And although Tom and Candy appeared to care for each other genuinely, it was a wonder that their marriage had endured when both of them kept such dire secrets to themselves.
When we got back to Manning Hall the house smelled like barbecue, and we heard lots of chatter coming from both the kitchen and the dining room. I went to my room and changed into jeans and a comfortable cotton knit shirt. I checked my cell phone one more time but there were no calls or texts. I knew Harry McGraw would do his absolute best for me but I was becoming more anxious. Once Willis’s body was released by the coroner it was likely the sheriff would step up his investigation, and I was afraid Dolores would wind up in the hot seat.
I’d nearly reached the bottom of the stairs when Abby came racing out of the dining room, with Dolores behind her.
“Miss Jessica, you are just in time. Marla Mae says everyone should wash up because dinner will be set out in a very few minutes. And there’s potato salad. Miss Lucinda makes the best potato salad.” And she ran past me up the stairs.
Dinner was outstanding. A delicious fresh beet and asparagus salad preceded the chicken and ribs smothered in tangy barbecue sauce. Dolores had accurately predicted the side dishes of baked beans and potato salad. And just when I thought I couldn’t eat another bite, Lucinda and Marla Mae carried in two trays filled with root beer floats in tall ice cream parlor glasses.
And for the first time since I arrived, it appeared as though everyone was stress free. Norman told a very funny story about how he and his college roommate had wangled an invitation to a sorority picnic and decided to make a potato salad to impress their hostesses.
“We followed the recipe perfectly. Yellow mustard, sweet pickles, hard-boiled eggs, mayonnaise, and what all else. The base, of course, was three pounds of russet potatoes, which we chopped diligently and then mixed with everything else.” Norman looked around the dining table to be sure he had everyone’s undivided attention.
“Then, brash boys that we were, we insisted—insisted, mind you—that each and every young lady at our table taste our wonderful creation. We thought it was a surefire way to gather phone numbers.”
When Norman paused, Clancy jumped in with the obligatory question. “And did it work?”
“Sadly, no. It might have, but we had managed to skip one very crucial step. We didn’t boil the potatoes. They were hard as rocks.”
Amid the roar of adult laughter, Abby said, quite seriously, “I don’t think Miss Lucinda would ever make a mistake like that.”
Dolores gave her a pat on the head. “I’m quite sure she wouldn’t, but Mr. Norman isn’t quite the same caliber of cook.”
We lingered over coffee, and when Norman asked Marla Mae to bring in a bottle of brandy, Dolores excused herself to read to Abby and I took the opportunity to retire to my room for the night.
The first thing I did was text Harry McGraw a Call me message, and when I hadn’t heard from him within a few minutes I put on my pajamas and settled into the comfy blue wing chair with the latest Detective Inspector Vera Stanhope novel by Ann Cleeves. The story was engrossing, but as the clock ticked past midnight even Vera’s adventures on the Northumberland coastline couldn’t keep my eyelids from drooping.
The ping on the phone startled me. I shook off the drowsies, grabbed my cell, and read the text that popped up from Harry. U still up? Give me a call. I couldn’t hit the speed dial button fast enough.
“How’s it shaking, Jessica?”
“Harry, I am so glad to hear from you. Dolores has a lawyer, and he seems pleased with how her case is going, but I am getting more nervous each day. When we first spoke I said I needed a suspect pool of more than just a person or two to take the spotlight off Dolores. But, hard as I’ve tried, none of the evidence I’ve gathered so far is strong enough for me to convince the sheriff to look at someone, anyone, other than Dolores. Please tell me you have something I can use.”
“Well, my IRS contact said that Willis Nickens is the original Mr. Clean. His personal taxes, all of his business taxes—and the guy’s got businesses too numerous to count—everything is squeaky clean. He’s been audited a couple of times, so we know he passed the fine-tooth-comb test. All my ‘connected’ friends say the same thing—tough as nails but never crosses the line.”
“I don’t understand. Why do you think that helps Dolores?”
“Well, maybe it doesn’t help her directly, but it does point out that whoever the killer is, he, or she, is close to home. The odds are that the victim knew his killer in a personal setting, because he didn’t have a business life filled with shady backroom deals and questionable characters.”
I picked up Harry’s idea and added my own view. “And he was killed on his own property, with a houseful of guests, which is hardly the kind of atmosphere conducive to what my students used to call ‘stranger danger,’ is it?”
Harry chuckled. “Hardly, but on the flip side, that spurs the local law to take a real close look at the wife. If the motive is more likely to be personal, who is more personal than a spouse?”
I got a sinking feeling in my chest. “So what you are saying is that my friend Dolores is in deeper trouble than she knows.”
“Not saying that at all. Although she might be. But don’t you get discouraged. After all, if the killer is someone the
