Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  My smile was forced, false. I felt like a beauty pageant contestant with Vaseline smeared over her teeth. Relax, I told myself. Be yourself. You’re in control. They’ll be hanging on every word. You don’t have to put on a show. Just talk about what you know. Be sincere. Use their questions as a basis for what to say next. Remember what FDR said: “The only thing we have to fear is—”

  The phone rang.

  “Good morning, Jessica. Michael O’Neill.”

  “Good morning, Michael.”

  “Getting ready for your seminar?”

  “Oh, that? Haven’t had a minute to even think about it.”

  “Spoken like a real pro. Good news. Your seminar is sold-out.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It’s sold-out. Not another seat available.”

  “I’m sorry, Michael, but I don’t understand. I thought I was lecturing to artists-in-residence at Worrell.”

  “Oh, but you are. The resident artists, plus those from outside who wish to avail themselves of your considerable experience and talent. Didn’t you see the ad?”

  “No.”

  “No matter. It would have been a shame to limit your seminar to the few writers here at the institute. You have quite a following. We even advertised in Boston. Quite a contingent signed up from there.”

  “I—I’ll do my best.”

  “Which will be far more than anyone can hope for. Need a ride? I’ll send a car.”

  “No need. Jake’s Cab Company is on its way.”

  “See you then.”

  Our conversation over, I poured another cup of coffee and pondered the day. Amazing, I thought, how life goes on even when life has been taken.

  It had only been a few days since Dr. Meti’s BMW, and the note allegedly written by Norm Huffaker, had been found at Moose River. A good-night’s sleep had eluded me ever since. I would wake up with intense, Technicolor visions of his body encased in ice beneath the river’s surface, grotesquely configured, arms and legs twisted into awkward directions, his face—that face I knew so well—frozen into a macabre expression. Were his eyes open? Had the river’s cold made it easier to die? They say that of all the ways for wild animals to die, freezing to death was the most painless and merciful. Had Norm frozen? Or had he drowned? Undoubtedly the latter.

  If he’d gone into the river at all.

  I had to admit that with every passing hour, the likelihood of his being dead was increased exponentially. If he was alive, where was he? Why no phone call? To me. Certainly to his wife.

  My last conversation with Jill had been late last night. I’d called her at midnight my time, which made it nine o’clock in Los Angeles. Our conversation reflected a pattern Jill seemed to have fallen into ever since I broke the news to her. She was becoming increasingly resigned to Norman being dead. She even talked of making funeral arrangements, a memorial service in Hollywood at which his many friends and colleagues in the movie business could pay their respects.

  “Isn’t that a little premature?” I suggested. “Somehow, Jill, I—”

  “No, Jess,” she said. “As much as I want to be optimistic, I’m afraid it’s time for reality to be let in the door. The reality is that Norman is gone. Dead. Frozen beneath that river. I’ve finally come to grips with it. That’s healthy.”

  “I suppose so,” I said. “But give it a little more time. Maybe you should plan to come here.”

  “I’ve thought a lot about that,” she said. “But I think you were right in suggesting I stay in California. Not because I’m waiting for a call from Norm any longer. But this is home, Jess. It was home for both of us.”

  “I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Probably academic anyway. I just heard on the radio that the airport at Bangor is still closed. They’re hoping to open it for limited flights by tomorrow. We got twenty-five inches.”

  It was good to hear her laugh. “You just confirmed my decision to stay put,” she said.

  And that’s how we ended our talk.

  I’d packed my briefcase the previous night with everything I thought I’d need for the seminar. But I checked it again that morning. There was a lesson plan of sorts, which included points I didn’t want to forget to bring up. I packed copies of some of my novels to distribute; O’Neill’s announcement that the crowd would be large meant that most aspiring writers in it would not receive them.

  I’d also prepared a list of writers’ associations to distribute. The writer’s world can be lonely. Having the opportunity to join other writers for lunch, or an occasional cocktail, can be therapeutic, a surrogate employee cafeteria.

