Read Online Coffee, Tea, or Murder? by Jessica Fletcher - Free Book Online

reporter said without hesitation.
    “Yes.”
    She introduced herself as being from a notorious London tabloid. While she did, her photographer sidekick took a succession of photos of me and everyone nearby.
    “I wish you wouldn’t do that,” I said to the photographer, who’d inched toward me and had the lens of his camera only a few feet from my face.
    He moved even closer.
    I turned away.
    Mort intervened, stepping between me and the photographer. “The lady doesn’t want her picture taken,” he said.
    “Who are you?” asked the reporter.
    “Morton Metzger, sheriff of Cabot Cove, Maine.”
    The man and woman looked at each other and shrugged.
    “Come on, Mrs. F.,” Mort said, leading me away from the pair. “Couple ’a ghouls.”
    “Maybe we should go into the dining room,” I suggested.
    “Breakfast is in one of their private rooms,” Mort said. “The hotel changed it because of what happened last night, to give us some privacy.”
    “Good thinking,” Seth said, following Mort, Maureen, and me toward the dining room entrance.
    Followed by a young man and woman George Sutherland came through the front door. As they approached us, the photographer shot more pictures.
    “I see you’re already up and around,” George said to me, leaving his assistants to wave away the press.
    “I couldn’t sleep,” I said.
    “I don’t wonder.” He said hello to the others and introduced his colleagues as part of his special investigative unit at Scotland Yard. He took me aside. “I suggested to the management that you have your breakfast in a private room,” he said.
    “I thought you might have been behind the change,” I said. “Thank you.”
    “It will give me the opportunity to speak with the group en masse. Anything new since I left last night?”
    “No. I stayed for a while with Mrs. Silverton.”
    “And?”
    “She had some interesting things to say, but I’d rather wait to tell you until we have some time alone.”
    “Fair enough. I’ve received a passenger manifest from the airline with the names of those who traveled with you, as well as the crew. I’ll want to do a head count once we’ve gathered.”
    One of the Savoy’s executives came to the dining room entrance to announce that our private room was now open. “We’ll be serving breakfast a little earlier than originally planned,” he said. “I trust this won’t be an inconvenience.”
    We filed into a large, ornate room in which tables had been set with white linens, crystal, and gleaming silverware. A lavish, colorful floral arrangement brightened the center of each table. Four young waiters and waitresses in uniform stood at the room’s perimeter waiting for us to be seated so they could start serving.
    The Cabot Cove group gathered at one of the tables. George asked me to save him a seat, which I did by placing my cardigan over the back of a chair.
    As the room filled, there was the expected buzz about the murder. A lot of attention was directed at me once word got around that I’d been to Stansted Airport with the Scotland Yard inspector assigned to the case. I also caught a snippet of one conversation that questioned my relationship with that inspector, allowing me access to the crime scene.
    George and his two fresh-faced young assistants stood in a corner discussing papers George was holding. A few people got up from their tables and approached him with questions, but he politely waved them off, always with a smile. But I knew that behind his ready, appealing grin were a steely backbone and razor-sharp intellect, both of which could be brought into play on a moment’s notice.
    I took note of who’d arrived, and more important, who hadn’t. Christine Silverton wasn’t there, which was understandable. She’d probably decided to order room service and avoid the pain of the condolences, and questions she’d undoubtedly have to endure. The waitstaff served juices and coffee or tea. It was still earlier than breakfast had