Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  The office was spacious. Two walls were painted a forest green; bold. Dark floor-to-ceiling wood-paneled bookshelves lined the other two. A sliding ladder provided access to the upper shelves. A huge Oriental rug dominated the center of the room. A seating area was formed by a large leather couch and two oversize leather wing chairs. Lighting was indirect and flattering. The soft strains of Vivaldi came from unseen speakers.

  “Have a seat, Jessica. Coffee? Tea? Something stronger? I have some red zinfandel that’s quite nice.”

  “Nothing, thank you, Doctor.”

  “Michael. Remember?”

  “Yes. Michael.”

  “Mind if I have something? Strictly for medicinal purposes.” He laughed. “An old joke, but apropos. It’s been an anxious day, and night.”

  “Please. Go ahead.”

  He poured himself what I assumed was brandy into a snifter, inhaled its fumes, then sipped, smacked his lips. “Excellent.” He sat in a high-backed leather chair behind his leather inlaid desk and smiled. “Now. I assume you want to discuss your December seminar.”

  “Yes. Any idea why this young woman took her life?”

  His smile turned to laughter. “I have a feeling, Jessica, that you’re more interested in what happened here last night than you are in December and seminars.”

  “If you’d rather not—”

  “Professional interest? Plot for your next best-selling book?”

  “Absolutely not. Just curious.”

  He nodded, sipped, placed the snifter on a fabric coaster, and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. “A tragic occurrence, Jessica. Ms. Beaumont had so much to live for. She was beautiful, talented, and well liked. On the surface, she had it all. But inside, she was possessed with an extremely fragile ego. Almost nonexistent. There seemed to be little in her life that mattered except her music. The composition she came here to complete seemed to elude her each day, and she became more despondent. We tried to boost her self-esteem, give her the resolve to finish the work. She was particularly upset that others her age, musicians and composers she knew, were ahead of her in terms of creative output. We did everything we could to help her put things in a more realistic perspective. Obviously, we failed.”

  “She’d been in therapy with your staff?”

  “We don’t offer therapy in the traditional sense, Jessica. Did we work with her as a therapist might? Of course.”

  “Dr. Meti?”

  He frowned. “You’ve met Tomar?”

  “Yes. At the party.”

  “He worked with her. So did I. I had a session with her shortly before she took her life.”

  “A therapeutic session?”

  “If you insist.”

  I decided I’d asked enough questions about the death, and was about to shift the conversation to my upcoming seminar, but O’Neill stayed with the suicide. “This may sound callous to you, Jessica, but I don’t intend it to be. We tried everything in the short time she was here—group, role-playing, hypnotherapy, behavior mod. But with someone as fragile and full of self-doubt as she was, even self-hate, there was little that could be done. With such artists, suicide is not uncommon.”

  “That doesn’t sound at all callous to me, Michael.”

  “Maybe the fact that I view her death in a positive light will.”

  “Positive light?”

  “Not that she took her life. But we can learn from Maureen Beaumont’s death. That’s one of the missions of the institute: To study the creative process and artist in the hope of breaking through the sort of problems Maureen suffered. There are hundreds of other Maureen Beaumonts. Maybe thousands. Young, talented, promising artists who hate themselves and cannot rise above the demands they, and others, have placed upon them. Hopefully, what we learn from Maureen Beaumont will help ward off other senseless deaths.”

  His demeanor, and ability to look me straight in the eye throughout his explanation, earned him credibility. On the other hand, there was a coldness that was off-putting. It sounded, well, callous. Maureen Beaumont had been reduced to a guinea pig of sorts, an experiment. Yes, if something could be learned from her unfortunate state of mind and death that would save others, a small good might come from her demise. I didn’t want to be too judgmental of O’Neill. Perhaps he hadn’t put it as nicely as I would have wanted. He was under stress. A talented young woman had died in the institution of which he was in charge. I gave him the benefit of doubt.

