Dream a Little Scream (4 page)

Sybil nodded. “We just put our heads together and made a pledge to think about poor Chico every night.” Chico, a dance instructor who owned a studio right across from our shop, was murdered a few months ago and the Dream Club was instrumental in solving the crime.

“I've never heard of anything like that,” Etta Mae said skeptically. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, her face rapt with interest. “You actually came up with the killer's name?”

“It wasn't quite that simple,” Dorien said testily. “I know you're probably new to dream work, but—”

“As am I,” Edward interjected.

“But you have to remember that dream material is symbolic. So it's not all black and white, cut and dry,” Dorien continued. She has an angular face, and her asymmetrical haircut had fallen into her eyes. She brushed it away hastily and her voice became more animated. “Everything is a symbol. So, think symbols when you dream. Something means something else. An object can represent a person, for
example. A tree can symbolize your mother. Or even yourself.” She paused to peer at Etta Mae and Edward. “You really have to dig deep to make any progress in analyzing your dreams. You can't just stay on the surface, because the truth lies hidden somewhere in your subconscious.”

“That's true,” Ali piped up. “You can't access the information in your waking state. You have to wait until you fall asleep, and then material rises to the surface. The moment you wake up, try to remember as much as you can about your dreams. We recommend keeping a pen and paper on your night table. If you wait until morning, it may be too late to recapture the dream. Just get in the habit of writing down a few key words, if you can. Does this make sense to you?”

“I think so,” Etta Mae said slowly. “It's a lot to absorb all at once.” I found myself agreeing with her. I had been new to dream interpretation when I moved to Savannah, and I'd learned a lot from the members of the club.

“Just take it one step at a time,” I suggested. “No one picks this up immediately. It's a process. Take your time and after a while, it will become intuitive. You'll learn things about yourself that you never knew. All of us have secrets, and dream interpretation brings them out into the open. It makes the information available to us.”

“That's good to know,” Etta Mae said after a long moment.
She's afraid of something
, I decided,
but what?
A shadow of discomfort darkened her face and she shifted uneasily in the chair. Her eyes were suddenly narrowed, shuttered, as if she was hiding something. The impression flitted by so quickly, it was almost subliminal, but I felt a little tingle go up my spine. Etta Mae set down her teacup very carefully before continuing. “I never thought of writing down my dreams. Usually when I wake up, I can't even remember
them, and then something happens during the day that suddenly makes me think of them.”

“That happens to all of us,” Persia interjected. Persia loves bold colors and was wearing a bright yellow tunic top stenciled with Toucans. Matching yellow earrings the size of Necco Wafers dangled from her ears. “A sound, a song, maybe a sunset—something triggers a memory and suddenly the whole dream comes right back to you.” Etta Mae nodded, as if she agreed.

“Sometimes I can even scribble down a few words and then ease right back into the dream,” Ali continued. “Not always, but that's a very valuable skill to learn.”

“This is all very interesting, but I really don't see how you could gather real evidence from dreams,” Edward said slowly. He leaned back in his chair, reached for the pipe in his pocket, and then changed his mind. “If dreams are just re-creations of what a person has seen and experienced, then why would they be any more helpful than just straightforward remembering? Why not just approach the issue logically and write down everything you've seen and heard? That seems to be far more sensible.”

He nodded after he finished this little speech, and he reminded me of some professors I'd encountered in graduate school. Not quite smug, but certainly sure of himself. I wondered how open he would be to new ideas. There's a lot of give-and-take in the Dream Club, and everyone is encouraged to voice his or her opinion. Would Edward really be a good addition to the mix?

“I think you're speaking as a researcher,” Lucinda said in her breathy little voice. “I used to be an educator, too, and I never thought I'd be able to switch gears and turn off my ‘left brain.'” She gave a self-deprecating laugh. “It's all about right brain in the Dream Club.”

“Lucinda is right,” Sybil said with a touch of exasperation. I could see that Edward was what the group would call a “doubter,” someone who was interested in dreams but not convinced of their power. I felt the same way when I first came to Savannah. I was secretly amused at Ali's faith in the Dream Club and had no idea that their insights would prove to be so valuable. “Even if someone had total recall—which most of us don't—dreams offer us new insights into everything our senses tell us. Dreams can highlight important issues for us, things that seemed inconsequential at the time.”

“The reason dreams are so difficult to interpret, Edward, is because they're very complex,” Persia offered. “It takes real skill to make sense of them, and I learn something new every week.”

“I hope I can get some tips, too,” Etta Mae said. “All the women in my family have the gift of prophecy, and that's why I wanted to join this group.” She helped herself to a brownie, and then she went for a quick change of subject. Was it deliberate? “This is delicious,” she said, inspecting it. “How'd you get it so moist?” she asked, taking a bite.

