth tightened, and I wished I’d never brought it up. “Well, in that case, I think we should follow up on Sybil’s dream,” I said, stashing the last of the lemon ice box cake back in the refrigerator. Ali had cut hefty wedges for Persia and Sybil to take home with them. “If there’s really some truth in what she uncovered, then there must be a way to test it.”

Ali rinsed out the lemonade pitcher and stared at me. “I can’t imagine how.”

“Let’s start with Chico’s car. This is the first time I’ve heard anyone mention it. Does he drive a red sports car like the one in Sybil’s dream? And what happened to it?”

“You know, that’s a good question,” Ali said, staring outside at the street. It was nearly five and there was no traffic. “I can’t believe I forgot this, but Chico drove a red Miata, a convertible.” Her eyes widened. “Just like the car in the dream.”

“Where’s the car now?” I asked, feeling a rush of excitement. I felt as though we were finally on the right track.

“I have no idea. He used to park it behind the studio, and when he drove it, he pulled out of the alley and turned onto Howard Street. So I never really saw him coming or going. But I know he had a red convertible because he showed it to me once.” She glanced down, embarrassed. “I never drove out of town with him, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“That’s not what I’m thinking at all,” I assured her. “I’m thinking we need to find out what happened to the car. Was it part of the estate?”

“I guess it would be, but Chico died without a will, so where does that leave us?”

“Nowhere.” I sighed. “I wonder if the police examined the car. It wasn’t really part of the crime scene,” I mused, “so they might not have looked at it too closely.”

“But you think we should?”

I nodded my head. “I know we should. And I think Noah can help us.”

31

“As far as I know, Chico’s car is still at the studio,” Noah told me. He’d dropped by the shop to talk about the latest development in the case. This was the first time he’d been in Oldies but Goodies, and I saw the quick look of surprise as he glanced around the shop. It was early evening, and we were open for the after-dinner crowd. Dana was waiting on customers in the front, and Ali was huddled in the back corner, working on the new desserts menu.

“You talked to the cops?”

Noah grinned. “You could say that.” I knew from his smile that Noah did what he always did—he figured out what he needed and then he’d worked his way around the system. Noah is a genius at slicing right through layers of red tape; he said he learned that skill when he worked for the Feds.

“So the car hasn’t been impounded,” I said, watching as a couple with young children ogled the candy selections. It seemed their toddler wanted one of each. She raced down the aisle, putting sticky handprints on the glass covers of all the bins, squealing with delight. Dana smiled tolerantly and winked at me. You’d never guess she’d just spent twenty minutes polishing everything until it gleamed.

“Why haven’t I seen it?” I frowned and looked out at the empty parking space in front of Chico’s. No car in sight.

“Maybe because you haven’t looked in the right place.” Ali said. “We need to check the area behind the studio. Chico never parked his car on the street. He liked to save those spaces for customers. And he parked at an angle, taking up two spaces, hoping no one would ding the gleaming paint job.”

I jumped up, nearly knocking over my coffee cup. “You’re kidding! You mean it could be sitting there right now?”

“Well, Noah just said it hasn’t been impounded. Right? So if it’s not down at the police station, it could be sitting right across the street. Unless someone has claimed it, of course.” What Ali said made perfect sense.

“That means we should take a look.” Noah pushed back his chair and stood up.

I told Dana that we were leaving for a little while and hoofed it across the street with Ali and Noah close behind. Could Sybil’s dream have been right on target? It seemed to be, unless she’d already known that Chico owned a little red sports car. Then all she had to do was invent the whole dream scenario to impress us. I still wasn’t sure if I believed in Sybil’s prowess as a dream expert, but either way, this could be a major development in the case.

The red Miata was parked exactly where Ali had indicated, right behind the dance studio. The double metal doors to the back entrance of the studio were firmly locked and chained shut. The little car sat forlornly, tucked away behind a giant Dumpster. It was impossible to see from the street. I doubted many people knew it was there, and I wondered why Gina hadn’t mentioned it to us. I wondered if she’d been devastated by Chico’s death since we hadn’t seen much of her since the funeral. Was it grief? Or was it something else? I’d never considered Gina a suspect, and I couldn’t imagine any motive for her to kill her boss.

