The minute I walked into Sweet Nothings I knew I was going to kill Mary Alice Allbright. The fact that she was my best friend made it all the easier. Even if everyone in the crowded café witnessed it, even if the deed itself was caught on video, I’d never do time.
It was that whole jury of your peers loophole. And you’d best believe I’d be a stickler about “my” peers. Twelve forty-year-old women who’d penned their signatures to divorce papers not once, not twice, but three times. A dozen women who’d rather burn out their retinas staring into a solar eclipse than catch a fleeting glimpse of their backside in a full-length mirror. Twelve women whose best friends talked them into twenty-five blind dates over the course of two and a half hours under the guise of charity. That jury wouldn’t find me guilty of murder. That jury would cheer me on in the courtroom, erect statues in my honor, and forever hold February 2 in their hearts as Liesl Alan Day.
Of course there was a hitch---finding a dozen women who fit the primary criteria and then some. They also had to teach geology and live at their mother’s inn with ten of the most maddening people imaginable. Not that the list ended there, but I’d come to the realization that without those twelve pivotal women in my corner, I’d hang, get the chair, or whatever it was we did here in New Hampshire.
A shiver shot along my spine as I contemplated the state’s penal code. What was to stop them from sentencing me to life on a chain gang? Jailbird stripes and Day-glo orange jumpsuits hardly flattered an hourglass figure.