Killing in a Koi Pond

by Jessica Fletcher

  I’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when Abby came racing out of the dining room, with Dolores behind her.

  “Miss Jessica, you are just in time. Marla Mae says everyone should wash up because dinner will be set out in a very few minutes. And there’s potato salad. Miss Lucinda makes the best potato salad.” And she ran past me up the stairs.

  Dinner was outstanding. A delicious fresh beet and asparagus salad preceded the chicken and ribs smothered in tangy barbecue sauce. Dolores had accurately predicted the side dishes of baked beans and potato salad. And just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite, Lucinda and Marla Mae carried in two trays filled with root beer floats in tall ice cream parlor glasses.

  And for the first time since I arrived, it appeared as though everyone was stress free. Norman told a very funny story about how he and his college roommate had wangled an invitation to a sorority picnic and decided to make a potato salad to impress their hostesses.

  “We followed the recipe perfectly. Yellow mustard, sweet pickles, hard-boiled eggs, mayonnaise, and what all else. The base, of course, was three pounds of russet potatoes, which we chopped diligently and then mixed with everything else.” Norman looked around the dining table to be sure he had everyone’s undivided attention.

  “Then, brash boys that we were, we insisted—insisted, mind you—that each and every young lady at our table taste our wonderful creation. We thought it was a surefire way to gather phone numbers.”

  When Norman paused, Clancy jumped in with the obligatory question. “And did it work?”

  “Sadly, no. It might have, but we had managed to skip one very crucial step. We didn’t boil the potatoes. They were hard as rocks.”

  Amid the roar of adult laughter, Abby said, quite seriously, “I don’t think Miss Lucinda would ever make a mistake like that.”

  Dolores gave her a pat on the head. “I’m quite sure she wouldn’t, but Mr. Norman isn’t quite the same caliber of cook.”

  We lingered over coffee, and when Norman asked Marla Mae to bring in a bottle of brandy, Dolores excused herself to read to Abby and I took the opportunity to retire to my room for the night.

  The first thing I did was text Harry McGraw a Call me message, and when I hadn’t heard from him within a few minutes I put on my pajamas and settled into the comfy blue wing chair with the latest Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope novel by Ann Cleeves. The story was engrossing, but as the clock ticked past midnight even Vera’s adventures on the Northumberland coastline couldn’t keep my eyelids from drooping.

  The ping on the phone startled me. I shook off the drowsies, grabbed my cell, and read the text that popped up from Harry. U still up? Give me a call. I couldn’t hit the speed dial button fast enough.

  “How’s it shaking, Jessica?”

  “Harry, I am so glad to hear from you. Dolores has a lawyer, and he seems pleased with how her case is going, but I am getting more nervous each day. When we first spoke I said I needed a suspect pool of more than just a person or two to take the spotlight off Dolores. But, hard as I’ve tried, none of the evidence I’ve gathered so far is strong enough for me to convince the sheriff to look at someone, anyone, other than Dolores. Please tell me you have something I can use.”

  “Well, my IRS contact said that Willis Nickens is the original Mr. Clean. His personal taxes, all of his business taxes—and the guy’s got businesses too numerous to count—everything is squeaky clean. He’s been audited a couple of times, so we know he passed the fine-tooth-comb test. All my ‘connected’ friends say the same thing—tough as nails but never crosses the line.”

  “I don’t understand. Why do you think that helps Dolores?”

  “Well, maybe it doesn’t help her directly, but it does point out that whoever the killer is, he, or she, is close to home. The odds are that the victim knew his killer in a personal setting, because he didn’t have a business life filled with shady backroom deals and questionable characters.”

  I picked up Harry’s idea and added my own view. “And he was killed on his own property, with a houseful of guests, which is hardly the kind of atmosphere conducive to what my students used to call ‘stranger danger,’ is it?”

  Harry chuckled. “Hardly, but on the flip side, that spurs the local law to take a real close look at the wife. If the motive is more likely to be personal, who is more personal than a spouse?”

