Nightmares Can Be Murder

Book 1: A Dream Club Mystery

by Mary Kennedy

Genres: Ghost; Cozy Mystery; Female Sleuths

Synopsis

Dream Team

Business consultant Taylor Blake has returned to Savannah, Georgia, to help her sister Allison turn her dream of running an old-fashioned candy store into a reality. Allison is also interested in dream interpretation and invites Taylor to her Friday night Dream Club, where members meet once a week to share and analyze their dreams.

When a local dance instructor, Chico Hernandez, is found dead in his studio, and the murder scene has an eerie resemblance to one of the dreams shared at their meeting, Taylor can’t help but be intrigued. And when her sister, who was briefly involved with the dance teacher, becomes the prime suspect, Taylor and their fellow club members can’t be caught napping. It’s up to them to dream up a solution to the murder before Allison faces a real-life nightmare.

Release date: September 2, 2014

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

1

Friday, June 2, 8:00 p.m.

“You know I don’t believe in dreams.” How can I? I’m one of the small percentage of people who never dream. I fall into bed and it’s total oblivion for the next eight hours. My brain powers down to sleep mode. No fragments of memories, no images, no dramatic storyline to analyze when I wake up. No dream content, period.

And I have to confess, I like it that way.

“I’m not trying to convert you, sis. You say you don’t dream, and you don’t believe in dreams. Okay, I get it. Some of us feel differently, you know. I think of a dream as a little window into my subconscious.”

Allison looked distracted as she scurried past me, putting the finishing touches on a platter of delectable-looking petit fours. The bite-sized cakes were calling to me with their sugary little voices, nestled in a checkerboard pattern on a hand-painted porcelain tray. Ali strategically placed dark chocolate truffles in between them and stepped back to admire her work.

Very Savannah, I decided. Elegant, sophisticated, with a cosmopolitan flair. I was dying to grab a tiny cake and pop it in my mouth, but I knew it would ruin the look of the platter. As Ali says, it’s all about presentation.

“I’m totally out of my element with this stuff,” I went on. “Dream interpretation. The paranormal. Psychic phenomena. Things that go bump in the night. Tarot readings. Voices from the beyond—”

“Okay, enough, Taylor! You’ve made it very clear how you feel.” A hint of a frown crossed her face, and she blew out a little sigh. I couldn’t tell if she was exasperated with me, or just a tad stressed out over playing hostess. We’ve had this conversation dozens of times and have never come to a meeting of the minds. “Here’s the deal. I won’t ask you to share your history of childhood night terrors, and you don’t have to be a believer to enjoy yourself tonight. Anyway, it’s not as woo-woo as you think. Scout’s honor.” Ali quirked an eyebrow and held up three fingers in the Girl Scout salute.

“I’ll take your word for it.”

“Just think of the Dream Club as an experience, an entertaining evening. It’s a fun way for me to socialize with my friends. Not everyone takes it seriously, but we do have a couple of die-hard psychics and intuitives in the group. Everybody has dreams, and all we do is try to make sense of them.”

“Okay, you win,” I said, pushing myself to sound positive. “You’ve certainly put out a nice spread. And the sitting room looks great.”

Ali had gone all out tonight. My sister seems to have inherited a Martha Stewart gene, and sadly, I didn’t. My Chicago condo is positively spartan compared to Ali’s place. I took a moment to appreciate the creamy taupe walls, the glossy white woodwork, the old brick fireplace with the white marble mantelpiece.

The whole room was bathed in a golden glow thanks to fat amber candles she’d placed on nearly every flat surface. Soft cello music was playing in the background, and the faint scent of lavender danced on the air.

“So tell me you won’t be grumpy and you’ll try to enjoy yourself.” Ali turned, flashing a smile that has melted my heart ever since we shared a crush on Bon Jovi, growing up in Muncie, Indiana. “Please? For me?” Her voice was warm, entreating, and she had little crinkles around her eyes.

“I’ll do my best.”

“That’s all I’m asking—just keep an open mind.” She gave me a friendly fist bump.

