Free A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy Page A

always good at getting people to do things for her. Then she’d take the credit.” He’d broken off eye contact, and seemed lost in thought, staring out the window again.
    â€œSo you know about the Magnolia Society?” I asked, hoping he would reveal more details.
    â€œYes, of course I do. I did the legal work to get them recognized as a legitimate charity. We wanted to make sure all the donations were tax-deductible. That was years ago.” He turned back to face us. He’d obviously forgotten about his packed schedule because he crossed his legs and settled back as if he was ready for a chat. “I figured it was justanother one of Abigail’s impulsive decisions, but she was dead set on establishing the group and keeping it going.”
    â€œIt’s a philanthropic society, right?”
    â€œThat’s what she liked to think.” He cackled. “Actually, it’s a bunch of old dears with too much time on their hands. And more money than they know how to spend.”
    Ali sneaked a look at me and I could read her thoughts. Neither one of us had expected this snarkiness from the old-timey lawyer. I wondered if they could have had a falling-out shortly before her death or if there was some long-standing resentment on his part.
    â€œDid she ask you for a donation?”
    I shook my head. “Not money, just our time. And she even backed off on that once she realized . . .” I stopped, wishing I could take back the words.
    â€œOnce she realized what?” Osteroff leaned forward so quickly in his chair, he nearly catapulted himself onto the desktop.
    Ali bit her lip. “Once she realized she’d be around long enough to handle the Society’s business herself.”
    Osteroff was either a good actor or he was genuinely surprised. “Why wouldn’t she be around? Her parents lived well into their nineties. She came from good stock. I don’t think the woman was ever sick a day in her life.”
    â€œShe never mentioned any premonitions to you?”
    â€œPremonitions? Like what?”
    â€œAbigail was having nightmares,” I explained. “She was dreaming about her own death. She was sure she was going to die sometime soon and she wanted to make sure the Magnolia Society would continue on without her.”
    â€œThis is news to me,” Osteroff said. “Dreaming of her own death? Abigail was a sensible woman.” He snorted. “At least more sensible than those silly friends of hers in theirorthopedic shoes. Those sisters with the flower shop.” I knew he was referring to the Harper sisters, and I bristled. “I never figured Abigail would be the type to get caught up in such nonsense.” This time he stood up and looked pointedly at his watch.
    â€œDo you know anything about a distant relative suddenly turning up?” Ali asked. “Someone she hadn’t seen in years?”
    â€œNo.” His voice was tense, clipped. “Now, if there’s nothing else . . .”
    â€œHow well did you know Desiree Marchand?” I asked him. It was a shot in the dark, but it found its mark.
    â€œDesiree was the younger sister of Abigail,” he said curtly. “She was a lovely young woman, and she drowned several years ago.” His tone was as flat as the Savannah River on a calm day, not a ripple anywhere. Another pointed glance at his watch. “There’s no mystery there, if that’s what you’re thinking.” No mystery? Interesting that he would choose that word. I hadn’t said a word about a mystery.
    â€œNo, of course not,” I said. “I just thought Sara—our friend—might like to add something about Desiree to the article. Abigail never mentioned her to us.”
    â€œI’m sure it was a painful topic for her,” he said shortly. “I don’t think she ever fully recovered from her sister’s death. And now if you’ll excuse