Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Nothing better than Caesar. Dance before our entrée arrives?”

  “Love to. But no dipping.”

  “As you say, Jessica.”

  We spun about the floor with other couples. Michael was a good dancer. I had to give him that. “How is your divorce going?” I asked.

  “Dreadfully”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Under the best of circumstances, it can’t be pleasant.”

  “And these are the worst of circumstances. You saw Amanda’s behavior on Thanksgiving. I was appalled.”

  “No need to be.”

  “A troubled woman, Amanda. I just hope she gets the help she needs.”

  “I think our dinner has arrived,” I said.

  Our waitress carved the beef table side.

  “You mentioned that my seminar provided some—I think you said ‘much-needed cash flow,’ ” I said.

  “Yes. The beef is excellent.”

  “Very good. Done perfectly. I suppose it’s none of my business, but I can’t help but be fascinated at how an institute like Worrell supports itself. I suppose there are grants and the like. Government programs—”

  “Some.”

  “Do you get to Washington much, Michael?” I asked, thinking of Norman.

  “On occasion. More wine?”

  “Worrell is such a large place to run. I can’t imagine what the artists pay to be there covers everything.”

  He laughed heartily. “Hardly,” he said, savoring a spear of asparagus.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t used all the artistic talent you have at hand to raise funds.”

  “How so? An art exhibition?”

  “That would be a wonderful idea. Or a concert. Maybe a documentary that could be shown on television, Public Television, or something.”

  “An interesting idea, Jessica. I’ll bring it up with the staff.”

  I wasn’t sure whether to continue this line of conversation. Why not? I wasn’t at the restaurant for a meal. I was there to learn things from Worrell’s director.

  “Was Norman Huffaker working on some sort of documentary about Worrell?” I asked, tossing the question out as though the answer didn’t matter.

  O’Neill’s face said more than his lack of words ever could. It turned hard. He stared at his plate, then slowly turned to me. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he said.

  “Nothing specific,” I said. “I just know that he’d recently turned to making television documentaries. I thought he might have—”

  “Not about Worrell,” Michael said.

  I ate as I formulated my next question. I had many to ask. What I wanted to avoid was setting Michael on-edge, cause him to think I’d taken him up on his dinner invitation for mischievous reasons.

  “Tell me about this sudden writer’s block you’ve been experiencing, Jessica.”

  He’d brought the conversation back to solid ground, something with which he’d be more comfortable.

  And I saw it as an opportunity. I’d toyed all evening—all day, as a matter of fact, since breakfast with Mort and Seth—with using writer’s block as a means of getting closer to the inner workings of Worrell. Would my claim of needing help play with O’Neill, or would he see through it? The only way to find out was to deal that card and see if he picked it up. He’d given me the opening.

  “Frankly, Michael, I’ve never experienced anything like it in my career,” I said, injecting what I hoped was an appropriate degree of frustration and concern in my voice. “Oh, I’ve had an occasional day, maybe even a week, when my writing wasn’t going well. When I simply couldn’t bring myself to sit in front of my word processor for more than five minutes at a stretch. But this is different. It’s been almost a month now that I’ve been blocked.”

  “You’ve certainly hidden it,” he said. “I would never have guessed, based upon your unfailingly good spirits.”

  “I suppose I’m embarrassed about it,” I said. “Here I am teaching a seminar on how to write, and the preacher is unable to do what she preaches.”

  “Do as I say, not as I do.”

  “Exactly. The thing that’s really distressing is that my publisher is upset with me. First time that’s ever happened. Vaughan is—his name is Vaughan Buckley. He owns Buckley House—Vaughan is a love, and he’s never had to push me to deliver a book. Not that I ever gave him reason to. But this new book is being published to coincide with the anniversary of the discovery of an important archaeological find in Costa Rica. I used that as a basis for the plot.”

  I touched his hand, and blew a stream of air up into my hair. “Here I am going on about my problems, and you’re gentleman enough to indulge me.”