“You got it,” I agreed, giving in to temptation and snagging one of the petit fours. And then I took a second one, because the whole platter looked off-kilter with just one cake missing. Inudged the remaining cakes toward the middle and grabbed a third.

There, you can hardly see there’s a gap in the platter,I decided, chomping happily away. Melt in your mouth delicious. At least the food will be good,even if the rest of the evening turns out to be a snooze.

The petit fours were just the beginning. A crystal decanter of iced “sweet tea” flavored with fresh mint was the star attraction, along with two kinds of gourmet coffee, exotic Asian teas, and an assortment of French pastries heaped high on a silver platter.

Tiny triangles of chess pie were arranged on a hand-painted antique tray along with fragrant lemon bars and mini cupcakes frosted in Easter egg colors. And for die-hard vintage candy fans, there was a blue and white Limoges bowl filled with pastel Necco Wafers. It was enough to make a sugar junkie salivate with pleasure. I was getting a buzz just inhaling the heavenly aromas.

And then the doorbell rang, and the Dream Club was in full swing.

“Last night I dreamt I was walking stark naked down the produce aisle in Publix.” Lucinda Macavy folded her French-manicured fingernails demurely in her lap and let her gaze wander around the circle, waiting for a response. A long beat passed. “Anybody have any thoughts?” she added hopefully.

Nobody jumped in to offer an interpretation. Lucinda was so prim and uptight, I could hardly imagine her naked in her own shower. Plus, this was the third “naked” dream of the evening, so the shock value had lessened considerably. Persia Walker had regaled us with a hilarious story about finding herself in the altogether at choir practice, and Dorien Myers had confessed to being “au natural” on the Savannah Hills Golf Course.

Why do so many people dream of being naked in a public place? According to Ali, this is a fairly common dream theme, usually related to anxiety or a fear of being “exposed.” It’s a “worst-case scenario” type of dream and usually happens during a time of great stress or emotional upheaval.

I have to admit I was having trouble relating to the “buck naked” dream template.

I stifled a tiny yawn and pulled my attention back to the group. The Dream Club members were gathered around a white wicker coffee table in the cozy sitting room attached to Oldies but Goodies, my sister’s vintage candy store.

“Tell me more about the dream.” Sybil Powers leaned forward, her bright eyes keen as a ferret’s. “Were you shopping with anyone? Did you recognize any friends or relatives in the dream? Maybe someone significant in your life?” I’d met Sybil earlier in the week, and I knew she favors bold colors, flowing tops, and chunky handcrafted jewelry she buys from local artisans. Tonight she was wearing a caftan that looked like hand-printed batik in a sapphire blue and snowy white pattern.

“I’m pretty sure I was alone.” Lucinda shrugged. “I remember pushing my cart down the aisle, all by myself. It didn’t seem to bother me in the least that I was completely naked,” she said, flushing bright pink.

“You didn’t feel uncomfortable?” I asked.

Lucinda hesitated. “Uncomfortable? No, not really. I was chilly all over, though. I remember I had goose bumps when I turned into the frozen dinner aisle. They had the AC cranked up full blast.”

“I know what you mean, my dear,” an elderly woman in a bright floral dress offered.

She was wearing orthopedic shoes with little ankle socks, and her face was framed by a cloud of fluffy white hair. “It’s downright freezing in that aisle. It’s cold enough to lay out a body in there. I’ve complained to the manager several times, to no avail.” Her companion—who resembled her so much I wondered if they were twins—nodded in agreement.

I decided that they must be the Harper sisters. Ali had mentioned that her elderly neighbors, Minerva and Rose, would be attending the group tonight. The women were well into their eighties, longtime Savannah residents and history buffs.

Someone snickered and quickly covered it with a cough. “Well, I think we have to look at the subtext here,” Sybil went on. She gave me a quick glance. “You probably don’t know this, Taylor, but the subtext is the hidden emotional content in a dream.”

“Ah yes, the subtext.” I tried to look suitably impressed even though I’m pretty sure dream interpretation isn’t rocket science. In fact, I’m inclined to think it’s a bunch of hooey. A dream can mean anything you want it to, right? Like reading tea leaves or tarot cards. The meaning is in the eye of the beholder.

