“Thank you. Please hold.” Before I could finish whispering to Dolores that Mr. McGuire’s office seemed very professional, the phone line opened again.
“Francis McGuire here, Mrs. Fletcher. How is Mrs. Nickens doing this afternoon?”
“Mr. McGuire, I am going to put the phone on speaker so Dolores can tell you herself.”
I pressed the button and nodded at Dolores, who said, “Good afternoon. This is Dolores Nickens.”
“Mrs. Nickens, Marcus Holmes told me to expect your call and explained your current circumstances. I am so very sorry for your loss.” He sounded remarkably sincere for someone who didn’t know either Dolores or Willis.
Although I was afraid his kind words would have Dolores crying again, she held it together, thanked him, and said, “Sheriff Halvorson has named me a person of interest in the investigation of my husband’s death. I did not kill him.”
McGuire’s response was lawyerly to the nth degree. “We can have that conversation at a later time. For now I need you to know that, as of this moment, I am your counsel of record. You are not to speak to anyone from the sheriff’s office about this case without me present. If they approach in any way with what appears to be even the most inconsequential questions, you demand that I be present. Is that clear?”
When Dolores assured him that it was, he went on. “I’ll be at your house first thing tomorrow morning and we will map our strategy going forward. Get a good night’s sleep, Mrs. Nickens. Tomorrow the hard work begins.”
Chapter Seventeen
I had a number of things I wanted to do, so I was relieved when Dolores decided she would go to her room for a rest. I was sure she felt that the world was crashing in on top of her. And in many ways it was.
I went to the library, where Elton had his nose buried in a book. Always a gentleman, he stood when I entered the room. “Are we on the move, ma’am?”
“Not yet. I wanted to check in. I have a few things to do, but later on I may want to go to Jessamine House. It’s actually a hotel. Do you know it?”
“Doesn’t pop right to mind but I can find it and be ready to drive there whenever you want.”
“Elton, you are the best.”
I headed back to Willis’s office to read the Quartermaster file, but of course Dolores had locked the door. When she came downstairs later I would have her unlock it so I could get the two folders of interest and put them in my room. I was sure there was information inside each of them that would help resolve my curiosity about exactly how Willis ran his businesses and who, besides Dolores and Abby, might benefit from his death.
Stymied by my research material’s being temporarily unavailable, I decided that going for a short jog to clear my head was my best option. I realized that if I could manage to run into Marjory Ribault, so much the better.
I changed into my jogging suit and headed outdoors. I didn’t realize how much the stress of recent events was tying my body in knots until I stood on the veranda and took several long, deep breaths. I once had a yoga instructor who swore by the mantra “Inhale fresh air. Exhale stress.”
I did a slow jog around the side of the house toward the putting green, and sped up when I veered off through the pines toward the kitchen garden. Then I slowed to a casual walk when I followed the rocky path to Marjory’s cottage.
I knocked on the door twice, harder the second time. When she finally opened it, Marjory had a butcher’s apron wrapped around her body and a smudge of chocolate on her cheek.
If she was surprised to see me, she didn’t show it.
“Jessica, how nice of you to stop by. I don’t get many visitors. You are just in time to try one of my mocha cupcakes with chocolate frosting. Can you do with a cup of tea?”
She was so cordial that knowing my mission would make her uncomfortable gave me a fleeting sense of guilt. Still, my decision had been made, so I panted as if I was seriously out of breath and replied, “I may have overdone my afternoon jog. And who could turn down homemade cupcakes?”
From the moment I walked through the door of the cottage I could smell that homey scent of fresh baked goods that always permeated Lucinda’s kitchen. It seemed the two ladies had more in common than vegetables.
Marjory set two cups with saucers on the table and motioned me to sit. She put a plate of cupcakes within easy reach and followed it with a pot of tea. “I hope you enjoy oolong. It’s my go-to cuppa in the afternoon, a little bolder than green, which is my favorite for evenings,” she said as she filled my cup.
“I never met a cup of tea that I didn’t savor. This smells wonderful.”
Marjory offered milk and lemon and was pleased when I opted for lemon. “I personally believe that milk is only appropriate with black tea, and I’m amazed that so many people pour it in all types of tea. Why, I have even seen people add milk to a cup of white tea, which is far too delicate for any kind of additives. Well, at least that’s my opinion.”
I nodded. “I completely agree. White tea is so mild, a splash of milk could kill it.”
Marjory smiled politely. “Milk kill tea? That is an odd way of putting it. I guess you mystery writers always think in terms of murder and mayhem.”
Flustered, I took a bite of my cupcake, which was delicious. When I said so, Marjory confided that her secret ingredient was the slightest dash of turmeric, sifted twice through