  I included several drafts of my most recent novel, replete with my careful, copious pencil edits as an example of one of two favorite sayings about writing: All good writing is rewriting.

  The other is: If I had more time, I would have written less.

  I kept adding to the briefcase. I tossed in what I consider to be the “Bible” of style, punctuation, and grammar these days, the Chicago Manual of Style. I also decided to include in my bag of tricks a copy of Gin and Daggers, a novel written by a dear and departed friend, Marjorie Ainsworth, who was considered by many to be the world’s reigning queen of the mystery novel. I’d been a houseguest at her London mansion the weekend she was murdered. Months following that, I received in the mail from her solicitor the original manuscript of Gin and Daggers, which Marjorie had willed to me. The note from her attorney that accompanied the manuscript enjoys a special, framed spot in my office: “The torch has been passed. Ms. Ainsworth often said she considered you her favorite colleague, and wanted very much for you to possess this.”

  As I pulled Gin and Daggers from the shelf, my eyes focused on two novels that stood next to it. As part of my compulsive nature, my bookshelves are carefully arranged by category, including a large selection devoted to books written by friends, and inscribed to me. Norman Huffaker’s two early western novels, The Redemption of Rio Red, and The Bronze Lady of Bentonville, written under his pseudonym, B. K. Praether, were included in that collection. I placed them in the briefcase, too. I could use all the props I could muster. Norm’s books would allow me to open a discussion of why writers are often compelled to write under different names, usually because certain books marked a drastic departure from the style for which they were well-known. And, of course, when ghostwriting a book for someone else demanded the author’s anonymity.

  I checked the wall clock. I still had time before Jake arrived, and took my coffee into my den where I’d placed Norm’s computer, and other belongings, in a closet. I opened the computer carrying case. Secured inside by a Velcro strap was the computer itself, a marvel of miniaturization. A marvel to me, at least. My word processor was large. The keyboard was full-sized, and the monitor took up considerable desk space. But here was everything in a small package.

  I removed the computer, pressed on a latch, and raised the screen, which was hinged to the body. I knew a laptop computer contained batteries, which meant I could probably turn it on without plugging it in. Dare I try? My computer illiteracy had me in a firm grip. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I hit the “ON” button. Everything erased from the internal disk? Smoke and flames?

  I turned it on. A light flashed. I leaned closer and read the writing just below the light. “LOW BATTERY.”

  I fished through an outside pocket of the case and pulled out an AC cord, found the tiny extrusion into which one end was plugged, and inserted the other end into a wall socket. After a few beeps, and a barrage of technical information that flashed across the screen, a brightly colored mosaic informed me I had entered the world of something called “WINDOWS.”

  “My goodness,” I said.

  A tiny arrow sat between two of many icons on the screen. That, I knew, had to be moved to one of the icons if anything were to happen. But how to move it?

  A mouse. I’d played with computer mice (is that the correct plural in computerese?) before on a friend’s computer.

  More digging th
rough another outside pocket produced what I assumed was this computer’s version of a mouse. It had a little ball on top. I squinted to read the labels above inputs at the rear of the computer, found the one for the mouse, and plugged it in. My thumb went into spasm as I tried to roll the ball in such a way that it would direct the small screen arrow to the icon that said “MICROSOFT WORD,” which I assumed was the writing program Norm used.

  Eventually, I succeeded. I clicked a button on the side of the ball’s housing. Nothing. I tried a few more times with the same negative result. Then, inadvertently, I clicked twice on it, and everything changed on the screen. It became blank, with only a blinking cursor.

  I was trying to figure out how to access the internal disk when there was a loud knock at my door. I went to it and faced Jake Monroe.

  “Is it time?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Come in, Jake. Only be a minute. I have to turn off the computer.”

  “Gettin’ fancy,” he said.

  “I suppose so. Pour yourself some coffee. It’s in the carafe in the kitchen.”

