This time, Sybil’s applause was joined by a scattering of others.
“I am pleased to announce today that the Worrell Mansion has been sold to the Corcoran Group, an investment banking group based in Boston.”
There were groans, and a few boos.
Worrell held up his hands and gave another small smile. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But hear me out. The Corcoran Group is a prestigious and community-conscious organization. Its development record in Boston is pristine, and worthy of civic pride. I did not sell the mansion to the Corcoran Group without attaching strings. There will be no condos, no shopping malls. The sale assures that my family’s residence will become a retreat for writers, artists, and musicians.”
I sat in the rear of the room because I’d arrived a few minutes late. My friends, Seth and Mort, were up front. The expressions on most faces were disbelief and dismay. The gap between Jared Worrell and his audience was wide. As far as he was concerned, keeping Worrell Mansion from becoming a mall or housing development was worthy of a standing ovation. From the perspective of the Cabot Cove citizens who crowded the room, anything short of the status quo was a blow. The mansion was being sold. A retreat for artists and writers? What did that mean?
“For those of you who are skeptical of what I’ve just announced, let me elaborate, and put you at ease. The Worrell Institute for Creativity, which will be its official name, will become a sanctuary where writers and artists can come for inspiration, in much the same way this great estate’s solace and beauty has inspired many of you through the years. It will attract great writers and artists, as well as fledgling writers and artists who might one day be great.
“Many of its rooms will be converted into guest rooms and suites. The conference center will be used in much the same capacity it has for decades, a setting for seminars, workshops, and other creative endeavors. There will also be, I understand, numerous functions each year to which you, the public, will be invited, indeed urged to attend. While the institute will be privately owned, it is the desire of the Corcoran people that it be an interactive facility with the good citizens of this community.”
“How do we interact with a bunch ’a weirdo writers?” one of our crusty citizens tossed at Worrell.
Worrell laughed gently. “I promise you’ll have the opportunity to ask questions when I’ve completed my statement.”
He continued: “The eighty acres of land that surround the mansion will be preserved just as it is. That is to say, there won’t be any development of it. The land and gardens will be used by those in residence for walks and inspiration. I can envision writers choosing to bring their laptop computers into the gardens, perhaps to sit under a tree and create great novels and poems.” He laughed, alone. “I have no idea how writers work, but I do know that they need inspiration. I believe that this magnificent place that was once the home of my family, and that has played such an important part in your lives, will be revived into a vital cultural center, a place of inspiration for the men and women who create our works of art, and for each of you as you claim, with pride, that Cabot Cove has become a revered and international cultural city. That concludes my prepared statement. I have time for a few questions.” He glanced at two men and a woman who stood at the side of the room. The woman pointed to her watch. Worrell nodded.
“What about the playground?”
“Yes. What about the children of Cabot Cove?” shouted a thirtyish woman in the front row, whose loud, offensive voice was well-known to all of us. Her question was met with applause, and a chorus of “Hear! Hear!”
Jared took another sip of water and smacked his lips. “Let me just say that all the specifics haven’t been worked out yet. However, as a parent, I know the importance of parks and playgrounds, and I have made that known to the Corcoran Group. I’m confident that even though existing playgrounds might have to be moved, room will be found on the property for a new playground, larger and better equipped than the current one.”
An elderly gentleman stood. Walter was a retired physics teacher at our local community college. His voice was deep and resonant. “Mr. Worrell,” he intoned, “it is my understanding that at these type of writers’ retreats, a lot more sex goes on than writing.”
A few uncertain snickers circled the room.
Jared replied, “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But I assure you that the new owners will see to it that the Worrell Institute for Creativity is a place for writers to write, and for artists to create. Next.”
One of our mailmen, Jerry Monk, who’d been delivering to my house for a few years, stood. He was overweight, and totally bald, and he spoke with the labored breathing that overweight invariably causes. “Mr. Worrell, no offense. But we all know that writers drink a lot, and even use drugs. That’s common knowledge. No secret about it. They have to, I hear, to keep writing their stories.” He looked at the people next to him before adding, “Sounds to me like this town is going to pot.”
