A Premonition of Murder

Praise for the Dream Club Mysteries

“A dream come true for cozy readers everywhere.”

—Lorna Barrett,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Booktown Mysteries

“A wry and clever debut. Huge fun.”

—Carolyn Hart,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Death on Demand Mysteries

“A fun series that goes where no sleuth has gone before. Once you pick this book up, you won't look at dreams in the same way. Or mysteries.”

—Carolyn Haines, award-winning author of the Sarah Booth Delaney Mysteries

“Balancing a murder plot with humorous characters and a genteel Southern setting, this is a terrific start to a new series.”

—
Library Journal

“Readers may start analyzing their own dreams after reading Kennedy's latest tale . . . Kennedy pens a lively mystery.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“Entertaining . . . well written.”

—
Kings River Life Magazine

“This is a clever premise, and I found the club members' dreams and the group interpretations thought provoking . . . The mystery was well designed . . . populated with characters who are sure to delight.”

—MyShelf.com

“Kennedy has taken dream interpretation to impressive new heights . . . An engrossing plot with enough twists and turns to keep the reader as an active participant in the murder investigation.”

—Open Book Society

Talk Radio Mysteries

DEAD AIR

REEL MURDER

STAY TUNED FOR MURDER

Dream Club Mysteries

NIGHTMARES CAN BE MURDER

DREAM A LITTLE SCREAM

A PREMONITION OF MURDER

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

A PREMONITION OF MURDER

A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Mary Kennedy.

Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

BERKLEY
®
PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME design are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

For more information, visit
penguin.com
.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-62413-5

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / June 2016

Cover art by Bill Bruning.

Cover design by Leslie Worrell.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

To the Kennedy cats,
Oliver, Oscar, Henry, Eliza, Fur-Face, and Calpurnia,
for all the love, loyalty, and joy you bring to our
lives.

I want to thank Michelle Vega for her wonderful enthusiasm and endless patience. And a big shout-out to Bethany Blair and all the folks at Penguin Random House for bringing this book to life. My agent, Holly Root, has been my champion, my cheerleader, and my inspiration for all my books and I'm eternally grateful to her. And where would I be without my devoted readers? I'm thrilled beyond words that you enjoy my books and happy that I can connect with you on social
media.

1

Something was off about the outdoor luncheon, but I couldn't quite put my finger on it.

On the surface, everything was perfect. The “tablescape” was pure Sandra Lee—snowy white table linens, cut-glass goblets filled with a nice Chablis, and a lush centerpiece of blue hydrangeas and yellow daylilies.

I tilted my head back, enjoying the warm sunshine. It was a lovely afternoon in Savannah; the air was soft, filled with the intoxicating scent of gardenias, and we were shaded by a magnificent live oak. It enveloped us, almost like a canopy. Our hostess, Abigail Marchand, caught me looking up at the sprawling branches and smiled. “One of my ancestors planted that tree,” she said in her soft voice. “It was here when Sherman made his march into Georgia.”

“So it dates back to the Civil War,” I commented. “It's beautiful.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You mean ‘The War of
Northern Aggression,' my dear,” she corrected me. Abigail was old-school, Old South, no doubt about it. And old money.

There were five of us seated at the round table on the flagstone patio and our hostess looked over the plates and cutlery with a keen eye. At eighty-seven, a famously reclusive heiress, she was used to perfection and had the money and taste to make it happen. And she didn't miss a trick.

“Lucy,” she called out in a voice that had suddenly turned to steel, “have you forgotten something?” The housekeeper, who'd been hovering nearby, raced over with two wine bottles, one red, one white.

“More wine, Senora?” Her tone was anxious, deferential.

“Not more wine,” Abigail snapped. “The cheese straws, where are they? You know we always serve cheese straws with wine.”

“I'll get them right now. And Mr. Osteroff stopped by. He wants to leave some papers for you to sign, okay?” She pointed to a dour-looking man standing at the base of the steps leading into the back entrance of the house. I noticed a black Jaguar parked near the patio. He must have pulled up silently.

“Yes, of course, he can leave them on the hall table.” Abigail stopped and waved at the man. “Norman, you are a dear; thank you! Want to join us for a glass of wine?” He gave a thin smile, followed by a dismissive little wave of his hand, and continued up the steps.“That's my lawyer,” Abigail said. “A genius at legal issues but no social skills whatsoever. Now, where were we?”