“Now Lucinda,” Sybil said, “I’m surprised that appearing naked in public didn’t bother you. In the majority of these cases, the dreamer experiences a certain degree of embarrassment and humiliation.”

“Well, I certainly didn’t want to have this sort of dream,” Lucinda said, looking chastised. “I’d rather dream about something sweet, like kittens or babies.”

“No one dreams about kittens,” Dorien cut in. “Unless they’re rescue dreams, and that’s another whole issue. Rescuing animals is a very common theme. I have those dreams all the time. It’s always late at night and—”

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Sybil cut in swiftly. “We need to focus on Lucinda’s dream and her feelings about it. That’s the path to enlightenment.”

The path to enlightenment? Sybil and her fortune cookie platitudes were beginning to grate on my nerves. “But why do people have dreams like this?” I cut in. “Where do they come from?” I felt my BS register rising, and I suppose I may have sounded sharper than I’d intended.

Sybil turned to me. “Well, it can be related to the imposter syndrome, wouldn’t you agree, Ali?”

“Yes, I do. Being naked is a metaphor. Having no clothes means your smooth veneer is stripped away and people will see right through you. They might discover that you’re a fake, an imposter.” Ali paused, passing a plate of lemon squares.

“Yes, exactly.” Sybil waved her hand dramatically, and her bangle bracelets clanked together. “Lucinda, is there something you need to overcome in your personal life? Maybe you’re facing a dilemma, or something left unresolved?” She arched her eyebrows, and her voice spiraled upward in a question.

“I don’t think I’m struggling with anything,” Lucinda said doubtfully. “No more than usual, I mean.” Lucinda has so many phobias and neuroses, she makes Monk look like a model of sanity.

Lucinda is a quiet woman in her mid-forties who took early retirement from her headmistress position at a private school to become a patron of the arts. Her brown hair was pulled back in a tight chignon, and she wore a beige linen sheath that was probably expensive but hung shapelessly on her bony frame. She’s pleasant but colorless, the kind of woman who could easily blend into the wallpaper.

I’d heard she’s well connected in Savannah, serves on the boards of several charities, and volunteers at a homeless shelter once a week. Ali told me that Lucinda was a trust fund baby before anyone had even invented the term, so she’s never had to worry about taking a paying job. Instead, she can devote herself to philanthropic work and live off her considerable assets.

The only sound was the lazy whirring of the Casablanca fan high above us, suspended from the tin ceiling with its distinctive fleur-de-lis-patterned squares. It had been a sunbaked June day, but the thick walls of the old building warded off the Georgia heat and the sitting room was cool and pleasant.

The contrast between the cream-colored walls and dark wood floors added a light, airy feeling to the room. Ali had covered the fussy antique furniture with white cotton slipcovers and had made her own throw pillows from scraps of blue and white gingham. A crystal water pitcher filled with blue hydrangeas, a few artfully arranged seashells on a steamer chest, and suddenly the once formal living space looked fresh and inviting.

Shabby chic, Savannah style.

I was torn between the mille-feuilles and the napoleons when I heard Samantha Stiles blow out a low sigh. Samantha, who was sitting right next to me on the settee, is a rookie detective in Savannah and new to the group. She’d been drumming her fingertips impatiently on the armrest for the past ten minutes, sneaking an occasional glance at her watch.

I figured she’d already decided Ali’s little Dream Club was sheer hocus-pocus and couldn’t wait to make her escape. I’d heard from Ali that Samantha had been dragged into the group by her close friend, Dorien Myers, a self-proclaimed psychic and tarot reader.

“Maybe this fear, or whatever it is, is buried deep in your subconscious,” my sister offered. “Outside your awareness. Your conscious awareness, I mean.”

There was Ali, back on her Freud kick again. Ali reads a lot of books on psychodynamic theory so her suggestion didn’t surprise me. According to Ali, the unconscious is a boiling cauldron of unexplored fears, wishes, and desires. We manage to keep a lid on the pot during waking hours, but at night, all bets are off and the repressed material comes bubbling to the surface in the form of dreams.

An interesting idea, even though I’m not sure I agree with her. Poor Ali, I think she’s a frustrated psychologist.

