Brandy and Bullets Page 4

  “Like visitin’ the CIA,” Seth muttered.

  “Yes,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing. Enjoy yourself? Glad you came?”

  “Sort of.”

  “It’s an impressive operation, isn’t it?”

  He grunted. “Something not quite right about it,” he said. “Not quite real.”

  I laughed. “Certainly not real, as in Cabot Cove. Can’t wait to get home and take off these shoes.”

  “And me, this damn tuxedo.”

  “Nightcap?” I asked as we pulled up in front of my house.

  “No, ma’am, but thank you. Look at that, Jessica.”

  I looked at what he pointed to, the lights of the Worrell Mansion glimmering faintly from its hilltop perch on the outskirts of town.

  “Pretty,” I said.

  “Ayuh. And strange. But what can you expect from a bunch of crazy shrinks? Thanks for bringin’ me, Jessica. Always proud to be on your arm.”

  Chapter Five

  “Hello?” I said. My voice was thick with sleep. As always happens when the phone rings at an odd hour, I expected the worst possible news.

  “Suppose I woke you. Sorry about that.”

  “It’s—it’s four-thirty in the morning.” The lamp on my night table was still on. The book that had kept me up until a few hours ago, and that had been resting on my chest when my eyes finally closed, had fallen off when I reached for the phone. I pulled my plaid flannel sheets and down comforter over my head, and pressed my ear against the earpiece.

  “Who is this?”

  “Mort.” He sounded offended that I didn’t know. “Sorry it’s so early.”

  “You already said that. It’s all right. But why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”

  “They found somebody dead up at Worrell.”

  “What? Is this a bad dream?”

  “It’s no bad dream you’re having, Jessica.” He laughed. “I said somebody’s been found dead at the Worrell Institute.” He sounded eerily jubilant considering the time of day, and the circumstances.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “A young woman. ’Bout twenty-nine, thirty. Name’s Maureen Beaumont. A classical musician. Played the flute, I think.”

  “How did she die?”

  “Gunshot to the head. Preliminary ruling is a suicide.”

  “Is that your ruling?” I asked.

  “Nothing certain yet, but looks that way to me. ’Course, I haven’t really dug into it. Have to go back up later today with some county lab boys. She had the gun in her hand. That’s for sure. Saw that with my own eyes. Powder burns on her temple, too. What was left of it.”

  I shuddered and sank deeper into the safe, warm, secure world of flannel and goose-down feathers. “Poor girl. When did it happen?”

  “Can’t hear you, Jess. You sound like you’re under water.”

  “Sorry. I’m under the covers. When did it happen?”

  “Couple of hours ago. I got the call about one-thirty. Someone found her lying on the floor in her room. Heard the gunshot, they said. I got there right away. Back in my office now. No sense goin’ home. The sun’ll be up soon.”

  “Yes. I suppose it will. I’m exhausted. I need a few more hours sleep. How about meeting for breakfast at Mara’s?”

  He chuckled. “It’ll be lunchtime for me,” he said.

  “So order lunch. Mara will make a hamburger any hour of the day. Seven-thirty? I’d like to hear more about what happened, but I’d also like to be awake enough to fathom what you’re saying. Seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll be there.”

  By the time I was ready to leave to meet Mort at Cabot Cove’s breakfast version of Cheers, my phone had rung off the hook. So much for catching a few hours extra sleep.

  Most of the calls were from “early-to-bed-early-to-rise” friends who’d caught the early edition of the news on radio. They all wanted to know what I thought of the girl’s suicide.

  “I don’t know any more than you do” was my reply.

  Did I think it was suicide?

  “I don’t know.”

  The conversations didn’t last long because I had little to offer. I suppose people assume that a writer of murder mysteries has a sixth sense about death. A secret pipeline to inside sources of information. I don’t, which disappoints a lot of people.

  The one call that morning that I brought to a hasty conclusion was from our mayor, Sybil Stewart.

