Killing in a Koi Pond

by Jessica Fletcher

  “I appreciate your kindness, Norman, but right now all I want is to make sure Abby is all right, and then I want to walk down to see Willis.”

  Clancy waved his hands as if warning off a driver headed toward a gaping hole on a highway under construction. “Abby is still asleep, Dolores. I’m sure you don’t want to wake her. You take care of . . . whatever you have to . . . and I promise I will not tell Abby . . . anything . . . until you and I can talk to her together.”

  Dolores burst into tears. “That’s so kind of you. I am worried about Abby. She and Willis were close. After Emily . . . Well, I can’t stand to see her heart broken again.”

  I wasn’t sure Clancy was being kind. After what I had overheard last night, I thought perhaps he’d behave considerately until he could be confident of his own financial status apropos Willis’s estate and Abby’s trust. Was he in the money or out?

  “Excuse me, Miss Dolores. I am so very sorry for your trouble, but Sheriff Halvorson came to the door. He would like a word. I put him in the library.” Marla Mae wore a long black sweater over a bright green shirt and dark green jeans. I wondered if she had put on the dark sweater out of respect for the man who only yesterday had screamed that she was fired and tried to throw her out on the spot.

  “I can’t. I just can’t do this. What does the sheriff want with me?” Dolores began sobbing again.

  Her tissues were long since shredded, so I was thankful to find cloth napkins by the buffet. I gave one to Dolores and stuffed a couple more in my pocket, sure that they would be needed.

  Marla Mae poured a glass of water and gave it to Dolores. “Just take a sip or two. Make you feel better, I promise.”

  Dolores took the glass, and after a few sips passed it back to Marla Mae; then she looked at me. “Okay, Jess. I’m ready.”

  We linked arms and headed to the library. Sheriff Halvorson was standing with his hands behind his back while he perused the bookshelves. He turned when he heard us enter.

  “Morning, ladies. Mrs. Nickens, you have a mighty fine library here. Happened to notice this mystery section. And when I saw the name J. B. Fletcher, I took a quick look at the author’s photo. You won’t be surprised who I saw. Famous mystery author, is she?”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say . . .” I started just as Dolores said, “Yes, she is. And I have every book she’s ever written. You can see there are quite a few.”

  Sheriff Halvorson set those piercing eyes on me. “Mystery writer, eh? That explains a lot. Now, Mrs. Fletcher, if you will excuse us, Mrs. Nickens and I need to have a brief chat.”

  “Oh no.” Dolores started to cry, and dabbed her eyes with the wrinkled napkin she was holding. “Sheriff, I don’t think I can, at least not without Jess. I need a hand to hold.”

  “I have some questions about the past, say, twenty-four hours, and answering or not answering is really not your choice.” He went on. “Don’t you want to know what happened to your husband?”

  Dolores began to wail. “More than that, I want to see Willis.” She turned to me. “You saw him. The sheriff saw him. I’m his wife. Why can’t I see him?”

  I looked at Sheriff Halvorson, who, it seemed, had a gentler side after all. He indicated a nearby settee and suggested that Dolores and I sit down. He leaned on the back of an armchair and looked at Dolores, who was sobbing into her napkin; then he sent a questioning look to me.

  I nodded permission and he moved the chair closer so that it was a few feet in front of Dolores. Then he sat down and waited for her crying to subside.

  I put my arm around her and said softly, “Dolores, it’s probably not the best idea for you to see Willis just now. Perhaps later . . .”

  I handed her a fresh napkin.

  She brushed the tear tracks from her cheeks and whimpered. “If you think so. Maybe it would be best to wait until I . . . adjust to the idea. I’d better go fix my face and then find Clancy. It’s time we went to see Abby.”

  “Not quite yet, Mrs. Nickens.” Sheriff Halvorson put up his hand like a traffic cop. “We still need to talk.”

  Dolores was half standing. She wavered for a second or two, and then, completely deflated, sat back down and asked petulantly, “My husband is dead. What on earth could be so pressing?”

  The sheriff gave me a pointed look, and when I didn’t move he ordered, “J. B. Fletcher, mystery writer, it is time for you to leave Mrs. Nickens and me alone for a bit.”