Laughter, and applause.
I had to say something. I’m a writer. I enjoy an occasional glass of wine with dinner. I’ve never used drugs in my life.
I stood. “Sir, if I might,” I said, hopefully loud enough to cut through the noise. People turned and looked at me. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. As a writer of more than thirty novels, I feel compelled to take issue with the mistaken perception expressed here this morning about writers and artists. I assure any of you who share Jerry Monk’s view of us—of me—that you’re wrong. Believe me, your concerns and fears about having creative people in residence at this new institute are unfounded.”
I expected some response. There wasn’t any. Just stares. I took a deep breath and continued: “Ladies and gentlemen, I personally know just about all of you. We’ve shared many years together in this town that we love. Frankly—and I understand your concerns—I believe that what Mr. Worrell has presented us today, that his family’s ancestral home will become the Worrell Institute for Creativity, could prove to be a positive thing for Cabot Cove. It could spawn a cultural center of which we can all be proud. I—endorse it, and I hope you will, too.”
I sat and thought about what I’d just said. I hadn’t intended to endorse this new use of the Worrell Mansion. All I wanted to do was defend writers. The endorsement just came out.
A few people applauded my comments, led by Seth and Morton.
Jared Worrell smiled appreciatively. ‘Thank you, Mrs. Fletcher. I’m well aware of your reputation as an author, and I’m honored that you’re here. I didn’t know you were a bona fide Cabot Cove resident. Maybe we should consider renaming the institute the Fletcher Institute for Creativity.”
Jared’s comment elicited loud applause, again initiated by Seth and Mort. I’m sure I turned the color of Sybil’s suit and shoes. It’s not my style to draw attention to myself.
Sybil Stewart officially ended the conference. As I made my way to Seth and Mort, I became aware that my remarks hadn’t been unanimously well received. Some people extended their hands and told me they agreed with what I’d said, but most fixed me with icy stares.
Seth, Morton, and I left city hall together. We stood on the sidewalk and watched Jared Worrell and his entourage climb into a black stretch limousine with blackened windows that had been idling in the circular drive. The window suddenly opened, and Jared poked his head out. “Got to catch a plane, Mrs. Fletcher. On my way to Bangor Airport. Thanks for your support.”
I waved.
I’d invited Mort and Seth to join me, and a friend from Boston, Julie, for chowder at my house. We were on our way to where Seth’s car was parked when Sybil Stewart’s voice stopped us. We waited for her to catch up.
“Thanks for waiting, Jess. I didn’t know it before, but it’s obvious you’re all for this so-called institute. I just want to tell you that you’re very much in the minority. Most people are angry, and I feel it’s my obligation to support them. I’ve called an emergency town council meeting here at city hall tomorrow morning at nine. We
need to discuss how we’re going to deal with what Mr. Worrell has announced. I had no idea he intended to turn his family’s home, for God’s sake, into a den of iniquity. I now know that you and I are on opposite sides of this fence. But I’m not alone, as you could see. There’s a lot of opposition to it because it could be the demise of Cabot Cove. I feel strongly it needs to be addressed by the entire council.”
Will she come up for air? I wondered.
“Do me a personal favor, Jess, and attend tomorrow’s meeting. Maybe we can convince our leading creative citizen that this institute will be the worst possible thing for Cabot Cove.”
“I’m always willing to listen, Sybil. You know that. I’ll be there.”
Chapter Three
A Few Weeks Later
If I’ve ever questioned why I’m not politically involved, the “emergency meeting” of the town council two weeks ago concerning the Worrell Institute for Creativity answered it for me.
I showed up early and joined dozens of other citizens. The ten-person council, four men and six women, flanked Sybil as she sat at the center of three long, folding tables. An assortment of plastic coffee cups from Mara’s Luncheonette left rings on the tabletops, and on blank yellow legal pads.
Sybil was a woman possessed. As commander-in-chief of our town, this was to be her political mile-stone, the defense of Cabot Cove. Rally the troops. Circle the wagons. We were on the eve of war. The writers and artists were poised on the other side of the hill for a frontal assault. Don’t shoot until you see the white of their pages, the colors on their palettes.
