By Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher
Jessica Fletcher is within the Berkshires attending a writers’ convention at a ancient mansion the place her associates the Savoys are internet hosting a murder-mystery occasion. As either a criminal offense solver and a secret writer, Jessica is an outdated hand at this type of factor. So she swears to the Savoys that she won’t demonstrate the secrets and techniques in their play and is going approximately having fun with the weekend together with her colleagues.
But whilst a tender actor’s homicide scene appears to be like all too actual, nobody can inform what’s scripted and what isn’t. they are saying the express needs to pass on, yet everyone seems to be pondering: Who rather dunit?
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Extra resources for A Question of Murder (Murder, She Wrote, Book 25)
I perceived the yellow beaks, the bulging eyelids of two tiny larks, and the blue lines of their wing quills. The indefinite movement was the swift rise and fall of the brown fledged backs, over which waved long strands of fine down. The two little specks of birds lay side by side, beak to beak, their tiny bodies rising and falling in quick unison. I gently put down my fingers to touch them; they were warm; gratifying to find them warm, in the midst of so much cold and wet. I became curiously absorbed in them, as an eddy of wind stirred the strands of down.
They were lying deeper in the wood, where the fern was highest. He did not reply, for it was pleasant to lie stretched thus and to gaze up through bracken fronds at the distant treetops and the pale blue sky, and feel the exquisite pleasure fade. " Propped on his elbows, the young man looked down anxiously. All his roughness and pertness had gone, and he only wanted to know whether he had been a success. "Yes ... " "Lovely? " He beamed, prodding gently with his stomach. " Conway guessed that he was vain, the better sort often are, and laid on the flattery thick to please him, praised his comeliness, his thrusting thrashing strength; there was plenty to praise.
He began to play with the dog, and directly they were rolling on the fine turf, the laughing, expostulating, naked man and the excited dog, who thrust his great head onto the man's face, licking, and, when flung away, rushed forward again, snapping playfully at the naked arms and breasts. At last George lay back, laughing and panting, holding Trip by the two forefeet, which were planted on his breast, while the dog, also panting, reached forward his head for a flickering lick at the throat pressed back on the grass, and the mouth thrown back out of reach.
A Question of Murder (Murder, She Wrote, Book 25) by Donald Bain, Jessica Fletcher