Lucinda nodded politely, but I could see my sister’s analysis didn’t strike a chord with her, either.

“You say it was the produce aisle? I’m not sure what that brings to mind, but I’d certainly like to hear more about it.” Persia Walker scored a tiny glazed fruit tart from the tray. Our eyes met and she gave me a sheepish grin before adding a cream puff and two double-chocolate brownies to her plate.

I knew Persia was doing Weight Watchers and idly wondered how many points those pastries would cost her. I squashed the thought and tried to focus on the discussion. Some things are better left unexamined.

Persia had told me before the meeting that she has the strong feeling there’s a mystery man buried somewhere in my past. She said it could be the remote past, going back several centuries. I raised my eyebrows and Persia looked disappointed when I told her that I don’t have any loves—lost, found, recent, or long ago. Persia promised to loan me the DVD of Somewhere in Time and said that it would all become clear to me. She predicted that true love was waiting right around the corner.

Wrong. At thirty-two years old, I’m happily single and I intend to stay that way for a long time.

“I just remembered something,” Lucinda piped up. “One of the workers in the produce aisle told me they were having a special on mangoes.” She frowned. “Or maybe it was the manager who told me. It’s probably not significant, but—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, of course it’s significant, Lucinda,” Dorien cut in. “You should have mentioned you spoke with someone in your dream.” She shook her head and blew out an exasperated sigh. “You have to be precise about these things. Every detail counts, you know. I’m not sure what mangoes represent, maybe the tropics, or exotic places. Perhaps something you’re striving for, that’s just out of reach.” She paused. “Does that strike a chord with you?”

Dorien has a thin, angular face, and her heavy dark brows knitted together as her chin jutted forward like a bulldog’s. Her sleek black hair was cut chin-length, on the diagonal, and one side fell forward, covering her cheek for a moment.

“I simply don’t know. I just have a vague sense of the big picture. It’s really hard to get every little detail straight.” A defensive note had crept into Lucinda’s voice, and I noticed she was twisting her hands together in her lap, probably regretting she had ever mentioned the Publix dream.

Dorien brushed her hair back from her face with a choppy gesture and tucked it behind her ear. “Details are important, Lucinda. Everything in a dream has meaning. I’ve said that a thousand times. Everything!”

Dorien has the reputation of being prickly, and from my brief acquaintance with her, I can see that she’s the kind of person who always has to be right. She glanced around the group, as if daring anyone to disagree with her. Our eyes met, and I did my best to look intrigued by her latest pronouncement. This was my first introduction to the Dream Club, and I wasn’t going to risk opening myself up to Dorien’s scathing tongue.

“I just remembered something else,” Lucinda said, brightening. “I noticed the floor was black-and-white tiles. An Art Deco pattern, like something you’d see in the foyer of a mansion.”

“That’s interesting.” My sister leaned forward, her expression rapt with interest. “Black-and-white tiles. Are we talking symbolism here?”

Symbolism. Again. Ali and I are polar opposites. Sometimes it’s hard to believe we’re biologically related. She’s a soft-spoken, creative type, and I’m a high-level bean counter with an MBA from Wharton. I have to admit, Ali loses me when she prattles on about universal symbols and Jungian archetypes. I’m a bottom line kind of girl (“Show me the money”), and Allison has her head in the stars. As a freelance business consultant, I specialize in taking failing businesses and turning them into success stories.

I usually work with Fortune 500 companies, but I flew in to Savannah to help save my sister’s vintage candy shop. It might take a few weeks or a few months, it’s hard to tell. Ever since both our parents passed away, Ali is my only family and I feel like it’s the two of us against the world.

“Yes, I think you nailed it. It’s highly symbolic.” Sybil Powers nodded her head. Ali told me Sybil was one of the early members of the group and she likes to call herself a “dream-hopper.”

I’d never heard the term, but Sybil claims to be able to interject herself into other people’s dreams. It doesn’t seem to matter if the dreamer is dead or alive, and the dream can have taken place ages ago. Apparently time doesn’t have any relevance in dreamland.

