Killing in a Koi Pond

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Daddy said I mustn’t get my dress dirty before dinner.” Abby spread out the gauzy overlay of her pink dress. “See, I’m keeping it clean.”

  Willis frowned. “Clancy? Where . . . Oh, there you are.”

  Willis fixed an austere eye on the young man, whom I’d seen come into the room behind the little girl and immediately walk to the bar to fix himself what looked to me like a stiff drink.

  Heading off a confrontation, Clancy smiled at his daughter. “Abby, honey, of course you can sit on the floor with Grampy. I just wanted to be sure he saw how pretty you look in the dress he sent you for Easter.”

  Abby dropped to the floor, and she and Willis plunged into a serious discussion on the pros and cons of various bunny names. Willis was a strong supporter of “Honey Bunny” until Abby shot it down because “everyone knows honey is for bears. Bunnies eat carrots.” Willis conceded she had a point and offered “Carrot Bunny” as an alternative, which brought nervous laughter from some of the guests. After a few more, they finally settled on “Fluffy.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Marla Mae, now wearing a black dress and white ruffled apron, announced that dinner was ready. Dolores chimed in, “Feel free to bring your drinks with you,” and we followed our host and hostess into the dining room.

  Dinner was particularly delicious, and with Willis engrossed in chitchat with his granddaughter, everyone relaxed and enjoyed themselves.

  After dessert, a mouthwatering sweet potato pie, the entire group adjourned to the living room, where Dolores refilled glasses while Marla Mae served coffee and tea. Peach-flavored sparkling water appealed to me, and as Dolores filled my glass I heard Clancy Travers say, “Come on now, Abby. It’s long past your bedtime.”

  I wondered if Willis would intervene. He and the Blomquists were sitting at a card table set up in a far corner of the room. Willis was intently shuffling a deck of cards and seemed to take no notice of anything else.

  “Daddy,” Abby said in that singsong voice children often use when they are trying to sound cute, “can Granny Dolores read me the next chapter of The Mysterious Benedict Society before I go to sleep?”

  “You can ask,” Clancy said, “but don’t be upset if Granny Dolores can’t leave her guests right now.”

  Dolores set down the wine decanter and the glass she’d been filling with it. “No one will even miss me. Abby, I’m as curious as you are to discover how Reynie and his friends solve their secret mission.”

  “What about our bridge game?” Willis barked. “How do you expect me to play without a partner?”

  Willis instantly seized control of the room. No one spoke; no one moved.

  Clancy ventured, “Well, I could sit in . . .”

  Willis banged his hand on the card table. “You are joking. You play a hand of bridge like it was a game of Go Fish. No strategy whatsoever.”

  Then he looked at his business partner. “I’m glad you didn’t volunteer, Norman. Your business tactics have our company hemorrhaging money. I can’t imagine how you could manage to win a rubber.”

  Norman’s smile was less than sincere. “No problem. I’m really more of a seven-card-stud kind of guy.”

  Marjory had turned her back on the room and was studiously gazing into the fireplace as if the stacked logs were aflame with a comforting glow. That left me as the only option. I decided to volunteer rather than wait to be recruited.

  “I wouldn’t mind filling in until Dolores is ready to play.”

  “Of course,” Willis said. “I should have realized. A well-traveled world-famous author—I’m sure bridge is practically a requirement in your lifestyle.”

  Rather than respond that my card-playing days usually involved a hand or two of gin rummy in my kitchen with my old friend Cabot Cove town doctor Seth Hazlitt, I quickly took my place in the vacant chair and became South as partner to Willis’s North.

  Of course there was no picking a card to choose the dealer. Willis dealt. The bidding went smoothly, and I was not surprised when Tom Blomquist, who sounded very confident, won the bid. I threw out the first card. Willis harrumphed when he saw my ten of spades. Candy set out the dummy hand and the game began in earnest. Tom seemed to be an astute player, which agitated Willis to no end.