“Kahlúa is the secret,” Ali told her. “You can't really taste the alcohol, because it burns off in cooking, but it gives it a very nice flavor.” She waited a beat and then said, “You mentioned earlier that you had a bad experience with Sonia. Would you like to tell us more about it?”

Etta Mae's face twisted into a frown and she let out a low, strangled laugh. “Unpleasant? You could say that. She stole something precious from me and my family.” She looked around the circle. “She comes across sweet as pie on television, like the next-door neighbor you wish you had, but trust me, it's all an act. The woman's a thief.”

“That's a very serious accusation,” Lucinda said
reproachfully. There's still something of the schoolmarm about Lucinda, even though she retired from her headmistress job a few years ago. “I hope you have evidence to back up your statement.”

“You bet I do!” Etta Mae cackled. She gestured to her tote bag. “The proof's right in there. Her new book proves it. It's a total rip-off of my family recipes. I'm so glad you loaned it to me, Ali. I'll return it to you.” She laid it on the coffee table. “I have my own copy from the book signing. And now I have something
really
interesting to show you.” She reached into a tote bag and pulled out a battered leather-bound book the size of a scrapbook.

“Your family cookbook,” Minerva said. “You carry it with you?”

“I thought we could pass it around,” Etta Mae said with shy pride. “It's kind of fragile, so I'd appreciate if you turn the pages real carefully. Some of the recipes were glued in there more than a hundred years ago, so you have to watch they don't slip out. They're hanging by a thread. I'm surprised it's lasted as long as it has.”

“You gave this to Sonia?” I asked.

Etta Mae nodded. “I sure did. I sent a copy, of course, not the original, and I mailed it to her headquarters in Chicago.” She gave a little snort. “A month or so later, I got a form letter saying they didn't accept unsolicited recipes. The letter wasn't the least bit friendly, and I was miffed. All my original recipes are in here.” She laid it carefully on the coffee table. “Have a look, if you like.”

“I'd love to!” Minerva said, reaching for the cookbook and laying it carefully on her lap. “Oh, I love the way it's divided up. There's one section just for family celebrations and another for church suppers.” She turned the pages and smiled.
“Here's a macaroni casserole that feeds a hundred people. That must have been quite a party.”

“What's a ‘Repent at Leisure' cake?” Rose asked, peering over Minerva's shoulder.

Etta Mae laughed. “That's sort of a joke. It's for bridal showers.” When Rose looked puzzled, she quickly said, “You know the saying, ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure'?”

“Oh, I see,” Rose said with a bemused expression on her face. “Very clever. And here's Aunt Sally's Best-Ever Funeral Cake and Uncle Jed's Delectable Pork Belly Casserole,” she said when Minerva turned the page. “Oh my, such colorful names.”

“The recipes are great for family events,” Etta Mae said proudly. “I still make some of them, but I've never managed to make the pie crust the way they did back then. And my biscuits aren't as light and fluffy as my grandma's. I don't know what her secret was, but they almost floated off the cookie sheet. Mine are pretty good, but they're like hockey pucks compared to hers. I guess she took that secret to the grave with her,” she said glumly.

“Sonia knows what she did. That may be her name on the cover of her shiny new cookbook,” Etta Mae said, her mouth suddenly twisted into a snarl, “but the recipes in there? They're mine, all mine.”

4

My cell chirped then, and the room fell silent as I flipped open the lid. It was Sara; I heard hospital sounds in the background. I took the phone out to the balcony, still reeling from Etta Mae's surprising pronouncement.

“Sonia didn't make it,” Sara said in a wobbly voice. “I don't think she even had a pulse when she was admitted.” My heart hammered in my chest. I hadn't known Sonia personally, but sudden death is disturbing, and I felt a chill pass over me.

“I'm sorry to hear that,” I said softly. “Whatever hit her, must have hit very fast.”

“She looked ashen, almost blue, when they wheeled her into the ER.” I didn't realize I'd been holding my breath and blew out a little puff of air. I glanced back inside to the living room, where everyone was looking at me expectantly.

“Sonia's dead,” I said quietly to the group. Persia gasped, but everyone else was silent. Etta Mae had a strange, vacant
smile on her face. I walked back out on the balcony with the phone still clasped to my ear. “What's the official word?”

“Nothing yet; it's too early to tell,” Sara told me. “No cause of death, not a word. Her publicist is rushing to get an obit ready for the paper. I think it will just say she died suddenly and not give any details.” She sighed and a long beat passed.

“Do they”—I paused, choosing my words carefully—“suspect foul play?” I realized I was digging my nails into my palm so tightly my knuckles were turning white.

