“Where were the children?”
“In bed.”
“I mean at ten-fifteen.”
“That’s when I mean.”
Sellers glanced over at the woman, then looked at me again. “Lam,” he said, “you do get some of the damnedest ideas.”
“Don’t I?”
Sellers said, “Okay, Mrs. Fulton, I hate to rub it in, but just for the record, you could have slipped out of the house, gone down to the KOZY DELL SLUMBER COURT, found your husband down there, made a scene and…”
“Oh, bosh!” she interrupted.
“And that scene,” Sellers went on, “could have been the thing that caused your husband to shoot his sweetheart and commit suicide.”
“Don’t be a sap.”