  I was the dummy in the next hand, which gave me time to observe that Tom had begun making clumsy mistakes. He seemed a completely different player than he was in the first round. I chalked it up to the hour growing late. Then I noticed the more errors Tom made, the more Cheshire Cat–like Willis became. I suspected there was a definite connection, and was proved correct when, after the final hand, Willis puffed out his chest and announced that he had thoroughly trounced the Blomquists.

  Dolores, who had reentered the room a few minutes before, said, “Well, I am pleased to see that Jessica plays a better game than I do. Congratulations to the winners.”

  There was some polite clapping, and then Marjory and the Blomquists began to take their leave. In the midst of all the hand shaking and polite cheek kissing, Willis Nickens disappeared without a word.

  Chapter Three

  Dolores handed me a fresh peach sparkling water and led me to a comfy settee at the opposite end of the room from Clancy and Norman, who were sharing a nightcap by the fireplace. She thanked me for taking her place at the bridge table. “Willis is a very demanding player. I hope he wasn’t too rough on you.”

  “On the contrary, he seemed to save his glares and harrumphs for poor Tom, who was a nervous wreck by the time we finished playing.”

  “That makes perfect sense. When he heard that Tom and Candy won the Oak Hills Duplicate Bridge Championship last year, it rankled Willis to no end. He prefers to be the only winner at everything he touches. So now whenever we have Tom and Candy to dinner, bridge is a requirement, even though I would much rather do something fun like charades. But beating a ‘champion’ at his own game, so to speak, makes Willis feel like a king.”

  Hmmm, I thought. It’s more than that. Willis likes to make other people feel like they are nothing more than court jesters.

  “How did story time go?”

  Dolores glowed. “Well, it took more than a few minutes for Abby to unwind. But once she was in her pj’s, with her teeth brushed and pigtails untied, we snuggled on her bed and got down to the book. Usually she has lots of questions and comments about the story as we go along. Not tonight. By the time I reached the end of the chapter, she could barely keep her eyes open. When the little wooden rabbit she found earlier today slipped from her hand, I knew she was a goner.”

  “I remember when Grady was that age. He would fight against going to sleep and then collapse.” I took a sip of my sparkling water. “And now Frank is the same way.”

  “We are lucky to have children in our lives, aren’t we?” Dolores smiled. “And speaking of our lives, now that we got the ‘Welcome, Jessica’ dinner out of the way, I don’t think Willis has any more designs on our social time. It will be girls only from here on out. What do you think of a late breakfast tomorrow, and then spending the day at the art museum?”

  I stifled a yawn. “I think that sounds like a plan.”

  “And you, my dear friend, sound like one very tired lady. I think it’s time I check the kitchen. Make sure Lucinda and Marla Mae have gotten everything tidied up. You should take yourself up to bed and get a good night’s rest. They begin serving breakfast at seven thirty, but you can request something at any time. Lucinda lives in a suite behind the kitchen and is very accommodating if you need anything at all. Sleep well.”

  * * *

  * * *

  Marla Mae had removed the tray and teapot from my room and left a snack on the desk, some grapes and two sesame-flavored wafers, along with a pitcher of water. I resisted temptation until I was in my pajamas; then I pulled a couple of grapes from the bunch, popped one in my mouth, and sat in the comfy chair
, mulling over my very long day.

  I was delighted to see Dolores so happy in her new life. Although her husband had a strong, self-centered personality that I knew I could never abide, as long as he made her happy, I was determined to be happy for her. I took a bite of a cookie and idly wondered why Willis worked so hard to be abrasive to his other guests, trying to make everyone uncomfortable. And he enjoyed every minute of it. The only conclusion I could reach was that Willis Nickens was what we in Cabot Cove would call an odd duck.

  I crawled under the covers, and when my head sank into the pillow I sighed, expecting to fall asleep instantly. But every minute dragged by like an hour. I grew increasingly restless. I rearranged the pillows twice and moved from side to side and back again. At one point I heard an owl hooting off in the distance. Quiet, mister. You are not helping one bit.