  Dolores started to object, but then heaved a prolonged sigh. “I’ll be fine, Jess. Why don’t you find Clancy and tell him I will be with him shortly?”

  I walked out of the room, purposely leaving the door ajar, but Sheriff Halvorson called after me, “The door, please, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Deputy Lascomb was standing near the front door like a sentry. I gave him my broadest smile. “Would you like a cup of coffee, Deputy? There’s plenty in the dining room.”

  “No, thank you. I have to watch the door. No one in or out. How you holding up, ma’am? Stressful day all around.”

  “Yes, it certainly is. Here I thought Dolores—Mrs. Nickens, that is—and I could have a nice visit, talk about old times, catch up on the present, and now this.” I shook my head. “Tell me, is there any news? Have your technical people arrived? What have they found?”

  A “should I or shouldn’t I?” look flitted across his face, and apparently “shouldn’t” won. He gave me an apologetic smile. “Lots of busyness out there at that pond. Forensics, deputy coroner, all sorts of folks, but as to what they find or don’t find, that is way above my pay grade. They’ll report to the sheriff, not to me.”

  “I understand. It’s just that Dolores will have to make some arrangements. Do you know how soon Willis might be returned to her?” I hoped the question sounded innocent enough; past experiences told me that death by foul play meant the body would have an extended stay with the local authorities.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but anything you want to know has to come from the sheriff.” Lascomb nodded toward the library door. “Maybe he is telling your friend some details right now.”

  Although I was sure that was not the case, I nodded in agreement. “That’s probably so. Well, I am going to find some breakfast.”

  I headed to the dining room interested more in what tidbits of information I could glean from Clancy and Norman than in whatever delicious food was on the breakfront. As I passed the library door, I walked as close as I could without arousing the deputy’s suspicion. Unfortunately, not a sound penetrated the solid oak.

  It’s a good thing Deputy Lascomb declined my offer of coffee, because when I entered the dining room I was surprised to see there was not a person in sight, and the detritus of breakfast had been completely removed. The room was spotless. I thought about sitting and waiting until I heard the library door open, but opted to explore the first floor instead. Perhaps it would have been a good time for me to look for the kitchen, now that it was daylight. I passed Willis’s office on my right and the staircase on my left. Just behind the staircase was an alcove, its only furniture a serving table covered with neatly piled table linens and a tray of cutlery. I was sure the unobtrusive spot saved Marla Mae many a trip back to the kitchen for an errant fork or dropped napkin. The alcove led to a hallway, and I heard faint voices from farther along.

  Should Dolores need me I didn’t want to be too far away, but I decided to follow the voices. I reached a double doorway, both doors wide open, just as a woman, whose voice I didn’t recognize, said, “I’m not understanding any of this. How could Mr. Willis fall into the koi pond?”

  I said, “If you’ll pardon my intrusion, I don’t think he fell.”

  Chapter Six

  The two women sitting at the kitchen table sharing scones and coffee stood so quickly that their chairs bobbled and rocked behind them. I recognized Marla Mae, but it was the older woman, with silver hair piled neatly on top of her head,
and wearing a light blue bib apron, who spoke.

  “Good morning. You must be Mrs. Fletcher. I am Lucinda Green, the housekeeper. I hope you don’t think we were gossiping . . .” She trailed off, and then, as if she saw her way out of an awkward situation, said, “Is there something we can do for you, ma’am?”

  I glanced at the table and saw my opportunity to talk to the ladies without appearing to pry. “Those scones look delicious. Blueberry?”

  Lucinda got my message. “Blueberry. Made fresh this morning. We’d be pleased if you would sit for a bit. Can I offer you a cup of coffee, or perhaps some Irish breakfast tea?”

  “Coffee, please. I definitely need caffeine.” I absentmindedly ran a hand through my hair. “What a day it’s been, and it’s still early morning.”

  As I sat down, Marla Mae put a mug of coffee at my elbow and Lucinda passed me a plate with two large blueberry scones covered in a light glaze.

  “Would you care for some butter?”

  I took a bite. “These are so moist, no butter needed, but thank you.”

