Dream a Little Scream (15 page)

“Yes, ma'am,” Ali said politely. Ali shot me a look. She obviously wanted me to chime in.

I was at a loss for words and struggled to think of something appropriate to say. “That's good to know, Mrs. Carpenter. We were all so excited to have Sonia visit our shop, and what happened was just tragic.” I waited a beat. “We don't know what plans you've made for Sonia's funeral, but we'd certainly like to pay our respects.”

“Well, that's very kind of you, but I'm afraid that's not possible. The funeral will be private.” She looked out over the vast expanse of green lawn as if she was gazing into infinity. It was perfectly still; the only movement was a hummingbird hovering over a red bird feeder filled with sugar water. I remember the Harper sisters telling me the best way to attract the little birds was with water sweetened with sugar.

A long beat passed and I exchanged a look with Ali. Now what? I was about to break the silence when she turned to face me. “We're having just a few close relatives and friends.
I'm sure you understand.” She sighed. “Sonia made her own funeral arrangements, and she was very clear on that. She didn't want a big production; I'm not sure why.” She gave a wry smile. “Maybe because she was surrounded by so many people all her life? She couldn't even walk down the street without someone asking for her autograph.”

“The price of fame,” I said quietly.

Clare nodded. “Yes, indeed. A heavy price. Sonia didn't talk about it much, but sometimes I think she would have been happy to chuck it all and move to a little town in Georgia and have a garden. She was a country girl at heart, you know. She never wanted fanfare.”

“Then her wishes must be honored,” Ali said solemnly. “As you say, just a handful of relatives and friends.”

My ears had perked up at the word “relatives,” and I wondered if I could swing the conversation around to Trudy.

“There's something you could help us with, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “We'd like to send a condolence card to Trudy, but we don't have an address for her. Is there some way we can get in touch with her? And we'd love it if she could stop by the shop and see our window display. We've featured Sonia's latest books.”

“How did you hear about Trudy?” Clare's lips tightened into a thin line and her voice had taken on a sharp edge.

“One of our friends was the headmistress at the Academy before her retirement,” I said smoothly. “I understand that both Sonia and your daughter, Trudy, attended the school, and she happened to mention it.” I kept my voice neutral and ignored the fact that a deep red flush was creeping up Clare's face. She was either embarrassed or angry, I decided.

“Yes, Trudy did spend four years at that pricey school,” Clare said. “Fat lot of good it did her.” I must have looked shocked because she added, “I shouldn't have said that. I'm
not myself today. But the truth is, if you met Trudy, you'd know what I'm talking about.”

I pretended to be puzzled and she went on, “Trudy had all the advantages in life, and she's made some horrible choices. We rarely see her. I do have a phone number for her, and sometimes she actually takes my calls. I don't even have a current address for her.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “I can tell her that you'd like to contact her. Just call me in a day or two.” She took out a tiny gold pencil from her pocket and scribbled a number on a napkin. “This is my private line.”

“That's very kind of you,” Ali interjected. I exchanged a look with my sister. Could it be that Trudy no longer lived with Reggie Knox? In any case, I was eager to speak with Trudy as soon as possible.

“But I can't guarantee she'll even get back to me. She lives with some lowlife who seems to control her every move. She's thrown away everything because of him.”
The lowlife must be Reggie Knox
, I decided.

Ali nodded sympathetically. “It must be very hard for you. Such a difficult situation.”

“It is.” She reached up and undid a gold locket she was wearing. She flipped it open and showed us a photo of a young woman with classic features and flaming red hair. “This is Trudy. She was just nineteen when this picture was taken. I like to think of her as a teenager, instead of the way she is now.” Her breath caught in her throat and her eyes welled up with tears. “Sometimes you do your best and it's still not good enough.”

“Is Trudy your only child?” I asked politely.

“Yes, she is.” A frown crossed her doll-like features. “And that makes it all the worse.”

Ali murmured how pretty Trudy was and passed me the
locket. I took a look and was so startled, I nearly fell back into my seat. Trudy was looking right into the camera, her eyes shining with happiness, her mouth curved in a wide smile. She was a beautiful young woman with a heart-shaped face.

Trudy looked exactly like Sonia.

16

“I wasn't expecting that,” I said as soon as we were back in the car.

Ali put on her sunglasses and tossed me a wry look. “Trudy is a dead ringer for Sonia. She doesn't look at all like Clare, not even remotely.” She gunned the engine and took off down the long narrow driveway. “I wish we'd had a chance to chat with Clare's husband. It might shed some light on what's really going on here.”

“I think we know what's going on,” I said mildly. “The question is, can we prove it, and more importantly, does it have anything to do with Sonia's murder?”

“It could,” Ali said. “I wonder if Lucinda knows more than she let on.” She gave me a speculative look. “If Trudy is actually Sonia's daughter, Lucinda wouldn't have any reason to keep it a secret, would she?”