  I got a sinking feeling in my chest. “So what you are saying is that my friend Dolores is in deeper trouble than she knows.”

  “Not saying that at all. Although she might be. But don’t you get discouraged. After all, if the killer is someone the vic knew, then chances are that by now you know him—or her—too. Anyway, I have a couple more chits outstanding, and maybe tomorrow or the next day I’ll have something better for you.”

  I put my phone on the charger and crawled into bed. If Harry didn’t come up with something to clear Dolores within the next twenty-four hours, I was going to have to figure out a way to do so myself.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The first thing I did when I awoke was to check my cell phone, but apart from a text my editor had sent requesting an appointment to talk about my next book, there was nothing of interest. All I could do was wait for Harry to dig a little deeper while I snooped a bit more on my own. Maybe we would get lucky.

  I did my stretches and put on my jogging clothes. After I stopped in the kitchen to let Lucinda and Marla Mae know that I wouldn’t be gone long, I went out the back door. The morning fog was dense but seemed to be lifting, so I walked to the rear of the house to take a closer look at the thick stand of moss-covered cypress trees that Dolores had mentioned yesterday. The Spanish moss and the heavy fog mixed so tightly together that I half expected the Headless Horseman to come clomping through the trees with a fiery pumpkin in his hand. Or did that happen only in Sleepy Hollow?

  I walked along the edge of the tidy boundary between the trees and the neatly manicured lawn, but no matter how I tried I couldn’t see so much as a suggestion of the path that once led to the stables. I turned in to the sitting garden and began to walk more briskly. At the koi pond, I came to a dead stop.

  In that instant I realized I’d forgotten to tell Dolores that the koi were coming home today. “Oh dear,” I said to myself.

  I was disconcerted when a voice behind me said, “It is a sad sight, isn’t it? Without the fish?”

  Norman Crayfield had a cigar in one hand and his cell phone in the other. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I often come out here in the early morning to make calls to Europe. I just finished a call to a company we do business with in London. Of course the hardest part of these calls now is passing along the news that Willis is . . . gone. I take comfort in the fact that I can at least spare Dolores that unpleasantness.”

  That struck me as odd. All these days after Willis’s murder, why was Norman still telephoning the information to business associates in such a piecemeal fashion? A large company should be more organized. I said, “I would think the news of the death of someone of Willis Nickens’s stature would have spread through the business community like wildfire.”

  “You’re right, of course. Here in South Carolina and in a number of other states people knew within hours of Willis’s demise. Outside that small sphere . . . Well, to be perfectly honest, Willis and I ran our businesses like a mom-and-pop candy store in so many ways—you know, homey, down-to-earth. And I’m sure Dolores will want to continue the same way.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at me for confirmation.

  “Oh, I have absolutely no head for business.” I was not about to give him hope. “I’d be the last person on the planet whom Dolores would confide in about her future plans for Willis’s business ventures. She’d be much more likely to tell Vivian LaPort, who was a year ahead of us at Harrison and majored in economics. Of course, I lost touch with Vivian decades ago. I wonder if Dolores h
as her number.”

  As I prattled along I watched Norman deflate before my very eyes. He was beginning to realize that if there was an easy conduit through which to maneuver Dolores to trust him with her business interests, I wasn’t it. He’d have to search for another access point.

  After a quick shower, I changed into my gray pantsuit and a green and pink striped blouse. Once again I opted for flats, as I expected it to be a long and busy day, possibly quite hard on my feet.

  Before I went down to breakfast, I sent a text to Harry. Will be with D most of the day. Text if you have any info and I will call ASAP. I knew I was pressuring him, but I couldn’t shake the dream that woke me around two a.m. Dolores was standing at Willis’s graveside with a detective’s raincoat haphazardly thrown over her hands because they were neatly cuffed together. I chalked the image up to some old gumshoe movie I’d seen on Turner Classic Movies but couldn’t quite remember which one. I tried to shake off the image. I was not about to let that happen to Dolores.

