Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Even if it would solve a murder?”

  Would it? I silently asked myself.

  “You’re asking one of the most honest women I know to lie,” Seth said.

  “Not lie,” Mort said. “Play-act a little. Nobody gets hurt.”

  “It would lead O’Neill on,” Seth said. “Make him think Jessica has feelings for him.”

  “Just ’cause she accepts a dinner invitation? Nah. Just a dinner. What say, Jess? Could be real helpful.”

  “I suppose—”

  “Now, hold on here a second,” Seth said. “I don’t know what’s going on with the disappearance of your friend, Huffaker, but did it ever occur to either of you that O’Neill might be askin’ Jessica out to dinner so that he can find out what she knows?”

  Seth’s challenge brought conversation to a halt. Mort and I looked at each other. We both were influenced by Seth’s comment. But our reactions were different. Mort was about to back off on his suggestion that O’Neill and I have dinner together.

  For me, it gave me incentive to go through with it. If O’Neill was asking me to dinner in order to pump me, he had something to hide.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll have dinner with Dr. Michael O’Neill, director of the Worrell Institute.”

  “You will?”

  “Did you really tell Michael that Mara’s was my favorite restaurant?” I asked.

  “No. I told him you liked Le Poisson.”

  “As a matter of fact, I do,” I said brightly. “Have to get back. I’m having guests for lunch.”

  I smelled fire. I ran into each room in search of smoke.

  The doorbell rang.

  “Not the clam pies,” I shouted to my empty living room. I’d put the pies in the oven over an hour ago, and had forgotten about them.

  “In a minute,” I yelled at the front door as I headed for the kitchen. The pies were burned. Hopefully, some selective scraping would salvage them for lunch.

  Jason and Jo Jo Masarowski stood at the door when I opened it. I’d invited them for lunch for two reasons. First, I wanted to further nurture the friendship they’d evidently developed since Thanksgiving. Jason needed a friend, and Jo Jo had filled that role. They shared a love of computers, something I never would have thought possible with Jason. Just goes to show that beneath an otherwise uninspired exterior can lurk intelligence that simply needs to be unleashed. Computers—and Jo Jo—had done that.

  My second reason for inviting them was less altruistic. I needed Jo Jo’s computer expertise to bring up Norm’s disks on his laptop computer. Try as I had, I’d been unsuccessful.

  “Come in, come in,” I said. The thaw was already giving way to colder, damper air. The sun had been shining earlier that morning. Now, the sky was an ominous gray, sinking lower with each passing hour. Another foot of snow was predicted to begin about eight, followed by freezing rain.

  “Come in and warm yourselves up.”

  “Smells like fire, Mrs. F.,” Jason said as they stepped into my foyer.

  “Just our lunch,” I said. “I’m afraid the clam pies I planned to serve have burned. But I might be able to resurrect them. If not, there’s a big container of clam chowder in the freezer, and some fresh, crusty bread I picked up this morning from Sassi’s. You won’t go away hungry.”

  I led them into the kitchen where I’d set the table. “I think we’ll go with the chowder,” I said, casting a disappointed eye at the blackened pies sitting on the counter. “And a salad. Take but a minute.”

  “Can we help?” Jo Jo asked.

  “No, thank you. Hard to burn soup. Just make yourselves at home.”

  “Gonna need me to shovel again tomorrow morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Jason.

  “Afraid so. It’s quite a storm they’re predicting. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jason.”

  Jason seemed pleased with himself, and looked to Jo Jo to be sure he’d heard my compliment. Jo Jo, it seemed to me, had assumed the role of a big brother to Jason. It was nice to see.

  “Jessica, you mentioned something about computer problems,” Jo Jo said. “Mind if I take a look before lunch?”

  “Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go.”

  They eagerly followed me into my office. “Excuse the mess,” I said, moving stacks of magazines off two chairs. “Before we get started, there’s something I need to tell you. But it has to stay inside these four walls.”

  They nodded in agreement.

