Brandy and Bullets (12 page)

“Oh, I forgot,” I said. “You wanted to talk to me about something.”

“Yes, I did. Maybe—”

“It also occurs to me,” I said, “that you have no way of getting back to the institute. The cab company is closed.”

“No problem,” Mort said. “Happy to drive Miss Dalton there myself.”

“What about Jason?” I asked.

“I’ll walk,” he said. “I like to walk.”

“Drop you off, too,” Mort said. “On the way.”

“Mind another passenger?” I asked.

“You, Jess?”

“Yes. I could use a ride. Some fresh air.”

“Happy to have you,” said Mort.

“I’ll drive the young lady home,” Seth offered.

But Mort obviously wanted that pleasure.

We said good night to Seth in front of the house, and I climbed in the backseat of Mort’s sheriff’s car with Susan Dalton. Jason sat up front.

“What fun,” Susan said as Mort started the vehicle and slipped it into gear. “Riding in a sheriff’s car.”

“Don’t say it too loud,” I whispered. “I don’t think he’s supposed to use it for personal reasons.”

“I heard ya,” Mort said over his shoulder. “The way I figure it, any trip up to Worrell is business. Nasty business.”

“I’m going up to the mansion tomorrow,” Jason said.

“Are you?” I said. “Why?”

“Jo Jo invited me to see how he makes art on his computer.”

“That sounds like fun, Jason. I’m sure you’ll enjoy it.”

We dropped Jason at Sassi’s bakery, and headed up the mountain toward Worrell. I took the opportunity to ask Susan what she’d wanted to speak with me about.

“I can tune out if you want it to be private,” Mort said.

“Oh, no,” Susan said. “What I have to say would be of interest to Sheriff Metzger.”

“Well, then, we’re all ears,” I said.

“It’s about Maureen Beaumont and how she died.”

“Yes?”

“And the other girl who tried to commit suicide.”

“Hear from Seth she’s gonna be okay,” Mort said.

“That’s good,” said Susan. “I think she really did try to kill herself.”

“Why would you even doubt it?” I asked.

“Because people say that Maureen Beaumont killed herself.”

We waited.

“She didn’t.”

“She didn’t?” Mort and I said in unison.

“She was murdered. And I think I know who did it.”

If we were “all ears” before, our auditory receptivity was now at its peak setting.

“Maureen was a jealous person,” Susan continued. “Very jealous. And competitive. She was depressed because she wasn’t doing as well as some of the other musicians. Including Barbara.”

“Ms. McCoy? Who was at my house today?”

“Yes. When Barbara found out that Maureen had stolen her score, and was using it for her own project, she was furious. She was so mad, she—she was ready to kill.”

Mort pulled off the winding road and parked on the shoulder. He turned and said, “Are you sayin’, Ms. Dalton, that Miss McCoy shot Maureen Beaumont ?”

“I’m saying—yes, I think she did.”

“
Think
?” Mort said.

“Yes. Unbelievable, isn’t it?”

“Well, yes, I’d certainly agree with that assessment. But you have to be more certain, Susan. It’s a very serious charge you’re making.”

“I’m aware of that.” My mild rebuke caused her to pout.

“Got any proof?” Mort asked.

“No. But I’m working on it.”

“How are you doing that?” I asked.

“Listening. Observing. You know, Jessica, when I first met you at the party, I didn’t know who you were. I’ve never read much. Not since school. But when I found out how famous you are as a mystery writer, it sort of—well, it inspired me. You can imagine how tickled I was to be invited to your house for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“The pleasure was mine, Susan.”

“I never was sold on that suicide theory regardin’ Miss Beaumont,” Mort said.

“I remember you expressing that,” I said. “The powder burns, wasn’t it?”

“Yup.”

“See?” Susan said with animation. “Of course. The powder burns.”

“You know about powder burns?” I asked.

“I know that if you hold a gun to your head, it leaves powder burns. There weren’t any. That’s it!”

“Susan,” I said, “there were powder burns, weren’t there, Mort?”

“Yup, except that—”

I interrupted. “Susan, this kind of speculation is interesting, of course. But you have to be careful about expressing your theories until you’ve gathered enough facts. Evidence.”

