“Surely not in this case . . . Oh, wait—are you trying to tell me that I am a suspect? That the sheriff thinks I killed Willis? Are you insane? Is Sheriff Halvorson insane? No, Jess. Just . . . No.”
I tried again. “We don’t know anything for certain as yet. I want you to be prepared, because I am sure the sheriff will want to interview you again.”
“Enough. That’s enough.” In all these years, I’d never heard such a sharp edge to Dolores’s voice. “Please keep your mystery-writer ideas to yourself. Find Lucinda, if you would, and ask her to send up a bottle of sherry and a bucket of ice. I am going to need a nap.”
Dolores turned her back toward me and stood looking out her bedroom window and across the sitting garden. For the second time today I was being dismissed.
* * *
The walk-in pantry just off the kitchen was lined with floor-to-ceiling shelves trimmed with old-fashioned flowered shelf paper with scalloped edges. Inside, Lucinda looked up from her task of marking items on a clipboard.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Fletcher? I’m afraid we’re all out of blueberry scones,” she said with a grin.
“That’s fine.” I patted my stomach. “I had more than my share, although I do hope you’ll make them again before I head north. Dolores sent me down to ask for a bottle of sherry and a bucket of ice.”
Lucinda’s face clouded over. “Should have been expecting that, I guess. Still, the first and only time she looked for the sherry bottle was after that one big quarrel she and Mr. Willis had. Not sure what it was about, but she stayed in her room for thirty-six hours straight, with both doors locked, if you get my meaning. Only time I ever saw Mr. Willis eat humble pie. I swear, he would have danced naked down Main Street to get back on her good side. I’d still love to know what that fight was about.”
“And you never got as much as a hint?”
“No, ma’am. And nothing like that ever happened before or since. ’Course Miss Dolores got a good reason to be drinkin’ now. I’ll see right to getting her fixed up with a bottle of Tomás García. Maybe some crackers and cheese, too.”
I wandered around the house at loose ends. If I could bump into Norman or Clancy and start a conversation I might be able to wheedle some useful information from them. But useful in what way? Given the white river rock I had seen in the koi pond and the half-smoked cigar right where he would have dropped it if he’d been struck from behind, I was sure Willis had been murdered, and not by Dolores. I still didn’t know where Sheriff Halvorson stood on all this. If he was convinced Willis was murdered, I was sure he’d be counting Dolores as his number one suspect. And if he thought Willis died accidentally, well, in either scenario a killer would get away with murder unless . . .
* * *
Marla Mae was emptying the dishwasher when I barged into the kitchen, sounding more demanding than I’d meant to. “Is there a competent local car service, or do you know if Uber or Lyft has drivers in this community?”
“Got you covered, Mrs. Fletcher. My brother, Elton, drives for Success City Cars, a twenty-four-hour car service, bonded and insured. Says so right there on his business card. Papa teases him with no mercy about that card sounding highfalutin.”
“Excellent. Can you call your brother and ask him to drive me to the Sheriff’s Department this afternoon? I am going upstairs to change, and will be ready when he gets here.”
As I flew out of the kitchen, I heard Marla Mae say, “Sure thing, Mrs. Fletcher.”
I ran a comb through my hair and dabbed on some lipstick. My cropped gray and white bouclé jacket over a flattering gray A-line skirt was perfect for the look I was going for—successful mystery writer with lots of high-flying connections. If the sheriff had no regard for a woman out for a jog in sweats and sneakers, we’d see how he would react to a woman in a Brooks Brothers suit. I fastened the clasp on my double strand of pearls and went downstairs.
In the foyer Marla Mae and Lucinda were talking to a tall young man with wire-rimmed eyeglasses whose red and black plaid bow tie jazzed up his white short-sleeved shirt and black slacks. He moved quickly to greet me at the bottom of the staircase, reaching out a hand in a courtly manner to assist me down the final few steps.
“Good day, Mrs. Fletcher. Elton Anderson at your service.” His Southern accent enhanced his strong baritone voice. “I want to thank you for allowing me and Success City Cars to take care of your travel needs today.”
I made a snap decision. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Elton. I am planning to be here at Manning Hall for the next few days, perhaps even longer. Would it be possible for you to be available to me each day? I’ll gladly pay the going daily rate.”
“That would be my pleasure, ma’am. And I will be sure you get the multiday discount. Now, may I show you to your car?”
A metallic blue Cadillac Escalade was parked in front of the house. “Oh my, Elton, that is quite a car.”
“Not too big for you, is it? I was coming back from an airport run—husband, wife, two kids, and lots of luggage—when Marla Mae called. I can bring a sedan tomorrow if you’d be more comfortable.” Elton opened the rear door and once again extended an assisting hand.
“No, this car will be fine. I would, though, prefer to sit in the front seat so we can get to know each other, but only if Success City Cars allows passengers to do so.”
“Sure ’nuff.” Elton opened the front door on the passenger side. “And I am