For me, the most immediate danger was a threatened strike by our garbage collectors. Don’t be cynical, Jessica. Hear them out.
Which I did, wincing as Sybil read a speech she’d obviously labored long and hard over the previous night: “... And so, my friends and fellow citizens, I implore each of you to join your elected officials in mounting an effective counterattack against this assault on our treasured way of life, a threat to our children, and a perversion of our values.”
“Is it really that bad?” asked a member of the council, a farmer whose annual hayrides were the highlight of every Cabot Cove Halloween. “Hell, Sybil, what I mean is, I got a nephew down in New York who’s a writer. Pretty good one, too, I hear. Nice young chap. Doesn’t drink or smoke. Real polite young man.”
Sybil could barely contain her annoyance. She sighed, slowly shook her head, and said, “There are always exceptions, Rufus. Individually, I suppose creative people can be all right.” I coughed. She looked at me, raised her eyebrows into arches, and continued: “The problem arises, Rufus, when creative people gather together. That’s when pornography, orgies, drunken rumbles, and the like occur, when they have nothing to do but indulge in those things.”
Rufus was not to be dismissed. “That’s all they do, Sybil, have parties? When does anything get written?”
“After they go home,” she said. And then, as though a sudden brilliant thought had struck her, she added, “Yes, there might be some writing that goes on. Even erotic poetry is considered writing.”
I was desperate to leave. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was aware, of course, that Cabot Cove was a conservative community, steeped in what probably would be considered old-fashioned values. In most instances, I shared those values, and was glad I lived in a town where they existed.
But there is a difference between old-fashioned values, and straight-out prejudice and broad-brush smearing of classes of people—any class of people. I was in the process of rationalizing to myself that Sybil’s behavior was an aberration, that reason would ultimately prevail, when she said, “Jessica Fletcher, as we all know, is a respected mystery writer. Not the sort who goes to writers’ camps. Yesterday, we heard Mrs. Fletcher speak out at the press conference on Mr. Worrell’s behalf. Now that she’s had time to sleep on it, I’m certain she realizes that our concerns about the Worrell Institute are justified.”
Being put on the spot like that offended me, as did the assumption that I’d come to my senses. I stood. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sybil. I haven’t changed my view any more than you have. Excuse me. I must go.”
No one said anything as I put on my raincoat and headed for the door at the rear of the room. But I stopped, turned, and said, “What bothers me is that assumptions are being made before the institute opens and its residents arrive. Are we that closed-minded that we aren’t willing to give it a chance?”
Men on the council fiddled with their empty cups, and removed imaginary lint from winter-worn sweaters and jackets. A few coughed nervously. A council member, Sue Maehart, a good friend, smiled and nodded.
Buoyed by her encouragement, I went on: “I did not intend to say anything this morning. But as long as I’ve made an effort to be here, I do have something to say. All writers are not drunks. Nor are they sexaholics. Some writers drink. Some even enjoy sex, I hear.” Several in the room laughed. Sybil was not amused.
“And, yes, some writers drink and enjoy sex. But, I also hear that there are lawyers, doctors, plumbers, teachers, scientists, and astronauts who do, too.”
“She’s right about that,” a man muttered to his wife. “Especially the lawyers.”
“I love this town and its people,” I said. “But would anyone deny that we could use a cultural boost? We have our movie theater. And the high school drama productions are always darn good. But the Worrell Institute for Creativity could establish Cabot Cove as a cultural center to be envied. It will draw talented men and women to our community, writers and artists, poets and essayists. Eventually, it might become the cultural mecca of New England. But only if we stand behind it. Or, at least, not kill its potential before it has a chance to get off the ground.
“You talk of our children. Many of Cabot Cove’s children could be gifted writers, only they don’t know it because it hasn’t been nurtured in them. A place like the Worrell Institute can inspire them.” I paused. “It can inspire the writer in all of us.”
Sue Maehart applauded. Others joined.