  “You’ve heard, of course” was how she began.

  “Heard what?” I wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of not having to explain herself.

  “The death at Worrell. Surely, you’ve—”

  “I heard.”

  “Shameless. But I suppose it was inevitable. Even I didn’t think it would happen so soon.”

  “I have to run, Sybil.”

  “I hate to say this, Jess, but I—”

  “You told me so.”

  “Exactly.”

  “But I don’t recall you forecasting that an unfortunate young woman would take her life.”

  “If she did.”

  “The gun was in her hand. There were powder burns on her temple.”

  “It was? There were? How did you—?”

  “Have to run, Sybil. Late for a date. Thanks for calling.”

  “Jessica, how did you—?”

  I placed the phone in its cradle, checked my hair one more time in the hall mirror, and headed for Mara’s.

  As I walked toward the harbor, I couldn’t help but reflect on how peaceful Cabot Cove has always been. Although it’s grown over the years as more people fall in love with its physical beauty and slower pace, and opt to move here, it remains a community relatively free of violence. We’ve had our murders. One, maybe two a year. Usually domestic violence, with alcohol involved. There are drugs, of course, but nothing like the big cities. As far as I know, there hasn’t been a drug-related murder in Cabot Cove, although that isn’t to say it won’t happen one day.

  There haven’t been many suicides in Cabot Cove, either. An old woman who once lived next door to me, and who suffered from a painful terminal disease, took her own life one night. Only a few people were critical of her action. She’d found the peace she needed, and deserved.

  The suicide of a teenager a few years ago was more shocking, as might be expected. The town still suffers a communal guilt; could anyone have seen the signs that led to it, and done something to intervene? Probably not, but you do wonder about such things.

  In a sense, the death of this young musician at the Worrell Institute for Creativity was removed from Cabot Cove. It hadn’t been a townsperson, someone we’d gotten to know over the years. No different, really, than someone who’d checked in for a weekend stay at a local motel.

  Or was it different?

  By the time I walked through the door to Mara’s Luncheonette, I’d decided that this death might, indeed, be different. The institute had opened amidst considerable controversy. The people who would come as paying guests were “special” in the sense that they were creative artists, sensitive one would assume, perhaps high-strung, emotionally complex. And possibly tormented, as some artists are when they find it impossible to translate creative thoughts to paper, or to canvas, or to express their inner musical visions.

  Maybe the fact that the death at Worrell might not be “just another suicide” was the reason Mort had sounded upbeat on the phone. Every law enforcement officer thrives on controversy and challenge. Like soldiers who need a war, as unfortunate as that reality might be.

  Mort hadn’t arrived yet; I hoped something hadn’t occurred to keep him from showing up. Mara poured me a cup of coffee, and smiled when I reached for a little plastic container of half-and-half that swam in melted ice cubes in an empty margarine container. I’d been trying to develop a taste for skim milk in my coffee, but that experiment had lasted only a week. I try to watch what I eat, but there are certain things that simply don’t work, no matter how healthy they might be. Like sk
im milk in coffee. “Don’t say a word, Mara,” I said, laughing.

  Her smile widened. “I wondered how long you’d last with the skim milk routine. Like drinking gray dishwater, isn’t it?”

  “Worse.”

  “Meeting someone?”

  “Mort.”

  “Our fearless sheriff? Haven’t seen him. Suppose he’s up at Worrell investigating the murder.”

  “Murder?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No. I mean, I heard about the young musician dying last night, but it was a suicide. Wasn’t it?”

  “Suicide? Hell, no.” The proclamation came from Josh Morgan, owner of Cabot Cove’s biggest hardware store, and a vocal foe of the institute since it was first announced. “Somebody shot her right in the head, way’s I hear it. Figures.”

  I ordered blueberry pancakes, and was in the process of cutting them into small pieces in preparation for adding syrup when Mort walked through the door and took a stool next to me. “Still doin’ it that way?” he asked.

