Dolores leaned back in her seat. “I guess we should be on our way. Elton, do you know where the Harrold Brothers Funeral Home is located?”
“Sure ’nuff. It’s right along Colonial Drive. You want me to head on over?”
“If you would. I think it’s time for me to get everything done so Willis can have the final honors he deserves. Don’t you, Jess?”
“Of course. As long as you feel up to the task.”
“Well, I suppose the staff at Harrold Brothers will take care of organizing, but it would help for me to have a list.” She began ticking off on her fingers. “I’d like Pastor Forde to hold the memorial service over at Holy Mission Church. It’s cozy and so peaceful. Willis and I were married there. Then flowers. Willis didn’t care much about flowers, but I think he should have a few bouquets around him.”
She thought for a moment, tilting her head to one side. “Elton, I have noticed Marla Mae has a way with flowers . . .”
“She does that, ma’am.”
“Do you think she could be persuaded to team up with Toni Eggers over at Buds and Blossoms to create some understated but elegant floral arrangements to adorn the coffin?” Her voice started to crack.
“Miss Dolores, Marla Mae will do anything you need. You have only to let her know.”
Dolores sniffled. “That would be awfully kind of her. I know Willis was demanding when it came to the staff, so I am doubly relieved that you think she’ll help out.”
I reasoned it was likely that Marla Mae would extend herself to do her best for Dolores and just ignore the way Willis had treated her in the past.
Dolores continued with her list of priorities. “I will need to decide on some charities for donations in lieu of flowers, and there is Willis’s obituary to consider. Jess, you’re a writer . . .”
I should have seen this coming. “Well, that’s true—I am—but I write fiction. I invent stories from whole cloth. An obituary is factual, a testament to the life of the decedent . . .”
“Oh, bosh. I can tell you everything you need to know. Please, Jess. You’ll get it right. I know you will.”
“If that’s what you want, Dolores. I will do my best.” What else could I say?
If Willis was as prominent in the community as he seemed to be, it was likely a local newspaper had an “advance obit,” a prewritten obituary they updated periodically that was ready to print at a moment’s notice with only the addition of the final facts. I could start there.
“You’re a good friend, Jess.” Dolores sighed. “That was the one thing missing from Willis’s life. He knew so many people but there is no one who I could point to as being his good, true friend. How sad is that?”
“Sad as that may be, Willis was lucky enough to be well loved by you and by Abby. Many people never have that close a connection with anyone.”
I hadn’t even noticed we were in the mortuary parking lot until the car had stopped and I heard Elton pop the locks.
Dolores looked around. “Oh, we’re here. Elton, you are a treasure.”
He looked over his seat back. “I try, ma’am. I truly do.”
His face was so sincere that Dolores broke into a smile. I was happy to see it. I knew it was the first of many that would creep back into her life day by day, although I was sure she wouldn’t recognize that now.
* * *
* * *
Jonah Harrold was the oldest of the three brothers who owned the funeral parlor, which was founded by their father and his younger brother. He proudly showed us oil paintings of the founding brothers hung inside the entryway, and then led us to his office.
We sat in plush high-backed chairs around a cherrywood conference table with a herringbone inlaid top. The room was painted bright yellow, and half a dozen vivid watercolor paintings of birds and flowers adorned the walls. I’d never seen such a cheery room in a funeral parlor.
“Mrs. Nickens, we were all sorry to hear about Willis. He and I belonged to the same chapter of the Rotary Club, and my brother Dillon served on the Community Hospital fund-raising committee with Willis for several years. He did so much good. It’s a real loss to the service community.” He stopped for half a beat. “And to you, of course.”
“Thank you. I admit that I am lost, adrift, confused—all those things. I thank the Lord my good friend Jessica happened to be in town for a visit when the . . . accident happened. She helps bring me strength.”
Jonah Harrold smiled at me, and returned his attention to Dolores. “May I ask where Mr. Nickens is at present?”
