“What does that mean?” I asked.
Seth explained: “One example is what Mr. James has raised, that of the common teenage male fantasy that a girl can be induced to disrobe. A hypnotist can’t command her to do that. But a skilled hypnotist might be able to convince this same young lady that she is alone in a room, and that the temperature of that room has become unbearably hot. Given that scenario, she might well remove her clothes.”
“Esterbrooks,” James said.
“Among others. A book, The Control of Candy Jones, explains it as well as any I’ve read. I have a copy, Jessica. Happy to lend it to you.”
“I’ll look forward to it. She was the famous model.”
“Among other things, including a CIA experimental guinea pig. Let me take it a step further,” Seth said. “A hypnotist would have a difficult, probably impossible time convincing even the best of subjects to shoot his wife—provided he loves her, of course, and is not a basically violent man. But again, by changing the visual, it could be done. The subject—and again I stress it must be a good subject, a ‘five’ on the Spiegel scale—could be convinced that when his wife walks through the door of his home, it isn’t his wife at all, but a hungry, rabid bear. He must shoot it in self-defense.”
“I see,” I said. “Fascinating.”
“Your physician friend is astute and knowledgeable,” Carson James said.
“About many things,” I said. “Carson, I now understand how people can be tested to determine their hypnotizability. This Hypnotic Induction Profile you both seem to know so much about. But you didn’t test the subjects you brought to the stage tonight. Or did you? Did you know them before the show, have an opportunity to find who would be your best subjects?”
Carson laughed. “You mean were they ‘plants,’ shills for my act? Heavens, no, Jessica. That would be cheating.” He looked to Seth. “Wouldn’t it, Doctor Hazlitt?”
“Ayuh. That it would.”
“If there is one talent I’ve developed over the years, Jessica, it’s the ability to size up people upon first seeing them. Good hypnotic subjects are generally easygoing, malleable individuals, eager to please others. I observed the audience from backstage and decided on those six. As it turned out, I was right, although two of them were not as easy to work with as the other four. So I concentrated on those four.”
Seth smiled, shook his head. “I’d heard that about stage hypnotists,” he said, “but you proved it to me tonight. Impressive, Mr. James.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Coming from a man of medicine makes it especially complimentary.”
“Well,” I said, “time for this shopped-out lady—and hypnotic subject—to get to bed. Was I—was I a good subject, Carson? I was once told I wasn’t a good hypnotic subject.”
“Medium,” he replied. “Good enough, as you discovered in your runaway automobile.”
I pushed back my chair. “I loved the whole evening, Carson, especially this talk we’ve had. Makes one think.”
“Yes, it does.”
Seth paid for the drinks, the bartender called us a cab, we said our goodbyes to Carson, and headed back to the hotel.
“Buy you a drink, or a cup of coffee,” I said as we walked into the lobby.
“Had enough to drink,” Seth said. “Coffee will keep me awake.”
“Decaf won’t,” I said. “Please. I have a million questions to ask this expert on hypnosis, who I didn’t know was an expert.
“I’m no expert.”
An hour later, I’d received a primer in hypnosis, including some of Seth’s theories about how Sirhan Sirhan might have been programmed to murder Robert Kennedy.
“Whew!” I said as we rode the elevator to Seth’s floor. My room was a few floors above. “Lots to chew on.” The doors slid open.
“Don’t chew too much, Jessica. Your friend is a nice man. But I still don’t think people should use hypnosis in nightclubs.”
“Maybe you’re right. Sleep tight, Seth. Breakfast at eight?”
“Let’s make it seven. Everybody and his brother’ll be there by eight.”
Chapter Eight
Thanksgiving Day
“What am I most thankful for?”
As a prelude to serving Thanksgiving dinner, I’d asked each of my guests to choose the one thing for which they were most grateful.
Sheriff Morton Metzger chewed his cheek and looked up at the ceiling. “I guess I’m most thankful for all the great friends I have here in Cabot Cove.”
His answer brought forth a clapping of hands, and a few “Amens.”
