Free A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher

having to do with the trial. That is, when Malcolm and the press, allowed me to do that.
    Reporters were everywhere, Malcolm complained a great deal about them, but also seemed to bask in their harsh lights. He also seemed determined to include me in his life, night and day. I managed to avoid accompanying him on most of his nightly sojourns, taking every opportunity to slip away to my sumptuous suite in the Ritz to soak in a hot tub, read a good book, and get to bed early.
    But I couldn’t do it every night without seeming rude.
    Malcolm’s evenings were spent at tables reserved for him in favored watering holes where he held court with friends and cronies, well-wishers, critics, reporters, detractors, politicians, and cab drivers.
    Judging from Malcolm’s schedule during the week, I assumed we’d be working right through the weekend. But to my surprise when court ended Friday afternoon, he announced that our only weekend commitment was a meeting on Saturday afternoon in his office, which he promised wouldn’t last more than an hour. Aside from that, Malcolm urged us to enjoy Saturday and Sunday in order to be fresh on Monday morning.
    The major source of concern at the Saturday meeting was the whereabouts of Cynthia Warren, the young lady from Cape Cod who, according to Billy Brannigan, could provide an alibi for him the night his brother, Jack, was murdered. Ritchie Fleigler, Malcolm’s investigator, said he’d gone to the Cape in search of Ms. Warren but found no one at home.
    “Probably off on a brief vacation,” Rachel Cohen offered.
    “Hell of a time to take a vacation,” Malcolm said. “The faster we get her on the stand once we start our case, the quicker this thing can be wrapped up. Keep after her, Ritchie,” he said. “Unless the prosecution throws us a curve, I don’t see their case going more than a week. I want her ready the minute we take over.”
    I returned to the Ritz-Carlton immediately after the meeting and called Mort Metzger and Seth Hazlitt in Cabot Cove. They’d been reading newspaper articles about the trial and my role in it, and Seth had subscribed to Court TV just to see me on television.
    “I don’t think you’ll see much of me,” I said.
    “‘course I will. They always show the defendant’s reactions. You’ll be sittin’ right there with him, won’t you?”
    “I suppose so.”
    “Boston Globe says you and this professional consultant, Farkas is her name, aren’t getting along too good,” Seth said.
    “That’s not true, Seth. She’s a very nice woman, and knows a great deal.”
    “Well, all I can say, Jessica, is that it still doesn’t make any sense to me to have you selection’ jurors in a murder case. That’s a big burden.”
    “I’m well aware of that,” I said, feeling the weight of it. “I have to go. Mort says I should try to use my influence to keep cameras out of courtrooms.”
    “Did he now? How do you feel about it?”
    “Too early to have an opinion. I suppose I’ll develop one as the trial progresses. Good talking to you, Seth. I’ll stay in touch.”
    I spent the rest of Saturday playing tourist, strolling the crazy-quilt, bumpy brick sidewalks of Beacon Hill, stopping to admire the few remaining authentic “purple panes,” a fluke that occurred when manganese oxide reacted with the sun on glass shipped to Boston in the early nineteenth century to create an unusual lavender color.
    After a stop at Caffe Bella Vita where I sat outside, sipped an espresso, and watched the world go by, I headed to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum in the Kenmore Square/Fenway section and feasted on the works of Botticelli, Manet, and Matisse. My timing was perfect; a classical music concert featuring a local string quartet started at five, and I took it in, allowing the music to wash away the cares of the week.
    The markets of the Italian North End were still open when I arrived, and I ate dinner on the move, a little something from this vendor, something