“I pray you’re right, Jess.”
Before my cab arrived, I placed a call to Michael O’Neill’s home. Amanda answered.
“Hello, Amanda. This is Jessica Fletcher.”
“Hello.” Her tone was as cold as the icicles hanging outside my kitchen window.
“I understand you’re feeling better,” I said.
“Much.”
So much for small talk. “Amanda, is Michael there?”
“He’s in the shower.”
“Oh. Would you be good enough to give him a message?” I took her silence as an affirmation that she would. “I’d like to swing by Worrell today and pick up Norman Huffaker’s personal things. I understand they’ve been gathered. I’ll ask the police to authorize their release to me.”
“I’ll tell Michael.”
“Thank you. Have a pleasant day.”
Jake Monroe pulled up a few minutes later in his taxi. He wore a Russian fur hat, and three layers of plaid flannel shirts. Jake didn’t wear a beard, but always looked like he was about to sprout one. I got in the front seat. “Moose River,” I said.
“Down to the bridge where they found the car?”
“Yes. I suppose it’s all over town by now.”
He laughed. “Have a couple of hundred gawkers there by now if it was summertime. Snow’ll keep ’em away.”
“How are the roads?” I asked as he pulled away.
“Mite greezy, Mrs. Fletcher. But I got my chains on. No problem.”
Jake had the taxi’s radio tuned to a local station. A newscaster, whose voice testified to his youth, gave the headlines, ending with: “Noted writer is an apparent Cabot Cove suicide. Stay tuned for details.”
After a slew of commercials, the newscaster returned :
“A well-known screenwriter, here from California to attend the Worrell Institute for Creativity; is believed to have taken his own life early this morning by jumping off the Old Moose River Bridge. A note was found in a car parked on the bridge with its engine running. The car was reported stolen by one of the institute’s physicians, Dr. Tomar Meti. The writer, Norman Huffaker, is alleged to have left the suicide note, according to Cabot Cove sheriff, Morton Metzger. No body has been recovered, and the search is being hampered by the storm. Huffaker is a close friend of noted Cabot Cove mystery writer, Jessica Fletcher. Now for more on what Ol’ Man Winter’s got in store for us, here’s Lou Furino ... ”
I looked out the vehicle’s window into a swirling mass of white. Jake navigated a curve, and the taxi slid in the direction of a snowbank from a previous storm “Not to worry,” he said, turning in the direction of the skid and bringing the car under control.
The announcer’s weather forecast was grim. I suppose circumstances made it seem more ominous than it ordinarily might have been for me. I’m a self-confessed weather junkie. I set out in college to become a meteorologist, but vetoed that career when I took a first glance at the four-year curriculum. Too much math for this undergrad. I became an instant English major.
I wondered how my name had been linked to Norm’s. Not that our relationship was a secret. But the local station had obviously been informed of the friendship. I assumed Mort had been the source, although it was hardly the sort of information a sheriff would consider important when talking to the press.
By the time we reached the Old Moose River Bridge, which spanned the Moose River at one of its narrower points, visibility had been reduced to the length of your arm. The Moose River is a favorite of white-water rafters in the summer months. I don’t speak from experience. Walking and bicycle riding are more my cup of tea, although I do enjoy a dip in the ocean in late August when the sun’s been around long enough to have effectively heated the frigid Atlantic.
Jake pulled up behind Mort Metzger’s car, whose flashing red roof lights, turning in concert with the lights of other police vehicles, created an eerie, colorful show as their beams were caught by the blowing snow.
I pulled the collar of my coat up tight about my throat, tightened my scarf across my mouth and nose, and walked to where Mort and some of his officers were attempting to mount a search for Norm’s body.
“Shouldn’t be here, Jess,” Mort said, his white breath mingling with the white snow.
“Couldn’t stay away,” I said. “Any luck?”
“Nope. Got to call it off right now.”
I saw a maroon BMW parked on the bridge. “Is that Dr. Meti’s car?” I asked.