  I was sure there were rules to follow when turning off the laptop, but I didn’t know them. I simply touched the power button, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the machine. I grabbed my briefcase, put on my L.L. Bean parka and duck boots, and was off to the Worrell Institute for Creativity.

  “Good morning everyone,” I said, “and welcome to the Worrell Institute for Creativity. I must admit that when Dr. O’Neill informed me that many of you would be from outside the institute, I suffered a momentary panic. But I think we’ll all adjust just fine, and that you’ll take away from today some useful information about writing a murder mystery.”

  I felt surprisingly relaxed. As O’Neill was introducing me, I remembered the advice of an old friend who made a living giving lectures and speeches. “Just pretend everyone in the audience is naked,” he’d said.

  Which I did, but only for an initial minute. The large room was cold. Obviously, the extensive renovations on the Worrell Mansion hadn’t included an upgrading of the building’s central heating system. Pretend everyone in the room was naked? The only visual I could come up with was a convention of goose pimples. I replaced everyone’s clothing and relied on my own inner ability to stay calm.

  “Let me begin by reminding you of one simple truth: The art of writing is the art of applying the seat of the pants to the seat of the chair.’ ”

  The quote got the response I’d hoped for. They laughed. I was becoming more relaxed by the minute.

  “I’m afraid I can’t take credit for that clever comment,” I said. “An American writer named Mary Heaton Vorse said it many years ago, and it’s as applicable today as it was back then. It applies to all writers—mystery writers, novelists, non-fiction writers, speech writers, and poets.”

  There were nods throughout the room.

  “Another saying that I often recall when preparing to sit down and write, was quipped by the famous, and impish Noel Coward. He said, ‘What I adore is supreme professionalism. I’m bored by writers who can write only when it is raining.’ ”

  “To that, I say, in the vernacular, ‘Right on!’ Many men and women who call themselves writers wait for a rainy night, or another externally induced mood, to write. Everything must be right. The setting must be right. The weather must be right. Well, I consider that not only nonsense, it represents, at least to me, a cop-out, to use another popular term. Professional writers—real writers—don’t wait for rainy days and nights, although I’m sure Mr. Coward had plenty of those in England.”

  There was more laughter. This was easier than I’d anticipated, made more so by familiar faces in the crowd. Susan Dalton, whose aspirations to write a mystery had been clearly spelled out to me, sat front and center. Jo Jo Masarowski, the computer artist, was next to her. What he would get out of a lecture on mystery writing was beyond me.

  But he wasn’t the only nonwriter in the audience. Barbara McCoy, the musician who’d accused Maureen Beaumont of having stolen her musical score, was in the third row.

  It occurred to me during O’Neill’s introduction that the outsiders had paid to be here. How much it had cost them, I didn’t know. Obviously, O’Neill and his staff saw the seminar as a moneymaking opportunity. I couldn’t blame them for that. O’Neill had insisted I accept a token payment. We’d settled on a hundred dollars, which I intended to contribute to the children’s wing of our local hospital. I just wished he’d been more forthright. Keeping it to himself until the last minute had left me with a slightly salty taste.

  I’d just gotten into the subject of plotting when a serious, and overtly nervous young man, interrupted with a question.

  “Go ahead,” I said. “I intended to have a formal question-and-answer period later. But let’s open it up now. Fire away when a question hits you.”

  A woman interrupted the young man. “It’s freezing in here,” she said, wrapping her arms around herself for emphasis.

  “It is cold,” I said. “I suggest everyone put their coats back on.”

  “They can’t pay the heating bill?” an elderly gentleman muttered.

  I buttoned my cardigan sweater and pointed to the young man with the question. “Maybe we can heat things up with some provocative questions,” I said.

  He introduced himself as a struggling mystery writer, who didn’t depend upon his imagination to come up with titillating plots. He preferred to turn to newspapers and news magazines to provide him with juicy characters, and twists of plot.