  “I’m interested in you, Jessica. Professionally. And personally.”

  “That’s very sweet of you, Michael.”

  “You must eat. Your meal is getting cold.”

  “I know. I’m sorry.”

  His hand now took mine, and massaged it. “Let’s not have any apologies. I’m just concerned that you’re experiencing this problem. Perhaps I could help.”

  “I don’t know how,” I said.

  “Some time with me at the institute? A long weekend? Focused therapy? It could all be done quietly, and quickly. You aren’t like most of the men and women who come to Worrell to get over creative problems. You’re a consummate professional. All you need is a few hours, perhaps a few days, of boring in on what is keeping you from completing your book.”

  “Do you really think so?” I asked.

  “I really know so.”

  I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Once I’d decided to try and spend time inside Worrell, I assumed it would take a great deal of pleading and cajoling on my part to get O’Neill to agree.

  But here he was opening the door. Maybe I’m a better actress than I’ve always given myself credit for.

  “Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition?” I asked.

  “I would be deeply hurt if you refused,” he said.

  “I’ll pay, of course.”

  “No, you won’t. How wonderful if I were to play some small part in unleashing new and potent creativity in the world’s greatest mystery writer.”

  “You’re flattering me again, Michael.”

  It suddenly occurred to me that I must be coming off as a giggly, dim-witted female. All I needed was a fan to flutter in front of my face as I said, in a Southern accent, “Mah goodness, sir, you flatter me too much, I fear.”

  I checked his expression. He wasn’t viewing me in that light. He seemed pleased with the way things were going.

  “This weekend?” he asked.

  “Yes. I think that will be fine. I haven’t any plans, and—”

  “You mentioned, Jessica, at your house on Thanksgiving, that you’d been hypnotized in Boston. That friend of yours, the stage hypnotist.”

  “That’s right. I’m sure you disapprove of him.”

  “Why?”

  “For using such a powerful medical tool for entertainment purposes.”

  “Not at all. I’ve seen a number of stage hypnotists. Some of them are as good, maybe even better, than many doctors. What interests me is that you were a good subject.”

  “Carson seemed pleased,” I said. “That’s my friend’s name. Carson James.”

  “Aha. I bring this up, Jessica, because I think hypnosis would provide the fastest, and most effective way of breaking through your writing block. Would you be willing to undergo intensive hypnotherapy with me?”

  “With you personally?”

  “Yes. And some of my staff. Dr. Meti is without peer as a clinical hypnotist.”

  “I think so.”

  “Splendid. Now eat your dinner. The beef is prime.” He squeezed my hand. “And so are you, my dear.”

  I anticipated some grappling at the end of the evening. But I was spared that. O’Neill’s subtle amorous advances at dinner weren’t carried over to bringing me home. He was the perfect gentleman.

  “I sug
gest we keep your date at the institute a secret between you and me,” he said as he stood inside my foyer. It had begun to snow heavily, and I expected a suggestion that we share a nightcap in front of the fire. Instead, he said, “I’ll call you in the morning, Jessica, and finalize arrangements. Thank you for a lovely evening. It was a pleasure sharing dinner with you.”

  “The pleasure was all mine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Following Saturday

  “Pick you up later, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jake Monroe asked as he delivered me in his taxi to the Worrell Institute for Creativity. It was nine o’clock Saturday morning. The most recent snowstorm hadn’t been as severe as forecast. It blew through quickly, leaving a splendid day. Warming sunshine. Brilliant blue sky. White cotton-ball clouds swiftly sliding by overhead.

  “No need, Jake. I’m being picked up by—by Dr. Hazlitt.”

  “Okay,” he said. “Help you in with your bags?” I’d brought a small suitcase, and Norman’s laptop computer in its padded case. Jo Jo and Jason had shown me how to use it, at least to the extent I could write something on the screen, and store it on the small disk. Of course, I didn’t plan to use it. But it seemed sensible to bring the tool of my trade, at least for show.