  In spite of the stress of the morning, Lucinda radiated delight. The ladies sipped their coffee and gave me ample time to finish an entire scone before Lucinda asked, “What did you mean, ma’am, when you said you didn’t think Mr. Willis fell into the pond? Do you think he had a stroke or a heart attack, something like that?”

  “Well, those things are always possible, of course, but they’re not what I had in mind. I think it’s likely someone else was involved, someone who hit or pushed Willis and killed him, accidentally or otherwise. Although I’m not sure if the sheriff has come to the same conclusion yet. I’m concerned because he is speaking to Mrs. Nickens right now. Interviewing her.”

  Marla Mae’s eyes popped wide open. “I thought he was talking to her, like, you know, telling her what happened, not questioning her like she was a suspect on TV.”

  Lucinda took a prolonged deep breath, shook her head firmly, and said, “That can’t be right. No one could ever think Miss Dolores would . . . That’s just plain foolishness.”

  “I wholeheartedly agree.” Knowing that Lucinda and I were on the same wavelength, I wanted to stay for a while longer, but there was Dolores to consider. “Marla Mae, would you mind going out to the foyer? And when the sheriff is, um, finished talking to Dolores, please tell her that I am in here polishing off a plate of Lucinda’s delicious scones.”

  “Certainly, ma’am.” She drained her coffee cup in one long gulp and left.

  The housekeeper was eyeing me shrewdly; I suspected she knew what I was after—information. Now I would find out if she was willing to share any. I took a sip of coffee, then set my mug on the table.

  “Lucinda, how long have you worked for Willis and Dolores?”

  “I’ve been with Mr. Willis for nearly ten years. When I first came on as his housekeeper, he lived in a little town house in Columbia. I was truly happy when he decided to marry Miss Dolores. She is such a cheerful lady, and Mr. Willis is such a . . . I guess ‘hard worker’ says it all. So little time for joy. But Miss Dolores could bring a smile to his lips. Mind you, she often had to work hard to do so, but she didn’t seem to mind.”

  I laughed. “That does sound exactly like Dolores. Tell me about the others who were at dinner last night. Are they frequent guests?”

  “Mr. Clancy and Miss Abby do come by, but not often enough to suit Mr. Willis. Miss Abby is the only one could make Mr. Willis smile like he smiled for Miss Dolores. He’d have her live here full-time if it was his choice.”

  I’d already gotten that impression from both Dolores and Willis. I tried to hurry Lucinda along, knowing we could be interrupted at any moment once the sheriff was finished with whatever he’d come here to do. “And Norman Crayfield? What about him? As business partners, he and Willis seem wholly unsuited to each other.”

  “Maybe so, but they must make a lot of money together. Mr. Willis bought this big fancy house when him and Miss Dolores were getting married, and he never so much as blinked at the price. Just paid up. So there’s that,” Lucinda said.

  “And Marjory Ribault—how did she feel about the sale of her former home?”

  Lucinda’s lips tightened as if to keep some words captive. “I couldn’t tell you, ma’am.”

  Couldn’t or wouldn’t? I’d clearly hit a nerve, but, pressed for time, I moved on. “And what about the Blomquists? I understand they are neighbors.”

  “Could call them that, I guess. They own a hotel down the road. Small one for rich people. What do they call them? Like a bouquet of flowers—I forget the word.”

  “Are you thinking of ‘boutique,’ as in a boutique hotel?” I suggested.

  “That’s it. That’s the word I was looking for. Anyway, they want Mr. Willis’s company to invest in their hotel so they can modernize. I heard Mr. Willis tell Mr. Crayfield that he wasn’t willing to put a cent into that derelict hunk of junk. Mr. Crayfield wanted to make the investment but Mr. Willis was a big loud no.”

  I turned toward some clattering out in the hallway. Marla Mae had her arm firmly wrapped around Dolores’s waist, guiding her into the kitchen. Dolores kept sniffling into a napkin she held against her tear-streaked face. Lucinda jumped from her chair and ran water over a cloth. She wrung it out and pulled the chair next to mine away from the table.

  “Here you go, Miss Dolores. Sit down, lean your head back, and press this on your eyes. There, now don’t that feel better?”

