Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) (5 page)

6

I didn’t think to ask Ali about Sybil Powers until late Sunday morning, as we lingered over a breakfast of pecan waffles and veggie sausage patties. Ali was a talented cook, and I was still mulling over the notion of adding freshly prepared items to her inventory downstairs.

I was toying with the idea of serving homemade pastel mints along with gourmet coffee and breakfast sandwiches. Maybe we could even add a few interesting soups and salads to draw in the lunch crowd. I wanted to find recipes that were regional and representative of the Deep South, delectable dishes you wouldn’t see anyplace else.

“You didn’t happen to mention anything to Sybil about my nightmares, did you, Ali?” I kept my voice deliberately casual. Ali is often impulsive, and I didn’t want to lay a guilt trip on her in case she had blurted something out without thinking.

Ali looked up from the Sunday paper, blinking in surprise. “Tell her about your nightmares? Oh, gosh no,” she said, looking shocked. “You know I’d never discuss your personal life with anyone, Taylor. And especially not with Sybil. Everyone in Savannah knows you can’t trust that woman not to blab. She has no sense of boundaries, none at all.”

“Is that so?” Scout was winding around my bare feet, looking up hopefully for a morsel of veggie sausage. I wasn’t even sure if cats could digest soy protein, but the smell clearly had him hooked and he looked as if he were dying to sample it. I broke off a tiny corner of a sausage patty and slipped it to him under the table.

She gave a little snort. “Absolutely. Anything you tell Sybil is all over town by dinnertime. Last week I told her Barney had a hairball, and three people called me up that day with homeopathic remedies for him. One woman even dropped by the store with a little bottle of castor oil flavored with tuna fish. She guaranteed it would solve the problem.” She reached for the blueberry syrup and poured a hefty dollop over her waffles.

“I’m glad you didn’t say anything about my dreams to her,” I said, feeling a little relieved. “It must just have been a lucky guess on her part.” It was quiet in the kitchen. The Casablanca fan was whirring above us, and Barney was sleeping on the window ledge of Ali’s second-floor apartment. Ali didn’t open the shop until the afternoon on Sundays, so we had the early-morning hours to ourselves. I took another look and spotted Barney’s catnip mouse nestled between his front paws. Had he found it under the refrigerator as Sybil had suggested?

“What did Sybil tell you? Now you’ve got me really curious.”

“I suppose she was trying to be helpful, but she told me not to let the
nightmares
get to me.” I frowned. “That it was unhealthy to block my dreams. I guess she meant well, but the whole conversation was a little disconcerting, that’s all. She seemed to know I had a history of bad dreams and that I had them for a reason.”

“Wow, that’s very weird. Creepy, actually.”

“I know,” I agreed. “I wasn’t sure what to make of it.”

Ali poured more coffee for us, my favorite, hazelnut cream. “I don’t know how she could have figured this out on her own; it’s simply not possible.”

“Has she made these sorts of pronouncements before?”

“All the time. I’ve never really believed this dream-hopping talk of hers, but sometimes she seems to be dead-on in her predictions. She sees things other people don’t see. Not just in dreams, but she seems to sense things about people. It’s almost like she can look inside their souls and their psyches.”

I felt my eyebrows shoot up. “So you think she’s psychic.”

Ali chuckled. “Well,
she
certainly thinks she is. I don’t know what to make of her comments,” she added with a little sigh. “But I’m sorry she said that to you. It must have felt a little intrusive, but I guess I shouldn’t be surprised. Sybil has never been known for her sensitivity. She’s like a bull in a china shop, but you probably figured that out from the way she dominates things at the Dream Club. Along with Dorien, of course.”

“The two of them have strong personalities,” I murmured. “But maybe that’s not a bad thing; they keep the conversation going. And they do have some interesting insights. They came up with some interpretations I never would have thought of.”

“I just hope they don’t drive new members away,” Ali said. “We want to keep the group small, but everyone has such busy schedules these days that I think we could accept a few more members. I like to have at least eight people for the meetings, so we can have plenty of material to cover.”

“Do you accept anyone into the group?”

“Pretty much. They have to be recommended by a current member, of course. It’s a tight-knit community in Savannah, and most of us who are doing dream work know each other. I like to be careful, though, and I don’t want to jeopardize the integrity of the group. I don’t want someone to show up one time just out of curiosity and never come back. And I certainly don’t want any reporters in the club.”

“A smart move,” I agreed.

