“Dolores, you and I have a lot of work to do. This isn’t a television detective show. This is your life. Now, come into the dining room and tell me what you discussed with Mr. McGuire.”
Chapter Twenty-one
Dolores looked at the papers spread on the dining room table. “What’s all this?”
“I’ll explain in a minute, but first tell me what Mr. McGuire said.” I was extremely curious how he had handled the interview.
“Well, the first thing he asked me was whether or not I had murdered Willis. Can you imagine? He said he was bound by law, that everything I told him was in complete confidence, and then he asked, straight-out, if I killed Willis. I started to cry and almost walked out of the room.
“He reminded me that he was not accusing me of anything but needed to know the truth so we could mount the best possible defense should it come to that.”
I nodded. “Yes, that is standard lawyer talk. I write sentences like that in my books all the time.”
“Once I told him that I didn’t kill Willis and I have no idea who did, he shifted his focus and asked if I knew anyone who had reason to want Willis out of the way—permanently.” Dolores spread her palms open wide. “I couldn’t think of a soul. I mean, sometimes Willis was cranky, but who would kill him for that?”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her that kind of murder happens more often than she could imagine. “What else did Mr. McGuire say?”
“You already heard the rest. He repeated what he told us on the phone—I shouldn’t talk to anyone without him present, that kind of thing. So now, tell me, what is all this?” Dolores waved her hand across the table, causing a few papers to flutter.
I picked up the folder. “These papers are the contents of this folder that I found in Willis’s file cabinet. As you can see it is titled ‘Norman’s Screwups.’ I have tried to organize it, but so far most of it doesn’t make any sense. There are papers about companies that seem not to exist. And here”—I picked up the letter from Coliseum Investments—“is a letter that mentions Clancy.”
“This doesn’t make any sense.” Dolores shook her head. “As far as I know Clancy has nothing to do with any of Willis’s business ventures. Maybe Mr. Holmes will know.”
I phrased my next question carefully. “Dolores, do you have any idea how Clancy earns a living?”
“Honestly? I’m not sure. I know he owns a musty antique shop that belonged to his grandfather. Not furniture. Small items, like tableware, men’s pipes, and tin lunch boxes from the 1950s—that sort of thing. He buys and sells through a few websites.”
“Do you think he makes enough selling antiques to support himself and Abby?”
“Who knows? He inherited the house they live in from Emily. It was a wedding present from Willis, so Clancy owns it free and clear. And although he didn’t receive the contents of Emily’s trust fund, he did get odds and ends of investments she owned. Then there is Abby’s trust.”
“From what I overheard Willis say, we know Clancy had access to the trust, but we have no idea how that all works.” I realized that was another question for Marcus Holmes, who, unfortunately, had already shown reluctance to talk to Dolores as long as she was a person of interest.
I started to gather up the papers and put them back in the folder. “Dolores, do you feel up to going to the storage locker today?”
“Jess, after speaking with Mr. McGuire, I believe you are absolutely right. We have to find out if someone else, anyone else, had a reason to kill Willis. We need to create what he called a suspect pool. Mr. McGuire told me that a jury would consider Willis’s financial assets to be my motive and that no one in the world has ever thought being alone and asleep could be considered any sort of an alibi. When he put it like that . . . So, yes. By all means, let’s see what is in that locker.”
* * *
We were in the Escalade less than fifteen minutes before Elton pulled into the parking lot of the storage facility. A cheery white and yellow customer service counter was inside, to the left of the front door. On the countertop was an old-fashioned call bell next to a sign that read PLEASE TAP ONLY ONCE FOR HELP.
Dolores elbowed me and said, “How many customers couldn’t resist the urge to hit the bell with a tap-tap-tap-tap-tap-tap before they put up the sign?”
I hit the bell once. “Well, for us one tap will do.”
A middle-aged woman with a pen stuck in the grayish brown bun at the nape of her neck came through a door next to the file cabinets. She wore a yellow and white striped jacket that matched the wallpaper behind the counter. Her name tag identified her as Sue Ellen.
“Welcome to Seven/Twenty-four. How can I help y’all?”
Dolores pulled the latest receipt from her purse. “My husband and I have a storage space here. I’d like to access it, please.”
Sue Ellen took the receipt and tapped a few keys on the computer. “That would be one of the big lockers—room number 124. Your husband’s been in now and again but I see this is your first visit. I hope you find the space to your liking. It’s one of the best we have. May I see your driver’s license?”
Dolores passed her license over the counter, and Sue Ellen pushed it through a slot in a small gadget next to the computer.
“There you go, ma’am. Now we have your license attached