Now it was Norman Huffaker’s turn. I was pleased to see Norm so relaxed, and enjoying himself. There were no signs of depression in him this night. His hair was neatly combed, and his clothing had that freshly cleaned and pressed look. The French blue knit sweater he wore had the same dramatic effect on his eyes as eyeliner might have. Norm’s eyes were shockingly blue. Paul Newman had nothing on him, at least in the eyes department.
“Well, Norm?” I said.
He paused for what seemed an eternity before saying, “I’m thankful, I guess, for the passage of time.”
He looked at me and actually blushed. I’d forgotten how shy Norman could be when asked to say something in front of more than a few people, in this case many of them strangers. He didn’t strike people as a reticent man, but that was because his outward persona, and reputation as a successful writer, was misleading. One thing I’d noticed over the years was that when he was with his wife, Jill, he was much more outgoing. She gave him a certain confidence, I suppose, that he lacked within himself.
“Passage of time?” Seth Hazlitt said.
“Yes. Because time strengthens friendships.” Norm smiled and raised his third glass of white wine. The rest of us returned his toast.
“Thank you, Norm,” I said. “That was lovely. And eloquently put.”
“No surprise,” said Mort Metzger. “After all, he’s a writer.”
“To the contrary,” I said. “Most writers are inarticulate. Including this one.”
“Don’t be so self-effacing, Jessica,” Seth said. “I don’t hardly know a more articulate woman.”
“Thank you, Seth. But I like to think I write better than I speak. And now, Dr. Hazlitt, speaking of articulate people, it’s your turn.”
Seth rose. “I have the same thing to say as I did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. I’m thankful, most of all, for Jessica’s hard sauce.”
“Hear, hear.” There was much laughter.
“What about you, Jess?”
“Hostesses should be seen and not heard,” I replied.
“Not on your life. Hostesses should be seen and heard.”
I peered into my almost empty wineglass, smiled, looked up, and said, “I am very thankful for the beauty that surrounds me every day, and for the good health that allows me to enjoy it. Maine, and this town, is a joy to behold. But even more beautiful is the beauty that emanates from wonderful friendships. I’m one lucky lady to have so much beauty grace my Thanksgiving table. Thank you for sharing this day with me.”
“Not bad for an inarticulate woman,” said Mort.
Until this moment, most of the conversation had been between myself, and friends of long-standing. But there were others at the table who hadn’t as yet been heard. My Thanksgiving guest list had grown considerably since I started putting it together.
Seated next to me was a young man in his early thirties. I’d befriended Jason after having hired him to tend my garden and lawn. Jason didn’t have family, at least not to my knowledge, and had been through more foster families in his youth than he could remember. He’d drifted into Cabot Cove a few years ago and stayed, doing odd jobs like gardening, washing dishes, and shoveling snow, with some house painting and car waxing thrown in. He lived alone in a small apartment above Sassi’s bakery, where he sometimes helped out in the kitchen.
The assumption of most people in town was that Jason was mildly reta
rded. But that certainly didn’t represent anyone’s clinical evaluation. All I knew was that he was a lovely person with a strong work ethic. So strong, in fact, the minute snow starts to accumulate, Jason’s out there shoveling for his regular customers. Ne need to call him, nor does it matter what time the snow arrives. I’ve awakened more than once in the predawn hours to the steady scrape of his shovel.
“Your turn, dear,” I whispered to him.
He mumbled without looking up, “Thank you for inviting me to dinner. It looks delicious. That’s all.”
I put my arm around him. “I’m so pleased you’re here with us, Jason.”
Dr. Michael O’Neill, director of the Worrell Institute for Creativity, was next in line to offer special thanks to the gathered. I’d extended the invitation to him and his wife, Amanda, at the last minute, much to the chagrin of Charlene Sassi, whose bakery I’d stormed last night at closing time in search of extra pies. Despite much protestation—“Gory, Jess, this store doesn’t have enough room to change your mind”—she found a few extra pies—“For special last-minute people like you”—to round out my dessert menu.
