The fish were mesmerizing. I had to agree that watching them was extremely relaxing.
After a few moments Dolores said, “We’ll have plenty of time for quiet contemplation by the koi pond over the next few days. And as you can see, the sitting garden is right along here, leading from the pond to Manning Hall. But now let’s get you up to the house and settled in your room.”
That sounded perfect to me.
We drove the short distance to Manning Hall, and before Dolores finished parking the car, the wood-and-glass French doors of the house opened and a slim young woman wearing light blue jeans and an oversized pink T-shirt bounced down the front steps to greet us.
Dolores popped the trunk. “Marla Mae, this is my dear friend Jessica Fletcher, who’ll be staying with us for a while. Would you please see to her luggage?”
Marla Mae gave me a big, toothy grin. “Welcome to Manning Hall, Miss Jessica. So nice to see Miss Dolores entertaining a longtime friend.” Then she hoisted my suitcase and travel bag and started up the steps to the house.
I went to reach for the travel bag, but Dolores put her hand on my arm. “It’s fine. It’s her job.”
We entered an extremely formal foyer. The inlaid marble floor gleamed and the walls were covered with lush brocade. To our left was a wide staircase.
Marla Mae said, “Mr. Willis is in his office. Do you want me to tell him you’re home?”
“That won’t be necessary. Please take the luggage up to the bedroom at the far end of the hall. Jessica and I will surprise him.” Dolores took my arm and led me to a door on the right side of the foyer, a few feet past the bottom of the staircase. She gave a light tap and opened the door. At the same moment we heard a crash behind us. I turned to see my suitcase bounding down the stairs.
A balding gray-haired man who I assumed was Willis bolted up from the chair behind his oak desk, and bellowed, “What is going on out there?”
He strode right past Dolores and me and rushed into the foyer. Marla Mae ran down the stairs, trying to grab the suitcase before it landed at the bottom, which it ultimately did with a loud thud.
“Stupid, stupid girl. You can’t even do a simple chore like carrying luggage up the stairs. You’re done. Fired. Get out now.” Willis was red-faced, and his yelling got louder with each word.
I’d stepped around him and got to the bottom of the stairs at the same time Marla Mae did. We both reached for the suitcase. When I saw the pleading in her eyes I stepped back and let her rescue it. I think we both hoped that would calm Willis down. It didn’t.
He turned to Dolores. “I want her gone. Now.”
“I know you do, dear, but we have guests this evening and I need her to serve dinner.” Dolores sounded like a mother placating a small child in desperate need of a nap.
Willis grimaced, then nodded. “I’ll give you tonight, but”—he pointed to Marla Mae—“that clumsy girl is gone at the end of the week. Is that clear?”
“Very clear, darling. Now let me introduce you to one of my oldest friends. Jessica Fletcher, this is my husband, Willis Nickens.”
I could understand why he was so successful in business. Willis Nickens had the ability to change his entire personality in a flash. He broke into a wide smile, took my hand between both of his, and said, “Dolores has told me so much about you, her old college friend who is now a famous mystery writer.”
“Oh, I don’t know if I would say famous.” When anyone used that word in referring to me, it always made me ill at ease. I tried to change the subject. “You have a lovely home, and from what I have seen the landscaping is magnificent.”
“Thank you. We are delighted to have you as our guest here at Manning Hall. And believe me when I tell you being famous never hurt anyone. Dolores will show you to your room. I’ll see you for cocktails before dinner.” He dismissed us both, reentered his office, and shut the door firmly behind him.
Dolores sighed. “I’m sorry that you saw Willis at his worst, Jess. He demands perfection and really goes off the rails when someone fails to meet his expectations. Marla Mae broke a crystal vase last week and now this . . .”
I put my arm around her shoulder. “Dolores, the important thing is that you and I will have a few days to spend together. Anything going on around us will be only so much background noise.”
I had no idea how wrong I was.
Chapter Two
While she was showing me to my room on the second floor, Dolores told me about the other guests.
