The file title made me think this might be the folder Marla Mae had seen Willis throw across the room. I opened it and spread the contents on the dining room table. Apparently I hadn’t gotten far when I fell asleep last night. I picked up the yellow pad I had stored behind the papers, and the only note I had written was Sort by company.
I followed my own directions, and in short order I had twelve piles of two or three papers each related to different companies. I plugged the names of the first few companies into my phone one at a time, but each Internet search came up empty.
I decided to read everything carefully and take notes in the hope that I could discover whatever information the papers contained. The first pile included two invoices, one dated this past January and one dated two years ago. The company name on the invoices was Dresher, Inc. Willis had scribbled, REALLY? on the older one and WHO CAME UP WITH THESE NUMBERS? on the most recent.
The third piece of paper in the pile was a letter from Marcus Holmes advising Norman Crayfield that Dresher Inc. was in danger of bankruptcy. Across that one Willis had written, JERK!!!! and underlined it twice.
I assumed that the letter had something to do with Norman because it was in this folder, but I was pleased to see Marcus Holmes was involved. He’d be a resource for Dolores when the time came to go over Willis’s business dealings, and perhaps he could explain these papers.
By the time I went through the third pile, I could tell that everything on the table was going to be indecipherable to me, but at least I would have the information in orderly fashion to discuss with Dolores. On several Willis had scrawled in black marker: NORMAN, WE COULD HAVE DONE BETTER or NORMAN, DO BETTER NEXT TIME.
I suspected that when Willis wrote “do better” he meant “make more money.”
I picked up the second paper in pile number four and a name caught my eye. “Clancy Travers.” Now things were getting interesting. It was a letter from Marvin Pappas, CEO of Coliseum Investments Inc., who was complaining about a meeting he’d had with Clancy Travers when he’d expected to be meeting with Willis. Mr. Pappas felt snubbed and demanded a personal meeting be set up immediately. I looked at the date of the letter. It was written nearly three months ago. I wondered if the meeting ever took place. Willis had written across the top of the page, NORMAN, EXPLAIN.
I heard voices in the foyer; then Dolores called my name. I stepped out of the dining room and she looked calmer than she had since before I discovered Willis’s body.
“Jess, there you are. Mr. McGuire would like a word.”
“Mrs. Fletcher, I understand you write mysteries for a living.”
“That’s certainly true.”
“Mrs. Nickens tells me that you have, in the past, contributed to the resolution of a real-life murder or two.”
I am always a little flustered when the topic comes up. It usually results in my being told to back off, but that was not the case with Mr. McGuire.
He handed me his business card. “If you come across anything that might point to a suspect other than Mrs. Nickens please call my office immediately. If I am not available, ask for Michael Clark. I wrote his name on the card. You can trust him as you would me.”
Mr. McGuire bade us good day and left, telling Dolores he would be in touch.
Dolores clapped her hands, her gold bracelets clattering up and down her arm, as she took a little skip across the foyer. “Oh, Jess, I feel better than I have since . . . since you came to my room to tell me about Willis. For the first time I believe this nightmare will end. And with you on the case . . .”
“Dolores, you and I have a lot of work to do. This isn’t a television detective show. This is your life. Now, come into the dining room and tell me what you discussed with Mr. McGuire.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Dolores looked at the papers spread on the dining room table. “What’s all this?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first tell me what Mr. McGuire said.” I was extremely curious how he had handled the interview.
“Well, the first thing he asked me was whether or not I had murdered Willis. Can you imagine? He said he was bound by law, that everything I told him was in complete confidence, and then he asked, straight-out, if I killed Willis. I started to cry and almost walked out of the room.
“He reminded me that he was not accusing me of anything but needed to know the truth so we could mount the best possible defense should it come to that.”
I nodded. “Yes, that is standard lawyer talk. I write sentences like that in my books all the time.”
“Once I told him that I didn’t kill Willis and I have no idea who did, he shifted his focus and asked if I knew anyone who had reason to want Willis out of the way—permanently.” Dolores spread her palms open wide. “I couldn’t think of a soul. I mean, sometimes Willis was cranky, but who would kill him for that?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that kind of murder happens more often than she could imagine. “What else did Mr. McGuire say?”
“You already heard the rest. He repeated what he told us on the phone—I shouldn’t talk to anyone without him present, that kind of thing. So now, tell me, what is all this?” Dolores waved her hand across the table, causing a few papers to flutter.
I picked up the folder. “These papers are the contents of this folder that I found in Willis’s file cabinet. As you can see it is titled ‘Norman’s Screwups.’ I have tried to organize it, but so far most of it doesn’t make any sense. There are papers about companies that seem not to exist. And here”—I picked up the letter from Coliseum Investments—“is a letter that mentions Clancy.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Dolores shook her head. “As far as I know Clancy has nothing to do with any of Willis’s business ventures. Maybe Mr. Holmes will know.”
I phrased my next question carefully. “Dolores, do you have any idea how Clancy earns a living?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure. I know he owns a musty antique shop that belonged to his grandfather. Not furniture. Small items, like tableware, men’s pipes, and tin lunch boxes from the 1950s—that sort of thing. He buys and sells through a few websites.”
