Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (7 page)

10

“Don’t you think we should have invited Gina?” Lucinda asked, her face clouded with worry. “She’s going to wonder why she wasn’t included, and I think she needs us now more than ever.”

“This is a time to be surrounded by friends,” Dorien Myers agreed. “I can only imagine how shocked and upset she must be.”

“It’s better to let her rest,” Ali said firmly. “I did try to call her, but it went right to voice mail. She looked absolutely shattered when she left here, and I’m sure she’s turned her phone off for tonight. We can fill her in on everything tomorrow morning.”

Ali had pulled herself together very quickly after the shock of Chico’s death just a few hours earlier. I must admit, I was impressed by my kid sister. She appeared to be a lot stronger and more resilient than I’d realized.

She’d pulled out half a dozen casserole dishes from the freezer and had put together a quick supper for the Dream Club members. She’d managed to assemble everyone except Gina and Sam Stiles, and we all gathered in the cozy living room with the shuttered blinds open to the evening air. A fragrant breeze wafted in from the street, and a Mozart concerto was playing softly in the background.

“I don’t know how you managed to do all this,” Persia said, taking in the cheerful blue and yellow gingham tablecloth and matching napkins. I’d set the table buffet style with bright blue Fiesta ware and poured white wine for everyone. “Especially in light of what’s happened, Ali.” Persia went on, “After all, you were very close to Chico, weren’t you, Ali?” She kept her tone level, but the slight emphasis on the word “close” made me think she was making an effort to be discreet. Southern towns are rife with gossip, and Savannah is no exception.

“Well, of course—we were neighbors,” Ali cut in. “Everyone on the street is going to be upset by the news.” She glanced at Minerva and Rose Harper, the elderly sisters who ran the flower shop. “You probably knew Chico longer than anyone.” I remembered Ali telling me that the Harper sisters and their flower shop had been a fixture in the district for nearly half a century.

“Oh my yes,” Minerva said, scooping up a portion of green beans and toasted almonds. “I was surprised when he first moved in. I never thought he’d get much of a following in this neighborhood, but he proved me wrong. Women took to him, you know.”

“Like bees to honey,” Rose piped up. “How did you get all this food together, Ali? This macaroni and cheese is absolutely delicious. It’s better than the one I make.”

“It has three different kinds of cheeses,” Ali said absently. “That’s the secret. And I add a touch of white wine. I’ll write the recipe down for you.” I noticed Ali had taken a tiny portion of salad greens, but hadn’t touched any of the casseroles.

I had no idea the freezer was so well stocked with homemade delicacies, and was amazed when she’d pulled out an enchilada casserole, an artichoke and Gruyère mixture with wild rice, and an amazing roasted vegetable curry.

It was obvious to me that Ali’s talent for cooking would be a tremendous asset to the vintage candy shop, and she should be serving light meals and snacks to her customers. I resolved to bring the issue up again once things had settled down with the investigation. This was no time to talk business; everyone’s mind was on Chico.

We spent a few minutes talking about being interviewed by Sam, and then Persia jumped in. “You do remember my dream, don’t you?” she asked, looking around the group. “It was prophetic, wasn’t it?” she said, raising her eyebrows in a V.

“Tell me again,” Lucinda said, leaning forward. “You saw a dark-haired man, and there was some loud Latin music playing in the background.”

“Exactly,” Persia said, giving a smile like the Cheshire cat. “It all fits, you see. The man, the music, and in my dream, the door was open to the street.” She widened her eyes and tossed me a meaningful look like someone in a soap opera. “That’s precisely what you discovered when the two of you rushed over to the studio, wasn’t it? The door was open to the street, and you could see inside?”

“Yes, that’s what happened,” Ali said, pressing her lips together for a moment. “We could see Chico lying inside and music was blaring away, the salsa numbers he uses for his dance classes. He was lying there still, so still.” She winced at the memory, and her voice wobbled a little. Ali had always insisted her relationship with Chico had been casual, yet she was having a hard time dealing with his death, and trying not to show it.

“But there were other points of comparison, isn’t that right, dear?” Persia went on. “Maybe you overlooked some elements that are less obvious. Do you remember what I said about the wolves?”

“The wolves?” I asked. I refilled everyone’s glasses and sat down again. Almost everyone was having wine except the Harper sisters. They’d asked for sweet tea, and I’d put a large, cut-glass pitcher on the coffee table.

“Yes, Taylor, the wolves,” she said with a touch of impatience. “I saw a pack of wolves circling the man in the dream. They looked menacing, almost bloodthirsty, and their fur was tinged with red. She gave an involuntary little shudder and clasped her hands together in her lap.

“What do you suppose that means?” Sybil asked.

“The presence of the wolves in Persia’s dream must have been symbolic,” Ali said slowly. “One interpretation is that the wolves represent people who posed a threat to Chico.”

Dorien cleared her throat. “Well,” she began, “not to speak ill of the dead, but let’s face it, ladies, there were plenty of people who wanted to get rid of Chico.” She looked around the group as if daring anyone to disagree with her. “They wouldn’t be too upset if a pack of wolves had chomped him to death. They’d probably figure he had it coming.” She seemed to take a grim relish in the image of Chico being dismembered, and I wondered if she had a particular ax to grind with the dead dance instructor.

“Oh, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that,” Lucinda said, twin spots of color popping up on her cheeks. “I mean, Chico had his faults, bless his heart, but I don’t think anyone really wanted to see him dead. He tried his best, but he was always an outsider here, bless his heart.”