“I’m next?” O’Neill said in mock terror, his hand over his heart.
“You certainly are,” I said.
I’d invited the O’Neills yesterday during a phone conversation concerning my upcoming seminars on mystery writing. I casually asked what he was doing for Thanksgiving, and he replied, “No plans.”
“Would you join me and my friends?” I asked.
There wasn’t any hesitation. “What a lovely gesture,” he’d said. “What time would you like Amanda and me to be there?”
O’Neill looked at others around the table and cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank everyone at Cabot Cove for making us—and I speak for myself, my wife, and the Worrell Institute—feel so welcome.” He scanned our faces. He and Amanda were certainly welcomed by everyone at my Thanksgiving gathering. But he might have been better served leaving out mention of the Worrell Institute, considering the ominous series of events that had recently occurred there. An uneasy silence spilled over the table.
I sipped my wine. “Amanda?” I said to O’Neill’s wife. “I believe you’re next.”
“Michael said he was speaking for me,” she said. Her voice was cold, and distinctly unfriendly.
It had become obvious to me soon after the O’Neills arrived that Amanda did not share her husband’s enthusiasm at having accepted my invitation. She’d said little. There are many people whose quiet demeanor at gatherings is appealing, if not welcomed. Amanda O’Neill’s taciturn silence, however, spoke of arrogance. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was usually gracious and generous in her social skills, but had been angered by something that happened before arriving at my house. I’d met her at the opening gala for the institute; she’d seemed gracious and hospitable enough in that setting.
If my generosity of spirit hadn’t been accurately applied, however, I was left with only surprise that she was Dr. Michael O’Neill’s wife. He was gregarious and charming. She was—to be kind, a dolt. At least on this day.
Their choice of clothing for a Thanksgiving dinner said much about their differing personalities. Michael wore a navy cashmere blazer, snow-white turtleneck, and gray wool trousers with a razor crease. Amanda, who was tall and slinky, wore a painfully tight black dress cut low in front, massive gold hoop earrings that reached her bare shoulders, and stylish, albeit uncomfortable black platform shoes.
I looked at Michael O’Neill. If his wife’s unpleasant refusal to speak had made him uneasy, he wasn’t overt in showing it. Trying to put him, as well as everyone else, at ease, I said to Amanda, “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. O’Neill. No need for everyone to have their say.”
“I’d like to say something.”
The voice belonged to Barbara McCoy, who sat to Amanda’s left. She was one of two young women from the Worrell Institute. Once Dr. O’Neill had accepted my invitation—and realizing the dinner table would need an extra leaf or two anyway—I asked whether there were artists at the institute who would be alone on the holiday. He came up with three: Barbara McCoy, a musician; Susan Dalton, the young woman in whom Mort Metzger had taken a liking at the opening party, and who was writing a murder mystery; and a young man, Jo Jo Masarowski, a “video artist” who looked like a poster boy for a FEED THE HUNGRY campaign. There is skinny, and there is pale, but Jo Jo had combined them into an art form of its own.
Barbara McCoy was a striking, although not necessarily attractive woman, who put herself together well, and whose self-confidence made you think of her as beautiful. Model-tall, and pencil-thin, her auburn hair was cropped extremely close, almost a crew cut. Unusually high and defined cheekbones created canyons in which aquamarine eyes dwelled. I pegged her at about the same age Maureen Beaumont had been at the time of her death.
McNeill had told me that Barbara was very much alone in the world. “She doesn’t have any family,” he’d said. “Her parents were killed in a plane crash two years ago. An only child.”
Ms. McCoy spoke slowly, softly, and deliberately. She had stage presence. “I’d like to thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for inviting me here. May I call you Jessica?”
“Of course.”
Amanda O’Neill looked up and squinted at the large brass-and-copper chandelier above the table. Was she asking God for deliverance from the table?
