Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  “That won’t be much help,” Seth countered. “After the fact sort of help, if you catch my drift.”

  At Seth’s insistence, we settled on my placing a call to him, or to Mort each day I was at Worrell, at about five in the evening, if possible, without arousing undue notice on Michael O’Neill’s part, or his staff. I agreed to it only to placate Seth’s concerns. I certainly didn’t see the necessity for it.

  The only other person I’d told of my plans to spend the weekend at Worrell was Jo Jo Masarowski. But I wasn’t honest with him about my reasons for checking in. I told him I needed a few days of uninterrupted concentration, and thought Worrell was just the place to provide it. I wasn’t sure he believed me, but he didn’t question it. Jo Jo’s newfound friend, Jason, knew I’d be away somewhere, and promised to collect my mail and newspapers, and to shovel if another storm hit in my absence. I didn’t worry about Jo Jo telling Jason where I was. There’s a limit to how many people you can worry about.

  I opened the information packet I’d been given at the front desk.

  Welcome to The Worrell Institute for Creativity .

  You’ve arrived at a very special place, an oasis where the creative acts of writing, singing, composing, sculpting, painting, and dancing, are valued and protected, free from the stress of everyday life.

  Worrell is a tranquil, nurturing respite from the outside world. You’ll be inspired here by your fellow artists, and benefit from camaraderie with them.

  As you create at Worrell, you can enjoy the additional benefit of psychological support from the institute’s outstanding professional staff, should a need arise.

  We request several things while you are our guests.

  First, that unnecessary noise be kept to a minimum.

  Second, that you balance your days here between your work, and the peaceful, inspiring surroundings that mark Worrell as a truly extraordinary place. Leisurely walks through the estate’s breathtaking grounds, renewal of spirit in our spa, and other amenities ensure that you will derive maximum benefit from your stay.

  Third, that you slow down, tuck your watch in a dresser drawer, and move through each day according to your inner-clock. Creativity has never thrived in a highly-structured, nine-to-five environment.

  I welcome you to The Worrell Institute for Creativity.

  Allow your creative juices to flow My door is always open to each of you outstanding bearers of the creative flag.

  Very truly yours.

  Dr. Michael O’Neill

  Director

  “Bearers of the creative flag?” What have we come to, I wondered, as I read the dining room and spa schedules, which seemed to contradict the advice to hide your watches and clocks. If you wanted to eat at Worrell, you’d better know what time it was.

  But the spa services were inviting, at least in their written descriptions. Like a walking example of the Toyota commercial—“You asked for it, you got it”—I’d developed the headache I’d lied about to O’Neill. The Worrell spa offered ammatherapy, a variation of massage that penetrates pressure points, allowing energy to flow. I’d once enjoyed that sort of massage at an Arizona spa. I dialed the number, but it was busy.

  I was five minutes into a fifteen-minute catnap on the too-soft mattress when someone knocked. “Jessica. It’s Barbara McCoy.”

  I slowly got up and moved to the door. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the inside doorknob. Too late for that now. “Hello, Barbara,” I said, straightening my skirt.

  “Hi, Mrs. Fletcher.” She hesitated, then hugged me, which I thought strange considering we didn’t know each other very well. “Sorry to disturb you. You look like you were napping.”

  “That’s all right. Just a few winks before getting into the routine. How did you know I was here? In this room?”

  “Everybody knows you checked in. Mrs. Peterson, they’re calling you.”

  “Dr. O’Neill’s idea,” I said. “Well, nice to see you again.”

  “I just wanted to say hello, and to let you know that I’m down the hall in Room Twenty-one if you need anything.”

  “That’s very kind, Barbara. I haven’t been here long enough to know whether I do need anything, or have any questions. But I’m glad to know you’re nearby.”

  “Please don’t hesitate. By the way, some of us are having lunch today at the eleven-thirty seating. We have two lunch seatings. Eleven-thirty, and One. Sort of like a cruise ship. We eat in the Thoreau Room.” She laughed, and rolled her eyes. “Would you join us?”

  “Sounds wonderful. Count me in.” I decided that my headache might be due to hunger. An early lunch was appealing.

  “See you then,” she said happily.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I had the sudden, and not unpleasant memory of being back in my college dormitory, girls always knocking at the door to borrow a favorite sweater, or seeking boyfriend advice, But then I remembered the communal bathroom shared by everyone at college.

  I quickly scanned the room. To my relief, there was a small door that I’d yet to open. I turned the knob and stared into a dollhouse version of a bathroom. There was a toilet, which didn’t seem to conform to regulation size, if there was such a thing in the plumbing world, and a stall shower, more aptly termed a squat shower. The roof over it slanted dramatically to form an isosceles triangle with the floor.

  Only for a few days, I thought. Kind of fun.

  Then, I remembered that O’Neill had said he’d come back to fetch me in an hour. That posed a conflict with my lunch plans. I was pondering what to do when he appeared.

  “You’re early,” I said.

  “And bearing bad news, Jessica. Something’s come up. I’ll have to postpone our getting together.”

  “What a shame. I was looking forward to getting started as quickly as possible.”

