A Premonition of Murder Read Free Page B

tweaking the recipes according to their suggestions and deciding which ones will make the final cut. Then we add the item to the menu as half-price specials and gauge customers’ reactions.
    This night I served a strawberry-rhubarb cobbler that Ithought was delicious but Ali felt was a little too tart, and I was eager to hear the group’s take on it. Ali argued that most people would agree that it needed a bit more brown sugar. Southerners like their sweets, she told me. I always scribble the group’s comments in a little notebook, and I thank the members for their input. I think they like the idea of being beta tasters and having plenty of free desserts to take home.
    â€œYou’ve outdone yourself, ladies,” Minerva said to Ali and me. “I wish you’d let us contribute something. It doesn’t seem fair that you two have to do all this baking every week.”
    â€œNonsense. We’re glad to do it,” Ali told her. “You’re the food judges. That can be your contribution. And besides, you bring such lovely flowers,” she added, touching a petal on one of the pale pink roses that Minerva had arranged in a hand-painted vase. “These last for days,” Ali told her. “We enjoy them all week.”
    â€œThen you’ve been cutting the stems on the diagonal and adding an aspirin as I suggested,” Minerva said, beaming.
    When everyone was finally settled with plates of goodies, the meeting could begin. “Minerva, Rose, Taylor, and I had an interesting experience this week,” Ali began. She described our visit to Beaux Reves and our meeting with the reclusive Abigail Marchand.
    â€œShe had a premonition of her own death?” Sybil Powers asked.
    â€œYes, and it was a terrifying experience for her,” Rose murmured. She took a cherry tartlet from the platter and sampled it. Rose takes tiny bites, like a cat, and loves to try every dessert we serve. She doesn’t really offer helpful critiques, because she seems to love them all equally and swears she wouldn’t change a thing about the recipe.
    â€œThe poor thing,” Sybil said, shaking her head. “I wishI could have dropped in on that dream.” Sybil was wearing one of her trademark caftans, a beautiful batik in tones of peach and gold. Sybil has an unusual skill—she’s a “dream-hopper” and has the ability to “visit” other people’s dreams.
    Last week, she told us about visiting Marie Antoinette in her final hours. The unlucky monarch was about to meet her gruesome end in the morning, and Sybil visited her dream as the queen slept fitfully, her dreams as dark and threatening as the fate that awaited her. Since time and space have no meaning in the dream world, it’s possible for Sybil to slip through the ages and cross continents in her dream-hopping. I once asked her if she had ever accidentally “hopped into” a friend’s dream, and she admitted that when that happens, she leaves the dream as fast as she can. She feels it isn’t fair or honorable to intrude on a friend’s privacy, and I respect her for that.
    â€œSo, what shall we tell Abigail as far as interpretations?” Ali said briskly. “The floor is open.”
    â€œWell, the first thing to do is to tell her that she may not be at death’s door after all,” Dorien said acerbically. “Most of us have had those drowning dreams from time to time, and we’re still here, aren’t we?” She looked around the group, and there was a challenge in her cool stare. “Everyone knows that it’s a classic anxiety dream; she’s probably drowning all right, but not in the literal sense. She could be drowning from some stressful situation in her life.”
    â€œYes, that’s my take, as well. Drowning in problems. Going down for the third time, as they say,” Persia murmured.
    â€œDo we know anything about any problems in her