Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  Because I was early, and Norman hadn’t arrived yet, I took out my small black leather notebook, scrutinized my “To Do” list, added a few items, and crossed off others. My first stop after lunch would be Zach’s Orchard and Farm where I’d order the turkey, and stuffing to which I would add certain ingredients to make it uniquely mine. The grocery store was next on the list: yams, cranberries, potatoes, onions, and makings for what had become my “famous” hard sauce. Charlene’s pumpkin and apple pies were fabulous on their own, but adding my hard sauce to them was always, and literally, icing on the cake.

  Liquor? Although I’m not much of a drinker, I always keep a fully stocked bar for guests. My only concern was Jill’s comment that Norman had taken to heavy drinking. I intended over lunch to invite him to my house for Thanksgiving, and didn’t want to exacerbate any problem he might be having with alcohol. On the other hand, I don’t believe in penalizing moderate drinkers to accommodate someone with a problem. Norman was a big boy, as they say. My bar would be open. Alexander’s Fancy Wine & Spirits was added to the list.

  I knew someone had entered the dining room by the sudden blast of cold outside air that preceded the new arrival. Norman closed the door and eyed the room. I stood and waved him to the table.

  He walked slowly in my direction, lips pursed, his six feet, four inch frame somewhat bent. He moved slowly, like a man unsure of his destination. He could have been drunk. If he was, his drinking problem was greater than even his wife knew. It was barely noon.

  I was heartened when a smile crossed his face as he reached the table. We hugged. “You look fabulous, Jessica,” he said. “And please don’t feel a need to reciprocate the compliment. I wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you.”

  “You look—fine,” I said.

  He’d made a liar out of me.

  His face was bigger, bloated, and blotchy His hair was matted, needing a healthy dose of shampoo. I noticed two things as he unbuttoned his topcoat. A button was missing. And, his hands shook. I pretended not to notice.

  “Thought you’d appreciate the fireplace,” I said, looking into it. “I assume your blood’s been thinned by all those glorious sunny days in Hollywood.” He politely joined my laughter, and we sat.

  “Gets cold in L.A. sometimes,” he said absently, his gaze on the fire which illuminated eyes that were, to this observer, glassy. I hadn’t smelled alcohol on his breath. But then again I’ve never had a particularly keen sense of smell. He seemed mesmerized by the flickering flames.

  “Norman? Come in, Norman.”

  He jerked his head toward me. “What?”

  “You okay?” I asked.

  “Am I—? Okay? Oh, sure. Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts for a moment. Fires do that to me. They suck you in. At least they do me.”

  “Me, too. Very hypnotic.”

  He leaned his elbows on the table and said, “Well, Jessica, it’s really great to see you. I’m glad we’re doing this. And sorry if I came off the oaf when you called. I was tired. Damn time difference. Throws off your circadian rhythm.”

  “Yes.”

  “How’ve you been?” His attention drifted back to the fireplace.

  I was tempted to say, “Dying of a dreadful disease, thank you. And you?” just to see if he was listening. I didn’t, of course. He was obviously troubled, about what I didn’t know. His inability to complete his latest screenplay? If his current mood was the result of so-called writer’s block, I could certainly understand, especially with a writer like Norman Huffaker. Although I’ve always considered myself a productive writer, my yearly output paled in comparison to his. He’d always been impressively prolific, banging out one screenplay after another on any number of subjects—documentaries, comedies, romances, westerns. If that ability to turn thoughts into words on paper had deserted him, I hoped that Worrell would renew his spirit, and return him to productivity.

  “Vodka gimlet,” he told Clara, our waitress, who’d been serving me since The Office opened three years ago. A glass of sherry was appealing, but I thought of all the shopping I had to do and chose a cup of tea instead.

  We chatted about Norman’s plane trip to Cabot Cove—the flight had been delayed, adding to the fatigue he felt upon arriving—until his drink was served. He downed it, pointed to the almost empty glass, and told Clara, “Let’s do this again.” She shot me a raised-eyebrow look and headed for the bar.

