Murder by the Book by Frances and Richard Lockridge

died. Mrs. Coleman filed a civil suit, charging malpractice. Came up last fall—”
    â€œI remember,” Jerry said. “Didn’t remember the names. Jury found for the doctor and the judge—”
    â€œLambasted Mrs. Coleman,” Jefferson said. “That’s it. Made an example of her, as they say. Embarrassing to the lady. That was—let’s see.” He looked at notes to see. “October,” he said. “In December, Mrs. Coleman had what they call a nervous breakdown.”
    He looked at Mr. North. He looked at Mrs. North.
    â€œYou’ve met this Mrs. Payne,” he said. “What kind of a woman is she? Kind that might—fly off the handle?”
    The Norths looked at each other. There was, Pam thought, a bit more to this tall and tanned youngish man—this youthfully handsome, youthfully open-faced young man—than met the eye. He was a young man with a pump. Their minds were, he hoped, wells. If we’re going to say no soap, Jerry thought, this is the time to say it.
    â€œShe’s very shy,” Pam said. “Afraid she’ll be—hurt. Ridiculed. Laughed at. Antagonistic. I don’t think it’s more than—”
    â€œNot very well balanced?” Deputy Sheriff Jefferson suggested.
    How does one balance a person? A person met, so briefly, during a game? A person who said “Sorry,” too often; who said little else?
    â€œYou see what I’m getting at,” Jefferson said. “You say she’s afraid she’ll be ridiculed. Her mother was, pretty openly. Then her mother had this breakdown. Apparently, now Mrs. Payne’s having some sort of trouble with her husband. If—say she’s a little off her rocker—like her mother is maybe—”
    â€œI don’t think that at all,” Pam said. “Do you, Jerry?”
    There was still time to say he was sitting it out. Not as much time as there had been. A little time.
    â€œIf you mean,” Jerry North said, “do I think she’s got a persecution neurosis, I’m not a psychiatrist. But—
    â€œBut,” Jerry said, “she did seem very tense. Very tied up inside. So tied up inside, so knotted up, that she thinks everything is against her, everybody against her. I don’t know what a psychiatrist would call it.”
    â€œYeah,” Jefferson said. “She could narrow it down, couldn’t she? Figure everything had fallen apart, that the world had it in for her, and blame it all on Piersal? Looneys get funny notions. Do funny things. After all, she maybe thinks Piersal killed her father. It was because of Piersal that this judge chewed her mother out in public. And then her mother cracks up and—”
    â€œIf people cracked up from being criticized openly,” Pam said, “half of Jerry’s authors—”
    â€œNot half,” Jerry said. “We get some damned good notices.”
    Jefferson looked at them and blinked slightly.
    â€œI don’t know what made her crack up,” Jefferson said. “Maybe she’s thinner-skinned than an author, Mrs. North. Anyway, it’s what Mrs. Payne might think, isn’t it? True or not. Take her father. He died of something—I don’t know what—that Piersal diagnosed correctly and treated properly. That’s what’s true, apparently. But his wife didn’t think so, and maybe his daughter doesn’t.” He sighed. “What we get down here,” he said, “are mostly simple ones. Man kills his girl friend. Or the other way around.” He sighed again, nostalgic for simple, familiar things, like lovers who bashed one another.
    â€œAnd,” Jerry said, “she followed Piersal down here and stuck a knife in him? Because she blames him for her father’s death and what’s happened to her mother?”
    â€œCould be,” Jefferson said. “Could be she didn’t know he was going to be here