Brandy and Bullets

by Jessica Fletcher

  “What’s the matter, Jessica?” Seth and Mort asked.

  “Susan Dalton. She’s still at Worrell. I’ll bet anything that O’Neill and the others knew we’d been up in that storeroom looking at things in the safe. They’ll try to kill her, too.”

  “Not if I have anything to say about it,” Mort announced. He instructed his deputies to go to the Worrell Mansion and remove Ms. Dalton, by force if necessary, from the premises.

  “Bring her here,” I said. “She can stay with me.”

  “I’m the mayor of Cabot Cove, and I shall make the opening comments.”

  Sybil Stewart and Mort Metzger argued in a corner of the town council’s main meeting room. I could hear their conversation from where I sat with Seth Hazlitt and Jill Huffaker.

  “Seems to me this is a criminal matter,” Mort said. “Seems to me the sheriff should run things.”

  “Well, Sheriff Metzger, what seems to you doesn’t ‘seem’ to me. I’ll conduct the conference, and introduce you at the appropriate time. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He looked at me and winced. I turned away; I didn’t want to laugh.

  Sybil took the podium and asked for silence. When it wasn’t forthcoming, her exasperation flared. “If you don’t want to hear what we have to say this morning, then I’ll call this off, and you all can go home and wonder what you’d missed.” A smug smile crossed her thin, tight face.

  Seated behind Sybil were Mort, Jared Worrell, who’d flown in overnight, Norman Huffaker, who’d been in town but who’d kept a low profile until this morning, and a man I didn’t recognize. He was big and beefy, dressed in an overtly expensive suit, and with high color in his cheeks. His smile was pleasant and open.

  “That’s better,” Sybil said when audience chatter lessened to an acceptable level. “As you all know, a shocking revelation has been made about the so-called Worrell Institute for Creativity. Shocking to most, but not to me. Those who know me are aware that I took a stand against the Worrell Mansion being used for such purposes from the moment it was announced.”

  A few of her more overt supporters clapped.

  “Thank you. As it turned out—and despite the efforts of certain people in this community to thwart an investigation into what was really going on at the mansion, the truth has finally emerged.” She paused for more applause. An elderly man obliged.

  Sybil went on to credit her administration with uncovering the mischief at Worrell, ending her written speech with, “Unfortunately, the life of a talented and promising young woman was snuffed out in the prime of her life because of the irresponsible, criminal actions of those who held themselves out as men of science and medicine. Their misdeeds might have claimed more lives, were it not for the insistence of my office that our law enforcement officials keep the case open. Which they did, and for which we can all sleep easier.”

  I looked at Mort, whose expression spoke eloquently of his inner discomfort.

  “Let me now introduce our sheriff, Chief Metzger, who will add his own, very brief, comments to what I have already said.”

  After clearing his throat a few times, Mort said into the microphone, “Based upon what we’ve gathered so far, the Worrell Institute for Creativity wasn’t what it pretended to be. Seems it was established here in Cabot Cove to carry out some experiments by the Central Intelligence Agency. Seems the folks at the CIA had a theory that people who do creative things, like write and paint and write music, might make better hypnotic subjects, who could be used by our intelligence agencies to do their courier and spy work. The way they figured it, those artistes who were the best subjects wouldn’t even know what they were doin’. Worse, one of them, Ms. Maureen Beaumont, was taught to kill herself. Which she did. You all know about that.”

  “Then it was a suicide,” a reporter shouted.

  “Yup,” Mort said. “But not one that involved free will. Everything points to Ms. Beaumont having been programmed to shoot herself. Just like—” He looked at me. I shook my head.