“Finally,” I said, “if I haven’t changed your minds, consider this. No matter what you think or say, the mansion has been sold to this Corcoran Group in Boston. It will become a creative center. That is the reality. And I suggest we get on to more pressing matters—like who will collect our garbage next week.”
I opened the door.
“Jessica?”
I turned. “Yes, Sybil?”
“I didn’t know that great writers were supposed to be great speakers as well.”
I sighed, smiled. “Just another misconception, Sybil. But thank you for the compliment.”
I left realizing that I had finally become involved in politics.
Stick to writing was the advice I gave myself.
And so spring turned to summer in Cabot Cove, and I started work on my new novel. Everything gets used by a writer, they say. Every life experience, every person met. I’m no exception. I started each day that spring and summer by taking a long walk up to the Worrell Mansion, where construction crews busily renovated the stately old queen into what it would become—the Worrell Institute for Creativity. Huge earth-moving machines and dozens of men (and a few women who wore their hard hats with equal pride as their male counterparts) transformed the mansion. The tranquil summer was punctuated by the whine of power saws, and the hammering of nails. Representatives of the Corcoran Group conferred with architects. Progress was afoot in sleepy Cabot Cove, and it was met with mixed reactions.
Overall, the clamor against the institute had pretty much abated. Many townspeople found work with the construction gangs. Mara saw an opportunity. She rented a small truck, outfitted it with a coffee urn, loaded it with Danish and sandwiches, and brought her luncheonette to the site to feed the hungry crews. Every motel within ten miles was booked to capacity. While there were still those who grumbled about what was to become of Cabot Cove once the institute opened in the fall, most chose not to look this gift horse in i
ts mouth.
And I found inspiration in the Worrell Mansion that summer. My new novel would revolve around a murder that takes place in a creative artists’ retreat that has been established in a small New England town. I told no one of this, of course, lest they think I intended to profit from this new chapter in Cabot Cove’s life story.
Which, of course, was exactly what I was doing.
I toyed with various titles as I progressed on the book. Artists in Crime. The Creative Murders. Creativity Most Foul. None of which pleased me. Eventually, the book would be called Brandy & Bullets. But that part of the story is still to come.
Chapter Four
Autumn—That Same Year
Autumn, my favorite time of year, always arrives earlier in Maine than other parts of New England. This year, it came earlier than ever. The clear blue sky seemed bigger and higher; the air had a crispness that was welcome after an unusually warm and humid summer. Soon, winter would roar into Maine with its customary fury. But for now, perfection reigned.
One of my favorite rites of passage each fall has been to take a five-mile walk through Cabot Creek Preserve, a wildlife refuge with soaring, full trees that boast the most vibrant primary colors during peak foliage. That’s what I did this morning. I took along my binoculars with hopes of spotting any of the myriad species of birds that top the endangered species list, a few of which have historically called the preserve home. I had no such luck. I could only hope they hadn’t yet joined the extinction list.
The picture-perfect weekend weather forecast received rave reviews from local inns, and bed-and-breakfasts; NO VACANCY signs were up everywhere as tourists drove hundreds of miles to marvel at what I’ve always been able to enjoy from my kitchen window.
But tourists and townspeople weren’t the only ones to thank Mother Nature for a splendid weekend. The official opening of the Worrell Institute for Creativity was scheduled for that night. Renovations on the mansion had been completed only days ago, and last-minute touch-ups were still going on. Resistance to the center had continued to decline, although there were still a few vocal citizens who spoke against it at every opportunity. Mara’s Luncheonette was their favorite forum, which was why I’d been eating most of my breakfasts at home. Sybil Stewart had eased off on her public condemnation of the mansion’s new use, which gave her time to settle the threatened garbage strike, and to focus on other more pressing town matters. Evidently, my little speech had had some impact upon her thinking, especially the part in which I pointed out that no matter what anyone thought, or felt, the center was about to become a reality. “It’s a no-win situation,” she was widely quoted as saying whenever the subject came up. Which, of course, it was. We continued to be friendly, although I did discern a certain coolness on her part. Maybe the gala black-tie party to be held that night at the mansion, to which we both were invited, would serve to lessen any tensions. Nothing like champagne and caviar to heal wounds.
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