Coffee, Tea, or Murder? by Jessica Fletcher

gaiety.
    “So, Jess, come on now, fill us in on what’s going on with Wayne’s murder,” Maureen said.
    “I really don’t know much,” I said.
    Their expressions said they weren’t buying it.
    “No, I mean that,” I said. “Obviously, everyone who was on the flight is a suspect. I don’t think George is considering the possibility that it might have been someone who just happened upon Wayne while he sat in the plane. It had to be someone who knew him, and that includes all of us.”
    “I didn’t do it,” Jim Shevlin quipped, his hands to his heart.
    “Oh, stop it, Jim,” his wife, Susan, said. “It’s nothing to make light of.”
    “I’m not making light of anything, but if we’re all suspects, we have an obligation to declare our innocence. Isn’t that right, Sheriff?”
    “There’s no need for anyone at this table to declare anything,” Mort said. “We know none of us killed Silverton. But I have some thoughts about it that I bet Inspector Sutherland will want to hear.”
    We waited for him to elaborate. When he didn’t, Seth said, “Seems if you’re goin’ to make a statement like that, Mort, the least you can do is tell us what in the devil you meant.”
    Mort sat back, a satisfied expression on his broad face. “I’d best leave it for the inspector,” he said. “You know, talk shop with somebody who’ll understand what I’m saying.”
    I had to smile. I knew that Mort was somewhat envious of George Sutherland’s position in Scotland Yard. George investigated major cases, not only in the United Kingdom but in cities around the world. When in his company, Mort sometimes felt the need to puff himself up. It was silly of him to feel that way. He was a fine sheriff with a solid history in law enforcement, including a stint in New York City, one of the toughest places on earth to effectively police. But I suppose there was a glamour associated with Scotland Yard, and George certainly cut a dramatic figure. I could have pressed Mort for what he was thinking, but decided against it. If he felt he should disclose his thoughts on the murder only to George—lawman to lawman—then so be it. But I have to admit I was curious, and knowing Mort as I do, I was confident that he’d eventually reveal his thinking to me, too.
    It didn’t take too long for that to occur. After lunch, we went to the lobby to say good-bye to Sally Bulloch. As we waited for her to come from her office, Mort confided in me.
    “The way I figure it, Mrs. F.,” he said, his voice low so the others couldn’t hear, “is that Wayne was killed by a woman.”
    “And why do you say that, Mort?”
    “Just makes sense, that’s all,” he replied. “Think about it. Here’s this handsome rich guy who owns an airline. Must have had plenty of women in his life before—and maybe even during—his marriage to Christine. I don’t know whether you caught the way he looked at the stewardesses on the flight.”
    “The flight attendants?”
    “Right, flight attendants. Got to be politically correct. Well, he had the roving eye of a guy who’s used to beautiful women falling all over him. Make sense?”
    “Yes, it does, although a knife is not statistically the weapon of choice for a woman.”
    “Plenty of wives have used a knife to get rid of a philandering or abusive husband.”
    “You’re right,” I said. “No one should be ruled out based upon statistics. Do you have someone specific in mind?”
    “Nope. But I’ll pass along my theory to George.”
    “And I’m sure he’ll appreciate every bit of input he can get, especially from a fellow lawman.”
    “That’s what I figured, too.”
    After thanking Sally for her hospitality, we moved to the street where a tall, charming doorman in a fancy uniform opened the door to the limo that waited for us. We got in, and the driver headed for the Old Bailey, a more familiar name for London’s Central Criminal Court. While my thoughts were on the meeting we’d have with one