  “Cutting my pancakes before the syrup? Of course. It creates lots of edges to soak up the syrup.”

  The “art” of eating pancakes had generated considerable debate at Mara’s over the years. There was the contingent that considered cutting them first to violate some sacred culinary trust. I belonged to what I preferred to think was the more practical school.

  “Hamburger, well-done,” Mort told Mara. “Fry up some onions, too.”

  “Got a suspect yet?” Josh Morgan asked Mort.

  “Suspect? No suspect in a suicide.”

  Morgan guffawed. “Suicide? My rear end. Some doped-up crazy got himself mad at something and started shooting. That’s the way I hear it.”

  “That so?” said Mort. His deep sigh eloquently expressed his annoyance.

  “I heard it was a famous rock and roll musician,” the postmistress said loudly to a companion at a nearby table.

  “No, it wasn’t,” Mort said, spinning on his stool. “It was a young woman who played classical music. On the flute.”

  The luncheonette was now abuzz with talk of the death at Worrell. A flurry of questions were directed at Mort, who deflected them with noncommittal responses. Eventually, most of the other customers left; Mort was free to eat his burger in peace. “Sorry I was late,” he said between bites. “Got sandbagged on the phone by Dr. O’Neill, the director up at Worrell.”

  “What does he have to say about what happened?” I asked, sliding my last piece of pancake around in a puddle of syrup.

  “Kept talking about image. Reputation. Scandal. Said he hopes I’ll handle the investigation with discretion. What’s he think I’d do, call a press conference? Go on the Oprah Show?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think you’d do that. Anything new in your investigation?” I asked it in a whisper, leaning close to his ear.

  He glanced right and left, said into my ear, “No.”

  “Nothing?”

  Another series of looks to ensure we weren’t being overheard. “We’re calling it a suicide—for now, Jess. But—”

  “But what?”

  “I got my doubts now after goin’ back up there.”

  “Oh? Can you talk about your doubts?”

  “Suppose I shouldn’t. But considering it’s you—”

  I waited.

  “Somethin’ wrong with the way the gun was in her hand.”

  My arched eyebrows invited more.

  “Too loose. Usually, when somebody shoots themselves, their hand tightens up real tight on the weapon. Can’t hardly pry it outta their hand. People who shoot somebody, then try to put the gun in their hand to make it look like suicide, never can get the hand to tighten up. Her hand wasn’t tight on the gun.”

  “What kind of gun was it?” I asked.

  “Twenty-two handgun.”

  “You said there were powder burns on the skin.”

  “Yup. On the outside. On the skin. Can’t tell if there’s burns between the skin and bone. Autopsy’ll determine that.”

  “That’s important?”

  “Sure is. If there’s no burn between skin and bone, could mean the gun was held close—but not so close like when somebody holds it to their own head.”

  “Who’s doing the autopsy?”

  “Doc Johansen, I assume.”

  “Hmmmm. Do you know where the girl was from?” I asked.

  “California. Los Angeles.”

  “Has her family been notified?”

  “I don’t know. Dr. O’Neill said he’d take care of that.”

  “Was he there when you went to the mansion?”

  “No. That’s why he called, I guess. Said he arrived right after I left. That doctor with the funny accent—Meti is his name—Dr. Meti was there. Sort of took over things.”

  “Was he cooperative?” I asked.

  “I suppose you could say that. Stayed out of my way at least.”

  “Did he offer any information about the girl?”

  “No. But O’Neill did when he called. Said she was having trouble with her work. Was depressed over how it was going. Some sort of thing she was writing. A musical composition.”

  “How long had she been at the institute?” I asked.

  “Couple of weeks, according to O’Neill.”

  “Was she in some sort of therapy at the institute? I noticed at the party that there were doors leading to a behavioral sciences office. And there was an office that deals with addictions. Was the young woman high on anything?”