“Taylor,” Ali said excitedly, “I think it’s unlocked!” She reached the car before we did and made a motion to grab the door handle but Noah stopped her.

“Wait,” he said, pulling her back. He stared closely at the area around the door handle and I noticed a faint powdery residue. “They dusted it for prints,” he said quietly. “But I bet that’s all they did. The car didn’t seem connected to the murder, so they didn’t go any further.”

“Can I open it?” When Noah nodded, Ali pulled open the passenger door and slipped inside. The car was clean, but had a stale smell from being closed up for several days. She checked the glove box and it was empty. No registration or insurance policy. The ashtray was clean, but that wasn’t a surprise: I remembered Ali telling me that Chico wasn’t a smoker. There was a drink holder and a little place for coins, and that was empty, too. Chico was obviously a neat freak; it was the cleanest car I’ve ever seen.

“Let’s check the trunk,” I suggested. Noah flipped open the lid and we peered inside. It was spotless. The rug looked brand new, and I suspect that Chico had never stashed anything in there.

Noah walked around the car, lost in thought. “You say someone dreamt that they saw Chico riding around in this car?”

“Sybil from the Dream Club,” Ali replied, “one of our most skilled dream analysts.”

“A dream analyst?” Noah muttered under his breath. He looked like he was going to say something else, and then thought better of it. Our eyes locked for a moment. I’m sure Noah figured the Dream Club was a bunch of hooey, but he would never do or say anything to hurt Ali’s feelings.

“He wasn’t alone in the car, he was with a woman,” Ali said. “Jennifer Walton.”

“Really?” Noah’s voice was completely level. If he had any reaction, he was hiding it well. Once again, I wondered about his relationship with Jennifer.

“So this is a dead end,” I said tiredly. I suddenly felt weary and defeated by the whole investigation. The car had been a new lead and one worth checking out, but my spirits sank when I realized it wasn’t going to yield any new information.

“Maybe not,” Ali said, examining a scrap of paper. “Look what I found hidden between the seat and the passenger door. It looks like a gas receipt.”

“A gas receipt? It must have the date and time printed on it.” Noah looked up, interested.

Ali nodded, her eyes wide. “Seven ten p.m., two days before Chico’s death. Wow, I can’t believe this.” She passed the receipt to Noah, and I noticed her fingers were trembling.

Noah squinted at the receipt and then smiled at me. “It looks like I underestimated your friend Sybil,” he said, his eyes dark and intent.

“Well, she was certainly right about the car,” I said, wondering what was going to come next. “But what does that leave us with?”

“Maybe a break in the case,” Noah said. “She was also right about the woman. Look who signed the receipt.”

I leaned forward and gasped in surprise. “Jennifer Walton?” I couldn’t believe it. She’d signed her name to a credit card receipt in a flowing, girlish hand. And the gas was charged at Sandy’s on Route 17. I hadn’t seen this coming.

“I know exactly where that gas station is,” Ali said excitedly. “It’s a little mom-and-pop place on the way to Charleston.” I must have looked surprised, because she added, “They make the best veggie burritos around. I always stop and get one when I’m out that way. The owner makes them herself.”

“Why would Jennifer be buying gas for Chico’s car?” I asked, still trying to get my mind around the new discovery.

“Chico never paid for anything,” Ali said, her face flushing. “He was always short of cash, or he forgot his wallet. I’m not surprised he let Jennifer pay for the gas; he probably figured she was a rich socialite and he was a dance instructor, struggling to get by. I never saw him pick up a check in his life, not even for a cup of coffee.”

“So he was a cheapskate,” Noah said flatly. “Sponging off women.”

“Who knows? He might have had a lot of expenses we hadn’t heard about. Maybe he was drowning in debt.” Ali gave a little sigh. Ali is so tenderhearted, she can’t stand the idea of anyone speaking ill of Chico.

“But he hoped to make a killing on the real estate deal,” Noah said thoughtfully. “So that means he either had money tucked away somewhere, or he had someone who was going to bankroll the venture.”

“If he bilked someone out of a lot of money, that might be a motive to kill him,” I said thoughtfully. “What if they lost their life savings or their retirement?” I thought of Lucinda, who was living on a small schoolteacher’s pension. Would she have been foolish enough to invest in one of Chico’s risky schemes? If so, she might have been wiped out financially.