Ali nodded. “We insist on discretion in our group; otherwise people won’t feel free to discuss sensitive material. I even ask members to sign confidentiality agreements. They probably wouldn’t hold up in court, but it just makes me feel better to have a signed document.”

“I can understand that. It sounds like you have a good plan.” I was surprised at how thorough Ali had been; it looked like she’d anticipated problems and covered all the bases.

Ali nodded. “My goal is to have a base of a dozen or so regulars with maybe two or three drop-ins. That way I can always be assured of eight people showing up on any given week.”

“Was Friday night a pretty typical meeting?”

“I suppose so,” Ali said thoughtfully. “No group is perfect, of course. You have to take the good with the bad, and Dorien pretty much hogged the discussion, as usual. Other people might have had different ideas, but everyone is afraid to disagree with her.”

“There was Persia and her murder dream,” I reminded her.

“Yes, and I wish she hadn’t waited until the very last minute to drop the bombshell about that dream. She does that deliberately, I think. Maybe it’s a bid for attention, but she always seems to come out with something really spectacular, just as we’re getting ready to wrap up the meeting.”

“What’s your take on Samantha Stiles?” I asked, referring to the young detective, who seemed a bit out of place in the group.

“Oh, Dorien drags Sam to the meetings from time to time,” Allison said. “I think Sam is ready to pull her hair out in sheer frustration, but she and Dorien have been friends for years, and I suppose she feels she has to tag along.”

“Maybe she’ll become a believer.”

“I wouldn’t count on it. I bet she thinks it’s all a sham. I noticed she was interested in Persia’s dream, but that’s only because she thought an actual crime had taken place. Once she realized it was just a projection, something off in the future, she lost interest pretty quickly.”

“I agree. I noticed the same thing.”

Ali began to clear the plates away, and I watched as she cut up a veggie sausage patty and dropped it into a food bowl for Scout and Barney. She covered it with plastic wrap and stashed it in the refrigerator for their late-night treat.

“I remember Sam told me once that the police do use psychics occasionally in solving crimes and finding missing persons, but this is different,” she continued. “As far as we know, there isn’t any crime to solve or mystery to uncover because the whole thing only exists in Persia’s dream. There’s no evidence it will ever happen.”

“Do you really believe all dreams are significant?” I’ve never really understood Ali’s fascination with dreams. I’ve never looked for any deep psychological significance. I figured they were just a quirk, like a glitch in the brain. I’m content with my life, and I’m certain I don’t have any deep dark secrets lying beneath the surface.

“Oh yes, I do,” Ali said swiftly. “Our dreams are messages from the subconscious. And even animals dream, did you know that?” She gestured to Barney and Scout, who were now both curled up side by side on the sunny windowsill.

“They look dead to the world,” I noted. Neither one of the cats was a barrel of energy, even during their waking hours. And sleeping, they appeared almost comatose, impervious to street noises and music, as they sacked out, motionless, for hours at a time. They reminded me of Gallagher’s description of a cat as “a pillow that eats.” Only a cat owner could come up with such a colorful phrase.

“A lot of people don’t understand about cat dreams,” she said seriously, “but an energy healer explained it all to me. A cat’s brain is working all the time, processing information and trying to make sense of things. Just like our brains do. They want to make sense of their environment—it’s all based on evolution, the survival of the fittest.” She paused. “Think about it, Taylor. Thousands of years ago, if you didn’t understand the world around you, you could end up as someone’s dinner.” Barney woke up, raised his head, and shot her a look of pure alarm. “Not you, sweetie,” she called out to him.

“Really?” Now my skepticism was kicking in big-time. How could anyone really tell what a cat was thinking? “I wonder what they dream about?” I said carefully. “I can’t even hazard a guess.”

“Why, they dream about the same things we do. They have likes and dislikes and regrets and plans for the future.”

“They do? Plans for the future?” I tried not to smile, picturing Barney signing up for an online MBA course and Scout attending summer tennis camp. “I find that hard to imagine.”

“And some of their dreams revolve around fantasies, of course,” Ali said, skimming over my objections. “They dream about things they’d like to do, places they’d like to go, people they’d like to meet.”

“Is that so?” I poured myself a final cup of coffee before she whisked the pot away.

“Absolutely. I think a lot of cat dreams are based on wish fulfillment. I’d love to know what Barney and Scout dream about,” she said wistfully. “If we could just tap into a cat’s thoughts, the world would be a better place.”