“We’ll have three people, neighbors of ours, joining us for dinner tonight. In addition, Norman Crayfield, Willis’s business partner, is here for a day or so, and his room is on this floor. Willis’s son-in-law, Clancy, and my little princess are on the third floor. Abby loves it up there because the old nursery has lots of books and games the previous owner left behind. They are hopelessly old-fashioned but new to her.” Dolores opened a door. “This is your room. I hope you will be comfortable here.”
Sunshine poured through two large windows and danced among the bright yellow daffodils and blue forget-me-nots scattered about the chintz comforter covering a four-poster bed. “Oh, it’s lovely. I’m sure I’ll relax quite easily here.” I ran my hand along one of the bedposts. “This looks like natural cherrywood.”
“You have a sharp eye, Jess. It certainly is. And that door leads to your bathroom.”
“This is certainly far grander than any rooms we ever lived in when we were at Harrison College, isn’t it?” I laughed.
“Absolutely. Do you remember when in junior year our building had no hot water for what seemed like months? And we had to run across campus to Rider Hall to ‘borrow’ a shower!”
I nodded. “I remember it well. I don’t suppose I’ll have that problem here.”
“And you will have as much privacy as you wish. It is one of the things I love about this house. There is so much room that family, guests, and the household staff can all go about their day without tripping over one another.
“Cocktails will be in the living room at six, with dinner to follow at seven. Come down whenever,” Dolores said, then blew me a kiss and left.
I found my suitcase on a luggage rack handily placed between the closet and the bureau. I’d started to unpack when I heard a gentle knock. I opened the door and Marla Mae held out a tray.
“Lucinda—she’s the housekeeper and cook—thought you might like something to eat after your long trip.” She placed the tray on the desk that stood between the windows and removed a cloche to reveal a tempting plate of grapes, berries, and cookies next to a steaming pot of tea.
“Oh my, this is wonderful. I hadn’t really thought about it, but I am more than ready for a strong cup of tea and a snack. Please thank Lucinda for me.”
Marla Mae tucked a dark curl behind her ear. “Sure will. She made those benne wafers fresh this morning. Real Low Country treats, they are. Oh, and she said I should ask if you would like me to help you unpack.”
“Thank you, but I can manage.”
“I suppose you think it’s safest never to let me touch your cases again.” Marla Mae looked forlorn.
“Oh, don’t be silly. Accidents happen all the time.”
“I wish Mr. Willis was as understanding as you are. I need this job. Got bills to pay.”
“Well, I don’t know if it will help, but when I get the chance I’ll have a word with Dolores.”
Marla Mae perked up. “That’s mighty kind. Thank you, ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
I shook my head and she retreated out the door. I pulled a light blue wing chair away from the wall and turned it to the window so I could enjoy the view of the crepe myrtle trees while I sipped my tea. I did wonder how much influence Dolores would actually have on Willis’s decision to fire Marla Mae. And how much influence she had on any of his decision-making. I got the impression he was a strong-will
ed man.
The tea was a full-flavored Earl Grey. I hoped a cup or two would give me the oomph I needed to finish unpacking and to shower and change. I had never heard of benne wafers, and I couldn’t resist trying one. It was light and oh so crisp. The sesame seed flavor was strong but not overpowering. Altogether delicious. After a few sips of tea and nibbles of the cookies, I felt so relaxed in the comfy chair that I decided it would be a good idea to “rest my eyes” for a few minutes.
It was well past five o’clock when I woke. Panic-stricken, I ran for the shower. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d brought my favorite little black dress with me. The stretchy lyocell fabric traveled miraculously well. Fold, unfold, hang, and fold again. No matter how badly I treated it, the dress managed to look as though it had just returned from the dry cleaner. I dropped it over my head, adjusted the jeweled neckline, and smoothed the fit-and-flare skirt, and after applying a touch of lipstick, I was ready to go.
