Gin and Daggers

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And special gratitude to an editor’s editor, Ellen Edwards; agent and friend for thirty-five years, Ted Chichak; treasured friends Phyllis James, Rosemary Goad, and Craig and Jill Thomas; the ebullient Sally Bulloch of London’s superb Athenaeum Hotel & Apartments; the entire crew of that grand lady, the QE2; and, of course, my collaborator, Jessica Fletcher.

“Care to take a closer look, Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Well, I suppose so,” I said.

“Hold on, then, here we go.”

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. I reached over and touched him on the arm. “Please, maybe we shouldn’t…”

He banked the Cessna 310 into a tight turn, forcing me back against my seat. “There it is, Mrs. Fletcher, right down there in that clump o’ trees.”

My eyes were closed. I forced them open and looked in the direction his finger was pointed until I spotted my home in Cabot Cove.

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