Dream a Little Scream (7 page)

8

It was barely 9:45 a.m. when the rapping on the shop door shattered my morning coffee-and-croissant break. I'd made sure everything was shipshape downstairs early that morning and then had retreated back to the apartment for a quick cup of java before officially starting my workday. Ali was taking a yoga class and wouldn't be back till noon. I'd be managing the shop by myself, with the help of Dana Garrett, our college intern, who spent several hours a week with us, learning the ropes of running a small business.

“Hold on, I'm coming!” I skipped down the steps, wearing what had become my business uniform. A white polo, embroidered with the Oldies But Goodies logo in navy blue, and a pair of tan cargo shorts. I was puzzled by the early-bird customer. Was someone picking up a special order? That seemed unlikely. Most of our special orders had been abruptly canceled, I thought sadly, lifting the shade. I flinched when the rapping turned into a burst of staccato pounding, making my
head throb. The noise was metallic, as if someone was hammering at the door with a set of keys.

“Honestly, what's the rush . . .” I began and then swallowed my words when I recognized a familiar face. Olivia Hudson stood on the stoop, dressed to the nines in a chic black linen shift with exquisite gold jewelry. I raised my eyebrows, unlocked the door, and she marched in as if she owned the place. Just as I'd guessed, she was clutching a set of keys in her hand, threading them through her fingers as if they were brass knuckles. Practically a lethal weapon, I noted with amusement.

“Finally,” she said, exhaling noisily like a racehorse. “I wasn't sure what time you opened, but I was guessing it was nine. I took a quick power walk around the square to kill some time and then I decided I couldn't wait any longer.”
A power walk?
She was impeccably dressed, but she had a fine film of moisture above her lips and her hair was curling around her neck. She probably hadn't realized the Savannah sun can be intense, even in the morning hours. Her stiletto sling-backs weren't exactly made for hoofing it, and it occurred to me that her feet were probably killing her.

“We open at ten,” I said pleasantly, biting back my irritation. I gestured to the sign in the window. “But we're always happy to open early for our guests. If you had called ahead of time, I would have been downstairs to greet you.”

“Well, I'm here now, and I suppose that's all that matters,” she snapped. She stepped back, eyes flashing as she took in my casual outfit. Her lips curled in disapproval. I was glad I'd taken the time to jam my feet into sandals instead of my usual flip-flops. From the way Olivia was raking me head to toe with her icy gaze, I could see she didn't appreciate my choice of business attire. We tend to be informal in the shop, and wearing shorts is cool and comfortable when I have to
unload items from the stockroom and unpack heavy boxes of candies.

“What can I do for you?” I asked, forcing a pleasant note into my voice. I pulled two pitchers out of the refrigerator: one held icy cold lemonade and the other, sweet tea. “Perhaps something to drink?”

“Well, some tea would be good,” she said, whisking out a hanky and blotting her forehead. She accepted a glass of sweet tea and drank thirstily, her gaze wandering around the shop. “It feels strange being back here,” she said, her tone softening. “After what happened.” She glanced at me helplessly and gave a little shudder. Her gaze kept going to the area in the back of the shop where we'd staged the book signing for Sonia. Maybe she was more devoted to Sonia than I'd realized. She seemed genuinely upset.

I nodded. “This must be a very difficult time for you.” I gently guided her toward a seat at the counter. “How are you doing?” I was still puzzled at her visit but found myself feeling sympathetic toward her. At the very least, Sonia's passing must have created an enormous upheaval in both the company and her personal life. I wanted to ask her who was running Sonia Scott, Inc., but couldn't think of a polite way to do it.

“I'm doing okay.
We're
doing okay,” she amended. “The Sonia Scott brand will go on forever,” she said flatly. Her voice was oddly robotic, like a talking press release.

“I'm sure it will,” I agreed. I started to sit down next to her and to my surprise, she suddenly guzzled the rest of her tea and stood up. If I thought she'd come for a gabfest about Sonia's death, I was clearly wrong. “Is there something I could help you with?” Now I was really baffled. She started pacing the shop area, glancing at the items on the shelves and low tables as if she was searching for something. She had a deep
frown line between her eyes, and I doubted she was looking for Necco Wafers.

“I left something in here the other day,” she said in flat tones. “When Sonia”—she winced—“had the book signing.”

“I'm so sorry, but I don't recall seeing anything,” I told her. I trotted along behind Olivia, feeling the tension rolling off her. What was missing and why was it so important? She appeared to be walking aimlessly, letting her fingertips trail along the glass candy case, idly touching gallon jars of sweets. “I'd be glad to help you look,” I offered.

She suddenly stopped in her tracks and wheeled around, nearly bumping into me. “Do you remember when I tossed my tote upside down, trying to find the EpiPen?”

“Yes, of course. It was missing, and then they . . .” I caught myself just in time; I nearly revealed that it had been found in the trash can inside the shop. “I don't understand. Are you still looking for the EpiPen?” I asked, puzzled.

“No, of course not.” She shot me a disgusted look. “I don't care about the EpiPen. I'm looking for my day planner. It's tan leather, about the size of a paperback.” She spread her hands in the air to show me the size. “It was in my tote,” she said. “I must have lost it when I dumped everything on the table.” She swallowed hard. “It's nothing important,” she said with a too-bright smile, “but it's just something I'd like to have back.”