“I don't think so. She probably doesn't suspect anything. If Clare and her husband raised Trudy as their own child,
no one would have any reason to doubt they're the parents. Especially if they've had her since she was a baby. And offhand, I can't see how it makes any difference, except it explains why Sonia left her fortune to Trudy.”

“A fortune that will be eaten up by that ex-con she lives with,” Ali said. “No wonder Clare is upset. First she loses her sister and then she realizes Trudy and the ex-con stand to inherit millions.”

“And now we have a new suspect. Reggie Knox is a known criminal and he has a motive to kill Sonia. I'd put him at the top of the suspect list. Can't the police bring him in for questioning? I'm going to ask Sam Stiles about it. If he's on parole, I think they can bring him in without much of a reason; at least I hope so.”

I stared at the marshlands as we drove past. The air was warm and balmy, and I saw whole stretches of forest overgrown with kudzu. Everything is fresh and green in Savannah, and after living in a concrete jungle in Chicago, it feels like paradise to me. I enjoy every new sight and sound and never tire of looking at the landscape.

“The first thing we need to do is run this new development by the Dream Club,” Ali said. “Do you suppose anyone else suspects that Trudy was Sonia's daughter, and not her niece?”

“We'll soon find out,” I promised.

•   •   •

“We paid a
condolence call on Sonia's sister, Clare, and told her we'd like to contact her daughter, Trudy.” Ali waited for a reaction from the group.

“That was the right thing to do,” Lucinda murmured. “Although I'm not really sure how close Sonia was to Clare. They may have been sisters in name only.”

“Why do you say that?” Minerva's blue eyes were keen with interest.

Lucinda looked flustered and gave a little cough. “Well, I'm not in a position to say,” she said vaguely. Her cheeks took on a flush of pink and I had to bite back a smile. Lucinda really is a terrible liar.

I made a note to circle back to that remark. Just as I suspected, Lucinda knew more than she was letting on.

“Interesting,” Minerva Harper commented. She lifted her eyebrows and pressed her lips together. It was obvious she didn't believe a word of what Lucinda was saying. She and her sister Rose were sitting side by side, as usual, wearing nearly identical flowered cotton dresses, their wispy white hair framing their faces. “Sonia and Clare might be closer than you think. In the end, I've always found that blood is thicker than water.” She leaned forward to help herself to a tiny cherry tart. Ali had defrosted them as soon as we'd returned from Brunswick, and they were still warm from the oven.

“Delicious, my dear,” Minerva said approvingly. “I hope you add these to the menu.”

“Well, I certainly will, if you like them,” Ali said, passing a tray of lemon bars.

“That's a lovely tray,” Rose said, admiring the hand-painted lacquered tray from a century ago. “Very colorful.”

“Speaking of trays,” Dorien cut in, “is there any news about the cookie platter at the book signing?”

“You mean the one with the shortbread cookies?” I asked.

“Yes, of course that's what I mean,” Dorien said, allowing herself a tiny eye roll.

“That's the one I brought,” Lucinda piped up. “I would
have preferred to use a nice china platter, but you told me not to,” she said reprovingly.

“We wanted to keep things casual,” I said lightly. Our two plastic platters were stamped with the shop logo (we order them in bulk, online) and Lucinda's cookies were on a blue plastic tray festooned with a bright red rooster. We decided to use high-end plastic dishes and forks that day to make cleanup easier. When the event was over, we'd planned on sweeping everything up into Hefty bags and dumping them into trash bins. I think plastic dishes and utensils bothered Lucinda's sense of propriety, but she'd gone along with it.

“I believe the police are still examining everything,” Sara said. “I don't think everything's turned up yet.”

“I know that I saw a platter with a rooster on it,” Persia said firmly. “I had a pretty good look at it. It was right there in the middle of the table. I can still see it when I shut my eyes.” She snared a couple of Kahlúa brownies, one of our most popular pastries. “It couldn't have just disappeared, could it? I don't understand why it hasn't turned up.”

“Don't forget, there was that period of time when the shop wasn't considered a crime scene,” I said patiently. “When the paramedics arrived on the scene, all they knew was that Sonia was in the throes of some medical emergency. There wasn't any reason to preserve the evidence. It's a shame it worked out that way.”

“It certainly is,” Sybil said. “If only we knew then what we know now,” she said darkly.

“I have the feeling the rooster platter will show up eventually,” Persia said. “I dreamt about it last night.”

“You did?” I moved my hand so quickly I nearly sloshed my iced tea over my plate. “Please tell us about it.” I leaned forward, eager to hear any details Persia might divulge.

“Well, I saw a roasted chicken being shoved into a brown paper grocery bag, and then it was tossed into a bin. When I went to retrieve it, the bin was empty.”

“And you think this relates to the missing plate, the plate the police are looking for?” Edward Giles asked. He gave her an impenetrable look and I wondered what he was thinking.