The maid was still standing there, hands clasped in front of her, as if she was awaiting further instructions. “For heaven's sake, Lucy, show Mr. Osteroff inside and then bring us the cheese straws.”

As the maid nodded and scurried away, Abigail gave a
world-weary sigh. “I have to check and double-check everything these days. Lucy's been with me thirty years, and I think she's getting forgetful.” She playfully tapped her head. “Of course, at our age, that's not unusual. Present company excluded, of course.” She grinned at the Harper sisters, Rose and Minerva, who exchanged a look and chuckled. “How many years have we been friends?” she asked her elderly guests.

“It's got to be over fifty years,” Minerva said promptly.

“All the way back to the founding of the Magnolia Society,” her sister Rose chimed in. The two sisters could have been twins, dressed in flowery dresses, with curly white hair framing their faces. They were wearing matching pearl earrings, little white socks, and orthopedic shoes. The Harper sisters were some of the first neighbors to welcome me when I moved to Savannah last year to help my sister Ali with her failing business. The two sisters run a flower shop down the street from Ali's candy store and are members of our Dream Club.

“The Magnolia Society,” Abigail went on in a wistful tone. She turned her bright blue eyes on me. “Taylor, you may have suspected that I invited you and Ali here today to talk about the Society and our plans for the future.”

“I wasn't really sure why you invited us, Abigail, but we're very happy to be here.”

It was true. Ali and I had been stunned when Minerva and Rose said we were invited for lunch at Beaux Reves, the fabulous estate at the edge of town. I'd always been curious about it, but almost no one got past the wrought iron gates.

Beaux Reves has been written up in dozens of guide books, and I read that it has twenty rooms, twelve bedrooms, and fifteen baths, plus a wine cellar, a stable, and a king's ransom in furnishings and artwork. I glanced up at the white stucco mansion with its graceful balustrades and porticos looming
over us and wondered if we'd get to see the inside. Abigail had met us at the flagstone patio and after a peremptory look at the gardens, we'd been ushered over to the luncheon table. I had the feeling this was going to be the extent of the tour.

Sara Rutledge, a journalist friend, told us that Abigail never gave interviews, steadfastly refused to allow the local papers to photograph the mansion, and never opened it for fund-raising events or garden tours. According to local rumors, she hadn't left the house for years. Yet she'd invited us over for lunch today. Why? Our octogenarian friends, the Harper sisters, had hinted that Abigail was looking for “new blood” for the Magnolia Society; the few remaining members were getting up into their nineties.

“I've always been curious about your home,” Ali said, reaching for a cheese straw from the silver platter Lucy placed in front of us. In my short time in Savannah, I'd learned that cheese straws are practically a Southern staple and a popular hostess gift. “So it's really a treat for us to be here today.”

“My pleasure, my dear,” Abigail said. She paused for a moment while Lucy served our lunch: a delicate mixture of spring greens with lobster salad and marinated asparagus tips. The plates were chilled, and there was a basket of buttery dinner rolls on the table. “Now,” she added briskly, “let me tell you why you're really here.”

She paused and closed her eyes for a moment, taking a sip of wine. Even though she was in her late eighties, her porcelain skin was unlined and her silvery hair was swept up in a chic French twist. She was wearing a simple—yet expensive—sleeveless white linen shift with pale blue enameled earrings and delicate silver bands on her wrist.

Suddenly, her eyes flew open and she rested her hands on the table. “I just learned that I'm going to die.” She swallowed hard. “I probably only have a few days left.”

My stomach clenched, and I felt the same little frisson of fear that I'd noticed when I'd first sat down. I hadn't imagined my feeling of foreboding. The dark cloud was real. The Angel of Death was among us, and his dark wings were grazing the sun-splashed patio.

“Good heavens,” Minerva said, her voice catching in her throat. “Oh, my poor dear, I had no idea you were ill.” She glanced at her sister Rose, whose eyes were misting over. “You're always so energetic, and you've been such an inspiration to us with the Society.”

Rose reached over and laid her hand gently over Abigail's. “Abigail, this can't be true. You know, doctors don't know everything. Why, they told Lois Albritton she had only a few months to live, and she was with us for another twenty years.”

