“Before you upset yourself any further, I suggest that you get dressed and we can go downstairs and find out exactly what is happening.”
Dolores blew her nose rather noisily. “Yes. Of course. Downstairs. I want to see Willis before they take him . . . wherever they take people. And I can talk to Clancy about Abby. I’m glad you’re here. I so need a trusted friend right now.”
A few minutes later Dolores emerged from her dressing room in a white tee and black slacks, with a black and white cardigan thrown over her shoulders. “This is the closest I could come to widow’s weeds.”
“You look fine,” I assured her.
Dolores pulled a wad of tissues from the box. “Okay, I am ready to face whatever comes”—she took my hand—“with a good friend at my side.”
We walked downstairs and checked the dining room, which was so quiet we were surprised to find both Clancy and Norman sitting at the table, plates piled high with food from a delicious-looking buffet set out on the breakfront.
Clancy got up immediately and rushed to Dolores. “I am very sorry about . . . Willis. I know how it feels to lose a spouse. The loneliness, the emptiness.”
He sounded a little too melodramatic to me, and Dolores might have felt the same. She stiffened for a moment but then accepted the hug he offered. I considered that a good first step if the new relationship they would have to forge around Abby was going to have a chance.
Norman Crayfield stayed in his chair, sipping coffee. Then, as if it had dawned on him that he was going to have to work with Dolores, at least in the near term, regarding whatever business interests he had shared with Willis, he got up and went to her side.
“Dolores”—he put a hand on her shoulder—“I am so sorry for your loss, but I can guarantee you that I will take care of our business ventures as diligently as I did when Willis was . . . here. Believe me, you have nothing to worry about financially. Now why don’t you sit down? Can I get you a cup of coffee?”
“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
