You write murder mysteries, and solve ’em, too. “Maybe you’re not the best one to make a judgment about it, Jess.
“I’ve been refinin’ it forever.” Mort looked at me. “It just needs some more refinement, Mort, that’s all.” Seth patted our sheriff and friend, Morton Metzger, on the back. The art collector certainly had a motive, too, but it had to be the brother, and that’s the problem with the whole case.” The initial clues pointed clearly-too clearly, I think-to the Oriental woman who owned the shop, but then I learned-and it really was made too easy for me-that the letter opener used to kill Marc Silbert was missing from the ornate holder in which it usually sat. “How did you identify the murderer so fast, Jessica?” Mort asked as we sat in Seth’s living room. “Really? I hope they make more sense than the last batch. He says he’s come up with some new clues.” “It must be the light.” He didn’t know how rubbery my legs were. “You all right, Jess?” he asked as we walked away from the plane. Seth Hazlitt, my good friend from Cabot Cove, was waiting for me at the airport. I’d offered to drive, but the station had insisted upon flying me in. Jed had flown me to Bangor, where I’d been interviewed on a local television station about the publication of my latest novel. Fletcher,” he said, laughing and bringing the aircraft back to a straight-and-level attitude. His name was Jed Richardson, and he operated Jed’s Flying Service out of our small airport.
“There’s the firehouse,” he said, guiding the small aircraft down closer to the trees. I forced them open and looked in the direction his finger was pointed until I spotted my home in Cabot Cove. Fletcher, right down there in that clump o’ trees.” He banked the Cessna 310 into a tight turn, forcing me back against my seat. I reached over and touched him on the arm. My heart, which had been nestled securely in its usual place, now moved up to my throat and lodged there, beating as though a crazed bass drum player were doing a paradiddle on it.
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