Free Nightmares Can Be Murder (A Dream Club Mystery) by Mary Kennedy Page B

back a smile. Whenever a Southerner says “bless his heart,” it’s usually code for “I’d like to wring his neck.”
    “There was always something a little off about him, you know?” Persia offered. “Not that he didn’t have a certain charm, but he wasn’t quite up to snuff.”
    Sybil blew out a little breath. “Tell us more about your dream, Persia. Anything else you can remember about the wolves?”
    “Just that they were circling around a campfire,” Persia said, squinting her eyes. “There was a sort of red haze around them. I remember bright red flames shooting up in the air. The whole scene took on a fiery aura. I could almost feel the heat; it was overwhelming.”
    “I remember you mentioning the flames, Persia,” I offered.
    “Fire is an important element in dream work,” Ali said. “It’s open to interpretation, but it can mean passion, love, or danger.”
    That’s the trouble with dream interpretation
,
I thought.
There are just too many possible explanations. It was all beginning to sound like smoke and mirrors to me, and the truth was hidden under too many layers of camouflage.
    “Fire can also mean something more sinister; it can represent evil,” Dorien said firmly. “Think of hellfire. Nothing glamorous about that.” She pressed her lips tightly together and sat back with a satisfied smile.
    We were all silent for a moment. Ali got up to serve raspberry cobbler—another freezer find—when Persia snapped her fingers. “I just thought of something else, ladies.” She paused dramatically, waiting until she had everyone’s attention. “The dinner, remember? In my dream, the dark-haired man was surrounded by the remains of a dinner service. There was fine china and crystal. I couldn’t tell if it was a private dinner at home or in a restaurant or hotel. But he was definitely in the middle of dinner when he was struck down.”
    I heard a clatter of silverware and realized Ali had dropped all the dessert forks she was carrying onto the tile floor. “Sorry,” she said, scooping them up. “How clumsy of me. I’ll be right back with some more.”
    “Let us help you, dear,” Lucinda said, springing into action. “I’ll make coffee if you want to slice the cobbler, Taylor.”
    “I’ll do that,” I said, reaching for the glass dessert plates that had belonged to my grandmother. I hadn’t thought Ali was sentimental, but she’d chosen a few things from the house when my grandmother passed away a couple of years earlier.
    “Fresh raspberry cobbler,” Persia gushed. “With such a flaky homemade crust. I could practically swoon over it. Your sister is a wonderful cook, Taylor.”
    “Yes, she is,” I said, forcing myself to smile. My thoughts were a million miles away from raspberry cobbler, though, because I’d just remembered something. When I’d glanced into the open door of the studio, Chico had been surrounded by china and cutlery. The whole image registered in my mind like a freeze-frame in a film. The dishes, the glasses, the napkins. And of course, poor Chico lying dead on the floor while the music played on.
    Just like in Persia’s dream.
    Finally, we seemed to have exhausted the subject of Chico and his untimely death, and everyone except Ali tucked into dessert. She seemed pensive, gazing out the windows to the street now and then, a sad look flitting across her face.
    When Rose and Minerva stood up to take their leave shortly after, it seemed to put an unofficial end to the evening. Lucinda and Dorien gathered up their things, and Sybil gave Ali a quick hug. We were just about to make our way downstairs when Persia announced, “Before we split up, ladies, I have a very important request. There’s something I need each of you to do tonight.” Everyone stopped in their tracks to listen. Persia has a forceful personality and a rather commanding presence.
    “What is it, dear?” Minerva Harper asked. She stood next to her sister, resting her hand lightly on top