Free You Bet Your Life by Jessica Fletcher

stairs to the visitors’ area.
    “Please take a seat. We’ll be bringing up the inmates in a few minutes.”
    We filed into a narrow room with a bank of booths on our left. A glass wall separated them from matching booths on the prisoners’ side. The partitions between the booths were covered in tan carpeting to muffle the sound, and trimmed in the vivid blue I was becoming accustomed to seeing. Stainless-steel disks perched on chrome columns secured to the concrete floor served as stools. Communication through the glass wall was either by telephone or intercom. I chose a booth with a telephone, hoping that device would provide a modicum of privacy.
    Ten minutes later, the first inmate arrived, peering in each booth to find her visitor. One by one, the women took their seats on the cold stools and picked up the telephone receiver or pressed the intercom button. There was a buzz of conversation, not completely concealed by the partitions. Martha was the last one in. She slid onto the seat and lifted the phone, familiar by now with the routine.
    “Jessica, thank you so much for coming. I’m embarrassed to be talking with you in such a place.”
    “Martha, I tried to reach you many times,” I said.
    “I know. Please forgive me. I was so humiliated to be in here, and then so depressed. I didn’t want to see or talk to anyone but my lawyer. God, it’s grim in here.”
    “Are you all right? I mean, do they mistreat you?”
    “No. It’s just that—” She started to weep, sat up straight, drew some deep breaths, and forced a smile at me through the glass. “I’m sorry. I haven’t cried for weeks, but seeing you...” She trailed off.
    “No need to be sorry. Martha. I certainly understand.”
    “I’m so grateful you’re here.”
    “I wish I had something to offer, could say some magic word that would end this nightmare for you.”
    “Yes, that would be wonderful, wouldn’t it? A magic word. I’m afraid there isn’t one. At first I couldn’t believe anyone would think I could murder Victor, could murder anyone. I thought, There must be a mistake. It’s me, little Martha Ames from Canton, Ohio, cheerleader, starring actress in the senior play, then doctor’s wife, widow, and finally married to the most generous man in the world.” She inhaled deeply again. “But there was no mistake. They think I killed Victor. They say I hit him in the head with a wrench. And no one believes me when I say I didn’t, that I wasn’t even there when he died.” She shuddered. “I can’t thank you enough for being here, Jessica. I need your help desperately.”
    “Whatever I can do. You know that.”
    “You believe me when I say that I didn’t kill Victor, don’t you?”
    “Of course I believe you.”
    “Everyone in here claims they’re innocent. The guards think it’s a joke. But I swear to you I didn’t kill him.”
    I nodded. I meant it when I said I believed her. For years I’d known this woman to be a kind and gentle person, certainly not someone capable of murder. But I also had to recognize that I knew virtually nothing of her life since she moved to Las Vegas and married Victor Kildare. My belief in Martha Kildare was based solely upon my faith in her, hardly the sort of thing that would help establish her innocence in a court of law.
    Martha’s smile was rueful as she said, “The silly things we say that come back to haunt us. Can you believe the prosecution put on my hairdresser and manicurist as witnesses today?”
    “Makes you hesitate to talk to anyone. What had happened to make you so angry?” I asked.
    “I’m not sure. Victor and I must have had a fight. We didn’t fight often, but when we did, they could become big blowups. He had a temper and didn’t like to be challenged. I was probably upset with him for leaving me alone so much. That’s what we argued about the most—his business travel. He could be so unreasonable and he was very much the chauvinist. That was a bit of a surprise