Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (8 page)

11

“I’m exhausted,” Ali said the moment everyone left. Her skin had turned as white as a kabuki player’s face, and my heart went out to her as she curled up on one end of the sofa. She suddenly looked very young and vulnerable as she twisted a lock of pale blond hair around her finger, staring blankly at the carpet. Barney and Scout immediately jumped down from their perch on the window seat and snuggled close to her. They seemed to sense she needed the comfort of their warm, furry little bodies, and she kissed the top of Barney’s head.

“Would you like me to get you anything? Maybe some hot chocolate?” I remembered all our late-night talks growing up. We’d sit at the kitchen table and drink hot chocolate while we talked about whatever was troubling her, whether it was boys or history class.

“I’ll be okay,” she said, smiling her thanks. “I just need some time to get a grip on what’s happened. I thought I was dealing with it pretty well, but—” She broke off suddenly, and her voice caught in her throat. “Sorry,” she said after a moment. “I’ll be okay tomorrow, I promise.”

“You don’t have to put on a brave face for me,” I told her. “This has been a huge shock, and it’s going to take time to process it.” I hesitated. “Part of the problem is that we don’t really know what happened.”

“I know,” she said miserably. “I’d feel better if it was some kind of an accident. I hate to think that someone actually wanted to kill Chico.” She shivered as if a chill had gone through her. “But it looks like that could be the case, doesn’t it?” She let her blue-eyed gaze settle on me, and I could see she was holding back tears.

“I’m afraid so,” I said gently. “Maybe Sam will have some answers for us soon.” I struggled for something reassuring to say and came up empty-handed.

I wondered if Ali would ever find “closure,” even if it turned out that Chico had died of natural causes. Sudden death—especially in someone so young—is always a shock. It seems to go against the natural order of things and makes us question basic tenets we always took for granted.

It also brings us smack up against our own mortality.

“Do you mind if I turn in?” Ali said suddenly, swinging her feet to the floor and gathering the hand-crocheted throw around her like a shawl.

“No, of course not, but do you think you’ll be able to sleep?” I had assumed Ali would want to sit up for a while and might enjoy some company. I felt a little pang of guilt when I realized I didn’t know my sister as well as I thought, and time and distance had created a gulf between us. I couldn’t seem to find the right words to say to her when she was obviously in pain.

“I doubt it,” she said, giving a sad little smile. “But I think I might just rest a bit and listen to music. I’ll take these guys with me.” Barney and Scout seemed to understand they were being invited into the bedroom. They immediately jumped off the sofa and scampered down the hallway to Ali’s room. “See you in the morning,” she said softly.

I settled back at the kitchen table and decided to have another sliver of cobbler with a cup of coffee before turning in. For some reason, caffeine seems to soothe me, even though it’s supposed to cause a boost of adrenaline. There’s something comforting about holding the warm cup in my hands and breathing in the delightful fragrance of hazelnut or vanilla bean. I’d just finished brewing the coffee when the phone rang. I snatched it off the hook almost immediately. There was always the chance that Ali had fallen asleep and I didn’t want her to be disturbed.

“Hope this isn’t too late to call.” Persia’s voice came racing over the line. “I thought of something I need to run by you.”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying to put a little enthusiasm into my voice. I didn’t feel like rehashing the meeting of the Dream Club, but I didn’t want to be rude to Persia, who sounded like she was ready for a chat. “What’s up?”

“Well, I’ve been mulling over the imagery in my dream about the dark-haired man,” she began. “And I think something stands out. We talked about evil and danger, but we didn’t even touch on the jealousy angle. That could be crucial to solving the case.”

“Jealousy?” I sneaked a little bite of cobbler in my mouth and tried to chew quietly.

“Yes, remember how prominent the red imagery was in the dream? The color red can signify jealousy, you know. I wondered if Chico could have been involved in some sort of love triangle?”

“A love triangle? I haven’t heard anything like that, but I suppose Sam will have to delve into all his relationships, if he really was murdered.”

She pondered that for a moment, and I had the feeling she was looking for something more gossip-worthy, probably some spicy details about Chico’s love life. “How is Ali holding up?” she said, shifting gears.

“She’s exhausted,” I said quickly. “She’s already turned in for the night.” I could hear soft music coming from the bedroom, and I had no intention of disturbing my sister. “I’ll tell her you called, though, and I’m sure she’ll get back to you first thing tomorrow.”

“Oh well, that would be fine,” Persia said with a note of resignation. “Some more details may come to light once the news gets around.” It seemed obvious to me that Persia was someone who lived for gossip, and the phone lines would be burning up tomorrow morning as she shared the news about Chico. “And Taylor—”

“Yes?”

“Don’t forget to allow yourself to dream about Chico. You can nudge the subconscious; it’s not at all difficult to do. Your subconscious is just waiting for your command. Remember, dear, you’re in control.”

I smiled to myself. Persia was relentless. “I’ll do that. To the best of my ability, I mean.”

“That’s all anyone can ask,” Persia replied. “Have a good evening,” she said before ending the call.

*   *   *

I spent a
restless night and was up at six the next morning, greeting Barney and Scout, who’d padded into the kitchen. I noticed the door to Ali’s room was firmly shut so I filled their bowls with low-cal, nutritious crunchies while they circled around my feet, mewing softly.