  “So, Jessica Fletcher, tell me about you.” He lit a cigarette despite a nearby NO SMOKING sign, and the absence of an ashtray on the table. “Working on another best-seller?”

  “More like putting it off,” I said. “My father always said that procrastination was the thief of time. I’ve been stealing a lot of time lately. I understand you’ve been doing some of that yourself.”

  “Says my lovely and adoring wife? My spy? She’s right. I’ve become the world’s most adept procrastinator. It’s gotten so bad, I’ve gotten good at putting off entire days of the week. Just this past Monday, I woke up and said, ”Not today. I’ll do Monday tomorrow. I went back to sleep until Tuesday.” He let out a rasping smoker’s laugh and coughed. He’d meant the story to be funny, but I didn’t take it that way. I’m no shrink. But I do know that one of the signs of serious depression can be to pull the covers over one’s head in the hope the world will go away.

  “Sorry, sir, no smoking,” Clara said when she returned with his second drink. “Smoking in the bar only.”

  Norman took it better than I anticipated. He’s always been a heavy smoker; the recent frenzied antismoking campaign, which even I as a nonsmoker feel has gone too far, evidently hadn’t had its intended impact upon him.

  “Want to move to a table in the bar?” I asked.

  “Nah. I just hope we’re not sitting in the anticholesterol section.” He smiled, took two more puffs, and went to the bar to extinguish his cigarette.

  “How are things going at Worrell?” I asked when he returned.

  “Pretty good, considering a gal there recently killed herself. Shook everybody up pretty bad. I assume you know about it.”

  “I certainly do.”

  “Was it really a suicide, Jess?”

  “As far as I know. That’s what they’re saying.”

  “You still have that same sheriff in Cabot Cove? Metzger?”

  “Yes. Morton Metzger is still the sheriff.”

  “What’s he say?”

  “Uh, suicide, I think.” Mort hadn’t seemed so sure the last time we spoke. I wondered what his latest thoughts were.

  “Casts an eerie glow over the institute, doesn’t it?” Norman said, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket, smiling, and putting them back. “Ironic. Here I am trying to get over a terminal case of writer’s block, and somebody in the room next to mine blows her brains out. I guess she got over her block, whatever the hell it was. Maybe that’s the real answer.”

  “I don’t think it’s the answer to anything, Norm. I can understand how difficult it might be to write with the aura of death hanging over the premises. Hardly an atmosphere conducive to writing.”

  “Unless, of course, you’re writing a murder mystery .”

  “Murder mystery? Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t know. Sure I can’t smoke here? You’re a VIP. Pull rank.”

  “Sorry. Can’t do. Why did you say murder?”

  “Maybe she didn’t pull the trigger.”

  “Anything to back that up?”

  “Nope. I leave that to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Have you ever had writer’s block, Jessica?”

  I thought about it for a minute.

  “If you have to think about it, you never have. It’s not the kind of thing you easily forget.”

  “I suppose I never have. I have days, even a week, when my writing isn’t at its best. But I can’t say I’ve ever had a period longer than a week when I wasn’t able to write—well. Jill said you’ve been having quite a time with it. Months?”

&nbs
p; “Feels a lot longer than that,” he said. “I’m trying to finish a screenplay I’ve been working on for two years.”

  “What’s it about?” I asked.

  “Takes place in the Thirties. In Hollywood.”

  “A Sunset Boulevard story?”

  “No. I forget what it’s about, it’s been so long that I’ve worked on it.” He laughed. It was reassuring he could laugh about his problems.

  “Jessica, do you think this young woman, Maureen Beaumont, might have been murdered?” He obviously preferred to talk about that instead of his work—or anything else, for that matter.

  “I have no evidence to suggest that, Norm. But Sheriff Metzger is very capable. He’s directed the investigation at the institute and seems to be on top of things. And he’s a good friend. He’ll keep me up-to-date, I’m sure. Of course, he is concerned about—”

  “Concerned about what?”

  “I suppose there’s no reason you shouldn’t know. It’s been in the paper. Ms. Beaumont’s body was immediately flown back to California. Family’s request. Morton would have preferred that the autopsy be done here.”

  “Sure. It should have been done here.”

