Free A Fatal Feast by Jessica Fletcher Page B

to fathom what was behind the statement. “You mean he’s afraid that you and I might run off together?”
    “He never said that in so many words, but it’s obvious that it’s behind his concerns.”
    “Oh, dear,” I said, sitting back and shaking my head. “Did you say anything to him on that subject?”
    He took a moment before saying, “I was tempted to but decided it was not my place to reassure him.”
    “If you had said something, what would it have been?” I asked.
    He paused again before saying, “A good question, Jessica. Had I been honest, I would have said that the vision of us running off and marrying is, indeed, a pleasant one to contemplate.” He smiled. “But you already knew what my answer would be.”
    I nodded.
    “Of course,” he added, “that doesn’t necessarily reflect what your answer would be—should you be asked, of course.”
    “The truth is, George, it’s a pleasant contemplation for me, too. But we’ve had this conversation before.”
    He held up a hand. “I’m not trying to raise it again, Jessica. But you asked.”
    “And you answered honestly.”
    “I’ve accepted the conclusion we’ve come to, that we are both busy, independent people, who while we obviously have feelings for each other have decided to leave things the way they are in our respective lives, at least for the near future.” A warm smile crossed his lips. “But—you did ask.”
    “I know.” I placed my hand on his on the table. “Maybe one day, George, I’ll see things differently, but for now I just want to enjoy your company in the time you have here.”
    “In other words, as your old adage sums it up, ‘If it isn’t broken, don’t change a thing.’ ”
    “Actually, the saying is: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ ”
    “I know, but Brits always like to correct American English.”
    We both laughed, and the subject changed.
    “Seth said you taught him a few tricks about how to tell when someone is lying,” I said after I’d set out sandwiches for our lunch. We’d decided not to schedule any activities for the afternoon to allow George’s system to catch up to Cabot Cove time.
    “Yes, it’s been quite an education delving into a liar’s psyche.”
    “Tell me one of the rules. Are we talking about body language, or the way someone says something?”
    “Bits of both, actually. I’ll give you an easy one. Be suspicious when someone prefaces what he is saying with an assurance that he’s about to tell the truth. People who lie often begin with statements like, ‘The truth is,’ or, ‘I’ll be honest with you.’ When you hear that, your antennae should go up. He’s either colored the truth already, or is preparing to. Or he may not answer your question directly; he changes the subject altogether.”
    “What else?”
    “Well, body language can be very revealing. One’s eyes may wander to the left when one is making up a story.”
    “Do you think that happens to me when I’m writing?”
    “It very well may.”
    “I’ll try to be aware of that when I work on my book. Tell me more.”
    “It all has to do with the discomfort most people feel telling an untruth. Liars may speak quickly, chatter as it were, touch their face, scratch behind an ear, cover their mouth when they’re not telling the truth. And they often hide their hands.”
    “It all sounds reasonable,” I said, “but that can’t be foolproof.”
    “No, of course not, but when combined with other signs, a faithful picture emerges. Of course, a professional criminal or a pathological liar, one aware of these indicators, can control his movements and defeat the system. For example—”
    The ringing phone ended my lesson. It was Seth reminding me that he’d made dinner reservations for us at a restaurant downtown. Joining us would be Mort and Maureen Metzger.
    I noticed that George had become sleepy, his circadian rhythms out of whack after his long flight from London. I put on the TV for him, where