“Could I have a private word with you?” The question was asked me by Susan Dalton, the blond mystery writer who’d taken up residence at the Worrell Institute.
“Certainly,” I said.
We both stood and were about to head for the kitchen when Amanda O’Neill suddenly appeared in the doorway between the dining and living rooms. “Michael,” she said sternly.
Michael looked up, returned his attention to the table, and took another hurried fork of chestnut stuffing.
“Michael!” Her voice was louder this time, and more demanding. She disappeared from view.
All attention now focused on him. He sighed, rolled his eyes—the gesture seemed to be directed at Barbara McCoy—stood, stretched, and said, “Excuse me.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” I said to Susan Dalton.
Although the conversation between the O’Neills was muffled, the tone of their voices clearly indicated that they were having an angry confrontation. Michael returned to the dining room, came to my side, crouched, and whispered in my ear, “I think we’d better be going. Amanda isn’t feeling well.”
He wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving. I followed him from the room, intending to say goodbye to his wife. But she’d already found her coat and had left the house without a word.
“Thanks for a lovely day, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “We must do it again. My house next time.”
Unlikely.
I looked through the living room drapes after he left. Amanda was sitting in their car’s passenger seat, her arms in a death squeeze around her body, her face a mask of anger. He spun his wheels as he backed from my driveway, and roared up the street.
“What a witch,” Barbara McCoy said as I rejoined my guests. Mort and Seth announced they were heading for the den “just to check on bowl game scores.” Translation: It was time to watch football. Jason and Jo Jo, who seemed to have taken a liking to each other, went to the kitchen to talk, and to start the cleanup despite my protestations. I was surprised to see that Jason had demonstrated to Jo Jo a knowledge of computers, at least to the extent that he seemed to understand what Jo Jo was talking about. That left me at the table with Susan Dalton, Barbara McCoy, and Norm Huffaker.
Although the two young women seemed friendly enough during dinner, I sensed a certain—call it unease—between them. Nothing overt, just a pulse that I felt, like a low-voltage electrical current.
“It’s marvelous that you’re enjoying yourself so much at Worrell, and getting so much out of it,” I said to Barbara.
“It’s a wonderful place,” she said eagerly. “Everyone on the staff is outstanding, and I’ve met so many other interesting artists. It’s very inspiring.”
“And you, Susan? How is it going for you and the murder mystery you’re writing?”
“Better every day.”
Barbara announced that she had to return to the institute. “I promised myself I’d have a section of my score completed by morning,” she said. “That’s one of the things I’ve learned there. Make a commitment to yourself, and keep it.”
“I could use a little of that discipline,” I said.
“Maybe you should check in,” Norman said, his words slurred from too much wine. His choice of terminology was strange, I thought. “Check in?” Sounded like a hospital, or—mental institution?
“I might just do that,” I said.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Norm said.
“What’s sad?”
“That someone can be so driven by a need to create that she’d kill herself over it.”
“Maureen Beaumont,” I said.
“Yeah. She became obsessed with her inability to compose something great.” He poured himself brandy from a bottle I’d brought to the table. “ro feel so blocked, so completely worthless that you blow your brains out. To be that unhappy because you can’t create something better than the next guy.”
“How about dessert?” I asked, injecting added gaiety into my voice.
Norman went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “Why does anybody kill themselves?” he asked no one in particular. “I mean, how is their mind working? What are they thinking? Where’s the reasoning? How is their mind processing what’s going on around them?”
“That’s what’s awesome about the Worrell Institute,” said Barbara. “They study just that sort of thing with creative artists.”
“Suicide?” I said.
“Yeah,” Norm responded. “What makes a blocked artist go over the edge?”
“How do they do that?” I asked.
“In-depth sessions with the artists,” Norm said. “The couch. Free association. Behavior mod. Hypnosis.”
“Hypnosis,” I repeated.
“You were hypnotized last weekend,” Norm said, pouring himself another drink he didn’t need. I’d told everyone at dinner about my experience in Boston, although I soft-pedaled my brief fling onstage as one of Carson James’s hypnotic subjects. “Just playing along,” I said. “Show business. It kept the act going.” Seth gave me one of his best skeptical looks, but didn’t challenge me.
I repeated to Norman that I’d been nothing more than a willing participant in Carson James’s show. “Dessert time,” I announced. “The pies, and hard sauce, await us.”
“I’ll go back with you,” Norman told Barbara.
“Will you stay awhile?” I asked Susan. “Looks like I’m losing the crowd. I’ve already lost two of my male friends to ‘third-and-long.’ ”
“Sure,” she said.
Jo Jo decided to return to Worrell with Barbara and Norman. I called the cab company that had brought them to the house, and the owner of the service, Jake Monroe, arrived minutes later. He was the only driver that day because none of his employees would work on Thanksgiving. Jake waited inside as his passengers said their goodbyes, and I insisted he take half a pumpkin pie with him. The premature exit by the O’Neills, and now the departure of this contingent, left me with an excess of dessert.
“Last run of the day, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jake said. “Wife’s got dinner waitin’ for me.”