“I’d also like to say something else. I promise I’ll make it brief. It’s a wonderful tradition you have here, Jessica, having people at your Thanksgiving table express thanks for something special in their lives. Well, along with being thankful for being here with you and your lovely friends, I’m especially grateful for having been accepted to the Worrell Institute. It’s been a lifesaver for me. I’m experiencing a major breakthrough. It’s incredible. I mean, it’s really a special place.” She looked at Michael O’Neill with adoring eyes. “I just wish it would stop getting such bad press, so that Dr. O’Neill can get on with the superb work he and his staff are doing.”
Amanda’s eyes went to her husband—annihilative beams of death and destruction drilling into his brain.
I assumed Barbara was finished, and I was about to ask Susan Dalton if she had anything to add. But then Barbara said, “Maureen Beaumont did not kill herself because of Worrell, even if the institute’s critics would like us to think she did. Maureen Beaumont killed herself because she couldn’t live with the guilt!”
We all looked at her quizzically. She was aware of the intense interest in her, laughed, and said, “How did I ever get on to that subject? Thanks again for inviting me to your table, Jessica.”
Amanda O’Neill pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over, stood, dropped her napkin on it, and left the room. All eyes went to Michael. Certainly, her husband would go after her.
“Time to carve the bird, isn’t it?” he said. “May I do the honors?”
“Sorry, Doc, but bird carving is my territory,” Mort Metzger said. “Tradition. Every year I get to carve the turkey. Right, Jess?”
Seth said, “Maybe we ought to let a physician do the surgery. Might do a cleaner, better job. Unless, of course, he has other things to tend to.” He looked in the direction to which Amanda had made her escape.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to carve a turkey?” Mort asked.
“No,” Seth said. “But we got Dr. O’Neill here. Might be in the holiday spirit to give him a chance.”
O’Neill laughed, waved his hands. “I’m a psychiatrist, not a surgeon,” he said. “I vote for tradition. The sheriff does the deed.”
“Could I—?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Could I carve the turkey?”
“Well, usually Mort does, and—”
Mort’s eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Of course you can, Jason,” I said.
“I know how. Miss Sassi taught me.”
“Splendid. I’ll get you started.”
> As I led Jason to the kitchen, I glanced at Michael O’Neill, who’d fallen into a spirited conversation with Worrell’s resident artists. He seemed jolly enough. But how long would he allow his wife to be absent without checking on her? Maybe she had a set of car keys and had gone home. I silently hoped that was the case. She’d put on a pall on everyone.
I left Jason with the turkey and the necessary tools for carving, and returned to the dining room with a steaming bowl of creamed onions, which I placed in front of O’Neill.
“My favorite,” he said.
I decided while in the kitchen that even if Michael wasn’t about to check on his wife’s whereabouts and well-being, I had an obligation to do so as hostess. I went to the living room where she was huddled in front of the fireplace, her arms wrapped about herself. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m not feeling very well.”
“I’m sorry. You look cold. Would you like a sweater, a shawl? I have a cashmere one that—”
“I just need some time alone,” she said, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
“Of course. Come join us when—when you’re ready.”
Jason had done a masterful job of carving, and was obviously pleased at our acknowledgment of his skill. As we dug in to the bountiful bowls and platters of food, I forgot about Amanda. I think everyone else did, too, including her husband, who ate with gusto. His conversation was as enthusiastic as his appetite.
“More wine?” I asked Norman Huffaker, whose glass was empty. O’Neill’s glass had also been drained.
“Sure,” Norman said.
As Seth fetched a new bottle of Chablis that was chilling in my refrigerator, I asked Jo Jo Masarowski about video art. That prompted a bits-and-bytes monologue that quickly lost me in its technical jargon. Although I’d recently abandoned my trusty old Remington manual typewriter for a word processor, my knowledge of how it worked was limited to turning it on, and following the simple set of instructions that allowed me to write, store what I’d written on a little disk, and print it out.
Norman had launched into a discussion of wine with Michael O’Neill. They both seemed knowledgeable on the subject. Wine, like computers, was another area of vast mystery to me. I find the ritual of sniffing corks, inhaling fumes, and sipping before sending a bottle back because it “lacks body,” or “its bouquet is too timid,” to define pretentiousness. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.
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