Why not? She looks athletic. There are good muscles under that soft golden skin. She might have been sniping revenooers in the mountains of Kentucky since she was five years old, for all you know. What makes you so sure what she could do and couldn’t do?
Well, what were Angelo and his pal, and Louis the Italian chef, doing at the same time? You can’t rule them out.
Any good reader would rule them out. The mysterious murderer just doesn’t turn out to be the cook or the butler any more. That was worked to death twenty years ago.
So of course no cook or butler in real life would ever dream of murdering anyone anymore, because they’d know it was just too corny.
“What’s the matter with you all?” Lissa asked. “Wasn’t the ride any good?”
“It was fine,” said the Saint. “Except when your last night’s boyfriend started shooting at Freddie.”
Then they all began to talk at once.
It was Freddie, of course, who finally got the floor... He did it principally by saying the same things louder and oftener than anyone else. When the competition had been crushed he told the story again, challenging different people to substantiate his statements one by one. He was thus able to leave a definite impression that he had been walking up the canyon when somebody shot at him.
Simon signalled a waiter for another round of drinks and put himself into a self-preservative trance until the peak of the verbal flood had passed. He wondered whether he should ask Freddie for another thousand dollars. He felt that he was definitely earning his salary as he went along.
“...Then that proves it must be one of the servants,” Lissa said. “So if we can find out which of them went out this afternoon—”