Hurrying down the staircase, I checked my watch. Ten after six. Not bad for someone who had been dead asleep less than an hour ago. The murmur of conversation floated through the foyer. I followed the sound of voices past what appeared to be a library and into a fastidiously designed living room. At least half a dozen Edwardian-style chairs covered with beige and tan prints and several rose-colored floral settees were scattered about the room. Two extra-long sofas covered in hunter green damask were facing each other on either side of a white brick fireplace. An elaborate chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling was a larger version of the wall sconces affixed above the oil paintings that lined the walls. The enormous portraits of stern-looking gentlemen who’d been dead for more than a hundred years added a somber air to the room.
I had always admired Dolores’s confident flair when it came to wardrobe choices, and tonight was no different. She was resplendent in a pair of black and gold harem pants and a black off-the-shoulder knit top. Her ubiquitous gold bracelets completed the outfit.
“Here is our guest of honor.” She took me by the arm. “Jessica, come meet our charming neighbors.”
A short, slim man dressed in a white dinner jacket and a black bow tie stood and immediately bowed at the waist. “Ah, J. B. Fletcher. Tom Blomquist here, and I must confess to being a huge fan.” He faltered for a second. “I am not sure it is appropriate to ‘confess’ to a mystery writer. I’m afraid I would wind up a killer in your next book.”
I laughed politely as if I had not received a thousand similar comments over the years.
Evidently he didn’t expect more of a response, because he charged on. “I got hooked on The Corpse Danced at Midnight while I was on a red-eye flight coming home from the West Coast many years ago. I have been reading your delightful, artfully challenging mysteries ever since.”
After I thanked him for the compliment, he said, “Ah, let me present my wife, Candy, and believe me when I say she is every bit as sweet as her name.”
I did hear him say “sweet,” but the Candy sitting on the couch was a pinched, sour-looking woman with drab brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. A voluminous black dress with a gray crochet collar did nothing to brighten her. She scarcely raised her eyes, only sort of nodded and almost smiled. She put her sherry glass on the mahogany end table, started to reach out a hand toward me, thought better of it, and picked up the glass again. I suspected she was the type of person who had trouble deciding between poached and boiled when it came to breakfast eggs.
Dolores beckoned a gray-haired woman sitting stiffly on the sofa on the far side of the fireplace. “Marjory, come meet Jessica.”
The woman stood, pulled her hands from the pockets of her midnight blue blazer, and looked down at me. At five feet eight inches I am not used to women who are half a head taller than I am. She moved to the edge of the glass-topped coffee table and reached her hand across. “How do you do? I’m Marjory Ribault.”
“How nice to meet you,” I replied.
Candy Blomquist cleared her throat and spoke just above a whisper. “Mrs. Fletcher, you really must admire Marjory. It has to be extremely difficult for her to be a guest in what was her own home from the day she was born until very recently.”
Marjory glared at Candy, a definite signal that she should stop talking, but Candy took no notice and continued. “Personally, I commend you, Marjory. But, of course, since your dear little cottage is on Manning Hall property, I suppose you are obliged to be social with the landlord.”
A bitter laugh exploded into the room. Framed by the doorway, Willis Nickens sported the sort of smile I’d seen on gamblers’ faces when they’d won a sure bet. Gleeful, with a side of smirk. Marjory pressed her lips together forcefully. She appeared to be desperately struggling for control.
Willis turned his attention to Candy, who’d shrunk back into her seat, aiming for invisibility. “I invite Marjory to dinner for the aura of old Southern family charm that she provides. As for you, Candy . . . you’d better remember exactly whose house you are in, or you may not be invited back. And wouldn’t that be a shame? I am sure Tom wouldn’t want that. Would you, Tom?”
With his eyes locked firmly on the floor, Tom Blomquist shook his head.
Our host’s dramatic entrance had shocked everyone in the room to silence. Everyone, that is, except Dolores, who seemed to be oblivious to the roiling tension that had arrived with her husband.
“Willis, darlin’, I am so very glad you’re done working for the day. I worry that you work much too hard. And don’t you look handsome in your tuxedo? I love a man who dresses for dinner.” Dolores stepped closer, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and walked to the bar, which was arranged on an ornately carved sideboard. “Would you care for a scotch or something lighter?”
