A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy Page A

opened the refrigerator and took a long look. “There’s an awful lot to do here. I need to make chicken salad, tuna salad, and egg salad,” she said. “I’m not sure when I can get away. Dana can handle the candy sales and the cash register”—she gave a little helpless shrug—“but I need to get the salads going right now, and then I have to defrost a couple of soups from the freezer.”
    She pushed a lock of blond hair out of her eyes, looking a bit frazzled. Adding the café to the shop has meant a lot more work for both of us, but I think it will pay off in the end. When I first arrived, the shop was operating in the red, and Ali had to tuck into her savings to meet her monthly bills. Now we’re finally turning a profit, and I think things are on the upswing. We have a lot of repeat business, which tells me we’re doing something right.
    â€œAli, don’t worry about it. I can handle things myself this morning,” I told her. “Let’s touch base after lunch. I think I’d like to have you with me when we call on Norman Osteroff. I have the feeling he’s not going to be thrilled to see us.”
    *   *   *
    My first stop was Beaux Reves and Lucy Dargos. The imposing house looked empty, with its shutters closed against the Savannah sun and the grounds deserted. I announced myself at the entrance and the massive wrought iron gates swung open. As I drove up the winding road lined with live oaks and magnolia trees, I thought of all the family secrets that might be unveiled with Abigail’s death.
    Sudden death always seems to leave a few loose ends, and I hoped that my chat with Lucy might be fruitful. Had she discovered any of Abigail’s correspondence, anything that might have a bearing on her death?
    I knew that Abigail was a great letter writer, and came from a generation that believed in the power of handwritten notes. But the Harper sisters said they’d communicated by e-mail with Abigail over Magnolia Society business. I wondered if there was a laptop tucked away somewhere inside the mansion. Had the police seized it as evidence? Or was it squirreled away somewhere out of sight?
    â€œI thought you might pay me a visit,” Lucy said with a sad smile. She wiped her hands on her apron and led me into the kitchen. The front hall was dazzling. Every surface was polished, and a faint lemony smell drifted in the air.
    â€œThat wonderful smell,” I began.
    â€œFresh lemon juice. It’s a homemade wood polish I make myself,” she said proudly. “I’ve been taking care of this furniture for over thirty years now,” she said, running her hand over a beautiful mahogany table. “Not a scratch mark on it.”
    I paused to admire the finely crafted round table and the huge vase of violet and blue hydrangeas arranged in the center. The vase looked like a Chinese blue-and-white porcelain flower vase.
Probably worth a small fortune
. “It looks like you’re keeping up the place exactly as if Abigail were still here,” I told her.
    â€œOf course.” She brushed back a tear and smiled. I noticed she was wearing a St. Christopher medal. “This house is so full of memories,” she added, ushering me into the kitchen. I was glad she invited me into the kitchen instead of the formal living room. The kitchen is always the heart of the house, and I hoped that a less formal atmosphere might lead to some confidences. I knew that Lucy was fiercely loyal to Abigail, and I would have to tread softly if I wanted to get any information out of her.
    â€œSo,” I began, when I was settled at a breakfast bar with a glass of sweet tea, “how are you doing? I know this is avery tough time for you.” Lucy pushed a plate of homemade blueberry muffins toward me. The delicious scent almost made me swoon, but I shook my head. There are times when one simply has to restrain oneself. I felt