“How can you even think—?” Clancy blustered.
“I’m sure that redheaded tart you’ve been wining and dining would be surprised to learn it is your nine-year-old daughter who is footing the bill.”
“Are you having me followed? Are you spying on me? You sick son of a—”
“Hold your tongue, boy. Now get out of my office before I throw you out of my house.”
I ran to the library door and slipped inside just as I heard Clancy slam the office door behind him. He clomped up the stairs, muttering to himself.
I could only imagine how uncomfortable breakfast was going to be.
I wondered if Dolores knew anything about Willis’s plan. He seemed more than capable of doing as he pleased without consulting with her at all. How would she feel about being trustee for Abby if it caused a problem with Clancy? Suppose Clancy decided to create a rift between Dolores and the child? When all was said and done he was the custodial parent, the only parent.
All those questions were making my head hurt. They could wait until morning. Now was the time to find a peaceful book to read. I was grateful that moonlight was streaming through the French doors. It gave me just enough light to read the titles on the spines of some of the hundreds of books filling the floor-to-ceiling shelves. Poetry! There it was, right in front of me, the poetry section, alphabetically arranged. Maya Angelou, E. E. Cummings, Emily Dickinson. I reached for The Poetry of Robert Frost, a collection with so many reminders of New England that it was sure to transport my mind to Cabot Cove and home. What better way to relax?
I peeked into the foyer. Willis’s office door was still shut and there wasn’t a sound anywhere in the house. I tiptoed upstairs, clutching the heavy volume of Frost’s work, confident that a few minutes reading New England poems would lead me to an excellent night’s sleep.
* * *
Sunlight brushed the dreams of woods and snowy winter nights from my mind and I woke up with a start. Then I looked around and realized that I was in South Carolina in spring, not home in Maine in winter. I stretched my arms toward the ceiling and thought about how Robert Frost was able to relax me with only a few verses of his poetry. I jumped out of bed, and touched my toes ten times. The clock on the night table read six thirty-five; I had plenty of time for a run before breakfast. I put on my navy blue sweat suit and my Nike Air Zooms, filled my water bottle from the pitcher Marla Mae had left the night before, and tiptoed down the stairs and out of the house without disturbing a soul.
There was not so much as a whisper of a cloud in the sky, and the scent of fresh dew on the grass was invigorating. I stood on the veranda and took a couple of deep breaths. I’d already decided that I would save exploring until I was more familiar with the property. The smartest run for me this morning would be along the driveway and back.
I walked a few yards and then began a slow jog. Farther along I picked up my pace and decided that as soon as I could see the koi pond, I would sprint to it. A little high-intensity interval training would get my blood pumping. Then I’d take a light jog from there to the gate and back to the house. I kept my eye on the side of the road, waiting for the koi pond to come into view. As soon as it did I saw a problem. What appeared to be a huge black fifty-gallon garbage bag bulging with trash was lying at the edge of the pond. I supposed it could have fallen off a collection truck, or perhaps the gardener’s truck. Dolores was going to be upset over the mess.
When I got closer, the shape of the large bundle became clearer. It was far worse than a bag filled with trash. I stopped in my tracks and took my cell phone out of my pocket.
Cautiously, I walked down the driveway. The nearer I got, the surer I was that what had looked like a garbage bag from a distance was actually the lifeless body of a man dressed in black, with the tail of a bright red and orange koi fish slapping against his shoulder.
It took only a few more steps for me to see that the man was Willis Nickens.
Chapter Four
I tapped 911 on my phone, and when the dispatcher answered I said, “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I am calling to report a death at Manning Hall.” Then I realized I had no idea what the street address was. “I don’t know the address.”
The dispatcher was a calm young woman with a soft Southern accent. “Don’t worry about it, ma’am. I got your phone location right on my screen. We’ll send someone out to you immediately. Are you alone with the deceased?”
“Well, yes and no. I’m on the driveway and the deceased is partly in the koi pond. There are other people in the house but I don’t think anyone is awake yet.” I was sure I sounded as confused as I felt.
“Did you hit the deceased with your car, ma’am?”
“Oh heavens, no. I don’t own a car. I don’t even have a driver’s license. I was out for a run and just happened to