She was lying, I knew it. Lying or hiding something. The planner must be important or she would never have come back for it. Her voice had taken on a false note, thin and high-pitched, and she was speaking too rapidly. “Who knows, it might have gotten mixed up with all the publicity materials I was lugging around that day,” she said vaguely. She bent down to examine some magazines on a coffee table. “I just thought I might have left it here, that's all.”

Should I tell her the police had already been through the shop, taking everything that looked suspicious? Surely she'd figured that out for herself, hadn't she? I didn't recall seeing a tan day planner, either on the day of the book signing or when the police had processed the scene.

“I can help you look for it,” I said, “but I'm not really sure where to start. As you can see, we've tidied everything up.” It was true. After the police had left, Ali had made a quick sweep of the shop and dusted and polished everything in sight.

“I see that,” she said, starting her pacing again. “But I know I left it here,” she said, a hard note creeping into her voice. She was making me uncomfortable, and I wished she'd relax and sit down so we could have a normal conversation.

“I'm something of a Luddite,” Olivia confessed. “I know most people keep track of their appointments on their computer, but I just like to have a hard copy in my hands. My assistant transcribes everything onto her computer for me, but I'm so paranoid, I always think that the computer might crash.” Olivia gave a rueful smile. “Most people don't agree with me; they say I'm making double work for myself.”

I thought of Minerva Harper. “I have a friend who feels exactly the same way. She likes to jot down ideas and appointments in her date book.” We were silent for a moment, Olivia still sweeping the shop with her keen-eyed gaze.

“It looks like the planner isn't going to show up,” she said after a moment, biting her lip.

“I can ask Ali and Dana to be on the lookout for it,” I suggested.

“No, that's okay. Don't bother with it.” She waved her hand in the air like she was batting away a pesky fly. She suddenly seemed to have zero interest in the missing planner.
Was she trying to throw me off guard, convince me that it wasn't important?

What secrets lurked inside? Some sort of inside information about her competitors? Something that she wanted to keep to herself? I was getting more intrigued by the minute, but I didn't want to tip off Olivia.

“I'll do my best to find it for you; just make sure you leave me your contact information.” She turned to leave and my memory jogged into gear. “Olivia, I saved some things for you from the book signing.” She turned in surprise. “I found a couple of extra copies of Sonia's cookbook and I thought you'd like to have them back.” I reached under the counter and handed her the books.

“Thanks,” she said stuffing them into her Louis Vuitton tote bag. Judging from Olivia's jewelry and shoes, I felt pretty sure it was the real deal and not a knockoff.

I was just about to offer Olivia a sample of one of the handheld desserts to take with her when Etta Mae walked into the shop, holding a gaudy piñata. “I want to fill this with candy for my nephew's birthday party,” she said with a grin. “He's turning four today, and he loves gummy bears.” She stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted Olivia.

“Olivia,” she said, her voice low and raspy. “What are you doing here? I hoped I'd never have to see you again.” Her lips thinned and she narrowed her eyes, facing her opponent.

“Oh, for heaven's sake, Etta Mae, can't you let bygones be bygones? Sonia is dead, or have you forgotten that? How long are you going to hold a grudge against the company?”

“This has nothing to do with holding a grudge,” Etta Mae said. “This is about justice.”

“Well, if you think we did something illegal, you can have your day in court,” Olivia said blithely. “And good luck
with that.” She snorted. “People pester us all the time, trying to pawn off their favorite recipes on us. Then they get insulted when we don't use them. I tried to explain to you that all our recipes come out of our test kitchens. We don't need any more recipes for ‘Mom's Favorite Meat Loaf,' trust me.”

Olivia slung her tote bag over her shoulder and made tracks for the door, but not before glaring at Etta Mae. If looks could kill, Etta Mae would be in her grave. Then she turned to me. “Thanks for the tea, Taylor,” she said with a thin smile. “I hope we meet up again someday.” She gave Etta Mae another hard look. “And you, my dear, need psychological help. I sincerely hope you get it.”

With that, she made her exit, leaving a sputtering Etta Mae in her wake. “Do you believe the nerve of that woman?!” she demanded. Her voice shook with indignation. “What was she doing, showing her face here again?”

“I had a few books left over from the signing,” I said mildly. “She was here to pick them up, that's all.” I took the piñata out of Etta Mae's hands and led her to the candy counter. “Now, what kind of gummy bears do you think your nephew would like?”

•   •   •

When Ali returned
home a couple of hours later, I told her about the confrontation between Olivia and Etta Mae.

“At least it didn't come to blows,” she said, sinking into the chintz sofa upstairs. Dana was downstairs, working in the shop, and it was nice to take a noontime break with my sister. One of the joys of owning your own business is that you can set your own schedule. At times, it feels like we're working way too many hours a week, but we love the flexibility of being our own bosses.

In the corporate world, I was a slave to my BlackBerry, my electronic calendar, and my never-ending travel schedule. Running the shop with Ali was a new way of life for me, and I'd been learning that it had definite perks as well as risks.

“Olivia stopped by to look for her missing day planner,” I said.