  “Thank you, Lucinda, but my heart is so heavy I am not sure I would know how ‘better’ feels. Jess, my Willis is gone.”

  I caressed her hand. “I know, Dolores. It will take time—”

  “I don’t mean dead—I mean gone.” Dolores straightened up and pulled the cloth from her face. “While that sheriff babbled along in the library, someone came and took Willis’s body to some government place. As soon as the sheriff opened the library door, the deputy standing there told him the body had been transported somewhere or another. That’s all Willis is to any of them, ‘the body,’ and if Marla Mae wasn’t waiting in the foyer, standing close enough to grab me when I began to swoon, they might have had another body on their hands.”

  There wasn’t much I could say in response. I took a final sip of my coffee, which had cooled considerably, and suggested that Dolores go to her room and rest for a while. I was relieved when she agreed. I followed along as Marla Mae took her upstairs, but I left while Marla Mae got Dolores settled into bed.

  I was curious if there was any activity at the koi pond and decided to walk down the driveway to check. I’d gotten only a few feet down the driveway when I heard my name.

  “Jessica! Jessica, wait.” Marjory Ribault was huffing and puffing as she hurried across the lawn. By the time she reached me, she was winded. She put her hands on her waist and bent forward, gasping for air. After a few moments she stood and touched her chest. “The old ticker, as they say, isn’t what it once was.” Her pale face confirmed that.

  “Take a few more deep breaths,” I urged. One thing was certain: I’d already had all the calamities that I could handle in one day.

  “Not to worry—I’ll be fine. I am going home for a lie-down, but before I do, I have to know, and as a complete outsider you are the only one here I trust to tell me the truth: Is that miserable wretch Willis Nickens really dead?”

  I was shocked. “Marjory, really! How can you speak that way? After all, he was a human being, and his body is barely cold. His poor wife is upstairs, distraught with grief.”

  “Pshaw. If you only knew the torture he’s put people through, sometimes for money, more often for his own amusement. I’m telling you, I can’t wait to dance on his grave. And I’m not the only one.” Marjory turned, and there was a real spring in her step as she sauntered back the way she’d come. I heard her begin to hum a tune, and it was far from a dirge.

  Much of the act
ivity at the koi pond had concluded. There was no sign of the Sheriff’s Department. An unmarked SUV was parked where Deputy Lascomb’s car had been. Two technicians, dressed in white plastic suits and headgear, were studiously examining the site. One was pushing a digital measuring wheel and recording the results on a clipboard. The other tech was taking water samples from the pond.

  Nothing to learn here, I thought, and turned back toward the house. I was surprised to see Marla Mae walking down the driveway to meet me.

  “Miss Jessica, Lucinda wants to know what’s your pleasure about meals. People are sure to be hungry, but we don’t want to bother Miss Dolores,” she explained.

  I looked at my watch. Somehow time had jumped from six thirty in the morning to well past one o’clock in the afternoon. I thought for a moment. “Why don’t you set out a tray of sandwiches and pitchers of iced tea and water in the dining room, along with a bowl of fruit and perhaps a salad? If there are any left, a few of Lucinda’s delicious scones are sure to be a hit. And please let everyone know when the food is available. Except Mrs. Nickens. I want to check on her, so I will stop in her room myself,” I said.

  Marla Mae scampered to the kitchen while I headed up to my room to make a quick phone call.

  A few more buds had opened on the crepe myrtles outside my window. In spite of all that was going on, their graceful beauty made me smile. I sat in the comfy blue wing chair, pulled out my cell, and hit speed dial for my friend Seth Hazlitt, who I hoped would not have to miss my call because he had a patient sitting in front of him.

  He answered on the second ring and started talking before I could say so much as “Hello.”

  “Ayuh, Jessica, I have been wondering how your conference went. And I suppose you are down south visiting your friend about now.”

  Wherever I was, no matter how far I traveled, Seth’s Yankee dialect always made me long for a decent-sized bowl of clam chowder and home. “Malice Domestic, as always, was an outstanding conference—lots of friends, lots of fun. As I’ve often told you, there is nothing more revitalizing for a writer than to spend a few days with other writers, and especially with our most enthusiastic readers. I enjoy their company so much, and it really gets my writerly juices flowing.”