  I would have been happy to get off the subject. But he insisted upon staying with it. “Maureen was living under a thick, dark cloud, Jessica. One of the last things she said to me during our session yesterday afternoon was, ‘My mind is like a bad neighborhood that I don’t want to go into alone.’ I suggested she stay out of that neighborhood, that she explore a new one. She said she’d try. Evidently, she didn’t try hard enough.”

  “Her family must be taking it pretty hard,” I said.

  “They’ve already made arrangements to have their daughter’s body flown back to California for burial. I understand your sheriff, Mr. Metzger, isn’t too happy they’ll be performing the autopsy out there instead of here.”

  “Isn’t that unusual?” I asked. “I thought the authority for an autopsy would rest with the jurisdiction in which the death took place.”

  “Not always. California was her home. The wishes of the family are being honored.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “I hate to be rude, Jessica, but I’ve scheduled a meeting with Ms. Portledge and some of the staff to try and put this tragedy in better perspective. Could we postpone discussing your seminar? Maybe next week, after the dust settles.”

  “Of course. Sorry to barge in on you this way. I’ll call to set up a meeting. Is there anything I can do regarding Ms. Beaumont?”

  “No. But thank you for asking. I’ll see you out.”

  “No need. I dropped bread crumbs on our way here. I’ll just follow them.”

  “All right. I think I’ll hide here for the few minutes I have before the meeting. Some quiet thought is very much in order.”

  And to have another drink, I surmised.

  As I descended the stairs to the entrance foyer, Mort Metzger was coming through the front door.

  “I saw your car,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

  “Didn’t know you’d be here, either, Jess.”

  “I just met with Dr. O’Neill.”

  “About the death?”

  “Ah—about my seminar. But we did discuss the suicide. Just in passing.”

  “I’m going back to her room. We’re still dusting for prints, and taking photos.”

  “Can I tag along?”

  “Sure.” He motioned me into a comer of the foyer. “Want to know what’s goin’ on?” he asked.

  “Always.”

  “They’re shippin’ the body out of the state. Back to California.”

  “I heard.”

  “Smells, if you ask me.”

  “Can’t you fight it? Legally, I mean?”

  “Not if the county prosecutor goes along with it. He has.”

  We walked down the long, narrow corridor that was familiar to me because of the tour I’d been given by Beth Anne during the party, and stopped at a door with yellow tape across it that read: CRIME SCENE. Mort held up the tape, and I ducked under. He followed.

  A white bedspread with small pink flowers had been showered with blood, now darkened with age. The dresser and desk were coated with a layer of white dust used in searching for fingerprints. White masking tape crudely traced the outline of how her body had been positioned on the floor. Dried blood had accumulated in the area where her head had been.

  “Who’s the man taking notes?” I asked Mort.

  “Oh, him? Another psychiatrist from the institute.”

  The man to whom I’d referred was, I judged, to be in his mid or late thirties. He was handsome despite having facial features that were too small for his head. He wore half-glasses. His
jacket was gray tweed, his shirt a blue button-down. He wore a yellow-and-green paisley bow tie.

  “Name’s Fechter,” Mort said. “Donald Fechter.”

  “Hello,” I said, approaching him.

  He looked up from his notepad.

  “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’ll be teaching a seminar here in December.”

  “Oh. I’m Dr. Fechter.” We shook hands.

  “What a terrible thing,” I said, nodding at the white tape on the floor.

  “Certainly was,” he said, making another note on his pad.

  “Are you—well, are you in charge of the investigation?” I asked. “I mean, from the institute’s perspective?”

  “No, ma’am. Just making sure that no one walks out of here with anything.”

  “You think the police would—?”

  “Excuse me.” He went to where Mort stood with one of the technicians. “Are you finished?” he asked in a rather unfriendly tone.

  “Almost,” Mort replied. “I’ll let you know when we are.” His tone matched Fechter’s. The young psychiatrist went to a corner opposite from where I stood, folded his arms across his chest, and watched the proceedings with a scowl.

  “That’s it,” Mort announced a few minutes later. “Let’s wrap it up and get out of here.”