  He went on to another topic, to my relief. “I know all of you, especially the media folks in the audience, want to know whether indictments have been brought against the doctors at Worrell. Well, they haven’t been. But that doesn’t mean they won’t be. The three main doctors up on the hill, Michael O’Neill, Tomar Meti, and Donald Fechter, have all left, all gone down to Washington, D.C. Because the federal government is involved, we got ourselves a classic jurisdictional dispute goin’ on. But I’ve been meeting with officials from the state, and the Feds, and we’ll get this sorted out lickety-split. I assure you of that. That’s about all I have to say this morning. But I’ll keep everybody posted.”

  He turned the podium over to Sybil. She introduced Jared Worrell, who’d sold the mansion to the Boston developers, the Corcoran Group. They, in turn, had leased it to Michael O’Neill and his people.

  “I am well aware of the pain I’ve caused this wonderful community, Worrell said. ”When I made the decision on behalf of my family to sell the mansion to the Corcoran Group, it was because I had absolute faith that it would be put to good and worthwhile use. The people from Corcoran are highly regarded. I know you’ll enjoy hearing from a representative who is here today, Matt O‘Brien.” He pointed to the heavyset man in the nice suit. “All I can say is that the Corcoran Group was as convinced as I was that Dr. O’Neill and his people, whose credentials are—were—pristine, intended for my family’s home to be put to a use that would benefit mankind, as well as this community.

  “Discussions are now underway for a better future use of the property. For now, thank you for understanding that the motives of all concerned, with the exception of those who created the institute, were good and proper. Thank you.”

  Matt O’Brien, a gregarious and confident public speaker, basically echoed what Worrell had said. He assured everyone in the room that the next tenant of the Worrell Mansion would be a credit to Cabot Cove. His comments were enthusiastically received.

  “And now,” Sybil Stewart said, “it is with great pleasure and pride that I introduce a former neighbor, who went on to achieve fame and fortune in Hollywood, and who joins us here today. I might add that the reports of his demise were greatly exaggerated.” She expected more laughter than she got. “Please welcome Cabot Cove’s own, Norman Huffaker.”

  Norman stood at the podium, looked down over the crowd, and basked in its welcome. When the applause died down, he said, a boyish grin on his face, “I have a lot to explain to you, especially to my dear friend, Jessica Fletcher. It’s a long story. A very long story. I’ll try to give you the Cliff Notes version.

  He spoke for ten minutes, explaining that he’d become interested in the CIA’s resumption of mind-control experimentation, and had obtained financing to produce a documentary on it. A source identified plans for converting the Worrell Mansion into a CIA think tank, which excited him. Norm knew Cabot Cove. It seemed a perfect centerpiece for his documentary.

  He’d worked on a film in Los Angeles with a young musician, Maureen Beaumont. When he confided in her about his plans, she volunteered to check into Worrell to learn what she could about its inner operations. When she died—and Norm never bought for a minute that she’d killed herself of her own free will—he did what he had to do. He checked in himself.

  Everything else he had to say was no surprise to me. It was what I’d decided had happened—the running car at the river, the note, the rental car waiting, his clandestine trip to Washington where, he told us, he’d nailed down what he needed to finish the documentary from an anonymous source within the intelligence community.

  Sybil concluded the press conference by taking a string of questions from members of the press. No one on the panel had much to offer in the way of concrete evidence, including Mort.

  “Let’s leave,” I whispered to Seth, “before they start asking me questions.” “See you back at the house,” I whispered in Jill Huffaker’s ear.

  “It’s brilliant, Norman,” I said after h
e’d shown us an unedited version of his video documentary. We sat in my den—Mort Metzger, Seth Hazlitt, Norm and Jill Huffaker, Jared Worrell, Matt O’Brien, Susan Dalton, and Jo Jo Masarowski—whom I’d invited for the private screening. At first, Norman didn’t respond. He stared at the TV screen, his eyes misty. He’d used the remote control to freeze a frame of the final credits.

  Special love and thanks to Maureen Beaumont,

  a talented and courageous lady who

  gave her life for this documentary.

  She is very much missed.

  A picture of Maureen accompanied the text. A piece of classical music featuring a flute had provided the documentary’s music track.