“Do you think he makes enough selling antiques to support himself and Abby?”
“Who knows? He inherited the house they live in from Emily. It was a wedding present from Willis, so Clancy owns it free and clear. And although he didn’t receive the contents of Emily’s trust fund, he did get odds and ends of investments she owned. Then there is Abby’s trust.”
“From what I overheard Willis say, we know Clancy had access to the trust, but we have no idea how that all works.” I realized that was another question for Marcus Holmes, who, unfortunately, had already shown reluctance to talk to Dolores as long as she was a person of interest.
I started to gather up the papers and put them back in the folder. “Dolores, do you feel up to going to the storage locker today?”
“Jess, after speaking with Mr. McGuire, I believe you are absolutely right. We have to find out if someone else, anyone else, had a reason to kill Willis. We need to create what he called a suspect pool. Mr. McGuire told me that a jury would consider Willis’s financial assets to be my motive and that no one in the world has ever thought being alone and asleep could be considered any sort of an alibi. When he put it like that . . . So, yes. By all means, let’s see what is in that locker.”
* * *
* * *
We were in the Escalade less than fifteen minutes before Elton pulled into the parking lot of the storage facility. A cheery white and yellow customer service counter was inside, to the left of the front door. On the countertop was an old-fashioned call bell next to a sign that read PLEASE TAP ONLY ONCE FOR HELP.
Dolores elbowed me and said, “How many customers couldn’t resist the urge to hit the bell with a tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap before they put up the sign?”
I hit the bell once. “Well, for us one tap will do.”
A middle-aged woman with a pen stuck in the grayish brown bun at the nape of her neck came through a door next to the file cabinets. She wore a yellow and white striped jacket that matched the wallpaper behind the counter. Her name tag identified her as Sue Ellen.
“Welcome to Seven/Twenty-four. How can I help y’all?”
Dolores pulled the latest receipt from her purse. “My husband and I have a storage space here. I’d like to access it, please.”
Sue Ellen took the receipt and tapped a few keys on the computer. “That would be one of the big lockers—room number 124. Your husband’s been in now and again but I see this is your first visit. I hope you find the space to your liking. It’s one of the best we have. May I see your driver’s license?”
Dolores passed her license over the counter, and Sue Ellen pushed it through a slot in a small gadget next to the computer.
“There you go, ma’am. Now we have your license attached to the file. From now on when you come in, we’ll just pull it up and see that you are you, and off you go, no fuss, no muss.”
“Excuse me, but does anyone besides Mr. and Mrs. Nickens have permission to access their space?” I asked.
“Not a single person. Mr. and Mrs. Nickens are the only ones for now, but”—Sue Ellen turned to Dolores—“you can add another person at any time you’ve a mind to. Also, I wanted to say that you’re a lucky lady, ma’am. Lots of men come and go through here and the wives are none the wiser about what all is stored in the lockers and rooms. In my years I’ve seen everything from motorcycles to porn collections. But Mr. Nickens is a straight-up man. No secrets. I remember he came within a day or two of your wedding to add you to the account. Gave me a big tip and all. That’s how I remember.”
Sue Ellen reverted to business. “Now, you go straight down this hall and make a left. Toward the end of the corridor you will see room 124. When you want to go in, tap the three-digit code on the door; a yellow light will come on, which will send me a signal to click the master lock. Then the green light will come on, and you’re in.”
Dolores looked perplexed, and I could see she had a question or two, so I took her arm and hurried her down the hall.
“But, Jess,” Dolores said, “we don’t know the code.”
“Oh, I am sure we do.” I was confident. “Willis was not the type of man to waste his time devising a secret code. He would unquestionably follow a safe and simple route. I promise you he chose a code you could come up with in no more than two or three tries. Here we are.”
We stopped in front of the door and I indicated the keypad. “Try the first three digits of your birthday.”
Nothing.
“Now the first three digits of your wedding date,” I instructed.
Dolores raised an eyebrow but didn’t voice her skepticism; instead she hit the numbers, and the yellow light glowed.
In a few seconds the green light came on and, filled with excitement, we opened the door, only to be instantly deflated.
Willis’s storage area was a room that looked about ten feet by twelve feet. An old metal desk and a chair filled one corner. The rest of the room was packed with four-drawer file cabinets, some with two or three cardboard boxes piled on top.
“What on earth?” Dolores walked over and leaned on the edge of the desk. “What could all this mess possibly be? It looks like Willis held on to every piece of paper he ever touched.”
“It certainly does. I suspect at least some of these cabinets hold files for Quartermaster Industries.” I looked at the cabinets. None of them had identification tabs on the outside. Clearly this was not going to be as simple as I thought.
Dolores began opening the desk drawers, which were loaded with pads, pens, clips, staples—all the usual office paraphernalia. The center drawer had a telephone book. I picked it up and opened to the letter “L” and there was Marcus Holmes under “L” for “lawyer.” This book was likely an exact replica of the one in his home office.