  Clancy and Abby were in the dining room. Abby’s cheerful “Good morning, Miss Jessica” erased any gloom and foreboding that might otherwise spoil my breakfast.

  I poured a cup of coffee and put a slice of sourdough bread in the toaster. While I was waiting for it to pop, Clancy began hurrying Abby along, scolding that she would be late for school if they didn’t leave in the next two minutes. Dolores met them in the doorway and gave Abby a grandmotherly good-morning kiss. Her greeting to Clancy was remarkably cheerful.

  When she turned toward the buffet table I raised the coffeepot, more as a question than as a greeting, and she said, “Thank you, Jess. I am going to need all the caffeine I can handle today.”

  I put two cups of coffee on the table, then went back for my toast and put some scrambled eggs on a plate. “Dolores, what will you have for breakfast? There’s plenty to choose from. Come take a look.”

  I spread a thin layer of butter on my toast while Dolores fixed a plate of sausage and scrambled eggs for herself. We each took a small plate of blueberries and orange slices and sat down at the table.

  Dolores looked around, and then half whispered, “Norman is among the missing once again. I am starting to be curious about where he goes and what he does all day.”

  “I did see him outside when I went to exercise. He said he was making intercontinental business calls.” I took a sip of coffee. “I was under the impression that he wanted me to encourage you to allow him to remain in charge.”

  Dolores’s long sigh echoed a mixture of sorrow and frustration. “Willis was so busy treating me like an empty-headed princess that I have no idea where the business lines are drawn between my interests and Norman’s. Of course, that old fool Marcus Holmes could untie all the knots on that ball of string, if only he wasn’t a coward. I can’t wait to fire him.”

  “Now, there’s the spunky Dolores I know.” I was feeling more confident in her by the moment. “This is going to be a difficult day. Then you will have to get through the wake and funeral. Once those events are behind you, it will be time to sort out how your life will be without Willis.”

  “Jess, I know you speak from your own experience, but no one accused you of murdering Frank.” Dolores’s hand flew to her mouth. “Oh dear, I hope that didn’t sound as harsh to you as it did to me.”

  “No, no, it’s fine.” I patted her hand. “You are in an unusual position, of course. What I meant was that even while you and Mr. McGuire are contending with your, ah, difficulties with the sheriff, you still have to work to get your life back on track.”

  “Without Willis? Oh . . . I don’t know if I can.”

  “Dolores, you have already started. Look at the adaptations you have begun. You’ve decided to do whatever it takes to keep Abby in your life. You are planning on being an active participant in the family businesses. Most importantly, you are keeping people who are loyal and compassionate like Marla Mae and Lucinda as part of your life, while dismissing anyone who isn’t supportive. Marcus Holmes comes to mind.”

  “And I am lucky enough to have a lifelong friend like you,” Dolores said. “Now, my first challenge of the day is to put together a dashing outfit for Willis to wear. One thing we don’t have to worry about is his hair. He got a haircut a little more than a week ago. He would hate to look scraggly.”

  As she pushed back her chair and stood, so did I, ready to help.

  Dolores nodded her thanks. “I always thought that our having separate rooms was silly, but since . . . he’s gone . . . that has made it easier to pretend Willis is in his room and that I will see him after the late news, or at breakfast. Now it’s time for me to face the empty room.”

  Willis Nickens’s bedroom was as dark and gloomy as I’d imagined it would be. A tallboy chest with deep drawers and the four-poster bed with thick stanchions were made from heavy mahogany. A tan leather recliner next to a beige reading lamp on a small table filled one corner. Dark brown drapes flecked with gold thread completely covered the windows. The connecting door to the dressing room stood partially open, allowing a thin shaft of light from inside to cut across the middle of the bedroom.

