Killing in a Koi Pond

by Jessica Fletcher

  The bigger problem, as I saw it, was that in time Dolores would have to accept that Clancy was the only one who could do anything about his drinking problem, but I decided it was wisest not to point that out right now. Dolores had enough on her plate.

  “Dolores, if you don’t need me for anything, I’d like to spend some time going through those folders we brought home from Willis’s storage room.”

  “I actually promised to help Abby with her homework, but if you need me just give a holler. When it comes to Willis’s business activities I need to start learning the ropes, as they say.”

  “Don’t be silly. Abby comes first.” I started to leave, and then had a thought. “There is one thing that you can do, however. When Clancy and Norman are out of earshot, find out if Marla Mae would be willing to clean the storage room, and arrange a time for Elton to take her to the storage facility and sign her in.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Dolores said. “You are a wise woman. There is no need for Clancy, Norman, or anyone else to know the storeroom and those files even exist.”

  * * *

  * * *

  I opened my windows wide, and was lucky enough to catch the same jasmine-scented breeze that had been so relaxing when we sat in the backyard. I pulled the files out from under my suitcase and set them on the desk.

  Before I began to read the files I checked my phone again, hoping to hear from Harry McGraw. No luck. There was a text from my nephew Grady’s wife, Donna. She hoped I was enjoying my visit and was wondering if on my way back to Cabot Cove I would be able to stop by New York City for a day or two. My grandnephew Frank had been asking when Aunt Jessica was going to come to visit again.

  I texted back that my plans were in flux but I would let her know as soon as I could nail down my travel arrangements.

  The folders from the storage room all looked reasonably new, and none of them were labeled. I wondered if they were just rest stops for papers until Willis got around to putting them in their permanent homes, whichever beat-up folder in one of the dustier file cabinets that might be.

  I opened one folder. Inside I found two pieces of paper. One contained a phone number for a man named Carlo, with the words New Rotary Pres. written beside it. The second was a receipt for a rather substantial donation Willis had made to a Rotary service project supporting hospitals in underserved communities. Laudable, but of no use in my search for murder suspects.

  I didn’t find anything useful in either of the next two folders. I was getting frustrated and decided that I would look in one more folder before I would go to the kitchen in search of a cup of tea.

  The next folder yielded half a dozen pieces of paper held together by a binder clip. The top page was a blank sheet torn from a legal pad, as if to protect the other pages from prying eyes. A phone number was scribbled in pencil on the inside of the folder. Apparently, in spite of his neatly kept telephone books, jotting down phone numbers in odd places was something Willis did fairly often.

  I pressed open the binder clip and the blank page from the legal pad slipped away. The second page looked like a legal document, typed in single space, signed and witnessed at the bottom.

  I looked at the signatures. Willis Nickens and Randall Carbonetti. The third signature was from a notary public signing as witness.

  The page was number four of a document and it was stapled to page two, which had a few paragraphs and a short list of names. One name was highlighted in yellow. Thomas Blomquist.

  Pages one and three were missing. As I read the two pages in my hand, it was evident that Tom Blomquist and the other people on the list owed money in some way to Mr. Carbonetti and that Willis had bought the loans.

  I wondered if this was more of the practice I kept hearing about, that of families lending money to one another to keep the old houses in the hands of the even older families.

  So it wasn’t just a matter of Tom and Candy wanting to borrow money from Willis to modernize Jessamine House. Even without a new loan, they were already indebted to him for an undisclosed amount, and I had a feeling it wasn’t a small sum. The final pages were also torn from a legal pad. There were all sorts of math calculations scattered around, which made them look like scrap papers from an exam in basic accounting.

  After what I considered to be my big find, the last folder was extremely disappointing. The only page was a list of telephone extensions for the employees of a company called Available Options. It meant nothing at all to me, and I was about to drop it back into the folder when a name caught my eye. Randall Carbonetti.

  Now the question was, did Willis buy the company, buy a subsidiary, or perhaps just buy some free-falling assets? And I knew just the person who could tell me.

  I grabbed my phone and punched in Randall Carbonetti’s number. On the third ring a young woman answered.

  “Hello. I’m Mrs. Fletcher, special assistant to Mrs. Willis Nickens, calling for Mr. Carbonetti.” I was hoping she would hear “Mrs. Willis Nickens, calling for Mr. Carbonetti” and lose my name, as had happened when I called Mr. Holmes’s office.

  Luck was with me. The next thing I heard was a deep voice. “Mrs. Nickens, Randall Carbonetti here. I must tell you how sorry I was to hear about the untimely loss of your husband. If there is anything I can do, please don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “Actually, Mr. Carbonetti, there is something you can do. My name is Jessica Fletcher and I am calling on Mrs. Nickens’s behalf.”

  “Oh, I . . . guess I misunderstood.” He was trapped and he knew it. “What can I do to assist Mrs. Nickens?”

  “In going through Willis’s papers we found a folder that had some information about Available Options and a notarized document signed by you and by Willis. Unfortunately several pages are missing, so it’s unclear—did Willis buy the company from you?”

  “What kind of scam are you running, lady? Why would I sell my company to anyone?”