According to Ali, Barney and Scout are not only sensitive souls but excellent judges of character. She believes they can read minds, understand human conversation, and have amazing insights into the world around them.

Glancing at them snoozing away so blissfully, I found that hard to fathom, but who was I to challenge her belief system? If she found comfort thinking that her four-footed friends had paranormal abilities, I wasn’t about to take that away from her.

7

Allison had warned me that business was usually slow on Sundays. I was helping her unpack a box of root beer barrels when a young woman with high cheekbones and glossy black hair pulled back in pigtails burst into the shop. She was model-thin and wore a tie-dyed shirt and skinny jeans with Teva sandals. Her eyes were a captivating river green, and her grin was infectious.

“Sorry I’m late,” she called to Ali before zipping back to the lounge area. “I’ll just grab some sweet tea and then I’ll get right to work in the storeroom, I promise!”

“Take your time, Dana,” Ali called. “There’s not much to unpack, we’re still waiting for those black licorice ropes to come in. I may put out some cherry Twizzlers instead. They’re not exactly vintage, but everyone likes them.” Ali turned to me. “Dana Garrett, my new assistant,” she said in a low voice. “She’s a criminal justice major at the university, and she helps me out a few hours a week. She’s doing a minor in marketing, and she’ll get credit for her work here, if I write an evaluation for her professor after six weeks.”

“Really? She doesn’t look the criminal justice type. I would have figured her for an arts major.”

“She’d like to be. Her family insisted she study something practical, but she’s an artist at heart.” Ali’s lips curved into the briefest of smiles. “I feel a little guilty, because I never seem to have any interesting jobs for her.” She paused. “Maybe she could help you with some marketing projects? At least marketing would be related to her minor, and she wouldn’t be stuck in the backroom doing inventory. You wouldn’t mind, would you? She’s really nice and she’s willing to learn.”

“I wouldn’t mind at all. I’ll come up with something,” I said, just as a group of tourists wandered in. “The more the merrier. It’s always good to brainstorm ideas.”

As I watched Dana waiting on customers later that afternoon, I discovered that she was just as pleasant and enthusiastic as Ali had told me, and I vowed to come up with a project for her.

It was six thirty when we finally closed up the shop and retired upstairs. Ali had made a roasted veggie tray and I was spooning out whole wheat couscous onto our dinner plates when the doorbell rang downstairs. Both Barney and Scout woke up instantly and jumped out of their cat bed, landing nimbly onto the floor, their ears standing up at attention, their dark eyes flashing.

Barney’s tail was fluffed out, and I thought I heard Scout growling softly in her throat. Did they suspect intruders? I was surprised they were so jumpy because they seemed accustomed to the constant comings and goings downstairs.

“Another tour bus?” I asked.

Ali shook her head and peeled off her oven mitts. “I don’t think so. I’ve got the
CLOSED
sign up.” She waved a hand at the dinner plates. “You go ahead and start. I’ll get rid of whoever it is. I’ll be back in a sec.”

Almost immediately, Allison came back upstairs and darted into the kitchen with a red-haired woman trailing after her. “Taylor,” Allison said breathlessly, “you remember Gina from the dance studio and the Dream Club?” I certainly did remember. Chico’s glamorous assistant. Ali turned to Gina. “My sister, Taylor. You met each other at the Friday night meeting, right?”

Gina nodded and gave me the once-over. “We sat across from each other,” she said coolly.

She was wearing a skin-tight black spandex top with a flowing red and black skirt. Her flaming red hair was done up in a loose bun, with tendrils framing her face. She was really quite attractive in spite of the fact that her perfect features were twisted into a scowl and she was popping gum like a teenager.

“Hi.” I nodded politely as Ali riffled through a drawer in the kitchen. Gina drummed her fingers on the tiled countertop, her lips pressed together. “Can I help you find something?” I asked Ali after a long moment had passed.

“Gina needs a key to the dance studio, and I know it’s in here somewhere,” Ali explained. She flashed an apologetic smile at Gina. “I’m chronically disorganized, I’m afraid. This is my junk drawer. Well, it’s one of my junk drawers,” she amended.

She wrenched the drawer out and dumped the entire contents on the countertop. “Chico gave me a set of keys for emergencies last year,” she went on. I raised my eyebrows and she added quickly, “We decided to exchange keys because there was heavy flooding in the district after a storm. I don’t think I ever returned the key to him.” Her mouth curved in an ironic smile. “Sorry to keep you waiting, Gina. I’m an inch away from being a hoarder.”

