“Now you’re using your noggin. That’ll be my way in, for sure. And once I am in, who am I looking for?”
“Willis has a business partner—at least they say they are partners, but whether there is one business or a dozen . . . His name is Norman Crayfield. I have no idea what his business interests are or even where he lives. Right now he’s staying at Manning Hall—I did mention that’s Dolores’s house, didn’t I? He was here when I arrived and shows no signs of leaving.”
“Hold on—pen dried up.”
Through the phone I could hear Harry shake his pen, drop it, and fumble through a drawer for another one. When he was ready, he asked, “Okay, who else?”
“I have been thinking. Willis’s daughter died a few years back, leaving a husband and a small child. Willis dotes on the little girl . . .”
Harry picked up my thread. “The kid will get buckets now that Grandpa’s gone, and the kid’s father will have control ’cause she’s a minor. Father’s name?”
“Clancy Travers. But that’s all I have. He and his little girl, Abby, are staying at Manning Hall right now, but I do know they don’t live there—Dolores called them houseguests. He’ll be local, though, because Dolores talked about visiting back and forth quite often.”
“The daughter’s death—anything suspicious there?”
“I don’t think so. From what I understand it was an aggressive brain tumor. Sad in one so young.”
“Sad for anybody. Who else you got? Servants? This guy’s gotta have servants who hate him.”
“There are two. Lucinda Green is unflappable and has been with Willis since long before he married Dolores. Because of her, this place runs like a fine-tuned Swiss watch. I don’t see any potential there. Marla Mae Anderson was terrified of Willis but lacks the resourcefulness to commit murder. Even if she killed him accidentally, she would likely have sat by the body and cried until someone came along so she could confess.”
“I’ll back-burner the servants on your say-so but they stay on the list. Who else you looking at?”
“There are a couple of neighbors, Tom and Candy Blomquist. They own a hotel named Jessamine House that is quite nearby. They approached Willis for a loan to renovate, and Willis kept them dangling even though I heard he was adamantly opposed to the deal. Now he’s dead and the Blomquists are quite chirpy, confident the money is on the way.”
“And you’re wondering how that came to be. Could be a coincidence, but you know how I feel about coinkydinks . . .”
“Ain’t no such thing,” we said in unison.
“Harry, I did meet a person who hated Willis with a blazing passion so obvious that even a complete stranger like me could see it.”
“Blazing passion, huh? Now that’s the kind of suspect I can get behind. You got a name? Although I gotta say, Jessica, you see things most strangers wouldn’t even notice.”
“The lady in question is called Marjory Ribault. Apparently her family owned Manning Hall and the surrounding property for generations. When her father fell on hard times Willis swooped in and took away her family home. You should have seen her in the same room with him. She could hardly stand to look at him.”
“So, other than a murder the sheriff won’t verify and being surrounded by suspects everywhere you turn, how’s South Carolina treating you?”
“I can tell you this, Harry: I have never been called ‘ma’am’ so much in my entire life.”
I curled up in the comfy chair, looking out the window at the colorful tops of the crepe myrtle trees, and mulled over my conversation with Harry. I was completely frustrated by my inability to get any information about Willis’s death from the sheriff or the coroner. I sincerely hoped they were merely following a strict governmental policy and not trying to keep Dolores guessing as to what they knew and how they knew it. I was confident that even from as far away as Boston, Harry McGraw would be able to dig deep and learn whatever I needed to suss out a killer and protect Dolores. I did notice that Harry never asked me why I was so sure that Willis was murdered and that Dolores had nothing to do with the killing. That was the thing about Harry—his gut instinct about me was as precise as my gut instinct about Dolores. Between the two of us, she would be well protected.
I decided to go for a run. The day was too lovely to stay indoors, even with the crepe myrtles for company.
I put on my jogging suit and headed to the kitchen. Elton was sitting at the table, thumbing through a book. As soon as he saw me he stood. “Are you in need of a ride?”
“Not at all. What I need is a nice, leisurely run to get my energy back. I just wanted someone to know that I’ve gone out to explore the grounds in case Dolores needs me.”
I looked at the book he’d left on the table. “If you don’t mind my asking, what is that you’re reading?”
He held up a brightly colored catalogue with midlands technical college printed in large letters. “I go to night school. I’m studying how to open and run my own business. I love what I do. Helping people safely get from where they are to where they want to be—what could be better? I’ll tell you what: doing it on my own, without a boss making decisions for me. I know I can make them for myself.”
“That is commendable, Elton. I wish you great luck in pursuing your education. Also, I think we can safely say that Mrs. Nickens is thoroughly exhausted and we won’t be going out later. Why don’t you go home and get some extra study time in? Marla Mae will call you in the morning with tomorrow’s schedule.”
Elton gathered up his books and said good-bye. When he opened the back