“I think so.” Sara had lowered her voice to a whisper. “Sam Stiles is coming back to the shop to gather up all the food and plastic plates as evidence and to take a quick look around. You haven't touched anything, have you?”

“No, of course not. The club members are still here, though. We're sitting upstairs, and Ali is trying to get some clarity on what happened.”

“Clarity? Oh, please,” Sara said with a note of exasperation. “Forget about clarity.” I remembered that Sara was initially skeptical about the Dream Club and our mission. She said it all seemed a little too New Age for her taste, and she preferred to stick to hard facts. She'd warmed up to us a little, but she still remained something of a skeptic. “Here's what you need to do,” she said, her voice suddenly stronger. “Taylor, you need get everyone out of the shop before Sam gets there. Send them home, on the double.”

“But I told you, we're upstairs. We're not even near the shop.” I glanced inside at the group gathered around the coffee table. They were talking in low voices and glancing curiously at me. Now that they knew Sonia had died, there were going to be endless speculations and theories as to what could have happened.

“Doesn't matter,” Sara insisted. “You don't have to
explain anything. Just send them on their way. You can have an emergency meeting later in the week if everyone feels up to it. Clear everyone out right now, or it's going to be awkward. Sam will be right over, and she'll have some detectives with her. The scene has already been contaminated; don't make it worse.”

Dorien was reluctant to leave, but after I explained the situation, everyone gathered up their things and headed downstairs. I noticed Etta Mae had carefully returned her family cookbook to her tote bag. Edward seemed eager to make his departure and his expression made it clear he was shaken by the day's events.

“We'll meet later in the week,” Ali promised.

“You can count on it,” Dorien said firmly. I saw her whisper something to the Harper sisters as they walked slowly down the sidewalk toward their flower shop. Probably discussing her theories about Sonia's death, I decided. I poured myself a large glass of ice water and waited for the Savannah-Chatham Metro PD.

•   •   •

When Sam arrived,
she was all business. She snapped on a pair of gloves and started issuing directions to the two police officers who accompanied her. “Bag everything you can,” she said, pointing to the buffet table. “Don't forget the trash.”
The trash?
Ali and I exchanged a look.

“Anything special we're looking for?” a tall cop with a buzz cut asked.

“A missing EpiPen. Maybe two of them. Sift through things carefully; the pen could be broken or crushed.”

Or someone could have pocketed it
, I thought. It would have been easy to do in all the commotion after Sonia collapsed. I tried to remember who was around Sonia's purse
when everything went south, but the only person I could remember was Olivia. And she'd seemed genuinely distraught as she foraged through her boss's purse, desperately trying to find the EpiPen. Olivia said she carried a backup pen for Sonia, I remembered, and I wondered if she'd ever located it. Was it possible that someone had swiped both EpiPens, leaving Sonia to die of suffocation as her throat swelled up?

“And Olivia Hudson mentioned Sonia's necklace is missing, so maybe you could take a quick look around for it,” Sam continued.

“Her necklace?” Ali asked. “Is it valuable?” I tried to recall what Sonia was wearing this morning and remembered she was sporting a silk print blouse in bright yellow. It was unbuttoned at the collar and I remember seeing a thin silver chain glinting around her neck.

“I don't think so. She said it's costume but it has sentimental value. The family might want to have it back.”

“Why would anyone take it?” I asked. I was standing in the middle of the shop as the crime scene techs made their way through the room, bagging evidence and taking photos.

“Probably no one took it,” Sam said. “It might have slipped off when the paramedics were working on her, or maybe someone removed it at the hospital. Olivia says she never took it off. Apparently Sonia was very superstitious and she thought something terrible would happen if she didn't wear it.”

“Poor Sonia,” Ali said. “Something terrible
did
happen,” she added sadly.

I turned to Sam. “Then a necklace isn't really important, right?”

“No, it's just one of those nagging details. You know how
compulsive I am.” She gave a rueful smile and walked along the long heart pine buffet table, inspecting the dishes.

I knew exactly what she meant. Sam always says that “the devil is in the details,” and she wouldn't rest until every nagging little question was resolved. That's how she managed to close so many cases with the Savannah PD and make detective in a very short time. Once the evidence was collected, Sam asked for the guest book that was kept in the front of the shop. “I'll need to keep this for a few days.”

“Not everyone signed in,” I said thoughtfully. “I remember seeing a few stragglers who came in late.” I opened the book and glanced at the first page of names. Most of them were familiar to me, townspeople or friends of Ali's. “And, of course, there was Sonia's staff, or as she liked to call them ‘Team Sonia.' I'm pretty sure none of them signed in.”