  “No, thank you,” I said. I didn’t want Jake to know I was staying the weekend. “Just a few manuscripts. Nothing heavy.”

  As he drove off, I took a deep breath, said under my breath, “Here goes nothing,” and went up the steps.

  “Good morning,” a slightly overweight young woman with café-au-lait skin at the reception desk said through a wide smile.

  “I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

  “Oh, I don’t think you are.” Her voice was lightly tinged with her Caribbean heritage.

  “Pardon?”

  “Dr. O’Neill has you registered under a different name, Mrs. Fletcher. Alexis Peterson.”

  “Alexis Peterson?” I smiled. “Fine. Then that’s who I’ll be. At least for this weekend.”

  “Here you are, Mrs. Peterson. This is your room key. And this booklet explains where things are, and how they work at Worrell.”

  “Thank you. Is Dr. O’Neill here?”

  “He most certainly is. In fact, he’s been hovering at the desk for the past twenty minutes hoping to personally greet you. But an important phone call came for him that he took in his office. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived. In the meantime, I’ll call Joe to help you with your bags.”

  “No need to—”

  “Jessica!”

  Michael O’Neill came down the stairs two at a time. “Forgive me.” He kissed me on the cheek, and took my bags.

  “You mean Alexis, don’t you?”

  He put his hand over his mouth, a mock rebuke of his indiscretion. “Oh, of course. I forgot. Yes. Alexis! You don’t mind?” He took my elbow and led me to the stairs. “I thought keeping your stay here anonymous was prudent.”

  “I think it’s a good idea,” I said as we started to ascend. “I never even thought about it.”

  “Just trying to be accommodating.”

  “Which I appreciate. Of course, it would be silly for me to use a false name inside Worrell. I’ve already met so many people here.”

  “Yes. But for the outside world—we still get calls from those damnable media people—it would be better to keep your visit private.”

  “No argument from me. I’d hate for Vaughan Buckley—that’s my publisher in New York—to think the advance he’s paid me will never result in a book.”

  We reached the second floor and walked down the empty, silent corridor leading from front to back of the mansion. “It’s so quiet,” I said. “Everyone in their rooms creating?”

  “A few, I suppose. Or sleeping. If I had the time, I’d mount a separate study as to why creative people stay up all night, and sleep all day.”

  “Not this creative person,” I said.

  “You’re the exception, Jessica. Oops. Alexis. Dining room is near empty for breakfast every morning, except for weekends when we have an excellent brunch. Our chef’s blueberry pancakes rival Mara’s. You’ll see.”

  “I can’t wait for morning.”

  When we reached the end of the hallway, Michael gestured to a door. “Here you go, Jessica. Room Twenty-four. I put you at the end to give you the most privacy.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one he sought, and opened the door. I wished he didn’t have a key to my room. Nothing unusual for the manager of an inn, or hotel, to have a master key. But considering Michael’s professed interest in me, I would have preferred that he not have such easy access to my room. The old chair-propped-under-the-doorknob routine might be in order that night.

  Such negative thoughts left me, however, when I stepped inside. The room was flooded with sunshine, washing everything in it—a single bed with a simple white bedspread, four-drawer white dresser, a bleached wooden desk, and a solid, thoroughly uncomfortable-looking wooden desk chair—in pleasant, uplifting light.

  The blinds at the oversize window had been rolled up. I looked out on an endless row of tall, stately pine trees rustling in the breeze. “The view is lovely, Michael. So peaceful.”

  “My favorite room in the mansion,” he said. “It’s the most private and, believe it or not, one of the largest.”

  I grinned. It was hard to believe that this room, approximately the size of the walk-in closet in my bedroom at home, was bigger than most at Worrell. “Size doesn’t matter,” I said. “Somehow, I have the feeling that the simple act of spending two days in this room will work wonders for me and my writing.”