According to Sybil, dreams go on forever. They continue to exist, somewhere in the cosmos, and astute dreamers can tap into them. I know it sounds crazy, because, after all, how can you tune into someone else’s dream?

I have a hard time wrapping my head around that idea, but as Sybil says, “If love is eternal and the universe is infinite, why shouldn’t dreams continue to exist as well?” The whole question is a little too metaphysical for me, but the other Dream Club members seem to eat it up.

Earlier in the evening, Sybil had treated us to a dream she’d “visited.” The dreamer was a Confederate soldier, sleeping in a field tent near Leesburg, Virginia, longing to see his beloved once more. He dreamt that the two of them were reunited and walking hand in hand down a lovely, magnolia-lined path that led to a mansion right out of Gone with the Wind. Sybil described the dream in great detail. She said she was simply a bystander; she observed the soldier’s dream and didn’t interject herself in any way.

“I’d look for the subtext in the dream about the supermarket,” Sybil said, pulling me back to the present. “Black and white, that’s an easy one. It clearly means good and evil.” She paused a moment to let that sink in. “The produce aisle is just incidental, it’s the opposing forces angle that interests me. Black and white, good and evil, yin and yang.”

She pushed her rimless glasses down on her nose and peered at Lucinda. “Is there anything you feel guilty about, Lucinda? Anything that’s troubling you? It could be you’re repressing something, and the material is coming out in dream form.”

“No, I don’t think so,” Lucinda said, shooting a nervous look at Dorien. “I can’t imagine what it could be.” She hesitated, as if she were tempted to say more, but like many people, she seemed a little intimidated by Dorien’s high-voltage personality.

I haven’t made up my mind about Dorien, but Allison swears she’s a softie under that hard shell. When Allison first arrived in Savannah, Dorien had gone out of her way to be kind and welcoming. She’d brought her a gift basket and taken her to a local merchants’ association dinner. She even brought organic fish treats for Barney and Scout, Ali’s adored cats, who were napping in the front window, oblivious to the discussion going on around them.

Of course, her motives might have had more to do with good business than friendship, I thought with a certain degree of cynicism. Dorien’s tarot-reading shop is right down the street from Ali’s candy shop, and I know that Dorien is also trying to launch a separate business as a personal chef. Many of the businesses in the district try to cross-promote each other, and she may have decided that she could target Ali’s customers for her new business ventures.

Samantha was growing restive beside me, and I hoped Ali was getting ready to conclude the meeting. “C’mon, let’s wrap this up, it’s time to go,” the young detective muttered under her breath.

Samantha grabbed a handful of Jordan almonds and inched over to the edge of the settee as if ready to bolt out of the room. She’d already mentioned that she was working the evening shift for the Savannah PD tonight and was reporting for duty at ten o’clock sharp.

“Anybody have any final thoughts?” Allison asked, glancing at the antique schoolhouse clock that graced the back wall. “It’s almost nine thirty.”

“I had a very strange dream,” Persia piped up. “More of a nightmare, actually. It was all about a murder right here in Savannah.”

2

Bingo! Now we’re getting to something interesting. I found myself coming out of my sugar rush and snapping to attention. A murder in Savannah! Finally, a dream that I could relate to. With my extensive knowledge of TV crime shows, I might actually be able to contribute something to the discussion.

Persia perched on the edge of the sofa, her eyes glowing with excitement. The room fell silent and she wriggled expectantly in her seat, thrilled to be the center of attention.

I noticed that Gina Santiago froze in her chair. Her hand was trembling so much, she had to put her cappuccino down on the glass-topped coffee table. Gina is a flamboyant young woman who works as an instructor in the Latin dance studio right across the street.

“A murder?” Samantha Stiles asked sharply, shifting into detective mode. “When did it take place? Was the perpetrator caught and convicted?”

Persia shook her head. “Oh, it hasn’t taken place yet, that’s what’s so confusing. It’s a vision from the future. I have a very strong image of the victim, but the details of his death are a little fuzzy. I’m sure there’s some evil force at work, though. There’s a dark presence in the dream, but I can’t get a handle on it.” She gave a little shudder. “I have the strange feeling the killer is someone I know, even though that makes no sense to me. I’m sure I’ve never met anyone who’s capable of murder.”