“He’s at the Coroner’s Office, and before you ask, I don’t know when they will allow you to bring Willis here.”
He looked perplexed but decided to let that drop rather than make further inquiries. I am sure he knew as well as I did that if Willis had died by accident, Harrold Brothers would have collected the body by now.
“I want to be prepared for when they do release him, so I thought I would come to discuss plans with you.”
“Very wise, very wise indeed, Mrs. Nickens. If you would like to take a look at our facility and pick a room you think is suitable . . .”
Dolores interrupted. “First, I have a list of what I have decided so far. I was hoping you would coordinate it all. Holy Mission Church, flowers from Buds and Blossoms, and Marla Mae Anderson will work with them to approve the arrangements. Jessica will take charge of the obituary, and we will be asking for charitable donations, so you won’t be inundated with floral deliveries.”
Jonah nodded. “My, you have given funeral plans a lot of thought in a very short period of time.”
I detected a slight tone of suspicion in his voice, so I chimed in, “Actually, we discussed these arrangements in the car on our way here. I am a widow myself, so I was able to help Dolores decide what she needed to do.”
If, as I suspected, Willis was a victim of foul play, I was sure the sheriff already had his eye firmly on Dolores. My intention was to distract the funeral director from any such thoughts.
Oblivious to the accusatory current swirling around her, Dolores said, “I am glad you mentioned the Community Hospital fund. Willis did work very hard on that committee. I think the fund should be one of the charities we suggest.”
Jonah Harrold stood. “That’s a grand idea. Now if there is nothing else that comes to mind, shall we take a look at the facility? Rest assured we’ll meet your wishes when the Coroner’s Office allows us to receive Mr. Nickens.”
Chapter Eleven
Jessica Fletcher. Long time, no hear.” Harry McGraw sounded as feisty as ever when he answered my call on the first ring.
When we had arrived home from Harrold Brothers, Dolores could scarcely drag herself into the house. Pleading exhaustion, she went directly to her room for a nap, which gave me time to call my favorite Boston private investigator. I was delighted to reach him so quickly. If he was working undercover or was otherwise embroiled, it would often take a few days for him to return a call.
“Hello, Harry. You’re right. I have been remiss, but, well, I was on deadline with my last book; then I went to a mystery conference in Bethesda—such a great time—and for the past few days I have been staying with a friend in South Carolina.”
“Jessica, South Carolina? Really? Isn’t it like ninety degrees there every hour of the day and night? We New Englanders don’t like hot weather.”
“Actually it’s not nearly that hot, and the scenery is quite lovely.” I looked out my window. “There’s a gorgeous tree that grows down here called a crepe myrtle, and they are in full flower all around my friend Dolores’s house, not to mention along the highways and byways.”
“Better not let Doc Hazlitt or Sheriff Mort hear you praising trees unless you are talking about solid New England red maples. You know they both think you spend too much time on the road as it is.”
Harry certainly had that right.
“And speaking of the road, when are you coming to Boston? I stopped by Il Cibo the other night for some gnocchi Bolognese and Angelo was asking for you. He claims you class up the joint, while I bring it down a peg or two.”
I laughed. “Oh, Harry, Angelo is far too agreeable to say something like that.”
“Which part, you being classy or me being the down peg? Anyway, I have a great invitation for you. The Boston Symphony has scheduled a very upper-crusty kind of concert with some major European opera singers—I didn’t pay attention to the names, but you probably know them. I thought you might want to show up.”
“A concert? With opera singers? Harry, that doesn’t sound like anything you would enjoy.”
“It’s not, but it does sound right up your alley, Jessica. A friend of mine got the security gig and asked me to help out, so I can get you in for free. And we can visit Angelo for dinner. You know he’ll make something extra special, like that chicken saltimbocca from his mother’s old recipe, if his favorite Cabot Cove lady is in town.”
