“I hope you’re not suggesting that I murdered her?”
“You done the suggestin’, son. That she was murdered, that is. Everything else points to the lady’s takin’ the hard way out of a jam.”
“You don’t really believe that, do you?”
“Will you excuse me?” Esteban said. “My guests...”
Sheriff Newt Haskins waved a negligent hand.
“Go ahead, Esteban. Call you if I want ya.” To the Saint, after Esteban had gone, he said, “He ain’t much help.”
“Are you sure he couldn’t be if he wanted to?”
“Wa’al—” Newt Haskins shrugged his thin shoulders noncommittally. “Let’s get back to your last question. Nope, I don’t think Mrs Verity shot herself. Seems how good-lookin’ dames like her hate to disfigure themselves. It’s generally gas, or sleepin’ tablets. Still, you can’t say it’s never happened.”
Pat said, “Think of that little evening bag. Lida wouldn’t have carried a gun in that.”
Haskins pulled his long upper lip.