On the other hand, if he’d bilked Jennifer Walton out of a lot of money, it wouldn’t be so significant. She reportedly had a small fortune stashed away and could take the hit of losing a chunk of money to Chico. Unless she had to figure out a way to explain the loss to her husband? That opened up a whole new area to explore. Did Thomas Walton suspect his wife’s affair? It would certainly be damaging to his political career. I still had the nagging feeling that I was missing a key piece of information.

“But then they’d never get their money back,” Ali objected, pulling me out of my thoughts. “How would that accomplish anything? A dead man can’t pay up.”

“Revenge could be the motive,” Noah said. “Someone might figure the money was gone forever, and was so furious, he or she killed Chico in a fit of rage.”

Except I thought we’d discounted the “fit of rage” motive, since Chico was poisoned. It takes time and effort to research various poisons and learn how to administer them.

“What shall we do now?” I asked, feeling more confused by the moment.

“This is evidence,” Noah said, pulling a small plastic bag from his pocket. He held the receipt by the corner and dropped it in. “It has to go straight to the Savannah PD.”

Noah left for the station house, and Ali and I headed back to the shop just as a new wave of tourists arrived. Dana had blown up some colorful helium balloons and was handing them out to the children. She’d ordered them from a specialty shop;
OLDIES BUT GOODIES
was splashed across the balloons in bold letters. A nice marketing technique, and I caught her eye to give her a thumbs-up. Dana was proving to be a wonderful asset to the shop, and Ali’s head was buzzing with marketing ideas. Business was definitely picking up, and for the next couple of hours, I put the murder investigation out of my mind.

My thoughts turned to the gas receipt later that evening when I was slipping into pajamas. So Chico and Jennifer had been an item. Another piece of the puzzle in place. Just as Sybil had described, they’d driven out in the country in his little red sports car. I tried to imagine the two of them together, the socialite and the dance instructor. What did they have in common? What in the world did they have to talk about? Was Chico just using Jennifer, trying to con her out of some money? Or was he genuinely attracted to her? We would probably never know. At the moment, I had more questions than answers.

I suddenly remembered why that plaque above Jennifer’s desk had caught my eye.
El que rie ultimo rie mejor
.
He who laughs last, laughs best.
That phrase had been bouncing around my head like a Ping-Pong ball for the past few days. Someone had quoted it recently. But who?

*   *   *

“This adds a
new twist to the case,” Sara Rutledge said the next morning. I’d persuaded her to visit the shop for breakfast. Coffee was brewing and Ali had made some of her famous blueberry sour cream muffins. A fruit plate with melons, strawberries, and mangoes was in the middle of the table, and Sara had added a vintage Fiesta pitcher filled with yellow roses. The table setting looked like something out of shabby chic and had a wonderful homey feel.

“This is so cool,” Sara said, looking around the cozy apartment. I’d set the antique pine table with some bright red woven placemats I’d bought at an outdoor market in the district. The shutters were open to catch the morning breeze, and sunlight splashed on the heart pine floors. Sara had left Remy downstairs with Dana, because I wasn’t sure how Barney and Scout would react to a canine guest. “I’d love to have a place like this; it has a lot of charm.”

“And a lot of history.” I’d found some old black-and-white photos of the building in its earlier incarnations as a jam factory and a newspaper office and had them framed with identical metal frames. The photos had a very cool, retro look, and guests always commented on them. There’s a special vibe from old buildings, and you can almost feel the spirits of the people who lived and worked in them.

“Where are you staying?” Ali asked.

“I’m renting an apartment off Victory Drive,” Sara said. “It’s nothing special. Very modern, sort of sterile actually. It reminds me of an office building—nice finishes, but no charm, no character. Maybe I’ll come to you for decorating tips,” she said to Ali.

“You know I’d be glad to help. I love doing stuff like that.”

Once Ali had poured the coffee and sat down, the talk turned to Chico. I told Sara all about the gas receipt Ali had found in Chico’s car, and she shook her head in amazement. “I never would have guessed that,” she said quietly. “I have a surprise of my own,” she said, pulling out a grainy photo. It was a close-up of a sports drink called High Test. “A friend enhanced it after I managed to get that screen shot from the security tape Noah told us about. This is what Chico was drinking in the alley next to the studio.”