A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy Page A

“You can tweak their recipes, but only up to a point. When you start making too many changes, it doesn’t taste like the original. You’re bound to get some pushback.”
    â€œDana’s right: we’re selling nostalgia.” I kept my tone soft. I grabbed a muffin and took a bite. Not bad, but not great. Certainly not up to our usual standards. Blueberry, apple streusel, and donut muffins are huge bestsellers for us, and there was no point in offering something that wasn’t up topar. “Maybe shelve this recipe for a while,” I said, and Dana nodded.
    After a quick breakfast and some instructions for Dana, Ali and I set out to track down our leads. When I told Ali we were making a return trip to Beaux Reves, she asked if we should call ahead. I assured her it was better to stage an impromptu visit. The last thing I wanted to do was give Lucy Dargos an excuse not to see us. With any luck, we might also meet Nicky, her son, and Jeb, the estate manager. And who knew, maybe Sophie Stanton had returned from her trip. It was a little early to call on people, but that was all part of my plan.
    *   *   *
    To say Lucy Dargos, the housekeeper, was unhappy to see us would be an understatement. She was scowling as she answered the door and immediately grabbed my sunglasses from the hall table.
    â€œI found them,” she said in a peremptory tone, handing them to me. “I should have called you; I’m so sorry. There was no need for you to come back.” She kept her squat frame blocking the doorway. She obviously had no intention of inviting us in, and I could hear noises in the kitchen. And a woman’s voice. Perhaps Sophie Stanton was back from her travels?
    The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted down the hall, and I could feel myself salivating. I’m a caffeine addict, no doubt about it, and I hadn’t had my quota for the day. Without four cups of coffee, I have brain fog, even though Ali says that’s impossible.
    â€œI hope we’re not disturbing you,” I said, flashing a bright smile.
    â€œWell, I was just serving breakfast . . .” She hesitated,and I could see she was wrestling with her conscience. Southerners are trained to be hospitable, and not asking us in for coffee would go against the grain.
    â€œBreakfast!” Ali said delightedly. “I was just saying to Taylor that I needed something to eat. I have low blood sugar, you see. When it plummets, I can just faint away with no warning.” She raised the back of her hand to her forehead, and I was afraid she was going to swoon right on the spot.
    All those college drama classes had finally come in handy. Ali was so convincing with her low-blood-sugar act, she almost had
me
fooled. I think she was reprising her role as Blanche DuBois in
A Streetcar Named Desire
. Like the fragile, overly dramatic Blanche, she depended “on the kindness of strangers.” I could only hope that her act was going over well with the stone-faced housekeeper.
    â€œMy aunt Delores has diabetes,” Lucy said finally, opening the door a little wider. “So I know exactly what you mean. When she gets low blood sugar she passes out, right on the spot. Maybe you should come in and sit down for a spell. And have something to eat with us.”
    â€œOh, that would be lovely,” Ali said, sweeping past Lucy into the hall. I just realized Ali had never seen the inside of Beaux Reves, and I could see she was awestruck, taking it all in. The fifteen-foot ceilings, the stunning Art Deco black-and-white tiled floor, the oil paintings in heavy gilt frames lining the wall. The front hall in Beaux Reves is at least five times bigger than my former Chicago condo.
    If only I could explore the whole mansion.
According to the guide book put out by the Historical Society, Beaux Reves has a ballroom, a solarium, and a formal dining room that can seat fifty people at round tables. And the