  “Not that I know. Dr. Meti said she’d been in her room all day except for a personal meeting with Dr. O’Neill. She apparently went back to her room after that meeting. Skipped dinner in the dining room, according to Meti. I suppose O’Neill was last to see her.”

  “Well, Mort, I enjoyed our breakfast. Lunch for you. My treat.” I paid Mara, and we stepped into the cool, refreshing air. It was a crisp Maine fall day, typically pre-Thanksgiving weather with lots of sunshine, and a cameo appearance from a snowflake or two. A schizophrenic wind blew. It was calm one minute; the next minute the wind howled like a nor’easter.

  “I’ll be calling Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “I have to firm up the seminar I’m teaching first week in December.”

  “What I told you is between us,” Mort said.

  “Of course. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

  “If you and that naturally curious mind of yours runs across anything might be of use to me, you’ll pass it along?”

  “Count on it.”

  Mort drove off in his patrol car, and I went to a pay phone at the end of the dock. Dr. O’Neill wasn’t in. I was transferred to Beth Anne Portledge, O’Neill’s administrative assistant. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but with the tragedy that happened last night, Dr. O’Neill is very busy. So am I, as a matter of fact. The press has gotten wind of it and—”

  “I won’t keep you,” I said. “I was hoping to meet with Dr. O’Neill today regarding my December seminar.”

  She exhaled an audible whoosh of air. “I don’t know if he’ll be free at all today.”

  “I don’t mind taking my chances just stopping by. Say later this afternoon?”

  “If you wish.” She sounded annoyed.

  I walked out on the main dock and marveled at the power of the water as it slammed against boats and wooden pilings. The wind had picked up and now blew more consistently. I pulled my green Barbour jacket and red Scottish plaid scarf closer around me and continued to watch as the boats were rocked in the choppy water, and seagulls flying into the wind were rendered motionless, suspended in midair.

  I walked the length of the dock. If I were a painter, I thought, I’d choose to paint in Cabot Cove; its natural beauty would make even a bad painter look good. I thought about how great painters managed to capture the light, the flow and the emotion of a scene in their art. In much the same way I try to do in my writing.

  I looked out to sea over churning black water and my senses were overwhelmed. The
ocean has always given me a sense of satisfaction rivaled by little else in my life. It trivializes things I take too seriously in my day-to-day living. It rekindles my spirituality. It’s these things in life that I too often take for granted: an inconsequential walk along a beach, or through the woods. When I open myself to the potency of nature and its cleansing effect, I’m grateful to be alive. If only the young musician at the institute had chosen to take a walk, instead of her life.

  When I arrived at the Worrell Mansion at three that afternoon, the circular drive in front of it was chockablock with cars and vans. The signs on two of the vans indicated they were from broadcast media, a television station from Bangor, the other belonging to one of our two local radio stations. The Cabot Cove Gazette’s station wagon was there, too, as was Mort Metzger’s sheriff’s car.

  As I was about to climb the steps to the front door, a swell of people, reporters, a camera crew, and unidentified others filed out.

  “What’s going on?” I asked Matilda Watson, the Gazette’s owner.

  “Press conference just ended,” she replied, walking quickly by.

  I entered the mansion and was immediately confronted by Michael O’Neill, the institute’s director.

  “Hello,” I said.

  “Jessica Fletcher. What brings you here? Do we have an appointment?”

  “No. I spoke with Ms. Portledge this morning and—”

  “She told you to come?”

  “No. She was very protective of you and your time. But I said I’d stop by and take a chance. Here I am.”

  “Not a good time, I’m afraid.”

  “I can imagine. I understand you held a press conference.”

  “Not much choice, I’m afraid. It seemed easier to get it over with in one swipe. I had no idea the press could be so aggressive and demanding.”

  “Their job.”

  “I suppose so. Well, now that you’re here, we can grab a few minutes together. Come. We’ll find some peace and quiet in my office.”

  I followed his long, purposeful steps up a flight of stairs to a suite at the end of a long corridor. He instructed his secretary to hold all calls, and ushered me inside.