  “My sincere apologies. Just a few hours. Would you like lunch in your room?”

  “No, thank you. I’m sure I’ll manage to meet up with someone I know.”

  “Of course you will. I keep forgetting how many people you’ve already met here. Well, until later.” He kissed my hand. Actually kissed it. And winked at me. Actually winked at me.

  The moment he was gone, I tried the spa number again. “This is Mrs.—Peterson, in Twenty-four. Can you accommodate me for an ammatherapy massage at one? You can? Wonderful.”

  The Thoreau Room was doing good business when I arrived. To my disappointment, Barbara McCoy was alone at a table. She waved me to it. “I waited for you before getting in line,” she said.

  “You shouldn’t have,” I said, looking around the room at tables occupied by three and four people. “Your friends aren’t here yet?”

  “I don’t know where they are.” She sounded angry, and I got the impression that she wasn’t being joined by anyone—except me. The quintessential unpopular “student”? Every dorm has one.

  I followed her to the serving line, spotted a salad bar, and headed for that. Might as well lose a few pounds while there.

  Back at the table, I asked how things were going with her music.

  “I’m leaving tomorrow,” she said.

  “Wonderful,” I said, sounding as though I was congratulating a mentally ill person about to be released back into society.

  “I’ve had it here,” she said.

  “Oh?”

  “No one will believe me when I say Maureen Beaumont stole my score.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “You feel she committed suicide out of guilt for having done that.”

  “Exactly, Jessica.”

  “And so you’re leaving because of that.”

  “Yes. And because the staff, especially him, feels I’m a disruptive influence with the other artists.”

  I looked in the direction of her head nod. Dr. Tomar Meti stood at the perimeter of the room, arms folded across his chest, a stern expression on his thin, chiseled face. He looked like a monitor in a grade-school cafeteria.

  I didn’t doubt that Barbara McCoy was a
disruptive influence, and a paranoid one at that. I didn’t say that, of course. I ate my salad and allowed her to go on about how misunderstood she was, and how Dr. Meti, along with unnamed others, had made her life miserable since arriving at Worrell. “They decided the minute I arrived that I didn’t have talent.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said, “considering they’re supposed to nurture talent.”

  “Exactly. I knew you’d understand, Jessica, being the creative and successful person you are.”

  I speared a cherry tomato.

  “It was Maureen who didn’t have the talent. That’s why she stole my work. God, I—”

  “Yes?”

  “I’m almost happy she’s dead.”

  “I’m sure you don’t mean that, Barbara. Tell me, you’ve been here during all of it.” She looked at me quizzically. “Maureen’s death—suicide—the other young woman’s attempted suicide, and Norman Huffaker’s disappearance.”

  “You mean his suicide, too.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. Did you get to know him while he was here?”

  “Not well. He stayed by himself. Frankly, I think he came here just to play around. I never saw him do any work. Write, that is. He was supposed to be working on a screenplay. It seemed to me all he did was snoop around and ask questions.”

  “Ask questions? Of you?”

  “Everybody.”

  “Questions about what?”

  She shrugged. “How things work here. Our experiences. He really had a fixation on Maureen.”

  “But she was dead before he arrived.”

  “I know. But he kept asking whether we thought she’d really killed herself, or if she might have been murdered.”

  “What do most people think?” I asked.

  “About Maureen? She killed herself. I already told you why.”

  “That’s true. You did. Well, Barbara, I have a date for a massage. Hate to eat and run.”

  “You and Norman were good buddies, weren’t you, Jessica?”

  “Yes, we were.”

  “I bet you took it pretty hard, him jumping in the river like he did.”

  “Very hard.”

  She smiled. “What I liked was that he stole Meti’s car to do it.” I looked to where Meti had been standing. He was gone.

  “I really have to go, Barbara. Best of luck to you in your career.”

  “Thanks, Jessica. You’ll read about me one day. I do have talent, no matter what they say.”

  “I don’t doubt it for a minute.”

  As I exited the dining room, Dr. Meti was standing in the hallway. “Enjoy your lunch, Mrs. Peterson?” he asked, his solemn mask never changing.

  “Very much.”

  “Ms. McCoy is a disturbed young woman,” he said.

  “Oh? She said she’s leaving.”

  “That’s right. Has Dr. O’Neill gotten back to you about this afternoon?”

  “No. I’m on my way to the spa for a massage.”

  “We’d like to get started with your hypnotic sessions,” he said.

  “So soon?”

  “The sooner the better, Mrs. Peterson.”

  “All right. I would like my massage, however. I have a headache. It would make it difficult for me to concentrate during the sessions.”

  “Three o’clock?”

  “Three o’clock.”

  “In the Session Room.”

  “Which is where?”

  He told me and walked away.

  The imposing door that read SESSIONS was closed. I knocked.

  “Come in.”

  Michael O’Neill sat in a large, comfortable, overstuffed, paisley armchair, the kind that envelops you. He looked small in it.

  “Hello, Jessica,” he said, his fingertips forming a tent over his chest. “Enjoy your massage?”

  “It was heavenly.”

  “Good. Ready for your first session?” His voice, usually tending to rising inflections and exuberance, was low and well-modulated, which I ascribed to the professional setting I’d entered.

