Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher Read Free Book Online Page B

perfect setting or assembled a more fitting cast of suspects.”
    “This isn’t the time to be discussing fictitious murders, Archie,” Strayhorn, the critic, snapped. “We have a real murder here on our hands, and not only have we lost a treasured friend and colleague, the world has lost the sort of talent that comes along only once in a lifetime.”
    I was tempted to shout, “Bravo!”
    I looked over to where Renée Perry sat hunched in a chair, her sobs soft and steady. Her husband, the patrician Clayton Perry, stood next to her but offered no solace—did not touch her or try to comfort her in any way. My attention then shifted to the table, where Jason Harris casually perched on its comer, his eyes fixed on the high ceiling, a cigarette dangling from his lips.
    I asked, “Did anyone see or hear anything last night?” Everyone shook their heads and said that they hadn’t. Harris did not bother to respond. “Mr. Harris, did you see or hear anything last night?”
    He turned slowly and removed the cigarette from his mouth. The ashes fell to the rug, and he ground them in with his shoe. “No,” he answered.
    Sir James Ferguson sat in a corner of the room shaking his head and muttering over and over, “Can’t be, it just can’t be. It was obviously someone from the household staff. No one in this room would have had any reason to kill Marjorie. Who hires the staff here? Whoever that person is hired Marjorie’s killer.”
    “Not necessarily,” I said. “It could have been”—I took in everyone quickly before ending with—“anyone in the house or, for that matter, someone who entered from outside.”
    “Good point, Mrs. Fletcher. Perhaps we should check for broken glass, footprints in the soft soil outside the windows,” Semple said as he refilled his drink.
    “I think that would be for Inspector Coots to accomplish,” I said.
    “He doesn’t look too swift to me,” William Strayhorn said, “a typical bumbling country copper who’ll undoubtedly muck things up and make it difficult for higher-ups to do their jobs.”
    As much as I agreed with him, I found myself mildly resentful of his characterization of Coots. Our local sheriff back in Cabot Cove, Morton Metzger, would certainly never win awards for investigative brilliance, yet he was a hardworking and competent law enforcement officer. He’d also become a dear friend.
    “I think we should solve this thing ourselves instead of waiting for that inept little man to drag things out,” Semple said. “This was obviously the work of an intruder, a demented one to boot. He enters bent upon thievery, steps into Marjorie’s room, wakes her, and in order to keep her from screaming, rams a dagger into her chest.” This set off an argument among Semple, Strayhorn, and Clayton Perry which, blessedly, came to an abrupt end when Coots and Jane Portelaine returned.
    “Bloody nasty way to go,” Coots said, resuming his stance in the middle of the room. He still held the notebook close to his chest, as though it were a prayer book from which he would deliver a sermon. I noticed something else, however: a gold chain dangling from his fingers glittered in the light from a nearby lamp. I sat forward and squinted to make sure it was what I thought it was. Indeed. My gold pendant, the one Frank had bought for me in a beautiful little jewelry shop in Mayfair. “Excuse me, Inspector Coots, but I believe you have something of mine.”
    He looked at me over his shoulder, a snide grin on his face. “Then you admit it’s yours.”
    I stood. “Admit it? Of course I admit it. Why shouldn’t I?” I quickly explained the origins of the pendant. “Where did you get it?”
    “Beneath the victim’s bed, that’s where.”
    I thought back to having discovered the body and the sound of something metallic being kicked by my slipper. Had I been wearing it when I went to Marjorie’s room in response to the sounds I’d heard? Absolutely not. I never wore jewelry to bed,