“And that’s exactly what I intend to do, Jessica. Imagine. A murder takes place before my very eyes. I was absolutely at a loss for a plot for my book. I didn’t have one idea that made sense. I talked about it during my therapy sessions with Dr. O’Neill and his staff. They’re so terrific, so supportive. They’re working on getting me to open my mind so that the creative juices can flow freely.”

“I see.”

“So I’ve been trying to do that. And then it hit me. The story is right in front of my eyes. It’s for real. All I have to do is follow it, and turn it into a plot based on real life.”

“Uh-huh.”

Mort started to pull back onto the road, but I stopped him. “Tell me more about this stolen music,” I said to Susan.

“It’s not difficult to prove, Jessica. I heard Maureen playing it the night before she died. I thought it sounded so pretty, so I went into the practice room to tell her. She panicked, covered the music with other papers. That seemed strange to me, but I didn’t say anything.

“Then, later that night, I heard an argument in the practice room. I kind of pressed my ear to the door. Barbara McCoy was in there with Maureen. She was yelling at her about how Maureen stole her musical score. Maureen denied it, but they kept yelling at each other. Finally, I heard Barbara say something like if Maureen tried to claim the score as her own, she’d kill her.”

“She said that?” Mort said. “In exactly those words?”

“Something like that.”

Mort and I exchanged glances.

“Is that what Barbara meant when she said Maureen Beaumont had killed herself because she ‘couldn’t live with the guilt?’ ” I asked.

“I bet that’s what she meant,” Susan replied.

“Well, Susan,” I said, “this has been—fascinating.”

“I thought you’d think it was,” she said. “Can I count on you and Sheriff Metzger to help me?”

“Help you?”

“Solve the murder. That would be good for you, Sheriff. And I’d have a plot for my book,”

“I think we’d better get going, Mort,” I said.

We were stopped at the gate by an institute security guard, who allowed us to pass once he saw it was Mort, and that one of the institute’s residents was being returned to the mansion.

“Good night, Susan,” I said.

“Good night, Jessica. Thank you again for having me to dinner. It was yummy.”

“You take care,” Mort said. “Leave the solvin’ of murders to me.”

“Oh, I will. I’ll call you when I find out more.” She was out of the car, bounded up the steps, and disappeared inside.

“What do you think?” I asked Mort.

“She’s a pretty thing,” he replied.

“I don’t mean her looks. I mean her theory.”

He shrugged. “Wish she wouldn’t go snoopin’ around like that,” he said. “If that Beaumont woman was murdered, isn’t likely the murderer will appreciate havin’ her stickin’ her nose into it.”

“My thought exactly.”

Once upon a time, I lived in large cities, and loved them. Their energy matched perfectly with my youthful sense of purpose and exploration.

But now that I’ve lived in the small town of Cabot Cove, Maine, all these years, I can’t imagine ever living in a metropolis again. The inherent peace and beauty it offers has captured me for life. It is a place to which I yearn to return whenever I travel.

My house is not large, nor is it lavishly decorated and furnished. It fits me like a well-worn slipper, and if I were to win the state lottery—which I play religiously, one ticket a week—there’s nothing I would change with my house, or my life.

But that’s not to say that Cabot Cove doesn’t have its drawbacks. Like any small town, it lacks certain amenities, particularly in the area of culture. The hope that by attracting young artists and musicians to the town, the Worrell Institute for Creativity would foster a cultural center, had not happened. At least not yet.

Another characteristic of small towns is the penchant for gossip. Everyone knows everyone else—or at least it seems that way—which means it isn’t easy to get lost. And we all need to lose ourselves on occasion, if only for a day or two. The problem is that, by some strange process, what you’ve done while hibernating is quickly known around town. Rent a batch of videos for a weekend and someone on Monday will ask how you enjoyed the films, by name. Subscribe to a controversial publication and it will be known. There’s nothing malicious about it. It just happens.

When I wrote my first novel in my new Cabot Cove house, speculation ran rampant in town. I was antisocial. I was hiding a demented family member in the attic. Those rumors eventually abated, but the absurdity of some of them lingers with me to this day.

