Clancy told a particularly endearing tale about how, after Emily died, Willis often visited Abby to tell her a bedtime story. And the stories always involved a heroine named Emily.
Norman followed up with a far less endearing narrative involving a ruthless Willis who saw every financial downturn as an opportunity to buy up private mortgages for pennies on the dollar. Then he would demand full payment or foreclose on the property, hold, and sell. It reminded me of Marjory Ribault’s story. Sure enough, Norman mentioned it.
“In fact, that’s how he was able to buy Manning Hall. Sharp negotiator was our Willis.” Norman appeared to be quite proud of Willis’s ability to profit from other people’s misfortune.
Clancy picked up the thread. “Oh, he could be a mean ’un, all right. Remember Arabella?”
“Arabella?” I asked.
“Arabella is Abby’s godmother and was Emily’s best friend ever since third grade. Willis never liked her. Didn’t like the whole family—some fuss or another from decades ago.”
I certainly understood those silly perpetual feuds. I knew a couple of families in Cabot Cove who hadn’t spoken for three or four generations. No one even remembered how it all started. They just followed the tradition and snubbed one another mercilessly.
“Anyway,” Clancy continued, “Emily was the only person who could ever stand up to Willis, and she did so consistently when it came to Arabella. She was maid of honor at our wedding, and a frequent guest at our home. The two remained close until the day Emily died, and it was on that very day, while we were all still at the hospital having said our final good-byes, that Willis told Arabella she was persona non grata, and was no longer welcome to visit Abby.”
I was aghast. “But surely you could have . . .”
“I did what I could, which was absolutely nothing. Willis controls the purse strings, and that ensures that Willis gets what Willis wants,” Clancy said sourly.
“Hey, no more glum stuff.” Norman slapped Clancy on the back. “Jessica needs happy stories for the obituary and funny ones for the eulogy. We have lots of those stories. My personal favorite—remember the time Willis almost broke his shoulder with a golf club because of the fire ants?”
Clancy nodded, and within seconds Norman had us both in stitches. I had no problem envisioning an enraged Willis Nickens hopping up and down on one foot while trying to brush fire ants from inside the HyperFlex golf shoe on his other foot. The whole time he was yelling, demanding a do-over, claiming the ants had struck just as he swung and missed.
“He kept screaming, ‘Mulligan! Mulligan!’ I can see it to this day.” Norman was practically doubled over with laughter. “And then in sheer frustration he threw his club in the air and it spun back and landed on his shoulder. He had quite a welt, I can tell you.”
Clancy chimed in, “He threatened to have the groundskeeper fired. And then he decided to have the golf pro fired, too. The more we laughed, the crazier he got.”
“That is a brilliant story. From the little bit I saw of Willis the day I arrived, that story, how you say he acted, describes him perfectly but with great humor.”
Norman went on. “And of course you cannot leave out the great romance, Willis and Dolores. I am sure she told you all those loving details.”
“Yes, she did. We had several burn-the-midnight-oil phone calls about her new beau, who gradually became her love, and then her beloved husband. Norman, if you had to stand up and say something about the two of them as a couple, what would you say?”
Norman looked pensive, and then I saw that look on his face, the same look my students used to get when they were sure they had figured out the exact right answer and eagerly raised their hands. “I would say that Willis was a rudderless ship until Dolores came into his life.”
I was amazed by his eloquence. “Oh my, that is lovely, Norman. Dolores will be so very pleased.”
Abby came running into the room. “Daddy! Daddy! There are butterflies in the backyard but Miss Lucinda and Miss Marla Mae don’t have time to watch me run after them. Could you . . . could we . . . ?”
Clancy pretended to be stern. “Where’s your manners, young lady?”
Abby stopped in midrun. “Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. Good morning, Mr. Crayfield.”
As soon as we both responded in kind, she looked at Clancy as if to say, Now can we go?
Clancy got the message, and he hurried behind Abby as she skipped joyfully away.
Norman stood and said, “Well, I have places to go and all that. I’ll see you later, Jessica.”
He strode past Marla Mae as if she were invisible. She began to clear the dishes. “How were those muffins, Mrs. Fletcher?”
“Tell Lucinda I asked how she works such magic with blueberries.”
“She’ll be glad you enjoyed them.”
“Tell me, has there been any word from Dolores? Is she still in the library with Sheriff Halvorson?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. Early on I did bring in a pot of Irish breakfast tea and a plate of muffins but neither of them talked while I was in the room. Miss Dolores looked a tad upset, but that’s how she’s been since Mr. Willis . . . And the deputy is still by the door. I did manage to give him a muffin but didn’t get any words back other than a thank-you. Tight-lipped, he is.”
“Don’t I know it? I think I’ll go back to the office and begin to work on some of the files. I suspect that’s how I can be most helpful to Dolores. Please let me know the minute she comes out of the library.”
I wouldn’t feel comfortable sitting at Willis’s desk, so I sat in a visitor’s chair and opened the Quartermaster file, intending to learn what I could so I’d be ready to compare notes with Harry McGraw when we finally reconnected.
“Jessica, oh my
