“Well, I don’t know if it will help, but when I get the chance I’ll have a word with Dolores.”
Marla Mae perked up. “That’s mighty kind. Thank you, ma’am. Will there be anything else?”
I shook my head and she retreated out the door. I pulled a light blue wing chair away from the wall and turned it to the window so I could enjoy the view of the crepe myrtle trees while I sipped my tea. I did wonder how much influence Dolores would actually have on Willis’s decision to fire Marla Mae. And how much influence she had on any of his decision-making. I got the impression he was a strong-willed man.
The tea was a full-flavored Earl Grey. I hoped a cup or two would give me the oomph I needed to finish unpacking and to shower and change. I had never heard of benne wafers, and I couldn’t resist trying one. It was light and oh so crisp. The sesame seed flavor was strong but not overpowering. Altogether delicious. After a few sips of tea and nibbles of the cookies, I felt so relaxed in the comfy chair that I decided it would be a good idea to “rest my eyes” for a few minutes.
It was well past five o’clock when I woke. Panic-stricken, I ran for the shower. I thanked my lucky stars that I’d brought my favorite little black dress with me. The stretchy lyocell fabric traveled miraculously well. Fold, unfold, hang, and fold again. No matter how badly I treated it, the dress managed to look as though it had just returned from the dry cleaner. I dropped it over my head, adjusted the jeweled neckline, and smoothed the fit-and-flare skirt, and after applying a touch of lipstick, I was ready to go.
Hurrying down the staircase, I checked my watch. Ten after six. Not bad for someone who had been dead asleep less than an hour ago. The murmur of conversation floated through the foyer. I followed the sound of voices past what appeared to be a library and into a fastidiously designed living room. At least half a dozen Edwardian-style chairs covered with beige and tan prints and several rose-colored floral settees were scattered about the room. Two extra-long sofas covered in hunter green damask were facing each other on either side of a white brick fireplace. An elaborate chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling was a larger version of the wall sconces affixed above the oil paintings that lined the walls. The enormous portraits of stern-looking gentlemen who’d been dead for more than a hundred years added a somber air to the room.
I had always admired Dolores’s confident flair when it came to wardrobe choices, and tonight was no different. She was resplendent in a pair of black and gold harem pants and a black off-the-shoulder knit top. Her ubiquitous gold bracelets completed the outfit.
“Here is our guest of honor.” She took me by the arm. “Jessica, come meet our charming neighbors.”
A short, slim man dressed in a white dinner jacket and a black bow tie stood and immediately bowed at the waist. “Ah, J. B. Fletcher. Tom Blomquist here, and I must confess to being a huge fan.” He faltered for a second. “I am not sure it is appropriate to ‘confess’ to a mystery writer. I’m afraid I would wind up a killer in your next book.”
I laughed politely as if I had not received a thousand similar comments over the years.
Evidently he didn’t expect more of a response, because he charged on. “I got hooked on The Corpse Danced at Midnight while I was on a red-eye flight coming home from the West Coast many years ago. I have been reading your delightful, artfully challenging mysteries ever since.”
After I thanked him for the compliment, he said, “Ah, let me present my wife, Candy, and believe me when I say she is every bit as sweet as her name.”
I did hear him say “sweet,” but the Candy sitting on the couch was a pinched, sour-looking woman with drab brown hair pulled back into a severe bun. A voluminous black dress with a gray crochet collar did nothing to brighten her. She scarcely raised her eyes, only sort of nodded and almost smiled. She put her sherry glass on the mahogany end table, started to reach out a hand toward me, thought better of it, and picked up the glass again. I suspected she was the type of person who had trouble deciding between poached and boiled when it came to breakfast eggs.
Dolores beckoned a gray-haired woman sitting stiffly on the sofa on the far side of the fireplace. “Marjory, come meet Jessica.”
The woman stood, pulled her hands from the pockets of her midnight blue blazer, and looked down at me. At five feet eight inches I am not used to women who are half a head taller than I am. She moved to the edge of the glass-topped coffee table and reached her hand across. “How do you do? I’m Marjory Ribault.”
“How nice to meet you,” I replied.
Candy Blomquist cleared her throat and spoke just above a whisper. “Mrs. Fletcher, you really must admire Marjory. It has to be extremely difficult for her to be a guest in what was her own home from the day she was born until very recently.”
Marjory glared at Candy, a definite signal that she should stop talking, but Candy took no notice and continued. “Personally, I commend you, Marjory. But, of course, since your dear little cottage is on Manning Hall property, I suppose you are obliged to be social with the landlord.”
A bitter laugh exploded into the room. Framed by the doorway, Willis Nickens sported the sort of smile I’d seen on gamblers’ faces when they’d won a sure bet. Gleeful, with a side of smirk. Marjory pressed her lips together forcefully. She appeared to be desperately struggling for control.
Willis turned his attention to Candy,