  Michael sat on the end of the bed. He laughed, not at anything specific, but because he seemed to be in an especially good mood. “Jessica,” he said, “I had a marvelous time at dinner the other night. I haven’t danced like that in years. Amanda wasn’t much for dancing. Of course, as our relationship deteriorated—which happened over a long period of time—dancing was hardly at the top of our activities list.”

  “I can imagine,” I said absently, continuing to gaze out the window. I silently wished he would leave. I wasn’t in the mood to be his mother-confessor, his shrink. What happened in his marriage, and its ultimate demise, meant nothing to me.

  But I didn’t want to offend him by summarily cutting him off. I was there to learn everything I could from him about Norman Huffaker, and what his true purpose might have been in coming to the Worrell Institute.

  “I knew at dinner, Jessica, that you and I would find some wonderful common ground,” he continued. “That’s one of the reasons I’m delighted you decided to spend the weekend with me.” (With me? I thought). “It will give us a better opportunity to really get to know one another.”

  “I hadn’t—thought of it that way,” I said.

  “Almost like living together, isn’t it?” He laughed. “My mother would never have approved.”

  I turned to face him. Time to get the conversation back on my alleged writer’s block. “This is all so pleasant,” I said. “But I musn’t forget the serious reason for my being here. I try to ignore this problem I’ve developed recently with my work, but it’s never far from the surface.” I bit my bottom lip to indicate trying to hold back a tear, and looked at him with what I hoped would be perceived as desperate eyes. I was acting; my appreciation of what actors do every day increased tenfold.

  “It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” Michael said, his voice sympathetic. He patted the bed next to him. “Come. Sit down.”

  I shifted into an agitated state, paced the room, wrung my hands. “What I hope,” I said, “is that my locking myself in this room for a few days, with no interruptions, I’ll break through this creative logjam and begin writing again.”

  “And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  “I know that, Michael. I’m counting on our therapeutic sessions to help, too.”

  Someone knocked at the door.

  “Come in,” I said.

  A lanky, older gentleman, with
long, mouse-colored hair, and wearing glasses tethered to his neck by a red ribbon, stood with a tray on which sat a pitcher of ice water, and two glasses. I motioned him in, and indicated the dresser. As he placed the tray on it, I opened my purse.

  “No, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “No tipping at Worrell. Thank you, Joe.”

  Joe closed the door behind him. Unfortunately, O’Neill didn’t leave with him.

  “Michael,” I said, “I’ve had one heck of a headache since I got up this morning. Would you be offended if I asked you to leave so I can get in a nap?”

  He stood. “Of course not, Jessica. I understand. You rest. We’ll get together in, say, an hour? Will that give you sufficient time alone?”

  “That will be fine,” I said. “Thanks for understanding.”

  “I am, after all, a psychiatrist. Understanding is what I’ve been trained to be.”

  I smiled. “Of course,” I said. “See you in an hour. Where?”

  “I’ll come by and pick you up.” He closed the blinds on my window, patted my pillow, and backed out of the room.

  The moment he was gone, I unpacked my small suitcase and placed the few hang-up clothes I’d brought with me in the tiny closet. I opened the blinds and stood at the window to once again admire the view, which was pure, innocent, and tranquil. I opened the window, inhaled deeply, and focused more intently on the trees, as though they contained the answers I sought about Norman Huffaker—and what was really going on at the Worrell Institute.

  Where on earth are you, Norman?

  The trees answered with their noncommittal swaying.

  I unzipped the padded bag, placed Norm’s computer on the desk, and put paper, pens, pencils, and a few paperback books I’d brought along into the single desk drawer. The chair was as uncomfortable as it looked.

  I thought of the conversation I’d had with Mort and Seth the night before. Mort was still enthusiastic about my checking into Worrell. But Seth had a growing list of reservations, the most meaningful that I might be putting my life in danger. “Strange things been happening here,” he’d said, his somber face and voice mirroring his concern.

  “I’ll be fine,” I told him. “You two know where I’ll be.”