  “Did Maureen compose that music, Norman?” I asked.

  Tears welled up in his eyes, and his lip trembled. He nodded. We hugged. I, too, fought back tears.

  Later, after everyone had left except the Huffakers, Norm said, “Jessica, I’m very sorry to have put you through what you went through. Sheriff Metzger told me about your weekend at Worrell, the hypnosis, and you coming close to killing yourself.”

  “It was an adventure.” I laughed. “I can sound blasé in retrospect. At the time, I wasn’t quite so cavalier.”

  “I would imagine,” Jill said. She looked to Norman, then at me. “I’m afraid I have a very difficult admission to make to you, Jess.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. All I can hope for is that you’ll understand the difficult position we were in when I did it.”

  “I’ll certainly try,” I said. “It can’t be that bad.” They said nothing. “Can it?”

  They held hands. Jill said, “I knew Norman wasn’t dead.”

  “So did I,” I said.

  “You didn’t believe he was dead. I knew for certain.”

  “You did? For how long?”

  “The entire time,” Jill said.

  “And you never—”

  “Not only that,” Norm said, “Jill was the one who planned my escape, how I’d do it, where I would go.”

  “I think I understand,” I said. My sadness at having been strung along by Jill was evident, I knew, in my voice and face.

  Jill continued: “When Norman realized they’d gotten on to him, the way they did with Maureen, and knew why he was there, he called me. Together, we decided he would fake his suicide, and get out of there as fast as possible.”

  “And so you took Meti’s BMW to the bridge, left the note, walked to the Rent-a-Wreck, picked up the red Chevy, drove to Logan, and boarded a plane to Washington,” I said.

  “Right. I met with my source, my ‘Deep Throat,’ then headed straight for the airport and flew home.”

  “Every time we spoke on the phone, Jill, you knew that Norm was alive.”

  “Afraid so, Jess,” she said.

  “Nine out of ten times I was sitting right next to her,” Norm added.

  I was torn between expressing anger that a friend would do that to me, and understanding their need to keep Norm’s whereabouts a secret, to sustain the suicide story until it was safe to surface.

  “Well,” I said, “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being angry with both of you. On the other hand, I’m glad you’re alive, Norm, that you got to complete your documentary, and that we can be together again.”

  “Forgive us then, Jess?” Jill asked. “Forgive me?”

  “Forgiving is for God, Jill. I’m just a writer. More coffee?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Yes, Mort, I understand,” I said.

  “Seems the gun Meti gave you was owned privately by him. That might blow holes in his claim that the CIA provided it to him, and that he was doin’ official work for the United States government.”

  “The government seems to be denying any involvement with the Worrell people.”

  He chuckled. “No surprise there, Jess. You go to work for a spook agency, if you get caught, nobody knows you. You’re on your own.”

  “How cold,” I said.

  “Just the way it is. By the way, everybody’s out of the mansion. The Worrell Institute for Creativity is a thing of the past.”

  “Glad to hear it. Susan Dalton, and Jo Jo Masarowski, called me. They’re back home. Susan is working on her murder mystery, using what happened at Worrell as her plot. Jo Jo says he’s developing a video game about hypnosis.”

  “I can give him a name of a fella at Parker Brothers.”

  “I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

  ‘Talked to Seth this mornin’. That gal who swallowed all those pills is doin’ fine. Seth expects she’ll go home in a week or so.”

  “Then she did try to kill herself, without any suggestion from O’Neill and company.”

  “Yup. Got so upset over Maureen Beaumont’s death that she flipped.”

  “Well, I’m glad she’s doing well. And thanks for the update.”

  I hung up and went to tend plants in my living room. As I carefully poured water from a long-nozzled watering can, a car pulled up in front of the house. I watched as two men got out, said something to each other, then approached my front door. I opened it before they had a chance to knock.

