Murder? I made a startled sound, and she eyed me as she chuckled a throaty, wickedly lovely sound. She still had it, the vixenish sex appeal, even at eighty. “Yes, I said murder! Fortunately it was not murder, and the police figured it out. I was having a bit of a tumble with the fellow and was sleeping.” Her smile had died. “The silly lad was cleaning a gun, it went off, and he was badly wounded. He died on the operating table.” Her voice had a sad tone. That was two unfortunate men in her vicinity, I thought. She glanced over at me. “And in case you’re wondering, no, I didn’t murder either one of them, neither Rod nor . . . what was the valet’s name? Peter, I think; yes, Peter something or other.” She sighed. “Wrong place, wrong time, as the kids say. Nigel felt badly for what I was going through, rescued me, and married me. I was so grateful to him. All he wanted was a wife for show, and I played my part exquisitely.”
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