Free Gin and Daggers by Jessica Fletcher

conversation.”
    “I’ll stay a discreet distance away, behind shrubs, or in disguise.”
    I was adamant in dissuading him, and rode the elevator confident that I had. I locked the door to my suite and closed the drapes, turned on the TV, and caught the tail end of an interview with Inspector Montgomery Coots at his Crumpsworth office. What I heard and saw was enough:
    “... I’ll be spending considerable time in London investigating Miss Ainsworth’s murder. I’ve developed a series of solid leads, and the people of Great Britain can rest assured that whoever did this dastardly thing shall pay for it, and soon. I stake my reputation on it.”
    I didn’t go to bed right away. Instead, I sat up and made a list of everyone who’d been at Ainsworth Manor, and assigned to each of them a motive. When I was finished, and was about to call it a night, I called the hotel operator for any recent messages. Along with more press calls, there was another call from Cabot Cove, this one from Sheriff Morton Metzger. I was tired, but called him back at his office, where it was late afternoon.
    “Jessica, this is Morton.”
    “I know that, Morton. You called.”
    “Yes I did, Jessica. Seth told me he’d talked to you.”
    “That’s right.”
    “Just remember one thing, Jessica. I’m always available in case you need me.”
    “That’s good of you, Morton, but I don’t see what you could—”
    “That fella Ted Koppel from television is going to do a whole program about this, Jessica.”
    “He is?” One of the calls had been from a producer at ABC-TV in New York.
    “Not only that, a paper from New York, the New York Post, has you on its front page. A real rag, if you ask me, but the people who wrote the story almost say flat out that you were the killer. Now, I know that—”
    “Morton, nothing can be done about such reporting. I didn’t kill anyone, especially my friend Marjorie Ainsworth. I’m exhausted, and am about to go to bed. I really appreciate your concern, but—”
    “Just remember what I said, Jessica, about bein’ ready to help. I got a book out o’ the library today about the British justice system. If you need me over there, I’ll be prepared. I got vacation coming and—”
    “Thank you, Morton. Good night. Please give my best to everyone.”
    I gently replaced the phone in its cradle. They were all such good people back in Cabot Cove, true friends I could count on. But as I got under the covers and turned out the light, I knew that whatever was to happen over the ensuing days would be very much my problem, and mine alone. That was not a particularly comforting thought with which to go to sleep, but it was the best I could do.

Chapter Seven
    I woke early, threw back the drapes, and allowed a burst of sunshine to enter the suite, hoping it was symbolic of what the day would be like.
    The early morning news on BBC Radio brought me back to reality. Funeral plans had been announced for Marjorie Ainsworth. The service would be. held on Tuesday in a small church in Crumpsworth, at Marjorie’s request. The announcement was made by Janet Portelaine. I was to give my keynote address to ISMW the night of the funeral.
    I took a long, leisurely shower, enjoyed the toast and coffee I’d ordered through room service, and dressed in a camel’s-hair skirt, white button-down blouse, heather sweater, and brown tweed sport jacket and made sure I wore sensible walking shoes.
    I was about to leave the room when I remembered that the press was laying siege. I called my assistant manager friend, and was assured that he could spirit me from the hotel through a rear entrance that few people, including veteran members of the London press, knew about. Ten minutes later he had me two blocks away and was helping me into a taxi.
    I was pleased that Maria Giacona had suggested Hyde Park instead of breakfast in the hotel. I’d wanted to spend Sunday morning at Speakers’ Corner anyway, and this would allow me to indulge