  “You look exhausted,” I said as the technicians packed their bags. Mort’s bags were beneath his eyes. Stubble on his hollow cheeks added to his look of fatigue.

  “Just realized I’ve been up for too long,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Got to go back to the office, then hit the hay.”

  We left the building together.

  “What’s your opinion now?” I asked.

  “Hard to say, Jess. Wish the autopsy were being done here in Maine. Doc Johansen’s as good as there is. But that’s outta my hands, I’m afraid. Unless something comes up I’m not expecting, it’ll be suicide on the death certificate. Probably was.”

  “But what about her hand not being tight on the weapon?”

  His voice was heavy. “Got to excuse me, Jess. I’d better get home before I fall on my face.”

  “By all means.”

  I was up at six the next morning, and hard at work on my new novel, Brandy & Bullets, by seven. I stayed glued to my word processor until one that afternoon, when I spotted the mailman, Jerry Monk, approaching my mailbox. I met him there, and he handed me a bulging bunch of mail secured with a thick rubber band. “Think you win today, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pleasantly.

  “Win?”

  “Most mail. Little game I play with myself to break the boredom.”

  I laughed. “Which makes me your least popular person this day.”

  “Might say that, only it’s not true. But you do get a lot of mail. That’s for certain.”

  As I walked through my front door, I heard a woman talking: “... He’s been very depressed lately, and I was hoping you could keep on eye on him. Just look in on him from time to time to make sure he’s okay. Give a call back when you get a chance. I know you’re busy and...”

  “Hello,” I shouted into the phone while turning off my answering machine.

  “Jess?”

  “Yes. I just walked in and—who is this?”

  “It’s Jill, Jess. Jill Huffaker.”

  Jill was an old friend who’d moved to Los Angeles five years earlier—Hollywood, actually—with her husband, Norman, a writer who’d sold two of his books to a major film studio, and then accepted a lucrative screenwriting contract. The novels that had been scooped up by a major film studio had been written under one of a few pseudonyms Norman had used over the years: B. K. Praether. They were westerns, but with few of the clichés we associate with that genre. One was called, The Redemption of Rio Red, the other, The Bronze Lady of Bentonville.

  Jill had been active in community theater in Cabot Cove, and had landed a few small parts in films, and on a television series, after moving to L.A. Nothing major, but enough to keep her spirits high about what might become a career to approximate her husband’s professional success.

  “What a pleasant surprise,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Fine. You?”

  “Good. Norman?”

  “Okay. Well, maybe not so okay. That’s why I’m calling. He just left for Cabot Cove.”

  “Wonderful. Business?”

  “Yes. Of a sort. He’s going to be spending a few weeks-at least he says it will be only a few weeks—at the new institute that opened there. Worrell.”

  “Really? I just came from there. We’ve had a—I’m teaching a seminar in December.”

  “That should be interesting.”

  “Yes, it should. I heard you say that Norman’s depressed.”

  “That’s right, Jess. He’s been suffering for the past few months from a malady you’re probably familiar with. Then again, considering how prolific you are, maybe you haven’t ever suffered writer’s block.”

  I laughed. “Oh, yes, I have.” I thought of the depressed, blocked Maureen Beaumont; the warmth of my house turned chilly.

  “I just thought you might be a dear and check in on him now and then. Frankly, I’m worried about Norman. He’s been drinking heavily. Put on a lot of weight. More bloat, I guess you could call it. He seems to have lost all his spark, his zest for life.”

  The room grew colder still.

  “Of course I’ll keep in touch with him. I’ll be going to the institute anyway now and then. I’ll just make it more of a regular habit.”

  “I knew I could count on you, Jess. Working on something new?”

  “Yes. Well into a new novel. No writer’s block. At least not yet. Any chance of you coming here to visit Norm?”

  “Not planning on it, but you never know. I’ll let you go. Thanks again. Maybe I will plan to visit. Talking with you makes me realize how much I miss the East Coast, and friends like Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Don’t worry about a thing, Jill. Norman will be in good hands.” I winced as I said it. I knew my hands would be good. But considering what had happened to the young flautist, I probably shouldn’t be issuing such positive statements about the Worrell Institute for Creativity.