Now, a few days after Thanksgiving, I was to hear another rumor about me. You’d think that having lived for so many years in a small town environment, I wouldn’t be shocked at what Sheriff Morton Metzger told me when he stopped by at my house for coffee.

“You’ve got to be kidding! That’s ridiculous! Insane! Crazy!”

He’d given me the news between bites of English muffin, tossed it at me as though he was announcing a forecast of snow, or that his budget for a new patrol car had been approved.

“Calm down, Jess. Just a damn rumor circulatin’ about town this mornin’.”

“But it doesn’t make any sense. Why on earth would anyone suspect me? What possible motive would I have for wanting Maureen Beaumont dead?”

“Seems I might be at the root of it.”

“You? How?”

“Not so much that you would be a suspect, but that the rumor ever got started in the first place. I never closed the book on Miss Beaumont’s death. Never bought suicide. You know that as well as I do.”

“Yes, I do.”

“That’s the problem, Jess. Folks got the drift that I was continuin’ to investigate, so they put two and two together, and they figure that if I think the woman was murdered, that means there’s got to be a murderer.”

“Your reasoning is impressive. Go on.”

“So, everybody’s got a theory. You know how folks can be.”

“I understand all that, Mort. But why
me?”

He laughed.

“It’s not funny, Mort.”

“Better to have a sense of humor about such things, Jess.”

“Who said it?” I asked. “Who mentioned me as a possible suspect?”

“That doesn’t matter much.” He finished his muffin.

“It matters to me.”

“I don’t think Sybil meant anything by it. Sort of a joke.”

“Sybil?”

“Ayuh.”

“Sybil Stewart? Our mayor?”

“Down at Mara’s this mornin’. Just gossipin’ with a bunch a’ other ladies.”

“Sybil Stewart brought up my name as a suspect?”

“You know Sybil, Jess. Got herself a big mouth, like all politicians.”

“Bigger than most.”

I’d been named a suspect in a few cases before. In those instances, I could usually make sense of it. I’d ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time, or with the wrong people.

But I couldn’t for the life of me understand why Sybil Stewart would have mentioned my name in connection with Maureen Beaumont’s death. Obviously, she didn’t buy the suicide story any more than Morton did. Of course, the fact that he continued to investigate—and undoubtedly talked too much about it over coffee at Mara’s—contributed to everyone’s skepticism.

Mort wiped his mouth with his napkin and stood. “Got to be goin’, Jess. Coffee and muffin hit the spot.” He shook his head and laughed.

“I’m sorry, Mort, but I don’t find this at all funny.”

“Oh, you know Sybil, Jess. Suspicious of everything. She didn’t mean nothin’ by it.”

If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was defending Sybil Stewart because, as mayor, she was his boss. Of course, he didn’t have to tell me about Sybil’s stupid comment at Mara’s. But he knew I’d find out eventually through the active Cabot Cove grapevine. Better to have come from him, was the way he’d probably processed it.

“Well, Mort, I repeat that I’m incapable of sharing this laugh with you. I find what Sybil has said to be slanderous.”

The moment Mort left, the phone rang. I hastily wiped my fingers clean of the boysenberry jam I’d been enjoying on a pecan scone—I abhor sticky telephones—and answered.

“Jessica. Michael O’Neill here. Sounds like you’ve been sitting by the phone waiting for my call.” It had been a week since he and his wife were my guests for Thanksgiving.

“Maybe I was,” I said. “How are you, Michael?”

“Fine. Just fine. I call for two reasons, Jessica. First, to thank you for a lovely Thanksgiving dinner. I was honored to be at your table. Second—and this is more difficult—I must apologize, once again, for our sudden departure. Amanda’s feeling much better now. It came over her so quickly at your house. A wicked, sudden virus. She’s just now feeling like her old self. So much flu around these days.”

No one I knew had the flu, I thought. And what was Amanda O’Neill’s “old self?”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “That Amanda is feeling better. Sorry that you couldn’t stay for dessert. They say my hard sauce this year was exceptionally good.”

“And I’m looking for a rain check, Jessica. I’ve been thinking about what I missed ever since.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Jessica, there’s another reason I’ve called. Perhaps more serious.”