“Ayuh.”
“Find anything in it?” I asked.
“The note. You saw it.”
“Anything else?”
“Haven’t had a good look yet. Do that once we get it back to the vehicle pound.”
He barked an order that everyone was to pack up and return to headquarters. “Bobby, drive the BMW back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mort walked me to Jake’s taxi.
“Something’s not right here,” I said.
“What’s not right, Jessica, is the weather. No sense froggin’ around any longer. Suggest you get on home and ride this out in front of your fireplace.”
“Probably won’t have a choice,” I said. “Mort, is it all right for me to go to Worrell and pick up Norman’s personal belongings? I know his wife would want that.”
“Don’t see why not. I’d like to take a look at ’em, but won’t get there today. Suppose I’d feel better knowin’ they were in your possession.”
“I’ll keep everything safe. Will you call Worrell and tell them it’s okay for me to get them?”
“Ayuh.”
“And you’ll keep me posted?”
“You know I will.” To Jake: “You drive easy now. Get her home in one piece.”
Jake scowled at Mort, put the taxi in reverse, managed to turn around on the narrow, icy road, and delivered me to my front door.
“Thanks, Jake,” I said. There was no need to pay him. Because I don’t drive, I use Jake on a regular basis, and have a house account.
I was about to pour myself a cup of divine vanilla almond coffee, a pound of which Seth Hazlitt had given me, when the phone rang.
“Hello?”
“Jessica. Michael O’Neill here.”
“Yes, Michael?”
“How are you holding up?”
“All right. I haven’t had time to fall apart.”
“Any word on whether they’ve found the body?”
“Nothing yet. I just came from the river. They had to abandon the search because of the weather. Sheriff Metzger will keep me updated.”
“I was thinking I should call Mrs. Huffaker. Do you agree?”
“I think it might be premature, Michael. I’ll be talking with Jill in a few minutes. I’ll tell her of your concern. If she wishes to talk with you, I’m sure she’ll call. I convinced her to stay in California until there’s something more definitive about Norman. No chance of her coming here anyway. Not with this weather. I just heard on CNN that the storm could be one of the worst in decades. Shutting everything down from Georgia to Canada.”
“How is Mrs. Huffaker doing?” he asked.
“As good as can be expected. Not knowing for certain makes it harder, I suppose.”
“There’s no doubt, is there, that he’s—I mean, that Mr. Huffaker took his life?”
“I have serious doubts,” I said.
“I see. Hopefully, you’ll be proved right.”
“I’m still hoping to swing by and pick up Norm’s things,” I said. “Depends on the weather.”
“Pick up his things?”
“Yes. Didn’t Amanda give you my message? You were in the shower.”
“No, she didn’t. Oh. That’s what this note is about.”
“What note?”
“Ms. Portledge left me a note. Sheriff Metzger called to say Mr. Huffaker’s possessions could be released to you. I wasn’t sure what it meant.”
“I assume there’s no problem,” I said.
“No. No problem. I just wasn�
��t prepared for it. Let’s see. I’ve got his computer in my office. I’m tied up in meetings all day. Another blot on Worrell. I spend more time on damage control than on the mission of this institution.”
I was about to say “I’m sorry,” but decided not to bother. Undoubtedly, the trio of “suicides,” one successful, one leaving the individual in a hospital, and now a missing body, was bad for business at Worrell. But I resented having Norman considered a “blot.”
“I’ll arrange to leave the computer at the reception desk.”
“There are other things as well, Michael. Norman’s personal belongings. Are they still in his room?”
“Yes. It’s been sealed off. I’ll have everything at Reception.”
“Fine. It just occurred to me, Michael, that Amanda isn’t the only forgetful person this morning. You and I were to meet concerning the seminars.”
“We were?”
“I think so. Just as well we push it off to another day.”
“I agree. Time to get to my first meeting. Thank you for calling.”