  “I think so.”

  “Fine. Fine. Let’s proceed.”

  He took a leather-bound notebook from a small table next to him and began to write. Without looking up, he said, “We’ll get started as I do with all patients.”

  “Patients? I don’t consider myself a patient.”

  He still didn’t look up. “Sorry. Too many years as a doctor. Writer. Artist. Let’s call this a getting-to-know-you session.” Now, our eyes met briefly. He returned to his notebook. “Let’s cover the basics, Jessica. Where you come from, something about your parents and siblings, your schooling, hobbies, friends, sicknesses you’ve had over the years, relationships, marriages, children.” He exhibited his first smile since I’d entered the room. “You get the idea,” he said.

  I nodded.

  “So, where is the home of this famous writer of mystery novels? Has it become a tourist attraction?”

  “I’m afraid not. I was born in a little town in northern New Hampshire. Farn, New Hampshire. I understand the house still stands, but not for tourists.”

  “Your parents?” Michael asked.

  I was tempted to say that my personal life was none of his business. But that would have interfered with my purpose in being there.

  “My parents are both dead. And no sisters or brothers.”

  “Your childhood?” he asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Good? Bad? Happy? Sad?”

  “I really don’t see why—”

  Easy, Jessica, I reminded myself. Focus on your reasons for being here. Cooperate. Nothing gained by alienating him.

  “I had a happy childhood, Michael. Traditional. Loving. Caring. Nurturing. Can’t blame my writer’s block on that.”

  “This writer’s block, Jessica. Tell me more about it.”

  I was glad we were on to other things.

  “Lately, when I sit down to write, I sometimes cry,” I said. “I wish my words would flow as fast and gently as my tears.” I’d rehearsed what I intended to say about my alleged writer’s block. Hopefully, I wouldn’t overdo it.

  I continued: “I don’t know why I cry. A sadness takes over. I always felt that being able to write was a privilege. But lately, it’s become a sentence. I sometimes sit in my office—my cell—for hours, without writing a word. Without doing anything. Like prisoners do in prison. Nothing. Just staring at a blank wall, in my case a blank screen.”

  “I didn’t realize just how severe it was, Jessica. Of course, as you’re undoubtedly aware, depression is very much a part of any creative block, both as cause and effect. The level of depression into which blocked creative people sink varies with the individual. In your case, my initial reaction is that your depression is very serious, indeed.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. The visual image you’ve created of being a prisoner, in prison, is quite symptomatic.”

  “I didn’t realize it was that bad,” I said.

  Maybe I’d gone too far in describing my contrived dilemma.

  “Let’s get you started on medication. With today’s wonderful antidepressant drugs, there’s simply no need to suffer as you have. I’ll be right back.” He got up and started for the door.

  “No, Michael.”

  He turned to me. His expression was severe.

  “I never take medicine,” I said. “Not even aspirin.”

  “An old-fashioned concept, Jessica, and certainly without justification.”

  I smiled. “I suppose you’re right.”

  What do I do now? I asked myself. He would most likely return with pills I didn’t intend to take, and a glass of water to ensure that I did in his presence.

  The door opened. “Michael,” I said, standing, “I’m feeling nauseous all of a sudden. I wonder if I’m coming down with something. The flu perhaps. You’ll have to excuse me. I need to go to my room.”

  “I’m so sorry, Jessica. Here. Take these pills first.” They were in his extend
ed palm. His other hand held the glass of water.

  I made the best sick face I could. “Michael, the thought of ingesting anything is too difficult. Please have them delivered to my room.”

  “Of course, Jessica. I’ll send up some medicine for your nausea, too.”

  “That will be wonderful.”

  I departed quickly and went directly to my room. A bottle of pills, and Pepto-Bismol, was delivered a few minutes later by Joe, the elderly bellhop. I tipped him ten dollars, which he took without hesitation.

  The phone rang.

  “Jessica. Michael. Feeling better?”

  “Not yet, but the Pepto will help. Thank you.”

  “The minute you’re feeling up to it, be sure to take the antidepressant medicine. Believe me, it will make you feel considerably brighter. In fact, I insist that you take it. It’s very difficult to conduct an effective hypnotherapy session with someone as depressed you are. Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  “I’ve scheduled a marathon session for you tomorrow with doctors Meti, Fechter, and myself. I want you to feel tip-top for it. I’ve discussed it with them, and we agree that a concerted, extended session is the best approach.”

  “Whatever you say, Michael. After all, you’re the doctor.”

  “That’s the right attitude. Will I see you later?”

  “Probably not. If I can manage some soup, I’ll bring it to my room from the cafeteria. If not, a solid night’s sleep will do the trick. Thank you again, Michael, for all your courtesies.”

  “Nothing too good for my favorite lady.”

  I let the line slide.

  “In the event I don’t see you until tomorrow, be at the Session Room, where we were today, at ten sharp.”

  “You can count on me,” I said.

  “Of course I can. Feel better. If you need anything—and I stress anything—call the night person at the desk. Since Amanda and I separated, I’m living right here at Worrell. Convenient for me. And for you.”