  “Jessica Fletcher?” one of them asked. He was short and slight. He wore a gray tweed jacket, muted green paisley tie, blue button-down shirt, and had a red scarf wrapped around his neck. His glasses were large and round. His hair was blond, and thinning. It raised up in wisps in the wind that whipped about my front patio.

  His colleague looked like a policeman out of Central Casting. Big. Square. Short hair. Cheap, green raincoat. Thick-soled black shoes.

  “Yes.”

  The thinner man produced an ID: Special Investigator—Congressional Subcommittee on National Security.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “We’d like to speak with you, Mrs. Fletcher. Won’t take long.”

  “About the Worrell Institute?”

  “May we come in, ma’am?”

  “Of course. I’m sorry.”

  We settled in the living room. They declined my offer of coffee, or tea.

  “You’re a famous writer,” the thin fellow said.

  “I’m a writer. Famous? Maybe.”

  “You’re obviously someone who cares about her country and its future.”

  “Of course.”

  “This experience you had at Worrell, Mrs. Fletcher. I understand it was somewhat traumatic.”

  “It was—it was unsettling. But it’s over. The people there—Dr. O’Neill and his staff—caused the death of a young woman, in the name of scientific experimentation.”

  “An unfortunate incident, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  I’d begun to resent their presence, and the tone of the conversation. “Unfortunate incident?” That’s all it was?

  “Dr. O’Neill and his colleagues acted on their own, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “That’s not the way I see it,” I said.

  They looked at me as though I’d said something naughty.

  “The Worrell Institute for Creativity was funded by a government agency,” I said. “The CIA, to be exact.”

  “Mrs. Fletcher, the congressional committee I work for is charged with overseeing the intelligence activities of the United States. Naturally, we are concerned with any abuse of those activities, especially if they involve average citizens.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “Because in the case of the Worrell Institute, average citizens certainly were involved.”

  He had a way of ignoring anything I said. It was annoying, at best.

  “Dr. O’Neill and the others involved have claimed a connection with the United States government as a defense for their actions.”

  “And?”

  “We’re here to assure you, Mrs. Fletcher, that there was no such connection.”

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “I know different.”

  Shrugs from both of them.

  “O’Neill will be prosecuted for the death of Maureen Beaumont.”
/>   “Thrown to the wolves.”

  Shrugs.

  “I would appreciate it, gentlemen, if you would leave now.”

  They stood. The thin one said—the other had said nothing, and was unlikely to—“The government of the United States sincerely appreciates your discretion in this matter, Mrs. Fletcher. The President of the United States has asked me to personally present this to you.” He handed me a large envelope.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A token of appreciation for your patriotism.”

  “That’s very thoughtful,” I said, standing and indicating the direction in which the door was located. I accompanied them out to the patio. The larger man looked up into the blue sky, smiled, and uttered his first words: “Looks like spring is here.”

  “And just in time,” I said. “Thank you for stopping by. And please thank the President for his kind gift.”

  I watched them get into their automobile and drive away, resumed watering my plants, and went to my office where I opened the envelope bearing the Presidential seal. In it was an eight-by-ten color photograph of the President and First Lady, posing on the White House lawn with their Dalmatian, Boopsie, who’d garnered headlines when he bit his master, prompting press cynics to praise the inherent wisdom of dogs. The photo was inscribed to me: “For Jessica Fletcher. A fellow patriot. God Bless!”.

  I placed the photo into a lower desk drawer, booted up my word processor, waited for the blank screen to appear, and brought up the file: Brandy & Bullets. By Jessica Fletcher.

  It was good to be working again.

  Cross the

  Golden Gate Bridge

  with America’s

  favorite sleuth

  in the

  Murder, She Wrote

  mystery novel

  Martinis & Mayhem

  by Jessica Fletcher

  & Donald Bain

  Available from Signet

  Once George disappeared through the crowd, and buoyed by the thought of having him around for a whole week, I left the Top of the Mark and headed out for some evening sightseeing.