Her remark was met with stony silence, and I had to bite back a smile. Whenever a Southerner says “bless his heart,” it’s usually code for “I’d like to wring his neck.”

“There was always something a little off about him, you know?” Persia offered. “Not that he didn’t have a certain charm, but he wasn’t quite up to snuff.”

Sybil blew out a little breath. “Tell us more about your dream, Persia. Anything else you can remember about the wolves?”

“Just that they were circling around a campfire,” Persia said, squinting her eyes. “There was a sort of red haze around them. I remember bright red flames shooting up in the air. The whole scene took on a fiery aura. I could almost feel the heat; it was overwhelming.”

“I remember you mentioning the flames, Persia,” I offered.

“Fire is an important element in dream work,” Ali said. “It’s open to interpretation, but it can mean passion, love, or danger.”

That’s the trouble with dream interpretation
,
I thought.
There are just too many possible explanations. It was all beginning to sound like smoke and mirrors to me, and the truth was hidden under too many layers of camouflage.

“Fire can also mean something more sinister; it can represent evil,” Dorien said firmly. “Think of hellfire. Nothing glamorous about that.” She pressed her lips tightly together and sat back with a satisfied smile.

We were all silent for a moment. Ali got up to serve raspberry cobbler—another freezer find—when Persia snapped her fingers. “I just thought of something else, ladies.” She paused dramatically, waiting until she had everyone’s attention. “The dinner, remember? In my dream, the dark-haired man was surrounded by the remains of a dinner service. There was fine china and crystal. I couldn’t tell if it was a private dinner at home or in a restaurant or hotel. But he was definitely in the middle of dinner when he was struck down.”

I heard a clatter of silverware and realized Ali had dropped all the dessert forks she was carrying onto the tile floor. “Sorry,” she said, scooping them up. “How clumsy of me. I’ll be right back with some more.”

“Let us help you, dear,” Lucinda said, springing into action. “I’ll make coffee if you want to slice the cobbler, Taylor.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, reaching for the glass dessert plates that had belonged to my grandmother. I hadn’t thought Ali was sentimental, but she’d chosen a few things from the house when my grandmother passed away a couple of years earlier.

“Fresh raspberry cobbler,” Persia gushed. “With such a flaky homemade crust. I could practically swoon over it. Your sister is a wonderful cook, Taylor.”

“Yes, she is,” I said, forcing myself to smile. My thoughts were a million miles away from raspberry cobbler, though, because I’d just remembered something. When I’d glanced into the open door of the studio, Chico had been surrounded by china and cutlery. The whole image registered in my mind like a freeze-frame in a film. The dishes, the glasses, the napkins. And of course, poor Chico lying dead on the floor while the music played on.

Just like in Persia’s dream.

Finally, we seemed to have exhausted the subject of Chico and his untimely death, and everyone except Ali tucked into dessert. She seemed pensive, gazing out the windows to the street now and then, a sad look flitting across her face.

When Rose and Minerva stood up to take their leave shortly after, it seemed to put an unofficial end to the evening. Lucinda and Dorien gathered up their things, and Sybil gave Ali a quick hug. We were just about to make our way downstairs when Persia announced, “Before we split up, ladies, I have a very important request. There’s something I need each of you to do tonight.” Everyone stopped in their tracks to listen. Persia has a forceful personality and a rather commanding presence.

“What is it, dear?” Minerva Harper asked. She stood next to her sister, resting her hand lightly on top of the sofa for support.

“I want everyone to dream about Chico tonight,” Persia said. Her gaze moved slowly over all of us gathered at the top of the stairs.

“What?” Lucinda blurted out. “How in the world would we do that? I can’t control my dreams, no matter how hard I try, and I’m sure no one else can, either.” I remembered Lucinda’s embarrassment when she dreamt she’d been strolling down the produce aisle at Publix, stark naked.

Persia smiled. “Think about him right before you go to sleep. Get an image in your mind of him in the studio, exactly as Ali and Taylor described him. I believe in the collective power of dreams.” She paused. “And in the power of suggestion. The mind is always open to instructions from us. Sometimes we fail to take the reins, and we miss a valuable opportunity.”

“I’m not sure I can make myself dream about the man,” Dorien said snippily. “It’s not like I really knew him, after all.”

“You don’t have to
make
yourself dream about him, Dorien,” Persia retorted. “You can
encourage
yourself to dream about him. The mind is a marvelous creation, you know.” I heard Dorien, who was standing behind me, give out a little sigh. She was obviously eager to be on her way and didn’t feel like listening to a lecture on dream work from Persia.

Persia, while well meaning, does tend to adopt a professorial tone from time to time, and I hoped she would keep her explanation brief.

“So you’re saying that if we think about Chico, we can encourage ourselves to dream about him?” I asked, hoping to hurry her along. “That’s really all we have to do?”

“Yes, that’s exactly it,” Persia said approvingly. “Just give your subconscious free rein, and you might be surprised where it takes you. Your mind might go down some interesting pathways and come up with images and themes that will surprise you. I suggest we all give ourselves an opportunity to dream about what we learned here tonight, and meet again midweek for another discussion.”

“That’s sounds wonderful,” Minerva said, clutching the banister and making her way slowly down the stairs. She turned to Ali and patted her hand. “Thank you for the delicious dinner, Ali. I enjoyed every single bite of it. Next week, Rose and I will bring the sweets; you’ve been doing far too much work.” She smiled warmly at my sister. “We’d like to lend a hand.”