  “She was from Los Angeles. Silly question, I know, but did you know her?”

  “Silly question. Four thousand square miles, eight million people.”

  “Not like Cabot Cove.”

  “Nothing like Cabot Cove. Metzger, the sheriff. Did he say that—?”

  “Ask him yourself.”

  The door had opened, and Mort was swept in on a blast of frigid air. He walked with purpose, straight to our table. “Sorry to interrupt your lunch, Jess.”

  “That’s all right, Mort,” I said. “We haven’t gotten to lunch yet. This is—”

  “Can we talk?”

  His lack of manners in not acknowledging Norman was off-putting. It also told me that something serious was on his mind.

  “This is Norman Huffaker, Mort. Maybe you remember him. He and his wife, Jill, lived in Cabot Cove a number of years ago.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Mort said, extending his hand. “Jess?”

  “Sit down,” I said. “I’m sure whatever you want to tell me can be said in front of Norman.”

  Norman got up. “You two chat,” he said. ‘Time for a cigarette anyway.” I watched him carry his drink to the empty bar, order another from the owner, Mick, and light up. Mort took Norman’s chair.

  “How did you know I’d be here?” I asked.

  “Joyce, down at the post office, said you’d been in, and were heading for Charles’s Department Store to buy Christmas wrapping paper. David, there, said you told him you were goin’ to Sassi’s. Charlene told me—”

  “I get the picture,” I said. “The Cabot Cove grapevine in full gear.”

  Morton leaned close. “Jess, Worrell is starting to look more like Jonestown every day.”

  “Jonestown? Oh, where all those unfortunate people followed that crazed preacher and killed themselves. Why do you say that?” I’d already surmised the answer.

  “Another young woman was taken to the hospital in the middle of the night. Attempted suicide, they’re saying.”

  “Attempted suicide. She’s alive?”

  “Barely. In ICU. Seth was there when they brought her in. Been with her ever since.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t reach him this morning. Know anything about her?”

  “A poet, they say.”

  “A gunshot wound?”

  “No. Some sort of pills. They pumped her stomach over to the hospital, sent the contents out for analysis. Poor girl was evidently unconscious for quite a spell before anybody found her. Seth says her brain was without oxygen a long time. If she lives, might not be much more than a vegetable.”

  “Horrible.”

  I looked to where Norman drank, smoked, and talked with Mick. He was at Worrell last night? Didn’t he know about this latest incident? If he did, why hadn’t he mentioned it to me?

  I said to Mort, “My friend over there, Norman Huffaker, checked into Worrell a few days ago. He was there last night. You’d think that—”

  “Most people probably don’t even know it happened. The young woman lived in one of the cottages on the estate. Pretty far removed from the main house.”

  “How was she found?” I asked.

  “A friend stopped in to see her. Found her comatose in bed.”

  “Have you examined the room?”

  “Nope. Police weren’t called, at least by anybody at Worrell. Got the call from Seth at the hospital. I called Ms. Portledge and woke her up. She confirmed what happened. Overdose of pills, she told me.

  “Any idea why she tried to kill herself?”

  “I asked Ms. Portledge that. She says this gal was close with Maureen Beaumont. Pretty upset over what happened to her friend.”

  I again looked to where Norm sat at the bar. I was content to continue my conversation with Mort, but was afraid that if it went on too long, Norman would become falling-down drunk.

  “Keep this between us, Jess,” Mort said.

  “Why? It’ll be all over town by the end of the day.”

  “I know that. Didn’t realize your friend was at Worrell. I seem to remember him now. Real pretty wife. He was a writer.”

  “Still is. Hollywood. Motion pictures.”

  “One of them, huh?”

  I didn’t challenge his snap appraisal of Norman.

  “You’re right, Jess. Everybody’ll know. But what you and me can keep between us is that from this day forward, the Worrell Institute for Craziness is under investigation by this sheriff and his office. Too much of a damn coincidence havin’ two people try to kill themselves up there. I don’t want anybody up there—O’Neill, Portledge, any of the shrinks—to know I’ll be keeping close tabs on them from now on.”

  “Your secret is safe with me, Mort.”