“Of course it's related,” Persia retorted. “It's only a hop, skip, and a jump from a roast chicken to a plate decorated with a rooster.”

“Surely some of these connections could just be coincidence?” Edward's tone was mild.

“This isn't a coincidence,” Persia said, clearly ruffled. “What I saw is relevant.” Edward, looking chastened, sat back and stared at the rug. I had the sinking feeling that he wouldn't speak up again for the rest of the evening.

“Do you remember any other details?” Sybil asked. When Persia shook her head, she went on, “How I wish I could hop into the mind of the murderer and see his dreams.”

“Or
her
dreams,” I pointed out.

“Yes, of course,” she agreed. “If only I could will these things to happen,” she said fervently. “Unfortunately, it doesn't work that way.”

Sybil has no way of controlling which dreams she has access to, so it's totally unpredictable. Sometimes her talent comes in handy, and occasionally it has nothing to do with the case. It's a toss-up, like flipping a coin.

Some dreams have no particular meaning or symbolism and are simply “the residue of the day,” a collection of images we've seen or remembered during our waking moments. Dreams are like a collage, composed of thousands of potential images. Who knows what will float to the surface on any given night?

“So you can't pick and choose whose dreams you want to visit?” Etta Mae Beasley asked.

I was glad to see that Etta Mae and Edward had decided to attend tonight's meeting. I wasn't sure whether they planned to continue with the Dream Club. Etta Mae seemed totally focused on the issue of the “stolen cookbook,” to the exclusion of everything else, and Edward seemed skeptical about dream work. At some point, I'd have to talk to them privately and see if the club was really a good match for them.

“No, I've never been able to master that art,” Sybil said. “There are some very famous people in the field who manage to target certain dreamers, but I don't have that ability. I need to attend more conferences and work on my technique. It's a skill and supposedly it can be acquired, with practice.”

“Well, this dream-hopping business is all so random, it hardly seems worth bothering with,” Dorien said in her caustic way. “I like dreams that are straightforward, you know. I prefer to get right down to things and not waste time.” She was tapping her foot impatiently and casting eager looks around the group as if she was dying to tell us something important.

I knew from experience we needed to address it right away. Otherwise Dorien would prove to be such a distraction that no one else would have the floor.

Ali must have sensed it, too, because she said gently, “Dorien, I think you have something to share. Would you like to go ahead?”

“Well, yes, I would,” Dorien said, taking a quick swig of iced tea. “I dreamt about a baby last night, and I have no idea why that's significant.”
A baby!
Ali and I exchanged a look.

“Tell us more,” Ali urged.

“I just know it's connected with Sonia's death, but I don't
know how. That's the part that's driving me crazy. I can't put the pieces together.” Dorien seemed especially keyed up and edgy tonight. She was blinking rapidly, the way she does when she's excited, and she was lacing and unlacing her fingers.

“I think you may be on to something,” I said softly. My hope was that I could get Dorien to relax enough to get into a meditative state where she could recall more details of the dream. “Try closing your eyes,” I suggested. “Sometimes you'll see the dream like a movie running in your head.”

“No, that doesn't help me,” she snapped. “I just have to set my mind to remembering and it will come back to me, I know it will. Here's the funny thing. I dreamt about the baby and then I woke up briefly because a car backfired outside. I was only awake for a couple of minutes and I willed myself to get right back into the same dream. And it worked. Weird, isn't it?”

I nodded. I had heard this from several other club members. Some people are so in touch with their dreams, they can slip right back into them, even when the dream has been interrupted. It takes a certain skill to do this, and I've never mastered it.

“You say you willed yourself to get back into the dream,” Lucinda said. “Somehow you sensed the dream about the baby was important, but what other details struck you? I'm just curious about what you hoped to discover when you slipped back into the original dream.”

“Well, the baby was part of a celebration, I know that much. People were happy and dressed up and exchanging presents.”

“Like a party?” Etta Mae asked.

Dorien nodded. “Sort of. But I had the feeling it was bigger than a party, maybe a major event. And a baby was involved.”

“A christening?” Rose Harper suggested. “I do so love christenings, don't you? Minerva and I went to the McNamaras' christening last week. Their baby Charlie is only a month old and he's just the sweetest thing.” She clasped her hands together and said, “There wasn't a dry eye in that church at his baptism. They'd waited for a baby for so long, you see.”

Minerva reached over and put her hand on top of her sister's. “We need to stay on topic, Rose.” She gave me a gentle eye roll and I smiled gratefully. I hated to cut Rose off, but she did tend to ramble.

“You don't suppose your dream was about a christening, do you?” Rose asked Dorien. “Because I had a very similar dream about a baby. I figured it was because we attended little Charlie's christening.”

“What happened in your dream?” Dorien asked. Her dark eyes were flashing and she'd scooted to the edge of the sofa.