  Dolores said, “Thank goodness Willis forgot to turn his dressing room light off. Otherwise we’d be stumbling in the dark.” She pulled the drapery cords and the bright South Carolina sunshine flooded the room.

  Dolores reached over and gave the bedspread a tug with one hand as she smoothed it out with the other. “With a perfectly decent recliner in here and a chair in the dressing room, Willis consistently rumpled the bed linens when he bounced down on the bed to change his shoes or make a quick phone call. As I am sure you’ve already noticed, a bed made up by Marla Mae could pass the test of any drill sergeant.”

  Dolores stepped into the dressing room. It seemed to be larger than the bedroom, but with the myriad shelves, closets, drawers, and huge racks of suits, jackets, and slacks, it was crowded. I decided to stay in the doorway so that Dolores could move around freely.

  “It has to be a suit, of course. Where is my favorite navy blue? . . . Oh, here.” She pulled a dark blue double-breasted suit off a rack and hung it on a wall hook. “What do you think, Jess? Now that I look at it, the fabric is so obviously winter. I wouldn’t want Willis to look awkward. Still, navy is the color, am I right?”

  I agreed that it was. As she slid hangers along the rack, I was amazed at how many navy or near–navy blue suits hung there. There appeared to be close to a dozen.

  Dolores narrowed the search to a double-breasted navy cotton-wool mix and a single-breasted linen suit, perhaps one shade lighter than navy. She hung them side by side on wall hooks and stood looking critically at first one, then the other.

  “I think the single-breasted linen is a winner. Double-breasted suits are passé in my book, although I never could get Willis to part with the ones he had.” She put the cotton-wool mix back on the rack, opened one of the built-in drawers in the far wall of the dressing room, and pulled out a tailored white shirt. She gave it the once-over. “Long collar, button cuffs. Looks fairly new. This will do. Now we’ll need a tie.”

  She twisted a brass knob on the wall and a door next to the shirt drawer popped open. Four metal tie stands—two top, two bottom—held at least a hundred ties.

  Dolores said, “I’m thinking subdued stripes,” and in a few minutes she’d narrowed her choices to three. She held each one against the shirtfront and then draped it over the suit jacket.

  After due consideration, she held up a silk tie with slim gray, blue, and white stripes. “We have a winner.”

  Dolores opened still another drawer and pulled out a pair of dark socks. Then she began to look through the shoe racks that lined the floor. After what turned out to be a futile search, she picked up a pair of black oxfords.

  “I can’t find the patent leather dress shoes I want him to wear. I’ll have to settle for second best. No one will see his feet a
nyway.” She handed me the shoes. “Could you put these on the floor by the bed? I’ll bring his clothes and we can make sure we have all we need.”

  As I stepped up to the bed, my foot hit something. I looked, and it was the side of a shoe. I bent down and found a pair of black patent leather shoes half-hidden by the edge of the bedspread, right where Willis had sat and left it wrinkled.

  Dolores came into the bedroom with an armful of clothes.While she was laying everything on the bed, I held up the patent leather shoes. “By any chance are these the dress shoes you couldn’t find?”

  “Yes. Willis loved wearing those. When he was a boy his parents used to dance at night to the radio. Songs by Tammy Wynette and Buck Owens, country music. His father wasn’t a churchgoing man, and when Willis’s mama used to ask how he planned on getting into heaven, Daddy would grab her in his arms, swing her around, and say he was going to dance his way right past Saint Peter. Willis said these patent leather shoes made him feel like he could dance his way into heaven, too.”

  Dolores smiled at the memory, then went back into the dressing room and came out with a garment bag.

  As I watched her pack everything carefully, I remembered when Frank died and I had to do these same chores. The worst of times began when the chores were done and the emptiness crowded around. Dolores would face that very soon. And through it all she would have to contend with Sheriff Halvorson.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Elton placed the garment bag and the shoe carrier in the rear of the Escalade with great reverence. Dolores and I took our usual seats, and I noticed Elton had his dark gray jacket folded neatly on the front seat.