Free A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy

tenth floor, and he had an excellent view of the Historic District—and then sank into his desk chair. He picked up the old-timey fountain pen again, thought better of it, and put it back down on the leather-topped desk.
    I noticed it had faint nibble marks on the tip and wondered if this was his secret vice—nibbling on pen tips. Maybe this was his version of squeezing a stress ball. He looked so rigid and controlled, it was hard to imagine him ever suffering from stress or anxiety.
    â€œWell, you’ve probably known her longer than most people,” I ventured. “So that gives you a unique perspective on her and on Beaux Reves.”
    â€œThat may be true,” he said curtly. “But all the more reason to protect her legacy and honor her wishes.” He shookhis head from side to side in a quick, nervous gesture. “If Abigail were with us today, she never would have granted an interview to your friend. She refused all media requests, and in her later years, she rarely left the estate. And one thing she made clear—she loathed reporters.”
    He gave a little snort of satisfaction and then leaned forward, shooting me a keen look. “I’m surprised you’re not aware of this, Ms. Blake. It makes me wonder how well the two of you really knew Abigail.”
    I exchanged a look with Ali. I was fairly certain that Norman had Googled us, discovered we owned a vintage candy shop on Clark Street, and probably knew our net worth down to the last dollar. We obviously weren’t part of his social scene. He probably thought of us as carpetbaggers. We were newcomers to Savannah, didn’t have a fancy pedigree, and certainly weren’t old money. I bet not much got by those glacial blue eyes. I remember the shrewd look he shot at us the day of the luncheon; his eyes had been cold and unblinking. I bet he didn’t miss a trick.
    The receptionist returned with Ali’s iced tea. Ali took a tiny, delicate sip and then put the glass on a coaster. I glanced at Osteroff and nearly laughed. It was all he could do to restrain himself. He began drumming his fingers on the tabletop, frowning.
    â€œWhat is it you want to know?” He gave a strangely feral smile that was probably intended to be gracious but missed the mark. He had obviously decided it was smarter to throw us a few crumbs to get out us out of his office. “Something about Beaux Reves, you said?” He looked ancient in the harsh sunlight streaming in the window, and his voice was querulous, an old man’s voice. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be older than I’d originally thought, and might even be a contemporary of Abigail.
    â€œYes, anything you can tell us would be helpful,” I said, reaching into my tote bag and pulling out a notebook. “Anything about the mansion itself, or perhaps the Marchand family.”
    He sat back, plunked his elbow on the desk, and stroked his chin. “Well, you can find out anything you need to about the history and the décor of the mansion in Savannah guide books,” he said swiftly. “You don’t need me to rehash all that.” Ali looked at me and raised her eyebrows.
Uh-oh.
This was going to be harder than I’d thought.
    â€œNo, we don’t,” I said agreeably. “But as for the Marchand family—” I began, and he cut me off.
    â€œI have a question for you, Ms. Blake,” he said, pointing his pen at me as if it were a lethal weapon. “Why did Abigail invite you for lunch with her? She mentioned that you were new in town, but that’s all she said. The woman could be damn secretive when she wanted to be,” he added peevishly.
    Ali quickly explained about the Harper sisters, their long friendship with Abigail, and the desire for “new blood” in the Magnolia Society.
    Osteroff allowed himself a small chuckle. “So she tried to rope you into volunteer work?” he asked. “She was