“Everyone’s capable of murder,” Gina said, her voice barely a whisper. I glanced at her to see if she was kidding, but she looked dead serious. Her expression was stony, impassive.

“Wait a minute, Persia, you said his death,” Samantha cut in. “So the victim is a man? You’re sure of that?” This was the most enthusiasm Samantha had shown all evening. I almost expected her to whip out her tiny tape recorder to capture Persia’s remarks, but I sensed an undercurrent of doubt in her tone.

Persia nodded. “Yes, it’s definitely a man. That’s the one thing I can say with complete confidence.”

“But you don’t have any idea of when it’s going to happen? Or where?” Now Samantha’s tone had turned skeptical, and I wondered if she was writing off Persia’s dream as pure fantasy.

“No idea at all, I’m afraid.” Persia spread her hands dramatically in front of her as if she were peering into an imaginary crystal ball. “I could see him quite clearly, but his back was turned to me. He was tall and well built; I’d say he was a man in his thirties or forties, in the prime of his life. I remember vivid colors and flashing lights. There was a pack of wolves circling him, they looked terrifying, menacing. I saw flashes of red everywhere, and there was loud music playing in the background.” She paused for a moment. “I’m positive about the music. I remember wishing someone would turn the volume down. The noise level was awful, and I was getting a splitting headache.”

“Someone was murdered, and you heard loud music. What kind of music?” Samantha’s tone had flattened to the verbal equivalent of an eye roll.

Persia flushed. “It was very loud Latin music. I wasn’t at all fond of it. I prefer classical music, you know. It helps me concentrate when I meditate and do my dream work.”

“What else do you remember about the dream?” I asked, intrigued in spite of my doubts.

“Not much,” Persia admitted. She squinted her eyes tightly shut for a moment as if she were trying to re-create the scene in her mind. “I did see a silver serving tray and a lovely dinner laid out on a snowy white tablecloth. It might have been in a restaurant or it might have been someone’s home. The lighting was soft and there were candles. First everything was fine, and then”—she gave a little shudder—“the dream turned into fragments. I saw the man eating dinner, and the very next moment, he just keeled over and collapsed on the floor.” She put a hand to her chest and made a fluttery gesture. “It gave me quite a start, and I sat straight up in bed, my heart beating like a rabbit’s.”

For a moment there was dead silence while we all absorbed this.

“What makes you think the man was murdered?” Ali asked. “He might have had a heart attack, or maybe had low blood sugar and blacked out. There are loads of possibilities besides murder.” She gave a little shrug. “He could have had a seizure or he could have fainted.”

“I’m not really sure how I know this,” Persia said vaguely. “But I absolutely am convinced he was murdered. I wish I could remember more details. I did notice something strange, though. There was a serpent in the dream—a black snake on a red background.”

“A serpent,” I said under my breath. “That could mean anything, right?” I happen to like snakes and think they’ve been given bad press. The majority of them are harmless and just want to sun themselves on a warm rock and live out their lives undisturbed by spade-wielding humans.

“I think it would indicate evil. There I go with more symbolism,” Persia added with a light laugh. “And I’m not sure what the red and black meant, maybe something Satanic? I’m not clear on that.”

Persia fell silent then and Allison looked at her watch. “Well, I guess we should stop for tonight,” she said. “That’s certainly a fascinating dream, Persia. Maybe we should pick up at that point next week. I think there’s a lot of material here for us to work on. So if that’s all . . .”

“Just one more thing . . .” Dorien began. She held up her index finger in a move that reminded me of Columbo, the television detective from years ago who always had one more question. “Before we go, I have some advice for Lucinda. I’d like you to try to dream about shopping in Publix again.”

Lucinda blinked. “How would I do that?”

“Just remind yourself to think about the supermarket as you drift off to sleep. See the produce aisle in your mind’s eye. It would be really helpful if you could have another dream so we can analyze it more carefully. And try to pay more attention this time,” she said, a snide tone creeping into her voice. “Notice the surroundings, the weather, the time of day, your emotions, everything you’re feeling and experiencing