“You’ve certainly earned it,” I said.
Susan, Jason, and I cleaned up in the kitchen, then joined Seth and Morton in the den for coffee and pie. The game must not have been too exciting because Seth had dozed off in my recliner, and Mort was reading a newspaper.
“Splendid pie,” Seth said after finishing his second piece of apple, with hard sauce, of course.
“Pass your compliments along to Charlene Sassi,” I said.
“I have to go home,” Jason said.
“I suppose I should, too,” said Susan Dalton.
“Oh, I forgot,” I said. “You wanted to talk to me about something.”
“Yes, I did. Maybe—”
“It also occurs to me,” I said, “that you have no way of getting back to the institute. The cab company is closed.”
“No problem,” Mort said. “Happy to drive Miss Dalton there myself.”
“What about Jason?” I asked.
“I’ll walk,” he said. “I like to walk.”
“Drop you off, too,” Mort said. “On the way.”
“Mind another passenger?” I asked.
“You, Jess?”
“Yes. I could use a ride. Some fresh air.”
“Happy to have you,” said Mort.
“I’ll drive the young lady home,” Seth offered.
But Mort obviously wanted that pleasure.
We said good night to Seth in front of the house, and I climbed in the backseat of Mort’s sheriff’s car with Susan Dalton. Jason sat up front.
“What fun,” Susan said as Mort started the vehicle and slipped it into gear. “Riding in a sheriff’s car.”
“Don’t say it too loud,” I whispered. “I don’t think he’s supposed to use it for personal reasons.”
“I heard ya,” Mort said over his shoulder. “The way I figure it, any trip up to Worrell is business. Nasty business.”
“I’m going up to t
he mansion tomorrow,” Jason said.
“Are you?” I said. “Why?”
“Jo Jo invited me to see how he makes art on his computer.”
“That sounds like fun, Jason. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”
We dropped Jason at Sassi’s bakery, and headed up the mountain toward Worrell. I took the opportunity to ask Susan what she’d wanted to speak with me about.
“I can tune out if you want it to be private,” Mort said.
“Oh, no,” Susan said. “What I have to say would be of interest to Sheriff Metzger.”
“Well, then, we’re all ears,” I said.
“It’s about Maureen Beaumont and how she died.”
“Yes?”
“And the other girl who tried to commit suicide.”
“Hear from Seth she’s gonna be okay,” Mort said.
“That’s good,” said Susan. “I think she really did try to kill herself.”
“Why would you even doubt it?” I asked.
“Because people say that Maureen Beaumont killed herself.”
We waited.
“She didn’t.”
“She didn’t?” Mort and I said in unison.
“She was murdered. And I think I know who did it.”
If we were “all ears” before, our auditory receptivity was now at its peak setting.
“Maureen was a jealous person,” Susan continued. “Very jealous. And competitive. She was depressed because she wasn’t doing as well as some of the other musicians. Including Barbara.”
“Ms. McCoy? Who was at my house today?”
“Yes. When Barbara found out that Maureen had stolen her score, and was using it for her own project, she was furious. She was so mad, she—she was ready to kill.”
Mort pulled off the winding road and parked on the shoulder. He turned and said, “Are you sayin’, Ms. Dalton, that Miss McCoy shot Maureen Beaumont ?”
“I’m saying—yes, I think she did.”
“Think?” Mort said.
“Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”
“Well, yes, I’d certainly agree with that assessment. But you have to be more certain, Susan. It’s a very serious charge you’re making.”
“I’m aware of that.” My mild rebuke caused her to pout.
“Got any proof?” Mort asked.
“No. But I’m working on it.”
“How are you doing that?” I asked.
“Listening. Observing. You know, Jessica, when I first met you at the party, I didn’t know who you were. I’ve never read much. Not since school. But when I found out how famous you are as a mystery writer, it sort of—well, it inspired me. You can imagine how tickled I was to be invited to your house for Thanksgiving dinner.”
“The pleasure was mine, Susan.”
“I never was sold on that suicide theory regardin’ Miss Beaumont,” Mort said.
“I remember you expressing that,” I said. “The powder burns, wasn’t it?”
“Yup.”
“See?” Susan said with animation. “Of course. The powder burns.”
“You know about powder burns?” I asked.
“I know that if you hold a gun to your head, it leaves powder burns. There weren’t any. That’s it!”
“Susan,” I said, “there were powder burns, weren’t there, Mort?”
“Yup, except that—”
I interrupted. “Susan, this kind of speculation is interesting, of course. But you have to be careful about expressing your theories until you’ve gathered enough facts. Evidence.”
“And that’s exactly what I intend to do, Jessica. Imagine. A murder takes place before my very eyes. I was absolutely at a loss for a plot for my book. I didn’t have one idea that made sense. I talked about it during my therapy sessions with Dr. O’Neill and his staff. They’re so terrific, so supportive. They’re working on getting me to open my mind so that the creative juices can flow freely.”
“I see.”
“So I’ve been trying to do that. And then it hit me. The story is right in front of my eyes. It’s for real. All I have to do is follow it, and turn it into a plot based on real life.”
