“Exactly right. What else is in the folder?”
I held up a sheaf of white papers edged in blue. “Receipts for a storage facility. Do you know anything about a storage locker in a place called Seven/Twenty-four Storage?”
Dolores shook her head. “Never heard of it. I guess Willis rented space there.”
“Correction: You and Willis rented space there. Your name is on the most recent receipt.”
“Honestly, Jess, how many secrets did this man have?”
“If Willis was truly keeping secrets, your name wouldn’t be on anything. I am sure over time you will know all there is to know.”
“I guess so, but didn’t he realize that he was going to leave me in a mess?”
“Now, now, Willis didn’t plan it this way. I’m sure that given more time he would have told you”—I gestured toward the file cabinets—“about everything that he kept here.”
“I know, but still . . .” Dolores stood up and stretched. “Anyway, what do you think he kept in storage?”
“There is only one way to find out.”
“Please don’t tell me to ask Norman—you know I can’t abide his slobbering all over me now that Willis . . .” Dolores said.
“Good heavens, that’s the last thing I would suggest. Just because he has a ten percent interest doesn’t mean Willis confided in him.”
“All along I thought Willis and Norman were full partners, fifty-fifty in everything. I wonder if this is their only joint business interest. If so, perhaps I could buy Norman out and be rid of him.”
I didn’t think it would be nearly that simple. I cautioned, “Let’s not make any decisions. I was thinking more along the lines of visiting the storage facility to see what’s in it. We may find answers to any questions you have.”
Dolores stretched again. “Let’s put that on the agenda for tomorrow. Right now I need a nap before dinner.”
“Of course. You must be exhausted. There’s no rush. We can visit the storage locker whenever you are ready. Do you mind if I hold on to these folders?”
“Help yourself. I am going to lock this office up tighter than a drum, so anything you want, get it now.”
Dolores went upstairs, and since I knew exactly how I wanted to use my free time, I headed to the library to ask Elton to be ready to leave for Jessamine House in about twenty minutes. When I got to my room I looked around for a place to conceal the files. For the first time I wished I had a key to lock my door. After failing to find a good hiding spot in the bedroom, I put the files side by side on the bathroom floor and placed the fluffy bath mat on top of them.
True to his word, Elton had the directions to Jessamine House down pat. When we turned into the driveway I could see instantly why Tom was so proud of the house. It was a two-story white clapboard building. Two curved staircases led from the left and right sides of the driveway to a wider set of stairs that ended on a wraparound porch with rocking chairs and garden swings scattered about.
I told Elton I would be no more than half an hour. In response he held up one of his schoolbooks. “Take your time, Mrs. Fletcher. I have plenty to do.”
As I reached the top of the steps Tom Blomquist opened the wide double doors.
“Ah, J. B. Fletcher. We are honored. Welcome to Jessamine House.”
Tom ushered me into the lobby, where several guests were sitting under ceiling fans, their broad leaf blades circling languidly. Candy was moving among them with a teapot in one hand and a pitcher in the other, offering refills.
“Ah, you’re just in time for a mint julep. Or would you prefer tea? Candy,” he called to his wife, “look who is honoring us with her presence, our dear friend the famous author J. B. Fletcher.”
He got precisely the reaction he was looking for. The hotel guests reacted to the word “famous,” skipping entirely over the word “author.” Heads turned as they looked around for whatever movie star or country singer they hoped to see—all except one woman, who nudged the man sitting next to her on a wicker settee. “Harvey,” she said in a stage whisper, “it’s her. The lady who wrote that racing book you loved so much. You know, with the crown in the title.”
She looked at me and raised her voice. “You must remember. You wrote it, didn’t you?”
It wasn’t the first time I’d been asked to identify one of my books for an avid reader. I said, “Are you referring to The Triple Crown Murders?”
“That’s it.” Harvey jumped from his chair and began pumping my hand furiously. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am, a country-fried pleasure.” Then he dropped my hand and went back to huddle with his wife in excited murmurs.
Satisfied that was all the reaction to be had, Tom escorted me to a quiet nook and we sat in catty-corner chairs.
Candy came over with a dainty porcelain teacup and saucer in hand. “It’s good to see you, Jessica. Here. I didn’t think you were the mint julep type, but if I am wrong . . .”
“No, this is absolutely fine. I have to say, Jessamine House is even lovelier than you described it. The outside staircase alone . . .”
“Yes,” Tom said. “The staircase and the large porch are two of our major selling points. Anyone can make rooms look like they’re from the 1800s, but the outside character of a house . . . Well, Jessamine House carries the indelible mark of two-hundred-year-old architecture.”
“Oh yes, it gives exactly that impression.” I took a sip of tea, hoping he would take the conversational lead.
“I’m sorry I didn’t have time to stop and say a proper hello the other day when I dropped off Norman. But we had new guests expected to register. After I drove off, I thought to myself,