“Well, that is an attractive offer, very hard to resist. I’ll call you when I get home and see what we can do, but in the meantime . . .”
“In the meantime you need me to take a look-see at something or somebody. Am I right?” His drawn-out sigh gave the impression that my asking was a terrible imposition.
“Harry, are you ever wrong?” I could almost see his grimace morph into a grin.
I gave him a brief rundown of my visit with Dolores at Manning Hall and ended by telling him about Willis’s untimely death.
“Untimely death, my eye. Just say it, Jess. The guy was murdered and you are on the case. Murder follows you like a gambler follows the ponies.”
“Harry, I do suspect Willis was murdered. Neither the sheriff nor the Coroner’s Office will confirm cause of death, at least not to me, not even to his widow. But Dolores is one of my oldest, dearest friends and I want to be prepared in case the sheriff comes knocking.”
“Gotcha. So, how can I help? First tell me the dead guy’s name and particulars so I can scratch it on a pad. That way I won’t have to call you back a hundred times with questions like ‘How do you spell the last name?’ or ‘Where did you say he lived?’”
“His name is Willis Nickens. His wife’s name is Dolores.”
Harry kept asking questions until he was satisfied that he knew as much as I did about Willis and Dolores.
“One thing I don’t get, Jess. If this guy is such a big-deal businesswise, how is it that you don’t know exactly what kind of business he’s in? How does a guy have no money worries but even his wife doesn’t know exactly what he does? Sounds shady to me.”
In truth the phrase “shady business” had crossed my mind when it came to Willis’s finances.
“Well, the word ‘investments’ came up a time or two, and there was the mention of at least one real estate deal.” I was as exasperated with my lack of knowledge as Harry was. Then I remembered. “Oh, wait. The Rotary. I recently heard that Willis was a member of the local Rotary Club, and he also served on a fund-raising committee for Community Hospital. Wouldn’t his business affiliation be known in those organizations?”
“Now you’re using your noggin. That’ll be my way in, for sure. And once I am in, who am I looking for?”
“Willis has a business partner—at least they say they are partners, but whether there is one business or a dozen . . . His name is Norman Crayfield. I have no idea what his business interests are or even where he lives. Right now he’s staying at Manning Hall—I did mention that’s Dolores’s house, didn’t I? He was here when I arrived and shows no signs of leaving.”
“Hold on—pen dried up.”
Through the phone I could hear Harry shake his pen, drop it, and fumble through a drawer for another one. When he was ready, he asked, “Okay, who else?”
“I have been thinking. Willis’s daughter died a few years back, leaving a husband and a small child. Willis dotes on the little girl . . .”
Harry picked up my thread. “The kid will get buckets now that Grandpa’s gone, and the kid’s father will have control ’cause she’s a minor. Father’s name?”
“Clancy Travers. But that’s all I have. He and his little girl, Abby, are staying at Manning Hall right now, but I do know they don’t live there—Dolores called them houseguests. He’ll be local, though, because Dolores talked about visiting back and forth quite often.”
“The daughter’s death—anything suspicious there?”
“I don’t think so. From what I understand it was an aggressive brain tumor. Sad in one so young.”
“Sad for anybody. Who else you got? Servants? This guy’s gotta have servants who hate him.”
“There are two. Lucinda Green is unflappable and has been with Willis since long before he married Dolores. Because of her, this place runs like a fine-tuned Swiss watch. I don’t see any potential there. Marla Mae Anderson was terrified of Willis but lacks the resourcefulness to commit murder. Even if she killed him accidentally, she would likely have sat by the body and cried until someone came along so she could confess.”
“I’ll back-burner the servants on your say-so but they stay on the list. Who else you looking at?”
“There are a couple of neighbors, Tom and Candy Blomquist. They own a hotel named Jessamine House that is quite nearby. They approached Willis for a loan to renovate, and Willis kept them dangling even though I heard he was adamantly opposed to the deal. Now he’s dead and the Blomquists are quite chirpy, confident the money is on the way.”
