Free A Premonition of Murder by Mary Kennedy Page B

me—”
    Right on cue, the elderly assistant knocked once and poked her head in the door. “Your two o’clock is here, Mr. Osteroff.” She stood in the doorway, holding the door open, clearly ready to usher us out.
    â€œThank you for your time.” I stood up while Ali took a last gulp of her iced tea. I picked up my purse and then paused when I spotted a set of framed photographs of horses on the far wall. The horses were sleek, with gleaming coats, grazing in a lush green pasture. They looked like Arabians,but I’m no expert. “You raise horses?” I asked, surprised. I hadn’t figured Osteroff for an animal lover.
    â€œMy wife’s expensive hobby,” he said with a wry smile. “I’ve never owned a pet in my life, but I have to admit, these horses have grown on me. They’re beautiful animals, aren’t they?” He looked fondly at a picture of an attractive forty-something blonde holding the reins of a large chestnut horse
. Trophy wife?
“That’s Elyse with Thunderbolt,” he said proudly. “She’s teaching me how to groom him. Maybe raising horses will be my retirement hobby some day.”
    I smiled. It was hard to picture Norman Osteroff in jeans and a work shirt, wielding a currycomb. Would the high-powered lawyer, with his tony office and well-heeled clientele, slip off into retirement at a horse farm? I seriously doubted it. And with that, our meeting was over.

7
    â€œSo it was definitely murder?” Ali and I were grabbing a late lunch with Noah. Since it was a picture-postcard Savannah day, and we couldn’t bear to go inside, Noah bought muffalettas for us to eat in Forsythe Square. The tasty treats, with their distinctive layer of marinated olives, originated in New Orleans but have become popular in Savannah. I dashed to an outdoor vendor and bought three large fresh lemonades for us before we settled on a wrought iron bench near the famous fountain.
    â€œI’m afraid so.”
    He handed us our sandwiches, and Ali opened the wax paper to peer at hers suspiciously. “Mine is vegetarian, I hope.”
    â€œAlways.” Noah grinned at her. Noah is almost as close to Ali as I am and plays the role of protective big brother with her. “I know the drill. No salami, no ham, and they doubled up on the provolone and the mozzarella for you.”
    â€œPerfect,” she said. “This is heaven.” She smiled, tucking into her sandwich.
    â€œNow, time to get down to business,” Noah said. He took a big drink of lemonade. “And a sad business it is. According to the ME, there’s no doubt that Abigail was pushed.” He glanced at me.
    â€œYou’re sure?” I suppose I still found it hard to believe anyone would kill Abigail.
    â€œThe coroner is sure,” Noah replied. “And the police chief agrees. That’s good enough for me.”
    â€œI wonder how they decide something like that,” Ali said, her brow furrowed.
    Noah hesitated for a moment. “Taylor, I’ll send you the crime scene photos and you’ll see why they came to that conclusion. There are certain details . . .” He nodded his head toward Ali, who was busily breaking off crumbs of bread and tossing them to a robin that was hopping in front of us. This wasn’t the time or place for gory descriptions. “How did you do with Osteroff?” he asked, changing the subject.
    â€œWe didn’t get anywhere, I’m afraid. He clammed up when we asked about Desiree and couldn’t wait to get us out of his office. You might have done better.” I like to give credit where credit is due.
    Noah is a first-rate interviewer, and I am always amazed at what he picks up on—the slightest hint of a frown on a suspect’s face, a nuance in the voice, or even an obvious “tell.” Noah taught me be to be aware of body language and facial expressions. A suspect who’s