Abigail smiled and gently removed Rose's hand. “Please, everyone, it's not the end of the world. I've had a wonderful life, and all good things must come to an end.” She picked up the basket of dinner rolls and handed it to me. “Taylor, pass this around, will you? Lucy's spent all morning preparing this lunch, and she'll be disappointed if we don't clean our plates.” She put her napkin on her lap and picked up her fork, nodding for everyone else to join in. “Now eat up and I'll explain everything.”

She took a bite of lobster salad and said slowly, “I always knew it was time for some new members to carry on the work of the Society, but I thought I had a couple of good years ahead of me. My mother and grandmother lived well into their nineties. I had no idea my time was running out.” Minerva gave a soft sob, and Abigail went on softly, “It's not a medical issue; it's fate. Karma, you might say. And we can't fight karma, can we? It all came to me in a dream last week.”

A dream?
This was the last thing I'd expected to hear. Ali and I locked eyes for a moment. My sister and I are so close
we can practically read each other's thoughts, and I knew she was as shocked as I was. It was Ali who introduced me to the power of dreams when I moved from Chicago to Savannah. Ali has been fascinated by dreams for years, and she started a Dream Club that meets once a week in our apartment above the candy shop. It's a small, dedicated group of women, and we meet over coffee and desserts to share our dreams and analyze them.

I've gone from being a die-hard skeptic to a reluctant believer. Recently we helped the police solve three murders right here in Savannah. A popular dance instructor was killed, soon followed by a second, related murder. The third victim was a famous chef, in town for a book signing. In both cases, the Dream Club provided invaluable clues that helped uncover the killers.

I forced my attention back to Abigail, who was recounting her dream. “There was a dark vortex and I felt myself falling, falling into the blackness . . . There was no hope, no escape.” Her voice wobbled a little, and I knew she was trying to keep her emotions in check. Minerva and Rose were listening raptly, and Minerva was dabbing at her eyes with an embroidered white handkerchief.

I listened carefully and uncovered several familiar symbols and images that could signify death. Abigail's voice trembled as she recounted being engulfed in a whirlpool of pitch-black water, pulling her inevitably toward the bottom.

“Something was crushing me, some evil force . . .”

I wished I'd brought a tape recorder. She described a tight feeling in her chest, a weakness in her limbs. She felt like her lungs were exploding, her throat was closing, and she couldn't call for help. She was alone and terrified, feeling the life force seep out of her. It was certainly a vivid description of a death-by-drowning nightmare, but it wasn't unfamiliar to me.
And it didn't necessarily signify death. There were other possibilities, and I wondered if Abigail would be open to them.

“You've never had this dream before?” Ali asked.

“I never dream, my dear,” Abigail replied. “My head hits the pillow and I'm out like a light.” I wondered if that was true. Sleep studies have shown that almost everyone dreams, but some people simply don't remember their dreams.

“And you associate this dream with death?” Minerva asked gently.

“Well, of course I do. Wouldn't you?” Abigail replied, her eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “I was gasping like a fish on a line. I couldn't breathe and I was being pulled downward to some shadowy depth. Probably the netherworld,” she added grimly.

“The reason Minerva asked,” Ali interjected, “is that dreams can have many interpretations. Even nightmares, like the one you just described. It's impossible to know the subtext in a dream—the meaning beneath the surface—unless you have a complete picture of what's going on in the person's life.”

Abigail blinked. “I never thought there would be more than one interpretation,” she said quietly.

“There can be many, my dear friend,” Minerva offered. She told Abigail about our work in the Dream Club and asked if she would like to get some feedback from the club members.

“I would like that very much,” Abigail said, brightening. She gave a gay little laugh. “Well, now I feel a bit silly because I thought I was a goner.”

“If you'd like,” Rose offered, “I'll call you later, and we can discuss the dream in more detail before I present it at the next Dream Club meeting. And then I'll get back to you with the members' interpretations.”

Abigail nodded. “That sounds wonderful.” She sat back in her chair and blew out a little puff of air. “I feel like the governor has just called and I've been granted a reprieve,” she joked. “This is really one for the book. I'll have to jot it down tonight. Oh, and I suppose I should tell you another bit of a dream I remembered from that same night. It's a happy dream. I dreamt that I reconnected with a distant relative, someone I hadn't seen in decades. And then a few days later, this person popped up in my life! The dream came true. I was so grateful to find her that I talked to my lawyer about changing my will and leaving her my entire estate. Of course, I haven't made up my mind yet. There are so many worthy causes here in Savannah.” She gestured to the manicured pathways, the formal rose garden, the endless stretch of green lawn.