  I flicked on the light and sat up in bed. If I had been at home, I would have made myself a nice cup of hot cocoa and read for a while, but I hadn’t been in this house long enough to know where the kitchen was, and I was afraid to disturb the live-in housekeeper if I bumbled around trying to find it.

  Luckily, I did know where to find the library. With or without the cocoa, a good book was sure to help me fall asleep. Perhaps I could find a collection of short stories or a volume of poetry. Something that would have an ending every few pages, making it easy to put down once I started to yawn again. I slid my feet into my slippers and put on my robe.

  The second-floor hallway was dead quiet, but when I neared the bottom of the staircase I heard voices coming from Willis’s office. I rounded the bannister and peered inside the room. I could see Willis leaning back in his chair, his legs propped up on the desktop, ankles crossed. The light from the desk lamp bounced off his patent leather shoes. He was loud and nasty but clearly enjoying himself. His tone was so obnoxious I hoped he wasn’t speaking to Dolores.

  I crept closer and saw his son-in-law, Clancy, standing on the visitor’s side of the desk with his arms folded across his chest. I couldn’t see his face, but his body was so rigid I knew he didn’t like whatever he was being told.

  “I have my granddaughter’s best interest at heart.” Willis reversed his crossed ankles. “After Emily died I named you as the trustee for Abby’s trust fund because there was no other choice. I could have named a bank or a law firm. But those are businesses, interested in conserving money. I wanted someone whose main concern would be what is in Abby’s best interest in every way, not just financially. It’s a revocable trust, and legally, I can change it. I have decided Dolores will make an excellent trustee. She genuinely loves Abby, and when I am gone she will inherit so much on her own that Abby’s trust fund will seem an insignificant amount.”

  “Willis, I am her father, and I assure you, since . . . since Emily . . . all of my focus has been on giving Abby the best life possible.”

  “Sure, it has. The best life my money can provide.” Willis dropped his feet to the floor and leaned forward, both elbows on the desk. “Listen to me carefully. One of the reasons I married Dolores was that I can see how much she loves my granddaughter. And there is no competition, because she has no grandchildren of her own.”

  I was astonished that Willis would consider Dolores’s lack of grandchildren to be a plus for their marriage. If Dolores ever found out, I suspected she would be extremely hurt.

  He continued. “I’m willing to bet that Dolores enjoys being a grandmother more than you enjoy being a father. And that is why I am going to make her Abby’s trustee.”

  Clancy was close to shouting. “That’s completely unfair. I have dedicated my life—”

  “Lower your voice before you wake up everyone in the house. Consider it a courtesy that I’m telling you before I have my attorney draw up the paperwork. Rest assured that the decision is made.” Willis slapped the desk. “And before you elect to fight me on this, remember I have accountants, lots of smart accountants. It won’t take them long to trace the money you slip out of the trust and into your own pocket.”

  “How can you even think—?” Clancy blustered.

  “I’m sure that redheaded tart you’ve been wining and dining would be surprised to learn it is your nine-year-old daughter who is footing the bill.”

  “Are you having me followed? Are you spying on me? You sick son of a—”

  “Hold your tongue, boy. Now get out of my office before I throw you out of my house.”

  I ran to the library door and slipped inside just as I heard Clancy slam the office door behind him. He clomped up the stairs, muttering to himself.

  I could only imagine how uncomfortable breakfast was going to be.

  I wondered if Dolores knew anything about Willis’s plan. He seemed more than capable of doing as he pleased without consulting with her at all. How would she feel about being trustee for Abby if it caused a problem with Clancy? Suppose Clancy decided to create a rift between Dolores and the child? When all was said and done he was the custodial parent, the only parent.