  “What I have here is Norman Huffaker’s computer, and disks that were with it. I want to pull up what’s on those disks. I don’t know whether the information on them will be helpful in learning what really happened to Norman. He was a very good friend of mine.”

  “I know that,” Jo Jo said.

  “Maybe—just maybe you’ll find something for me that will put my mind at rest regarding his disappearance.”

  “You don’t believe he jumped in the Moose River?” Jason asked.

  “No, I don’t.”

  “I don’t, either,” said Jo Jo.

  “Well, then, let’s hope you two geniuses can prove that.”

  I handed the disks to Jo Jo.

  “No problem,” he said, booting up the computer and inserting one of the disks into the drive. A directory of what was on that disk filled the screen. Four files were named: MEMO 1, MEMO 2, MEMO 3 and MEMORANDUM.

  “Can we pull up each of those?” I asked.

  “Sure,” Jason said. “Show her, Jo Jo.”

  Who would Norman be writing memos to? I wondered. Memos usually involved interoffice communication. Norman worked in isolation, crafting his screenplays in a small, prefab cottage located at the far end of his sprawling property in Hollywood. Any correspondence on Norman’s part would be in the form of a letter, not a memo.

  Jo Jo brought MEMO 1 to the screen. It read: “I’d like to hold a pep rally of sorts this afternoon to prepare us all for the opening of Worrell. Let’s meet in my office at 3. Thanks. Michael.”

  “This isn’t from Norman,” said Jason.

  “Must be from Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “Remember what I’ve asked of you. Don’t tell anyone about these files.”

  “No problem, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jason said.

  MEMO 2: “Sorry, guys. Have to reschedule today’s pep rally until tomorrow morning. Hope to see you all at 10 sharp. Donuts and coffee. Thanks. Michael.”

  MEMO 3 was addressed to Beth Anne Portledge: “Kudos to you for a fine job of scheduling. Keep up the good work. Michael.”

  MEMORANDUM piqued my interest a little more: “Regarding Jessica Fletcher’s murder mystery seminar. Let’s milk it for all we can, trade off on her name as much as possible. I suggest we open it up to the public. Charge top dollar. Bring your ideas on how to market Fletcher to the afternoon meeting. Michael.”

  “Boy, that’s pretty sleazy,” Jo Jo said.

  “See what’s on the other disks,” I said.

  They were blank.

  I wasn’t sure how to react to what I’d seen and the fact that the remaining disks didn’t contain information. Had the Worrell Institute—more specifically, Michael O’Neill—deliberately switched disks? Had Norman’s disks been taken by O’Neill?

  Or was it a simple mistake? Under the heading of giving the benefit of the doubt, had the rush of pulling Norm’s possessions together for me to pick up resulted in a mix-up?

  Dr. Michael O’Neill would have the answers.

  “Excuse me,” I said, leaving Jo Jo and Jason with the computer. “Have to make a phone call.”

  O’Neill said he was delighted to hear from me. He became almost giddy when I told him I was having problems with my manuscript, and had decided that a pleasant dinner out, especially with someone whose business was helping writers get over their blocks, made more sense than sitting at my word processor and struggling.

  “Tonight?” he said when I suggested I was free.

  “Not if it’s inconvenient for you,” I said.

  “Inconvenient? No
t at all. And even if it were, Jessica, I would move mountains to make it convenient. Pick you up at seven?”

  “That will be fine.”

  “Le Poisson? I understand it’s excellent.”

  I smiled. “So I’ve heard. See you at seven.”

  Jo Jo and Jason were playing a game on Norm’s laptop when I returned to the office. “Lunch will be ready soon,” I said.

  They mumbled an acknowledgment, but their attention was riveted on tiny figures scurrying over the screen.

  “I understand from Jo Jo that you’re quite a computer whiz, Jason.”

  Jason looked up. “He said that?”

  “I sure did, buddy,” Jo Jo said. “I tell everyone that.” Jason beamed as he confidently returned to the game.