“No problem,” Gina said, cooling down a little and looking around the kitchen. “I should have brought my own keys. I took the kids out for ice cream this afternoon, and I left my house in a rush.”

“So you hold dance classes on Sunday?” I asked, just making conversation. I could see Ali had no luck with the first drawer and now was scrabbling through a second drawer, pulling out a collection of pens, pencils, and sticky notes. Barney and Scout ambled into the kitchen, watching her with interest. I wondered what they found so fascinating and then remembered that Ali kept their catnip in that drawer.

“We just started offering Sunday classes,” Gina said, looking supremely bored. “It’s an experiment. Chico wants to bring in more working people, and we figured Sunday might draw in some new students. Saturdays aren’t so good because everyone’s running around shopping and doing errands.”

“Got it!” Ali said, holding up a key ring. She passed it to Gina, who nodded her thanks. “The square one’s for the front door, and the pointy one is for the back. If you’re going in the front door, though, you have to jiggle the handle a little to the left, or it sticks and the lock won’t turn.”

“Okay, thanks, I’ll remember. And I’ll bring it right back,” Gina said. “I don’t know why Chico didn’t answer the door, his car’s parked behind the studio. He must have walked into town on an errand and he’s running late as usual,” she huffed. “Once he gets talking, there’s no stopping him. Nice to see you again, Taylor.”

“Gina, please tell Chico to keep the keys.” Ali spoke quickly but Gina was already down the stairs, her dance shoes tapping a noisy staccato on the bare wooden steps.

“How long has she worked for him?” I asked when we finally settled down to our dinner.

“A few years, I think.” Ali wrinkled her forehead in concentration. “There’s the usual gossip about them. You know, the studly dance instructor and his voluptuous partner, but I don’t think there’s anything to it. Gina seems really devoted to her kids. Frankly, I don’t know how she stands working for him. I guess the secret is that she doesn’t put up with any nonsense. He can be a pretty irritating guy with that Latin lover act.”

I nodded. “I saw him in action at Luigi’s. I suppose he comes on to any female within a hundred miles. Hard to believe that women fall for that, but maybe some do—” I broke off abruptly as Barney and Scout ran under the coffee table doing their hellcat imitation, hissing and spitting, their thick fur coats standing on end.

“What in the world’s wrong with you two?” Ali said, shaking her head. “I was going to give you a tiny bit of vanilla ice cream tonight, but if you can’t behave yourselves . . .” Her voice trailed off as we heard a furious pounding on the front door of the floor below.

“I’ll go,” I offered. “I’m closer.”

“Maybe it’s Gina and the key didn’t work,” Ali said. “Tell her to come up and have a glass of wine with us. Chico will turn up eventually. They certainly can’t start without him.” It was Gina but I knew immediately she wasn’t worried about the key. I opened the front door to find her white-faced, trembling, and crying uncontrollably as she fell into my arms.

“Taylor, come quick,” she said, sobbing. “And get Ali. Something terrible has happened.”

“Gina, what’s wrong?” I asked, pushing her gently away and holding her by the shoulders. “Do you want to come upstairs and sit down? You’re shaking like a leaf.”

She was so pale, I was afraid she might faint right on the spot, and I tried to edge her toward a bench by the front door. She wriggled out of my grasp and started twisting her hands together like she was wringing out a towel. I was struck by the anguish in her dark eyes, and I knew that whatever had happened, it had shaken her to the core.

She shook her head violently. “No, there’s no time to sit down. Just call nine-one-one. Please, do it now.”

“What’s this all about?” Ali said sharply. I had been so focused on Gina, I hadn’t even heard Ali slip down the stairs behind me. “Gina, what’s going on? Tell us right this minute.”

“It’s Chico,” Gina gasped, gesturing to the studio across the street. I could see that the front door to the dance studio was wide open, and music was pouring into the street.

“What about Chico?” Ali demanded. “Gina, please! Pull yourself together. You’re frightening me.”

Gina swallowed and closed her eyes tightly, her lips quivering. Then she opened her eyes and tugged at my hand. “Come, come right now!” she rasped. “There’s no time to waste. He’s . . . he’s on the floor and he’s not moving.” She drew in a long, shuddering breath, her voice catching in her throat. “I think he’s dead.”