A Deadly Judgment by Jessica Fletcher Page B

conviction in the Brannigan case that he had Ms. Warren killed?”
    “That’s pretty far-fetched,” Rachel said.
    “So’s the notion that Billy might have killed his girlfriend, to say nothing of his ticket out of a life sentence.”
    “We should have a statement ready for the press,” Georgia offered.
    Malcolm looked at me. “How about it, Jessica?”
    “Write a statement?”
    “You’re the only writer here.”
    “I write murder mysteries. Not press releases.”
    “Why not hold an impromptu press conference downstairs?” Rachel suggested. “They’ll be hounding you for a statement anyway.”
    “Make sense?” Malcolm asked me.
    I nodded.
    “Rachel, start writing a motion for a mistrial,” Malcolm said. “Georgia, go downstairs and tell the media vultures to expect a statement in an hour. Jill, can you run an analysis of how each member of the jury is likely to react to Ms. Warren’s death?”
    “I’m doing that now,” she said, her eyes glued to the laptop’s small screen, fingers flying over the keys.
    Ritchie Fleigler called in frequently from the Cape, the last call after a conversation he’d had with the Harwich chief of police, an elderly gentleman named Steven McPartland who’d arrived at Cynthia Warren’s house shortly before I was picked up by Cathy. McPartland was a kindly man. I pointed out the sleeping old dog on the porch, and asked what would happen to him.
    “I’ll take him home with me,” McPartland said without hesitation. “Got an old-timer myself. They’ll get along.”
    “Any leads?” Malcolm asked Ritchie. “Any suspects?”
    His frown indicated that the answer to both questions was negative.
    Rachel Cohen left at six to file the motion for a mistrial.
    Georgia Bobley asked if she could leave, too. “I have a date,” she said, “but I can—”
    “No, you go enjoy your date, young lady. There’s another pretty gal down in Harwichport who won’t be going out on any more dates. Enjoy it while you can.” She left under that ominous cloud.
    Jill Farkas printed out a report on a small ink-jet printer attached to her laptop. Malcolm studied it. “Looks like we chose wrong in a few cases,” he said.
    “Not originally,” she replied, obviously pricked by his criticism. “How could I have forecast the death of our star witness?”
    “Of course you couldn’t,” Malcolm said. “This will be helpful. Go on, get on home. Should be an interesting day in court tomorrow.”
    She left without saying good-bye to me.
    “So, Jessica, here we are.”
    I smiled. “Yes, Malcolm, here we are. I should be running, too. I know you want to get home to Billy and—”
    “In due time. Frankly, as upsetting as this day has been, I’m in the mood for a good dinner. Like French food?”
    “Almost as much as clambakes and corn on the cob. But I’m very tired. The impact of finding Ms. Warren’s body this morning is starting to hit me.”
    “Good French food will help. Come on, there’s an excellent place near here.”
    It was while riding down in the elevator that Malcolm remembered he’d promised to make a statement to the waiting press. They were there in droves, and he talked for twenty minutes. When he was through, they turned to me and started firing questions.
    “Sorry,” Malcolm said. “Mrs. Fletcher has no statement at this time—nor do we have time for questions. Have a pleasant evening.” He took me by the arm and led me through the lobby doors and to the street.
    “Will Brannigan’s bail be revoked?” a reporter yelled after us.
    Malcolm’s response was a wave of his hand.
    “Mrs. Fletcher, you discovered the body this morning,” another reporter shouted. “What was your reaction?”
    Malcolm stopped, turned, and said, “She was obviously delighted and pleased to come upon an unfortunate young woman who’d been butchered. Made her day. Good God, man, where is your sense of decency?”
    The reporters and television cameras followed us to Julien, a