I’d no sooner hung up on O’Neill when the phone rang. again.
“Hello?”
Dead air.
“Hello? Hello? Anybody there?”
A wrong number? Or Norm? Why did I even think that was a possibility? Denial, I suppose. Until they dragged his body from the river, I preferred to think he was still alive.
I finished what was left of my lukewarm coffee, and called Jake’s Cab Company. “Jake, it’s Jessica. I need to go to the Worrell Institute.”
He grunted. “Looked out your window lately?” he said.
“Yes. It’s a blizzard.”
“Good day to stay home, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“I know that, Jake. I suppose what I have to do at Worrell could wait a day or two. But I want to do it today. Don’t think we’d make it?”
“Make it? Of course we can make it.”
I smiled. My challenge was working.
“Might be a slow ride.”
“Slow and safe. That’s your motto, isn’t it?”
“All right. Be there soon as I can.”
“And don’t forget your chains.”
I put on a heavy purple, angora wool pullover sweater—my special “blizzard sweater”—boots, scarf, mittens, and hat, and waited for Jake to arrive.
Chains or no chains, we did a lot of slipping and sliding as Jake navigated the narrow, ascending road leading to the Worrell Mansion. “Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” I said.
“I can handle it,” he said, his eyes fixed on what could be seen of the road in front of us. “Got thirty-five-years experience driving in this neck of the woods, Mrs. Fletcher. Not even a fender bender. Out-of-towners cause all the problems. Don’t know what in hell they’re doin’ in snow.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said. I thought back to having been in New York City the previous winter. It snowed less than two inches one day, but the entire city was paralyzed. They say New Yorkers are tough, can handle muggings, pollution, roaches, and grid-lock. But when it comes to snow, even umbrellas go up. Washington, D.C. is even worse. The first sign of ice and the city shuts down. If I were a nation planning an attack on the United States, it would be launched during an ice storm in the nation’s capital. No one in government comes to work.
“Like him,” Jake said as a car approached from the opposite direction. After we’d safely passed each other, Jake muttered, “Probably break his damn fool neck by the time he gets down to the bottom.”
“Jake, do you ever think about leaving Cabot Cove and moving to somewhere where it’s warm in winter? Florida? California?”
“Nope. Like it just fine right here.”
“I have a friend who went to California from here because he hated cold and snow.”
“That so?”
“Yes. Norman Huffaker. The man they say killed himself this morning at Moose River.”
“Uh-huh.”
“He hated snow. Especially driving in it. This may sound silly, but I don’t think he would have picked the day of a blizzard to kill himself, to drive on these roads.”
Jake laughed. “Seems to me when a fella decides to kill himself, he ain’t goin’ to worry about gettin’ into an automobile accident.”
“I suppose you’re right. Still, knowing Norm.”
Norm despised snow. “Just think, I’ll never have to drive in this stuff again,” he’d joked at his going-away party. “It’s not civilized to have to contend with ice and snow just to run out for a quart of milk.” His gloating over escaping to a warmer climate evidently made someone up there angry, because it snowed an unprecedented thirty-seven inches the next day, delaying Norm and Jill’s flight to California by two days. “Must have been a jealous God who got himself demoted to the Northeast,” he’d said.
Michael O’Neill was standing at the reception desk when I entered the lobby. I’d invited Jake in, but he declined. “Place gives me the creeps,” he’d said, opting to wait in his cab.
“Hello there, Jessica. I’m surprised to see you here. The weather is dreadful.”
“I really wanted to get Norm’s things, Michael. I have a taxi waiting outside. Is everything ready to go?”
“Yes. All here, as promised.”
I surveyed the items in front of me. A Compac laptop computer in a padded case, a suitcase, two smaller bags, and a box labeled, MISCELLANEOUS. I couldn’t help but smile. The computer case, smaller boxes, and even the suitcase were labeled. Jill Huffaker had bought her husband one of those Brother label makers a few birthdays ago, and he never went anywhere without it. He loved that label maker. According to Jill, he labeled everything, tapes, dresser drawers, tools, even wrapped Christmas presents.