  I smiled. “Certainly,” I said, “the novelist’s imagination often pales in comparison to real life, especially in these days of Lorena Bobbits and Joey Butafuccos. But what it means to me is that the novelist must simply work harder to compete with life’s crazy real events.”

  I suggested a fifteen-minute break. I’d been talking for over an hour. And, I needed a bathroom. Too much of Seth’s coffee that morning.

  I quickly left the makeshift stage, beat the crowd out the door of the conference room, and was on my way down the stairs when Michael O’Neill stopped me. “How is it going?” he asked.

  “Fine. I think.”

  “I haven’t been able to sit in yet. Hopefully this afternoon, after lunch. From the sounds of the applause. I’d say you have them in the palm of your hand.”

  “It’s going smoothly.”

  “Got a moment?”

  “Just one. Nature is calling.”

  He grinned. “Just one, Jessica. Promise. Amanda and I are getting a divorce.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that Michael.” I didn’t add that it came as no surprise.”

  “It’s messy. Getting messier by the moment.”

  “These things sometimes are. Excuse me. I really have to—”

  “Jessica.”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you free for dinner this evening?”

  “Uh, yes. No. I have plans. Excuse me.”

  I escaped to the restroom.

  “Mrs. Fletcher.”

  Barbara McCoy followed me through the door. “I’m enjoying this so much,” she said.

  “Glad you could make it, Barbara.”

  “You’re an amazing woman, Mrs. Fletcher. Jessica. It must be so hard for you to focus on anything other than Norman’s disappearance. You were such good friends.”

  Disappearance? Not death? Her choice of words surprised me.

  “Yes,” I answered. “It does preoccupy my thoughts at times. But, as they say, the show must go on. Speaking of that.”

  I emerged from my stall. Barbara was waiting. We left the restroom together.

  “Barbara, when was the last time you saw Norm Huffaker?” I asked as we went up the stairs.

  “Monday. We had breakfast together.”

  “You used the word ‘disappearance.’ I take from that you have doubts about whether he took his life. Any idea where he might have gone? Did he say anything at breakfast that morning?”

  “Not a clue.
That’s what’s so mysterious about it. That note found in Dr. Meti’s car. I don’t buy it. Norman was not suicidal!”

  She evidently knew Norm better than I’d realized.

  “Maybe he was kidnapped,” she said. “Or he’s no longer Norman Huffaker.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Maybe he’s assumed a new identity, is living off the land in Wisconsin. Or Brazil.”

  With another woman? I mused. Mort Metzger had raised that possibility.

  “Barbara, do you have any evidence to support what you’re suggesting?”

  “No. Just a gut instinct, which I always trust.”

  “I hope your gut is right this time,” I said. “Time for me to get back.”

  The rest of the morning flew by. I stressed the need for revision and rewrite. “You can’t rewrite enough,” I said. I passed out copies of the manuscript I’d brought, as well as the published book. “Compare the first few pages of the first draft of the manuscript with the finished pages in the book,” I said. “You’ll see that the published product bears little resemblance to the draft.”

  I ended the morning session with a reminder that one of the cardinal sins of fiction writing is to tell the reader what a character is all about, rather than allowing the character to evolve through his or her actions. “Play out a scene. Don’t tell the reader what has happened. Let readers experience it, and come to the conclusion you intend for them to reach. Describe a beautiful woman—what she wears, how she holds herself—rather than saying she’s beautiful. I once asked a friend of mine, a wonderful composer of popular music, to write a song for me. His response was, ‘If you told me to write a love song tonight, I’d have a lot of trouble doing it. But if you tell me to write a love song about a girl in a red dress in a bar, who’s on her fifth martini, and whose lover is dancing close to another woman while red-dress is falling off her chair, that makes it a lot easier.’ ”

  Pleased with the way the morning had gone, I announced that the institute had prepared a delicious lunch for everyone attending the seminar. “Before we fill our stomachs,” I said, “I’ll take a few questions about what’s been discussed this morning.”