  Chapter Six

  “Make that two pumpkin and one apple,” I said, proud that I’d finally made up my mind. Usually, I’m capable of making swift, rational decisions, especially if the dilemma is of some importance. It’s over little decisions that I often trip, my mind changing as rapidly and often as New England weather.

  Like deciding what pies to order. Give me a murder plot to unravel, and I leave no clue unturned. Ask me how many pies I need for Thanksgiving dinner, and I inevitably arrive at a hung jury.

  “No, wait,” I said to Charlene Sassi, owner of Cabot Cove’s finest fancy food store and bakery. How she could own a bakery and still maintain her pencil-thin figure will always be an enigma to me. “Bear with me for a minute, Charlene. I’m still not sure how many I need.”

  I looked up at the wood-beamed ceiling from which dozens of pretty wicker baskets hung, closed my eyes, and silently counted once again the number of guests who would be sitting at my round oak table on Thanksgiving Day, one week from today. “Okay, all set,” I said. Charlene had waited patiently despite a crush of other customers, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side. “Two apple pies, one pumpkin, and one clam. That’ll do it. I think.”

  “You said you’re having seven guests, right?” she said. “Unless they come in extra large sizes, you’ve ordered more than enough.”

  “Thanks for your patience. Pick them up Thanksgiving morning? You open at six?”

  “Ayuh. Same time, same place, just higher prices. Next?”

  My order for holiday pies placed, I headed for lunch with old friend and screenwriter Norman Huffaker. He’d gone straight to the Worrell Institute for Creativity upon arriving in Cabot Cove, and called me that evening. It was good to hear his voice, although he sounded different than the last time we’d talked. But that was over a year ago. I probab
ly sounded different, too.

  He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about meeting for lunch, but I prevailed. “I promised Jill I’d keep an eye on you,” I said lightly, adding a laugh for emphasis. He didn’t laugh. I sensed annoyance.

  “All right,” he said. “Lunch it is. But we’ll have to make it a quick one. I came to Worrell to get over this damnable block I’m having. Nothing ever gets written over lunch.”

  And that’s how we left it. I was tempted to call it off. I certainly didn’t want to be perceived as having intruded upon his work for something as frivolous as lunch. On the other hand, I wanted to see him. After all, he was an old friend. And—I wasn’t at all guilty about this—I wanted to hear what scuttlebutt he might have picked up about Maureen Beaumont’s alleged suicide.

  I’d chosen for us to meet at a pleasant inn diagonally across the road from Sassi’s bakery. The inn’s bar and restaurant was called The Office, although it wouldn’t be confused with any office I’ve ever seen. The dining room was warm and inviting, with richly paneled walls on which stunning landscapes and seascapes by local artists were proudly displayed, and were for sale. The many windows were graced with gingham curtains. A walk-in fireplace was used year-round. The tables were large, and tastefully set with quilted placemats, sparkling crystal, and weighty silverware. It had become a favorite meeting place: the dining room for family brunches, tasty lunches, and hearty dinners, and the bar a congenial spot for drinks after work. Everything came under the watchful eye of the inn’s owner, Mick Jones, who wore many hats: bartender, host, waiter, and even busboy when the crush was on.

  The air was invigoratingly cold as I left Sassi’s and headed for the inn. I’d neglected to thoroughly dry my hair that morning and shivered as a chill raced from my head down my spine. A recurrence of last year’s pneumonia was not part of my winter agenda, and I hurried across the road and inside the inn. I’d requested the table directly in front of the fireplace when I made the reservation, and it was waiting for me, the advantage of having become a regular customer. I shed my coat and sat in my favorite wooden armchair. The heat from the fireplace warmed my back; I could look out over the dining room. The chair felt like an old friend. Had I sat in it enough to cause it to have adjusted to the curves of my body? Certainly not, but I preferred to think that.