Free Martinis and Mayhem by Jessica Fletcher

went back to the prison and met with Ms. Steffer. We spoke briefly in the Visitor’s Room, and she divulged some interesting facts to me.”
    “Such as?”
    “She mentioned a partner in her husband’s restaurant as being capable of the murder. And she mentioned a stepdaughter, who she believes knows who really killed her husband.”
    “I can see why your interest has been piqued.”
    “I’m not convinced she murdered her husband,” I said.
    “Nor am I.”
    “You aren’t?”
    “No. Kimberly comes from a lovely, close family. Some members of that family paid me a visit at Scotland Yard when Kimberly was charged with her husband’s murder. I listened to their pleas, of course, and was sufficiently impressed to personally look into the case. There wasn’t much I could do. San Francisco is hardly my jurisdiction. But I did try to gather what information was available to me. I called Ms. Steffer’s defense attorney here, even got hold of the prosecutor in the case. The case against her was purely circumstantial. No eyewitnesses. No smoking gun or bloody dagger. A combination of a zealous and skilled prosecuting attorney pitted against what, in my judgment from afar, was a somewhat inept defense attorney.”
    “Did her family give you any tangible information that might help establish her innocence?” I asked.
    He shook his head. Then he leaned closer over the table, not so much because he didn’t want to be overheard, but to emphasize the importance of what he was about to say. “Nothing tangible, Jessica. But I believed her family. Hardly what a veteran, hard-boiled officer of the law should be doing, but I did. Believed them, that is. I vividly remember looking into her father’s eyes and knowing that everything he said about his ‘little girl’ was true. That she was, indeed, a genteel writer of children’s books, incapable of killing anyone. Her father also convinced me of his daughter’s love for this man, Mark, whom she’d married. I found it as inconceivable as did he that his daughter had murdered him.”
    “Sheer instinct on your part,” I said.
    “Yes.”
    “I’ve never considered you to be hard-boiled.”
    “I have my moments. There was some especially gripping testimony from a cabdriver, as I remember, and accounts from several other witnesses.”
    “Some with axes to grind,” I offered. “At least according to Kimberly.”
    “I heard that, too. Scuttlebutt from American colleagues. I received a touching thank-you note from her family for my efforts. It made me want to do something more than make a few phone calls. But my hands were tied. Have you run across the illustrator for her books?”
    “Illustrator? No. You obviously know a lot more about the case than I do. I just got started.”
    “I can’t remember the bloke’s name. He’d had a legal problem with Ms. Steffer sometime before her husband’s murder. It seems he sued her in court here in The States.”
    “Sued her for what?”
    “It came down to, I believe, his claim that she owed him money. I have no idea what the amount was, but it did revolve around a contract that existed between them. Coming back to me now. He alleged that his percentage in their contractual arrangement should have been considerably higher because the books went on to become international best-sellers. He didn’t prevail in that suit. After all, a written agreement is just that. He returned to London after his defeat in your courts.”
    “Was he questioned about the murder?”
    “I don’t know about here, but I contacted him. Ms. Steffer’s family raised his name with me. He didn’t want to meet with me, nor was he obligated to. We had a brief chat on the phone. I always remember his final comment. He said, ‘As far as I’m concerned, Kimberly got what she deserved.’ Or something equally poetic.”
    I shook my head. “I’m confused, George. Why would he murder Mark Steffer?”
    He finished his scotch, said with a shrug, “He wouldn’t