Willis’s eyes roamed slowly across the faces of the other three guests. He nodded to himself, plainly satisfied that he’d caused just enough turmoil to put each of them firmly in their place. Then his eyes lit on me, and in a nanosecond his personality changed to that of a gracious host. “What’s this? Dolores, how is it that our newest guest is empty-handed? Jessica—or do you prefer J. B.?—would you join me in a scotch? It’s Macallan Eighteen. Some men fancy themselves connoisseurs, obsessively demanding Laphroaig or the Balvenie, but for my money you can’t beat Macallan Eighteen; or in a pinch, even Macallan Twelve will do. What do you say?”
“I do prefer being called Jessica. As to a drink . . .”
Before I could finish Dolores came back and handed a heavy crystal rocks glass to Willis. “Here you go. Just the way you like it. Three ice cubes and a double shot of Macallan.”
“That’s my doll,” Willis said as he took the glass in both hands. “And what is that in Jessica’s glass?”
Dolores handed me a glass similar to Willis’s but with a lot more ice swimming in a vaguely familiar amber-colored liquid.
“You didn’t.” I laughed.
“Oh yes, I did. Knowing you were coming, I made sure to add it to our order from Longstreet Liquors. You are holding a glass of Disaronno amaretto. Does it bring back memories?” Dolores asked. “The night Ellen Bradley’s boyfriend dumped her?”
“How could I forget? We sat in a circle on the floor of her dorm room while Ellen alternately fumed and cried. Every time she said his name we all would shout and chugalug amaretto.”
Dolores sighed. “I had a headache for days. And now for the life of me, I cannot remember him at all. What was his name?”
Her husband, obviously irritated by our moment of nostalgia, interrupted brusquely. “I can tell you for certain his name wasn’t Willis.”
He unquestionably preferred to be the center of attention. Dolores was immediately contrite. She murmured, “Sorry,” and tried to pat his cheek but Willis brushed her hand away.
“It looks like the party has started without me.” A deep baritone pulled everyone’s attention to the doorway. A rotund man, looking very patriotic
in a navy blue pin-striped suit, white shirt, and bright red tie, grinned at us all.
“Norman. Late as usual. If our business relied on your being on time, we would have filed for bankruptcy years ago,” Willis sneered.
Norman twirled his old-fashioned handlebar mustache and said, “Every villain has his place in the unending drama of life.”
I couldn’t help laughing, but I was totally alone. Everyone else stayed stock-still, barely breathing until Willis guffawed and said, “Well, as long as you’re true to your role . . . Now, for Pete’s sake, man, what are you drinking?”
The tension in the room fizzled like the air in a balloon pierced by the pointy end of a tree branch. The guests began talking among themselves, although they kept their voices so low that I sensed some nervousness still existed. It appeared to be Willis’s forte to keep everyone on eggshells, wondering which Willis would be in their midst in the next five minutes, Mr. Genial or Mr. Churlish.
A small girl, pigtails flying, ran into the room. “Grampy! Grampy! Look what I found.” She ran directly to Willis, who crouched impossibly low and, with the first genuine smile I’d seen on his face, said, “First a kiss. Then show me your treasure.”
Leaning in obediently, the child planted a solid kiss on Willis’s cheek. Then she stepped back and held out her hand. “Look at the ears! It’s a bunny! Daddy said someone carved it out of wood a long time ago. But I only just found it. Did you know there was a drawer inside the big yellow toy box in the nursery? Did you? I didn’t until a few minutes ago. First I found the drawer, and inside I found the bunny.”
I heard someone mumble what sounded like “hopper,” and when I looked around Marjory Ribault was wringing her hands. Everyone else was fascinated by the change in Willis.
He rocked back on his haunches, and in a few seconds he was sitting on the floor, stretching his legs out until his black patent leather shoes hit the base of a settee. He patted the floor next to him. “Abby, come. Sit down while we figure out a name for this little guy.”
Killing in a Koi Pond Page 2