“That's okay,” Sam said. “It will give us a starting point. I'd like to go over these names with you tomorrow. It shouldn't take long.” She glanced at the sign-in book, running her finger down the names. “How did you invite people to the signing? It sounds like it was a last-minute event.”

“It was,” Ali told her. “I sent out an e-mail blast last night to some of our regular customers and, of course, we told all the members of the Dream Club. I suppose a few tourists might have stopped by as well. We didn't really expect a big turnout because we didn't have time to promote it.”

•   •   •

“Wow, what did
you think of Etta Mae's bombshell?” Ali asked me after the police had finally left. “I'm flabbergasted.” She blew out a breath. “There's no way to tell if it's true, of course, but she certainly seemed convinced. I suppose she'll tell us more as time goes on.”

We were padding around the kitchen in shorts and flip-flops. We'd closed the shop for the rest of the day, so there were no customers downstairs and the apartment seemed as still as a tomb. I brushed off the morbid image and busied myself making coffee. I think both Ali and I felt at loose ends, mulling over the tragic event at the book signing.

“No one challenged her except for Lucinda, did you notice that?” Ali went on. “They didn't even ask a single question.”

“I think it shocked all of us,” I said, rescuing the cream pitcher from Barney, who was determined to lap up the last few drops. “Nobody could pull it together to ask a question. Not even Dorien,” I noted. “Although knowing Dorien, she's probably saving her questions for the next meeting.”

“I'd love to know what Etta Mae said to Sonia at the book signing,” Ali said softly. “I couldn't hear a word of the conversation. It looked a little intense, but I don't really think it was confrontational. I wonder if Sonia even knows who Etta Mae is.”

“No idea. Who knows, maybe Sonia has run into this sort of thing before. She's a celebrity and I think she meets a lot of people who want something from her. I'm not sure we should have accepted Etta Mae into the club; there seems to be something a little off about her.”

I had my doubts about Edward Giles as well but didn't voice them. There was something so reserved and self-contained about the university professor that I doubted he would be a good match for our group.

“I think Etta Mae will settle in,” Ali said amicably. “She did seem a bit edgy today, but maybe it was just a case of nerves. This has been an incredibly stressful experience for everyone. Poor Sonia. I still can't believe this happened.”

She curled up on the sofa and pulled Scout onto her lap.
She immediately started purring and walking in circles before she finally settled down and began gently kneading. “Ow,” Ali moaned as her sharp claws connected with her bare leg. She winced and lifted her off her lap and onto the sofa cushion farthest from her. “She never remembers to keep her claws in,” she said ruefully. The vet told us that Scout was probably taken away from her mother too early. The mother cat teaches the kittens to sheathe their claws when they knead, but poor Scout never got the message.

“I wish we'd had more time to hear about it. She certainly got everyone's interest.” I paused. “I think it's far-fetched, you know. Not really believable. At least that's my first reaction.” Ali reached over to pet Scout, who cleverly was trying to weasel her way back onto her lap via the coffee table.

“You may be right,” Ali said thoughtfully. “On the face of it, it seems pretty improbable that Sonia actually stole Etta Mae's recipes. Just from a practical perspective, how in the world would she hope to get away with it? Especially if there were loads of family members who'd had access to the book and would be outraged to think a celebrity had stolen them and passed them off as her own. After all, that's part of their history.”

I nodded. “I think it's unlikely. There have got to be thousands of recipes floating around the Internet; why would a famous chef like Sonia have to resort to stealing? She probably has loads of staff to find the best recipes and test them for her. Besides, is it even possible to copyright a recipe?”

Ali shrugged. “I'm not sure. Etta Mae acted like her recipes were special, something handed down from generation to generation.”

“If that's true, they'd have to be adapted for modern
tastes,” I insisted. “People are into healthy eating these days. Tastes have changed over the years. Not many people cook with lard anymore, and a hundred years ago, people liked to fry vegetables in leftover bacon grease.”

“Bacon grease?” Ali, a strict vegan, gave a delicate shudder. “I hadn't thought of that angle.”

A while later, Ali went downstairs to begin working on a candy platter for a Fabulous Fifties party, and I decided to do a quick check of the inventory. Since I'd become co-owner of the shop, I'd persuaded Ali to branch out. Selling retro candy wasn't enough to keep the business afloat, and after some initial resistance, she'd agreed to go after catering jobs and had approved my plan to start offering light lunches and desserts. Candy platters—perfect for '50s theme parties—were filled with old favorites like Necco Wafers, Chunky bars, Red Hots, and Boston Baked Beans. I'd been urging Ali to consider doing '50s hors d'ouevres like pigs in blankets, shrimp cocktail, mini meatballs, and fruit kabobs.