  I’d removed everything from Norm’s bag, and had spread it out on my desk. I picked up the label maker and showed it to the boys. I couldn’t help but laugh. Norm’s obsession with labeling everything in his life included the label maker itself. “LABEL MAKER” it said.

  Jo Jo and Jason laughed along with me.

  Jason took the labeling machine from me and turned it on. A digital display lit up. “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, look at this,” he said.

  Jo Jo and I leaned over Jason’s shoulder and read the message on the display.

  “WORRELL DOCUMENTARY/SENSITIVE.”

  “Why would it say something like that?” I asked.

  “It was the last label he made,” Jason said. “The memory holds on to the last message.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Wonder what it means,” Jason said.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

  Le Poisson had been open for less than a year. A New York couple had bought the low, rustic building and converted it into Cabot Cove’s most romantic restaurant, at least if your definition of that term has been honed in a Pocono Mountains honeymoon retreat. It’s also wildly expensive. New York prices.

  The chef, imported from Manhattan, had a nice touch with his dishes, especially seafood. And the main dining room was pretty. Candlelight. Sensuous music from CDs oozed from multiple speakers.

  Michael O’Neill and I sat in one of many red velvet booths. Others were occupied by young couples, probably celebrating something special, I decided, their elbows touching, and, often, their lips, as well.

  Michael was nicely turned out for our “date.” His dark gray three-piece suit looked as if it had been fitted to him just hours before. Not a silver hair on his head was out of place. His complexion was naturally ruddy; this night it looked to have benefited from a facial. It was pink. and soft. I noticed for the first time that his carefully manicured nails were polished. A mark on his negative side.

  He’d taken the evening seriously.

  I, of course, could not claim to have done the same, and felt a modicum of guilt about it. Not that I hadn’t taken time to look presentable. I’d been saving the white silk dress I wore for a special night out. And I had spent more time than usual applying my makeup.

  Still, my dishonest reason for being there caused me discomfort. Worse, I couldn’t get George Sutherland out of my mind.

  George Sutherland.

  He was the handsome, urbane Scotland Yard inspector I’d met a few years ago in London during my fateful visit with my friend and reigning queen of mystery writers, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. A few sparks had flown between George and me, as they say, and we’d kept in touch by mail, and an occasional phone call. He’d planned two trips to the United States, both of which were canceled at the last minute because of cases in which he was involved. I’d planned a trip to London, but a bad case of last-minute flu scotched (no pun intended) that plan. The problem was that George Sutherland was seated next to me in the red velvet booth at Le Poisson, not Michael O’Neill. The psychologists say thinking of someone else while with another isn’t unusual—or even bad. I suppose it isn’t, but I still wished it weren’t the case.

  Michael studied the wine list. “Will you be having fish, or red meat?” he asked.

  “I—I haven’t seen the menu.”

  “A pink wine would cover all bases, but they lack character and body. Might I suggest a bottle of white? We can go to red later, if your selection calls for it.”

  “That sounds like a good idea,” I said.

  “The Chateau Grillet,” he told the waitress.

  We fell into a predictable silence, each of us looking about the dimly lighted room and pretending to be interested in what we saw.

  “Well, Jessica, I must admit I was surprised when you called. I had the sinking feeling the past few days that it wasn’t your busy schedule that precluded having dinner with me. It was more a matter of not wishing to spend social time together.”

  “Not true, Michael.” To what extent would I be pressed to extend my lie this evening?

  “Yes, I know that now. I am delighted to be here with such a beautiful and talented woman. You dress me up, Jessica. But then again, I’m sure I’m not the first man to have told you that.”

  “Oh, you are. I mean—I’m so glad you chose this restaurant.”

  “Cabot Cove’s best. For Cabot Cove’s most illustrious citizen.”

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to stop flattering me. I might begin to believe it.” I laughed softly, and wished the wine would arrive.