“Uh-huh.”
Mort started to pull back onto the road, but I stopped him. “Tell me more about this stolen music,” I said to Susan.
“It’s not difficult to prove, Jessica. I heard Maureen playing it the night before she died. I thought it sounded so pretty, so I went into the practice room to tell her. She panicked, covered the music with other papers. That seemed strange to me, but I didn’t say anything.
“Then, later that night, I heard an argument in the practice room. I kind of pressed my ear to the door. Barbara McCoy was in there with Maureen. She was yelling at her about how Maureen stole her musical score. Maureen denied it, but they kept yelling at each other. Finally, I heard Barbara say something like if Maureen tried to claim the score as her own, she’d kill her.”
“She said that?” Mort said. “In exactly those words?”
“Something like that.”
Mort and I exchanged glances.
“Is that what Barbara meant when she said Maureen Beaumont had killed herself because she ‘couldn’t live with the guilt?’ ” I asked.
“I bet that’s what she meant,” Susan replied.
“Well, Susan,” I said, “this has been—fascinating.”
“I thought you’d think it was,” she said. “Can I count on you and Sheriff Metzger to help me?”
“Help you?”
“Solve the murder. That would be good for you, Sheriff. And I’d have a plot for my book,”
“I think we’d better get going, Mort,” I said.
We were stopped at the gate by an institute security guard, who allowed us to pass once he saw it was Mort, and that one of the institute’s residents was being returned to the mansion.
“Good night, Susan,” I said.
“Good night, Jessica. Thank you again for having me to dinner. It was yummy.”
“You take care,” Mort said. “Leave the solvin’ of murders to me.”
“Oh, I will. I’ll call you when I find out more.” She was out of the car, bounded up the steps, and disappeared inside.
“What do you think?” I asked Mort.
“She’s a pretty thing,” he replied.
“I don’t mean her looks. I mean her theory.”
He shrugged. “Wish she wouldn’t go snoopin’ around like that,” he said. “If that Beaumont woman was murdered, isn’t likely the murderer will appreciate havin’ her stickin’ her nose into it.”
“My thought exactly.”
Chapter Nine
Once upon a time, I lived in large cities, and loved them. Their energy matched perfectly with my youthful sense of purpose and exploration.
But now that I’ve lived in the small town of Cabot Cove, Maine, all these years, I can’t imagine ever living in a metropolis again. The inherent peace and beauty it offers has captured me for life. It is a place to which I yearn to return whenever I travel.
My house is not large, nor is it lavishly decorated and furnished. It fits me like a well-worn slipper, and if I were to win the state lottery—which I play religiously, one ticket a week—there’s nothing I would change with my house, or my life.
But that’s not to say that Cabot Cove doesn’t have its drawbacks. Like any small town, it lacks certain amenities, particularly in the area of culture. The hope that by attracting young artists and musicians to the town, the Worrell Institute for Creativity would foster a cultural center, had not happened. At least not yet.
Another characteristic of small towns is the penchant for gossip. Everyone knows everyone else—or at least it seems that way—which means it isn’t easy to get lost. And we all need to lose ourselves on occasion, if only for a day or two. The problem is that, by some strange process, what you’ve done while hibernating is quickly known around town. Rent a batch of videos for a weekend and someone on Monday will ask how you enjoyed the films, by n
ame. Subscribe to a controversial publication and it will be known. There’s nothing malicious about it. It just happens.
When I wrote my first novel in my new Cabot Cove house, speculation ran rampant in town. I was antisocial. I was hiding a demented family member in the attic. Those rumors eventually abated, but the absurdity of some of them lingers with me to this day.
Now, a few days after Thanksgiving, I was to hear another rumor about me. You’d think that having lived for so many years in a small town environment, I wouldn’t be shocked at what Sheriff Morton Metzger told me when he stopped by at my house for coffee.
“You’ve got to be kidding! That’s ridiculous! Insane! Crazy!”
He’d given me the news between bites of English muffin, tossed it at me as though he was announcing a forecast of snow, or that his budget for a new patrol car had been approved.
“Calm down, Jess. Just a damn rumor circulatin’ about town this mornin’.”
“But it doesn’t make any sense. Why on earth would anyone suspect me? What possible motive would I have for wanting Maureen Beaumont dead?”
“Seems I might be at the root of it.”
“You? How?”
“Not so much that you would be a suspect, but that the rumor ever got started in the first place. I never closed the book on Miss Beaumont’s death. Never bought suicide. You know that as well as I do.”
“Yes, I do.”
“That’s the problem, Jess. Folks got the drift that I was continuin’ to investigate, so they put two and two together, and they figure that if I think the woman was murdered, that means there’s got to be a murderer.”
“Your reasoning is impressive. Go on.”
“So, everybody’s got a theory. You know how folks can be.”
“I understand all that, Mort. But why me?”
He laughed.
“It’s not funny, Mort.”
“Better to have a sense of humor about such things, Jess.”
“Who said it?” I asked. “Who mentioned me as a possible suspect?”
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