  “If I didn’t think it was, Jess, I wouldn’t have told you. Got to go. Thanks for lettin’ me barge in like this. Say goodbye to your friend.”

  Norm returned to the table, a fresh drink in his hand. I didn’t know how many drinks he’d had, but they didn’t seem to have had much of an effect on him. “Trouble?” he asked.

  “No. Hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “They make a wonderful beef stew,” I said.

  “Sounds good.”

  I gave Clara the order. “Norm, did you know that someone else at Worrell tried to kill herself last night?”

  “No.” His red face turned ashen. He put his drink down and rubbed his eyes.

  “Norm. Are you okay?”

  “What was her name?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. Mort didn’t mention it.”

  “I’ve got to go, Jess. I forgot I have a meeting at Worrell this afternoon.” .

  I didn’t believe him for a moment.

  “Sorry.” He motioned Clara to the table. “Put a stop on that second beef stew,” he said. “And give me the check. I have to run.”

  Clara looked quizzically at me before heading for the kitchen. “Norm,” I said. “Is there something wrong? Did my mentioning this latest tragedy upset you?”

  “Of course not. We’ll do this again soon.” He put on his coat as Clara laid the check on the table.

  “Norm, I’d love it if you would come for Thanksgiving dinner next week. I’ll be making my hard sauce. Please come.”

  “Sure, that would be great, Jess.” He laid money on the check, kissed my cheek, and headed for the door.

  “What was that all about?” Clara asked.

  “1 have no idea. But I’d like to know.”

  “If you find out, Jess, let me know, too. Never seen anybody scoot outta here so fast. Still want your stew?”

  “Yes, please. I always get hungry when I’ve been abandoned at a table.”

  As usual, the beef stew was excellent, but my mind wasn’t on food. Obviously, my mention of this latest suicide attempt at Worrell had upset Norm enormou
sly, sent him scurrying away. Why? It couldn’t have been that he knew the victim, because I hadn’t mentioned any name. Strange. Would he show up for Thanksgiving? I doubted it. But I resolved not to let him off the hook too easily I’d keep in touch and remind him of it. I wanted him there° more than ever.

  Clara brought me a glass of brandy after lunch.

  “You have the wrong table,” I said.

  “No, I don’t, Jess. Your friend told me on his way out the door to bring this to you.”

  I took a sip from the fat snifter and turned my face toward the fire. Should I call Jill and tell her of Norm’s unusual behavior? I decided not to. Maybe he did have a meeting he’d forgotten about. Maybe he suddenly wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to worry me. Maybe ...

  I hate maybes.

  I ran all the errands on my lists despite the sleepiness the brandy had induced, and was happy to return home where I made a cup of strong tea, and munched on a cranberry cookie Charlene Sassi had insisted I put in my purse.

  There were several messages on my answering machine. One caught my attention for two reasons: It was from a person I hadn’t seen or talked to for quite a while; and, it was an invitation I immediately decided to accept.

  I’d met Carson James on a flight between Chicago and Houston. I was on tour promoting a book, and he was on his way to appear in a Houston nightclub. Carson is a stage hypnotist, a performer.

  We kept in touch on an irregular basis. Although he’d invited me on many occasions to catch his act, it never worked out. We fell out of touch about two years ago. But here he was. He said on my machine’s tape:

  “Hello there my dear. This is your ghost from Christmas past. Wonderful to hear your voice again, even though it’s recorded and distorted. You really should have the machine checked. Poor quality. I call to report that following a two-year hiatus, during which I served my country in the Peace Corps—I’ll fill you in on that later—I’m alive and well and living in Boston. I’m also back on the nightclub circuit, and am performing this weekend at a charming little dive here in Boston called Tickletoes. I insist that you be my guest, Jessica, and will not accept a negative reply. And please feel free to bring a friend, or some significant other. It won’t cost you anything, except, of course, getting to Boston, hotel, and other incidentals of traveling, which, I know, you are intimately familiar with. I trust this message finds you well. I look forward to speaking with you, and to seeing you once again. Ta ta for now. Oh, by the way, my new number is 617-555-3553.”