The text was from Harry McGraw.
Jess, even if your friend has to split the guy’s estate with a dozen other people she would still be set for life. Call me.
I thought, for privacy’s sake, my room would be the best place to make the call. I told Marla Mae I was going to slip upstairs for a few minutes, and she promised to keep an eye on Dolores.
I was slightly drowsy from our relaxing lunch in the warm sunshine of the back porch, so my comfy wing chair looked extra inviting. I was afraid I would fall asleep if I sat down, so I walked back and forth, and while waiting for Harry to answer his phone, I pulled a pen and an old receipt out of my purse in case I needed to jot down a word or two.
He picked up and, without preliminaries, said, “Jess, you are surrounded by a merry band of criminals. If I was you, I’d get out of Dodge ASAP.”
That was enough to make me ask him to hold on while I opened the door to my room to make sure no one was listening in the hallway. Of course there wasn’t a soul, and I blamed Harry for activating my Spidey senses.
“That’s some way to start a conversation, Harry. You have me looking over my shoulder for spies and scoundrels. What on earth are you talking about? Who are these criminals?”
“Remember a few years back, here in Boston, we were all surprised to see how many people were connected to the gangster Whitey Bulger and his crew?”
I had no idea where Harry was going but I tried to follow along. “I’m sure the entire country remembers. It was front-page news for months and followed up on for years.”
“Well, your Willis Nickens had quite the crew around him. Gotta say, they don’t seem quite as dangerous as Whitey’s gang”—Harry chuckled—“but still, a questionable group.”
My patience had run out. “Harry, what are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”
“You got my text about the shoplifter, right?”
“Marjory Ribault. Yes. Yes, I did. She does seem to have some . . . issues, I guess you would say, regarding money.”
“Issues? Jessica, she ain’t some old lady stealing a few cans of Fancy Feast to feed her cat. The first time she was grabbed, it was for filching a bracelet worth—get this—seven thousand dollars. Daddy got her off by paying for the bracelet and promising she’d get ‘treatment,’ if ya know what I mean.”
I knew exactly what he meant and, personally, I thought a bit of therapy would do Marjory a world of good. “What about the second time she shoplifted?”
Harry cleared his throat. “Mind you, we only know about the first and second time she got caught. What she got away with before and after, we have no idea. Anyway, the second collar was for snatching a pair of high-end sunglasses at the eye doctor’s office. She went in for reading glasses and came out with a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar pair of sunglasses hidden in her coat. The optometrist’s assistant saw her slip the glasses into her pocket and followed her outside, demanding the dame pay up or return the glasses. It turned into a shouting match, with a bit of shoving on your pal Marjory’s part, and at some point someone called the cops. The optometrist is an old family friend, so she got off with a slap on the wrist. That’s all she wrote.”
I was having a hard time believing that Marjory could murder anyone—she seemed more likely to turn her back, as she had the other night when Willis was looking for a bridge partner—but if she had actually assaulted someone, that did put a whole new spin on her personality. “Oh my, Harry. She certainly is a troubled woman. But I don’t see murder in her persona. I hope I’m not wrong.”
“Next in our lineup, we have Clancy Travers. Seems like our boy forgets he shouldn’t drive after he’s had a few scotches. He’s got one DUI conviction and one case pending.”
Now that was something I considered appalling. “And he has full responsibility for his nine-year-old daughter, who should never be in a car if her father is driving while under the influence. No wonder Willis was riding him so hard.”
“You’re assuming the old man knew. That I couldn’t confirm.”
“But if Willis did find out he might have tried to get custody of Abby, and wherever Abby goes, so goes her trust fund.”
“True. You want to know about the next crook?”
“I can’t wait to hear.” Harry was so full of information, I was having trouble taking down notes. “Wait a sec—let me get another piece of paper.” I opened the desk drawer, pulled out a sheet of pristine stationery meant for elegant thank-you notes, and poised my pen to record more criminal activity. “Go ahead.”
“This Norman Crayfield—he is something of a playboy. Likes to party. Been locked up a couple of times. Small potatoes. He got nailed once in a sweep of a bordello in Charleston and has a couple of arrests for being on the premises of after-hours booze-and-gambling joints both inside and outside of Columbia. All misdemeanors. None particularly recent.”
“I can’t say I am surprised. Mr. Crayfield likes to play the role of rapscallion.”
“Get ready, Jess—here comes the big one. Candace Parker Smith, aka Candace Parker, aka Parker Smith. Served two years in Georgia, at Whitworth, for kiting checks.”
“Kiting, did you say?” I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “What does that even mean?”
“Jess, you write mysteries for a living. In all those books didn’t anyone ever play the check-kite game? You know, deposit a check from account one into account two. Account one doesn’t have the money to cover the check, but for a day or so account two doesn’t know it . . .”
“Oh, I know what you mean. I once had a character who did what my research