“And you’re wondering how that came to be. Could be a coincidence, but you know how I feel about coinkydinks . . .”
“Ain’t no such thing,” we said in unison.
“Harry, I did meet a person who hated Willis with a blazing passion so obvious that even a complete stranger like me could see it.”
“Blazing passion, huh? Now that’s the kind of suspect I can get behind. You got a name? Although I gotta say, Jessica, you see things most strangers wouldn’t even notice.”
“The lady in question is called Marjory Ribault. Apparently her family owned Manning Hall and the surrounding property for generations. When her father fell on hard times Willis swooped in and took away her family home. You should have seen her in the same room with him. She could hardly stand to look at him.”
“So, other than a murder the sheriff won’t verify and being surrounded by suspects everywhere you turn, how’s South Carolina treating you?”
“I can tell you this, Harry: I have never been called ‘ma’am’ so much in my entire life.”
I curled up in the comfy chair, looking out the window at the colorful tops of the crepe myrtle trees, and mulled over my conversation with Harry. I was completely frustrated by my inability to get any information about Willis’s death from the sheriff or the coroner. I sincerely hoped they were merely following a strict governmental policy and not trying to keep Dolores guessing as to what they knew and how they knew it. I was confident that even from as far away as Boston, Harry McGraw would be able to dig deep and learn whatever I needed to suss out a killer and protect Dolores. I did notice that Harry never asked me why I was so sure that Willis was murdered and that Dolores had nothing to do with the killing. That was the thing about Harry—his gut instinct about me was as precise as my gut instinct about Dolores. Between the two of us, she would be well protected.
I decided to go for a run. The day was too lovely to stay indoors, even with the crepe myrtles for company.
I put on my jogging suit and headed to the kitchen. Elton was sitting at the table, thumbing through a book. As soon as he saw me he stood. “Are you in need of a ride?”
“Not at all. What I need is a nice, leisurely run to get my energy back. I just wanted someone to know that I’ve gone out to explore the grounds in case Dolores needs me.”
&nbs
p; I looked at the book he’d left on the table. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is that you’re reading?”
He held up a brightly colored catalogue with midlands technical college printed in large letters. “I go to night school. I’m studying how to open and run my own business. I love what I do. Helping people safely get from where they are to where they want to be—what could be better? I’ll tell you what: doing it on my own, without a boss making decisions for me. I know I can make them for myself.”
“That is commendable, Elton. I wish you great luck in pursuing your education. Also, I think we can safely say that Mrs. Nickens is thoroughly exhausted and we won’t be going out later. Why don’t you go home and get some extra study time in? Marla Mae will call you in the morning with tomorrow’s schedule.”
Elton gathered up his books and said good-bye. When he opened the back door Lucinda was on the other side with a basket overflowing with asparagus. She came in and set the basket by the work sink. “My cousin and her children just came back from fishing over on Lake Marion. Caught plenty of fine blue catfish, with more than a little to spare. Dinner tonight will be fresh catfish and fresh asparagus. Can’t do much better than that.”
“I can’t wait. That sounds absolutely delicious. Do you have a farmer nearby who delivers vegetables?” I asked.
“No, ma’am. Way out back is our kitchen garden. It’s been there for years. When Mr. Willis bought this place, he liked the idea of ‘eating off the land,’ as he called it, so he allowed me to cultivate and harvest. Asparagus is in season right now.”
“I’m about to spend half an hour or so familiarizing myself with our gorgeous surroundings. Perhaps I will take a look at the garden. I promise not to disturb anything.”
“Nothing there to disturb. If you go out the back door, pass by the putting green, and follow the path through the pine trees, you’ll find the kitchen garden right in front of you.”
The back door led to a small wooden porch with a cozy sitting area. I could picture relaxing at the picnic table and shucking corn or shelling peas under a cloudless sky.
Killing in a Koi Pond Page 9