“I assume everything is here,” I said.
“I’m sure it is.”
“His computer disks? Are they in with the computer?”
“His disks? I’m sure they are.”
Jake saw me open the door, and came up the stairs to help. We put everything in the trunk except for the computer.
“Thanks, Michael,” I said. “Get inside before you turn into a snowman.”
“Where to, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jake asked as he pulled away.
“Home, I guess. And I promise this is the last call from me today.”
Chapter Twelve
A Few Days Later
The blizzard that had paralyzed the entire East Coast eventually blew out to sea, as blizzards usually do, leaving behind a lovely white blanket to hide the inconvenience, and occasional misery.
I didn’t leave my house once I’d returned home from Worrell with Norm’s personal effects. Even if I’d wanted to venture out, I doubted whether Jake would have been able, or willing to take me despite his treasured chains.
Jason showed up the minute the snowfall showed signs of abating. I watched from the window as he attacked the massive snowdrifts with a determined, steady rhythm. It took the better part of the day for him to dig me out sufficiently so that I could reach the mailbox, garbage cans, cottage at the rear of my property, and other mundane destinations that we take for granted—until we can’t get to them.
I didn’t mind the forced isolation. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had. Mother Nature was firmly in control. When that happens, the best we can do is duck as many punches as possible, and conserve energy for when “she” tires.
Because I was housebound during the storm, I got a lot of work done. I’d stopped work on Brandy & Bullets—too many distractions. But I did have a seminar to teach at Worrell in a few days.
Considering the weather, to say nothing of Norm Huffaker’s disappearance, I considered canceling it. Norm’s body still hadn’t been found. The clearing weather meant that Mort Metzger’s department, in concert with a state team of officers, could resume their search. But no one seemed optimistic that their efforts would be fruitful. The Moose River, relatively free-flowing when the storm hit, was now frozen over. No telling where the body—if there was a bo
dy—might have ended up. Probably frozen beneath the river’s surface. If that was the case, only the spring thaw would reveal its whereabouts.
I kept in close touch with Jill. She seemed to be accepting the situation with admirable aplomb. As much as I wanted to deliver promising news to her, I was careful not to plant false and misleading hopes. All I could do was assure her that I would keep tabs on progress in Cabot Cove, and report to her as things developed.
She seemed less anxious to travel to Cabot Cove than before. I told her I’d picked up Norm’s things, which seemed to make her feel better. “No sense in coming here, Jill, until—unless they find Norm. You’re better off staying where you are.”
My flirtation with canceling the seminar had to do with more than Norman Huffaker, and the weather. Truth is, I was nervous about doing it. I don’t consider myself a teacher, although I have found myself in front of a class on a few occasions, the most recent in New York City where I lectured on criminal detection.
But I wasn’t any more comfortable with that situation than I was with the contemplation of standing before a group of artists, writers, and musicians at Worrell, and telling them how to write a murder mystery. The reality is that I don’t know how I write my novels. They just seem to get done.
“Still nothing?” I asked Mort over the phone. It was the morning of my seminar.
“Nope, Jess. Ice is a foot thick on the river. Got a foot of snow on top of that. Afraid we won’t be making much progress till things warm up.”
“I know how hard you’re trying, Mort. Just thought I’d check in again.”
“Always a pleasure hearin’ from you, Jess, no matter what the reason.”
I stood in front of a floor-length mirror in my bedroom, admiring my brown-and-beige plaid wool skirt, ivory cashmere turtleneck, and beige cashmere blazer. I said aloud, “I’m delighted to see everyone here this morning.”
I shifted my pose, extended my hands in front of me, and said, less enthusiastically, “How lovely to see you all on this frigid Maine morning. I’m especially excited because it’s always a delight to spend an entire daytime with so many who share something in common—an interest in writing.”
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