  I hurried to explain before he hung up. “Please, this isn’t a scam; it is merely a matter of lost pages from a contract you and Willis signed. Mrs. Nickens cannot decipher exactly what Willis bought.”

  Mr. Carbonetti drew a sharp breath. “What pages do you have? Is there a date visible?”

  “Let me see. Yes, I have a signature page. You and Mr. Nickens both signed and dated it, as did the notary.”

  Once I told him the date he immediately let his guard down. “Hold on a second—let me check.”

  I listened to computer keys clicking, and then he was back. “Okay, I have it. You say you lost part of the paperwork?”

  “Well, I only have pages two and four . . .”

  He sniffed. “That sounds like a photocopy error. Should have copied both sides, and with pages one and three missing I guess the document doesn’t make much sense.”

  “No,” I agreed, “it doesn’t.”

  “Well, how’s this for a solution? I will explain exactly what the paperwork represents, and then I’ll messenger a complete copy to Mrs. Nickens first thing in the morning.”

  “That sounds perfect.”

  “How much do you know about Available Options, if I may ask?”

  “Not a thing,” I confessed. I was getting more curious by the minute. I wished he would get to the point.

  “We are a private loan company. We lend money based on collateral: jewels, houses, coin collections, antique cars, pretty much anything that has substantial value.”

  “I see.” Or at least I was starting to.

  “In our line of work, cash flow is of paramount importance.” He stopped, waiting for my reply.

  “Paramount. Yes, of course.” I hoped that would satisfy him, and apparently it did.

  It took forever for him to get to the point. “To keep our coffers full so that we can continue to provide our services to our highly appreciated clientele, we occasionally sell off some of our longer-term loans to,
I assure you, only the most discerning investors, one of whom, I am happy to report, was Willis Nickens. Our records do indicate such a transaction occurred on the date you provided.”

  I pried a little further. “So the individuals listed on page two owed money to Available Options, and now they owe it to Willis Nickens.”

  “That’s it exactly.”

  “Mr. Carbonetti, I have one final question. Are there loan books of some sort? I mean, how do the people who received the loans know whom to pay?”

  He cleared his throat and then said, “Our process is described in the pages that are, unfortunately, missing from Mrs. Nickens’s copy of the loan agreement. Here is the short version. Each loan is due in a lump sum plus interest on a date certain. An investor such as Mr. Nickens buys the loan from us at the value of the original loan plus a small premium. When the loan comes due, the loan recipient pays Available Options and we pass the payment to our private investor. All completely legal and aboveboard.”

  “So as these loans come due, Mrs. Nickens will receive payment?”

  “Certainly. Well, at least once the estate is settled. Will there be anything else?”

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Carbonetti. I will be sure to tell Mrs. Nickens.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. Remember to look for the messenger tomorrow.”

  I dropped the phone in my lap, astonished by what I had learned. The conversation left so many questions. Did Candy know about the loan? Did Tom even know that Willis now held the loan? And I was wildly curious about what valuable asset Tom had used to secure it.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Rain splattered against my windows in large, heavy drops. No jogging for me today. Well, I thought as I did my stretches, it will be a busy enough day, filled with lawyers and legal stress. I wondered if Dolores had any yoga or aerobics DVDs. It would probably do us both good to exercise once we got home this afternoon, although, as she had since our college days, Dolores would resist my efforts to get her moving.

  I checked my phone but there were no middle-of-the-night texts from Harry. I was counting on him to come up with something—and soon.

  My tan travel suit seemed a perfect choice for a long day. I could go jacket on, jacket off—depending on weather changes. A short-sleeved dark blue cotton sweater was a nice complement to the suit and would be comfortable should the weather turn to eighty and sunny later in the day.

  I went downstairs and headed directly for the kitchen.

  Lucinda gave me a broad wink. “Blueberry scones this morning.”

  “Why, that’s enough good news to chase the rain away,” I said. “Is Marla Mae around?”

  “Right behind you, Miss Jessica.” Marla Mae came into the kitchen. “I just finished setting out breakfast in the dining room.” She walked over to the stove and picked up a plate covered with a cloth. “Lucinda put these scones on the stove top to keep them warm. Said I was only to bring them out special when you come down.”

  “You two are a dream team. I am becoming so spoiled that I will be hard-pressed to poach my own eggs when I get back to Cabot Cove.”

  The ladies flushed at the well-deserved compliment.

  Then I segued to the reason I wanted to talk to them. “A package of documents is being messengered to Dolores today. They are extremely important and extremely private. I would appreciate your handling it with discretion.”

  I watched as they exchanged a look and came to a decision.

  Lucinda said, “On the bottom shelf of the pantry, behind the canned goods on the right-hand side, there is a carved-out square in the wall. Used to be where the milkman put the bottles. I imagine that was when he still came around in a horse-drawn wagon. Anyway, the outside is well boarded up, can’t even tell it was ever there, but on the inside it makes a nice hidey-hole.”

  “Ah, the secrets of old houses. I’m sure that will do quite nicely.”

  A few minutes later I was alone in the dining room, nibbling on a scone slathered with a generous amount of butter. I heard the clicking of Dolores’s high-heeled shoes, and she spun into the room like a Miss America contestant whose turn it was to show off her gown in front of the audience.