  Which it did, instantly. The waitress, whose golden hair was swept up into a large bun, and who wore a woman’s black tuxedo, expertly removed the cork from the bottle, and held it out to Michael. He took it, pursed his lips, inhaled the cork’s aroma, and declared the wine to be fit, at least from an olfactory perspective. A small amount was poured into his balloon snifter. Another sniff, a sip, subtle swishing about in his mouth, and a satisfied nod.

  “To the beginning of a fulfilling relationship—for both of us.”

  I clicked my rim to his.

  “Shall we order before getting down to serious conversation?” he asked.

  “That will be fine.”

  “Might I order for us both?”

  “By all means.” I didn’t like it when someone else ordered what I was to eat, unless it was in an ethnic restaurant where that other person knew what was outstanding, and what wasn’t. But I wasn’t about to stand on that principle. The menu, which left prices off the copy handed to me—in this day and age?—was straightforward, steaks and chops, lobster, a few French-sounding dishes, a pasta special, and the usual side orders.

  “Caesar salad for two, and chateaubriand for two,” he told the waitress. To me: “Rare, Jessica?”

  “Medium rare,” I said.

  “Medium rare it is,” he said. “I understand your New York cheesecake is outstanding.”

  “It’s very good,” said the waitress.

  “Reserve us two pieces for dessert,” Michael said.

  “I couldn’t,” I said.

  “We’ll take it with us,” he said. “As a late-night snack. Back at my place.”

  The waitress raised her eyebrows, smiled at me, and left.

  “So, how are things going with you, Jessica? I was sorry to hear that you’d bumped into a wall of sorts in your writing.”

  “Just a low one,” I said. “What’s upsetting is that it’s never happened to me before.”

  “Undoubtedly a momentary detour. I would imagine that your friend’s unfortunate demise has contributed to it.”

  “Norman?”

  “Yes. Mr. Huffaker was a brilliant man. At least that was the impression I got from our unfortunately short relationship. A grim thought, his body frozen beneath that river.”

  I shuddered.

  He placed his arm over my shoulder, pulled me close.

  “How foolish of me, bringing up an unpleasantness on such a pleasant occasion. Forgive me.”

  A trio of musicians began playing Broadway show tunes, a medley of familiar melodies.

  “Aha,” Michael proclaimed. “Please.” He stood and extended his hand.
>
  I hesitated. I wasn’t in the mood for dancing. On the other hand, I’d decided to be there that night with a purpose in mind—to learn what I could about Norman’s disappearance, the missing disks, the last entry on his label-making machine, and anything else about the Worrell Institute for Creativity that might help provide me with answers. Feeling very much the Mata Hari of Cabot Cove, I took Michael’s hand and allowed him to lead me to the postage stamp-sized dance floor. The trio was playing “Just in Time” at an easy tempo, and we moved to the pleasant beat.

  Please don’t dip me, I thought. I hate being dipped.

  He didn’t, until the band had segued into “Night and Day.” As that tune ended, Michael pushed me over and held me hovering above the floor, like an ice-dancing partner.

  He laughed as he escorted me to our booth. “Afraid I’d let you fall, Jessica?”

  “Never occurred to me for a minute,” I said.

  We started on our salads.

  “A red zinfandel with your beef?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he motioned the waitress over and ordered a bottle. “Just coming into vogue,” he said to me. “Although, Lord knows why it’s taken so long. A worthy wine, less silky than Merlot, which is too soft for my taste, but with sufficient body to please most palates.”

  “I agree with you completely,” I said.

  I made a decision in the midst of his monologue on wine.

  I was there, at Le Poisson, with him.

  I was there for a reason.

  Either push it to its limits, or go home.

  “Michael,” I said, “I haven’t been able to find any of Norman Huffaker’s computer disks.”

  He gave me a puzzled look. “I thought I gave them to you,” he said.

  “I did, too. But the ones included with Norman’s laptop were—all blank.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought—”

  “Just a mix-up, I’m sure,” I said.

  “I’ll check into it first thing in the morning.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  “Or, we could go back to the institute after dinner and take care of it tonight.”

  “No need for that,” I said. “The salad was delicious.”