In the hot seat
The temperature of the mud bath continued to rise, and I realized it was reaching a dangerous point. My flesh was on fire, and my head pounded.
“Could you make the mud cooler?” I asked.
“That’s not possible,” she said. Her bitter, angry expression said she had no intention of doing that, and it occurred to me that she was the one who had turned up the temperature.
“I have to get out now,” I said, attempting to sit up, but the mud blanket was too heavy. Mary Jane placed her hands--strong hands--through the mud on my shoulders, holding me down. “Let me up!” I snapped. “I’ve had enough.”
“What do you know about Louis’ death?” she hissed, continuing the pressure on my shoulders.”
“Nothing, just that he was murdered.” I now yelled, “Let me out, damn it!”
If she pushed down any more, I would drown in the boiling mud, and there wasn’t a thing I could do about it…
Copyright © 2001 by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