  She stopped in midtwirl and held her hands up as if surrendering to the long arm of the law. “What do you think, Jess? Is this what the well-dressed convicts will be wearing on the prison runway this year?”

  Dolores had on a black fitted blazer over a light gray blouse and a black and gray plaid skirt. She had limited her gold bracelets to one on each arm, and her gold button earrings matched a pendant hanging from a chain around her neck.

  “You look flawless. Are you nervous about today?” I asked.

  “Not as much as I thought I would be. I have been through so much since you told me . . . about Willis that I am practically numb. I mean, recognizing that I am tied to Norman for my entire financial future, finding out that Clancy drinks to excess and then drives when he does it, not to mention whatever is in all those file cabinets in the storage unit. Honestly, Jess, there is no more room inside me for worry.”

  “I understand—believe me, I do—but,” I cautioned, “it is critical for you to be at your best, your most attentive, when you meet with the sheriff. Take your cue from Mr. McGuire and answer all questions with a minimum amount of information.”

  “I guess it pays to be a mystery writer. You seem to know exactly how this is done,” Dolores said.

  “I suspect that in real life it is far more difficult than what I put on paper. Why don’t you have a cup of coffee and a scone? We have plenty of time.”

  Dolores started to fidget. “Actually, no. I’d rather get out of here, even if we ride around for a while and are early for my meeting with McGuire. I don’t want to run into Clancy or Norman. I couldn’t bear to make small talk today.”

  “Oh my, of course. That makes perfect sense. Why don’t you get your purse and whatever else you need, and I’ll find out if Elton is here and ready to go? I’ll meet you in the kitchen.”

  “We are spending an awful lot of time in the kitchen lately. I hope Lucinda doesn’t think we’re in the way. I wouldn’t want to lose her and Marla Mae,” Dolores fretted. “Lucinda was with Willis for years. She might not like the change.”

  I smiled, thinking of my recent conversation with Lucinda. “Trust me, Dolores. I don’t think you have to worry about anything on that score.”

  Holding an oversized umbrella above our heads, Elton ushered us to the car. He said, “The cooler is packed and ready. Lucinda piled on the snacks and drinks in case the day goes extra long.”

  Dolores said, “We have time before my meeting at the Grits and Gravy. Elton, would you mind taking us on a short ride through downtown? The least I can do is show Jessica the outside of all the touristy places I thought we’d visit while she’s here.”

  “Don’t bother about me. I am glad that I’m here for you now. This is the time you need a friend around.”

  “That’s very true, and I am grateful.” Dolores gave a wan smile. “But you have to promise me that a year or so from now, when this is all over, you’ll come back and we can have the girlfriend visit I planned for us.”

  “All you have to do is invite me,” I said.

  “Consider it done. Now look out the window. To our right is the Columbia Museum of Art. I had hoped I’d get to show it off. The collection is eclectic and organized by themes. One room has ultramodern pieces, and you walk to another room and find a portrait of George Washington by Charles Willson Peale. Small as the building appears from the outside, I could roam inside for hours.”

  Elton made a left turn and I saw a bright red marquee with gold letters: S. H. KRESS & CO.

  “That can’t be right. It must be the only Kress five-and-ten left in the entire United States.”

  Dolores laughed. “That sign fools every tourist. When the building owners
took it over, they decided to leave it up. They claimed it is a tribute to a once-great company, but most people think they just want to make sure the site is noticed. The real entrance is around the corner. It’s now a terrific Brazilian steak house. Excellent food, with even better service.”

  “Miss Dolores, sorry to interrupt, but it might be time for us to start heading to your meeting,” Elton said.

  Dolores agreed, and it wasn’t long before we were sitting in a quiet corner booth in the rear of the Grits and Gravy Café with Francis McGuire. I needn’t have been concerned by his informal clothes and offhand demeanor when he came to the house. Today he was all business, from his slim-cut chambray suit to his Cartier wristwatch, easily identifiable by its Roman numerals.

  Our short ride through downtown had relaxed Dolores completely, and she treated McGuire as if he were a guest she needed to entertain, telling him anecdotes about how Willis courted her. Then she began to tell the story of building the koi pond. That was when he stopped her.

  “Mrs. Nickens, we only have a few minutes. We have to get to work. You are a grieving widow under suspicion for her husband’s murder, not a socialite out with friends. This will be a weighty interview, not a polite conversation. You must treat it as such.”

  I thought that was extremely harsh, but Dolores nodded meekly. “Okay. What do you need me to do?”

  McGuire handed me a piece of paper. “Mrs. Fletcher, if you wouldn’t mind asking Mrs. Nickens these questions, she and I will answer in the same way we’ll do at the interview.”

  He looked at Dolores. “No matter what is said, you will not speak until I have spoken. Is that understood?”

  “Yes,” Dolores said. “I understand.”

  I had to laugh as I read the first question. “Mrs. Nickens, how old are you?”

  I thought for sure Dolores was going to say, You know darn well how old I am. Our birthdays are only a few months apart. But she was obediently silent and looked at McGuire for direction.