  All those questions were making my head hurt. They could wait until morning. Now was the time to find a peaceful book to read. I was grateful that moonlight was streaming through the French doors. It gave me just enough light to read the titles on the spines of some of the hundreds of books filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Poetry! There it was, right in front of me, the poetry section, alphabetically arranged. Maya Angelou, E. E. Cummings, Emily Dickinson. I reached for The Poetry of Robert Frost, a collection with so many reminders of New England that it was sure to transport my mind to Cabot Cove and home. What better way to relax?

  I peeked into the foyer. Willis’s office door was still shut and there wasn’t a sound anywhere in the house. I tiptoed upstairs, clutching the heavy volume of Frost’s work, confident that a few minutes reading New England poems would lead me to an excellent night’s sleep.

  * * *

  * * *

  Sunlight brushed the dreams of woods and snowy winter nights from my mind and I woke up with a start. Then I looked around and realized that I was in South Carolina in spring, not home in Maine in winter. I stretched my arms toward the ceiling and thought about how Robert Frost was able to relax me with only a few verses of his poetry. I jumped out of bed, and touched my toes ten times. The clock on the night table read six thirty-five; I had plenty of time for a run before breakfast. I put on my navy blue sweat suit and my Nike Air Zooms, filled my water bottle from the pitcher Marla Mae had left the night before, and tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house without disturbing a soul.

  There was not so much as a whisper of a cloud in the sky, and the scent of fresh dew on the grass was invigorating. I stood on the veranda and took a couple of deep breaths. I’d already decided that I would save exploring until I was more familiar with the property. The smartest run for me this morning would be along the driveway and back.

  I walked a few yards and then began a slow jog. Farther along I picked up my pace and decided that as soon as I could see the koi pond, I would sprint to it. A little high-intensity interval training would get my blood pumping. Then I’d take a light jog from there to the gate and back to the house. I kept my eye on the side of the road, waiting for the koi pond to come into view. As soon as it did I saw a problem. What appeared to be a huge black fifty-gallon garbage bag bulging with trash was lying at the edge of the pond. I supposed it could have fallen off a collection truck, or perhaps the gardener’s truck. Dolores was going to be upset over the mess.

  When I got closer, the shape of the large bundle became clearer. It was far worse than a bag filled with trash. I stopped in my tracks and took my cell phone out of my pocket.

  Cautiously, I walked down the driveway. The nearer I got, the surer I was that what had looked like a garbage bag from a distance was actually the lifeless body of a man dressed in black, with the tail of a bright red and orange koi fish slapping against his shoulder.

  It to
ok only a few more steps for me to see that the man was Willis Nickens.

  Chapter Four

  I tapped 911 on my phone, and when the dispatcher answered I said, “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I am calling to report a death at Manning Hall.” Then I realized I had no idea what the street address was. “I don’t know the address.”

  The dispatcher was a calm young woman with a soft Southern accent. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I got your phone location right on my screen. We’ll send someone out to you immediately. Are you alone with the deceased?”

  “Well, yes and no. I’m on the driveway and the deceased is partly in the koi pond. There are other people in the house but I don’t think anyone is awake yet.” I was sure I sounded as confused as I felt.

  “Did you hit the deceased with your car, ma’am?”

  “Oh heavens, no. I don’t own a car. I don’t even have a driver’s license. I was out for a run and just happened to find Willis.”

  “Willis, ma’am?”

  “Yes. The deceased. Willis Nickens, owner of Manning Hall, where I am a houseguest. I am a friend of Mrs. Nickens.”

  “I see. Well, we have a deputy en route. He’ll be there in a quick minute. In the meantime please don’t touch anything.”

  “Oh, there is an electronic gate. Your deputy will need a clicker to open it,” I said. “There may be a clicker in the glove compartment of Mrs. Nickens’s car. Shall I try to find it?”

  “Don’t worry your head at all. We can override that gate lickety-split. The property owner has the gate registered in our emergency system. Are you feeling okay, ma’am? Must be quite a shock, finding a body and all. Is there a place you can sit down?”