Dolores opened the bottom drawer and didn’t seem to be surprised when she found a couple of cigars and an ashtray. “At least Willis ran true to form.”
I held up the phone book. “He certainly did.”
“What am I going to do with all this?” Dolores was clearly overwhelmed.
“Unless we want to sit here day after day for the next several months, I suggest you arrange to have it moved to the house, where you can go through it at your leisure.”
“To Manning Hall? You want me to bring these dirty, dusty cabinets and decrepit boxes into my home?”
I ran the tip of my finger along the top of a cabinet and acknowledged she had a point. “Well, for now perhaps I will take only a few files from the cabinet nearest Willis’s desk. They’re probably the most current.”
When I went to open the top drawer, I saw the handle was thick with dust. Wrong assumption on my part. But it did give me an idea. I scanned the cabinets one by one. Right in the middle of the room was a cabinet with no dust whatsoever on its drawer handles. It was either brand-new or frequently used. The bottom three drawers were empty, but the top drawer held about a dozen file folders; all had papers inside. None of them labeled.
I grabbed a handful of files and said, “Okay, here is the plan. Am I correct in assuming you trust Marla Mae?”
“Very much so. She and Lucinda both.”
“What about Elton?”
“I have no reason not to. He has been so good to us.”
“Well, with your permission I will call Elton and have him meet us at the front desk. You can have Sue Ellen put him on the access list and he can bring Marla Mae over to give this place a thorough cleaning. Then we can decide what to do with all this.”
It took about three minutes to persuade Elton that it was perfectly legal for him to be on Dolores’s storage facility account and under a minute for Sue Ellen to swipe his license through the recording gizmo and say, “You are good to go, Mr. Anderson.”
So in less than five minutes we were in the car and on our way back to Manning Hall. Dolores and I toasted each other with bottles of water we’d taken from the cooler.
“Well, that was exhilarating.” Dolores began to giggle. “Just like the good old days at Harrison College. Remember the time, as part of our sorority pledge, we had to pick a professor who didn’t know us, had never taught us? Then we had to go into his office and convince the secretary that we were his students and get an excusal slip from her for some made-up absence.”
“How could I forget?” I laughed. “We picked Professor Marsden in the music department because he was so old and befuddled we thought it would be easy to convince his secretary that he’d forgotten to give us our excusals.”
Dolores said, “And we had the secretary— Oh, I can’t remember her name. Mrs. Kiley, Kelly, something like that. Anyway, we had her nearly convinced. She actually had her hand on the excusal slip pad when who walked in but old Marsden himself, who asked in his usual crusty snarl, ‘What are these two doing here?’”
I nodded. “Oh, I well remember. The secretary held up the excusal slips and looked at Marsden for permission. And he said—”
Dolores jumped in with a pretty good imitation of the professor. “He said, ‘What are you waiting for? Give it to them and get them out of here. It’s for a pledge to some sorority or another.’ We were stunned.”
“That’s for sure. I never doubted any of the, shall we say, more mature professors again.”
Dolores said, “Neither did I.”
* * *
* * *
I brought the files I’d taken from the storage facility to my bedroom and slid them under my suitcase. I checked my phone, hoping I had another text from Harry, but no such luck. Then I took a few moments to freshen up before I went to meet Dolores in the kitchen.
Lucinda looked up fro
m the sandwiches she was making. “Deviled ham on home-baked wheat bread, in case you’re wondering. Miss Dolores is out at the picnic table. I believe that is fast becoming her favorite rest spot.”
“Possibly so. And when all the houseguests leave Dolores will be alone, so she may spend even more time there. Hopefully she won’t get in your way.”
“Wouldn’t mind if she did. Back in the town house it was just me and Mr. Willis for all those years, and when he married, well, naturally I worried how the new wife would treat me. But Miss Dolores has been nothing but kind. She was the one who insisted that this house was too big for me to manage on my own. Something Mr. Willis never gave a thought to. When I told her Marla Mae, a friend of my niece, was looking for work, she hired her on my say-so. Said it was important for me and my coworker to get along. That’s how thoughtful Miss Dolores is.”
“Lucinda, when I go home to Cabot Cove, I will feel much better knowing that I am leaving my friend in such caring hands.”
Dolores was sitting at the picnic table. “Hey, Jess, look at that black-and-white warbler.” She pointed to a bird whose striking color combination made him highly visible on the branch of a distant pine tree. “This is their nesting season, and they are one of the few bird species that hide their nests on the ground. Abby told me that they do so to prevent the eggs from falling from a nest high in a tree, but I am not sure if she assumes that or if it’s true.”
I poured myself a glass of sweet tea from the pitcher on the table. “Speaking of Abby reminds me of her father. I am so curious why he, instead of Willis, attended that meeting with Mr. Pappas.”
Dolores sighed. “I’ve been so surprised by what I’ve learned about him in the past few days. Who can tell with Clancy?”
At that exact moment, casually carrying a putter and some other golf clubs over his shoulder, Clancy Travers came around the side of the house. “Did I hear my name being taken in vain?”
Killing in a Koi Pond Page 17