Both cats stared at the pellets in disbelief and then looked back at me, as if to say, “This is it? You’ve got to be kidding!” Ali had gotten into the habit of adding a few goodies to their dry food—a slice of smoked turkey breast, a spoonful of tuna—but the vet had warned her that the cats were turning into porkers. Barney weighed in at seventeen pounds, and Scout topped the scales at eighteen and a half. Ali had reluctantly agreed to place them on a strict diet. I had to admit the “heart-healthy” dry food she bought from the vet didn’t look appealing, but we decided to limit treats from the table.

“I’m afraid that’s it, guys,” I told them, as if they could understand me. “If Ali wants to spoil you, she’ll have to do it on her watch. I’ve been given my orders.” After shooting me an abject look of hurt and betrayal, they tucked into their bowls, resigned, and I brewed a pot of strong coffee. Barney shot me a last, sad look from over his shoulder, and I had to steel myself against adding a handful of tuna cat treats from the pantry.

I thought about how I wanted to spend the day. The shop wouldn’t open for another three hours, and I planned to unpack a shipment of gummy bears that had arrived Saturday evening. Ali had a nice selection of gummy fish and gummy worms on display, but gummy bears were a perennial favorite and we’d nearly sold out.

I grabbed a cup of coffee fresh from the pot and a notepad as I settled myself on the chintz-covered window seat. I opened the dark walnut plantation shutters to the warm Savannah air and peered outside. Not a hint of a breeze, and even at this early hour, it was obvious that the day was going to be a scorcher. The air felt soupy, and I could hear the buzz of cicadas from the live oak trees lining the street.

I glanced across the road at Chico’s dance studio. The curtains were drawn, and I noticed someone had posted a sign in the window. The pale yellow brick building looked sad and desolate, and I felt a little pang thinking about the vibrant dance instructor whose life was suddenly cut short.

Giving myself a mental shake, I sipped my coffee and began to make lists. I try not to brood over things, and I’ve found that action is the perfect antidote to ruminating. Ali always teases me about my ABC to-do lists. Items in the A-list are “must-dos,” the B-list is for “should-dos,” and the C-list is for “would like to do.” On a good day, I can hit all three, but I don’t let myself fall into bed at night until I accomplish everything on the A-list. Ali thinks this is obsessive, but I can’t operate any other way.

I lined up today’s tasks in order of priority. I wanted to help Ali with the stock inventory, work up some publicity ideas with Dana, her young assistant, and think about reorganizing some of the glass display counters for maximum effect. All of these items went on the A-list.

The B-list was easy. I wanted to go forward with my idea of adding a “soup, sandwiches, and snacks” menu to the shop. I knew I’d have to tread carefully, because Ali didn’t seem too keen on the idea.

When we’d talked about it initially, she had no idea whether she was even allowed to serve fresh food, or whether she would need a pricey upgrade to her current business license.

Did a shop owner like Ali need a restaurant license to serve soups and sandwiches? She already had a license to sell candy. The fact she hadn’t checked this out told me I’d have an uphill battle on my hands.

I was jotting down some menu items—wondering if we should add some classic Savannah favorites like crab cake sandwiches and corn chowder with roasted red peppers—when Ali appeared, looking pale with dark smudges under her eyes. She yawned and stretched elaborately, reminding me of a teenager in her Ralph Lauren striped pink pajama set. I recognized the outfit because I’d given it to her last Christmas.

“I’m glad you’re awake, but I bet you didn’t sleep well,” I said, jumping up from the window seat to pour her some coffee.

She glanced over at me, her expression blank for a moment, as if she’d forgotten I was there. “I’m fine,” she said with a touch of irritation in her voice. She ran her hand through her tousled blond hair and reached for a cheerful mug hand-painted with bright red peonies. “I just need some time to wake up. I’m always like this first thing in the morning.” She picked up the coffeepot, sniffed at it, wrinkled her nose, and put it down. “I think I’ll start with some chamomile tea. It’s easier on the stomach than caffeine. I’ll switch to coffee later, if I really need it.” She seemed to be avoiding looking at me directly, and I noticed her eyes were red and puffy as if she’d been crying.

“I can make that for you,” I said quickly. “Maybe you should just sit down and relax, Ali. This has been a trying time for all of us.” I opened a cabinet and started rummaging through the shelves when she put her hand on my arm.

“Taylor, I wish you wouldn’t fuss like this.” She blew out a little sigh. “You’re hovering over me night and day, and it makes me feel like I’m eight years old. I’ve lived on my own for quite a while, you know, while you were off in Chicago doing the corporate thing
.” Doing the
corporate thing?
Could it be that she was jealous of my success? We’d taken two completely different career paths, and I never thought she envied my choice. She looked at me directly then, pursed her lips, and reached past me for a box of tea tucked away on the top shelf.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, immediately chastened. “I didn’t mean to hover and interrupt your morning routine.” I mustered a smile. “I’m impossible without coffee, and I tend to forget that not everyone is like me.”

“Yes, you do tend to forget that,” she said flatly, filling the kettle with water. “I like to take my time waking up, that’s all. You’re fired up on all cylinders and ready to go when your feet hit the floor,” she said in a softer tone. “That’s good for you, but it doesn’t work for me.” She padded downstairs and I heard her open the front door. A moment later, she appeared back upstairs with the morning paper in hand. From the expression on her face, it didn’t look like her mood had improved.

Ali settled herself at the table, absorbed in the paper, and I stood awkwardly by the kitchen counter, wondering what to do next. The silence stretched out between us, and the kitchen was deathly still except for the ticking of the retro Kit-Cat Klock above the sink. The cat’s revolving eyes and pendulum tail moved in time to the seconds ticking by, and I watched it blankly for a moment, my thoughts on my sister. Ali was clearly upset, but there seemed to be nothing I could say or do to comfort her.