Brandy and Bullets (15 page)

“I assume everything is here,” I said.

“I’m sure it is.”

“His computer disks? Are they in with the computer?”

“His disks? I’m sure they are.”

Jake saw me open the door, and came up the stairs to help. We put everything in the trunk except for the computer.

“Thanks, Michael,” I said. “Get inside before you turn into a snowman.”

“Where to, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jake asked as he pulled away.

“Home, I guess. And I promise this is the last call from me today.”

The blizzard that had paralyzed the entire East Coast eventually blew out to sea, as blizzards usually do, leaving behind a lovely white blanket to hide the inconvenience, and occasional misery.

I didn’t leave my house once I’d returned home from Worrell with Norm’s personal effects. Even if I’d wanted to venture out, I doubted whether Jake would have been able, or willing to take me despite his treasured chains.

Jason showed up the minute the snowfall showed signs of abating. I watched from the window as he attacked the massive snowdrifts with a determined, steady rhythm. It took the better part of the day for him to dig me out sufficiently so that I could reach the mailbox, garbage cans, cottage at the rear of my property, and other mundane destinations that we take for granted—until we can’t get to them.

I didn’t mind the forced isolation. It wouldn’t have mattered if I had. Mother Nature was firmly in control. When that happens, the best we can do is duck as many punches as possible, and conserve energy for when “she” tires.

Because I was housebound during the storm, I got a lot of work done. I’d stopped work on
Brandy & Bullets
—too many distractions. But I did have a seminar to teach at Worrell in a few days.

Considering the weather, to say nothing of Norm Huffaker’s disappearance, I considered canceling it. Norm’s body still hadn’t been found. The clearing weather meant that Mort Metzger’s department, in concert with a state team of officers, could resume their search. But no one seemed optimistic that their efforts would be fruitful. The Moose River, relatively free-flowing when the storm hit, was now frozen over. No telling where the body—if there was a body—might have ended up. Probably frozen beneath the river’s surface. If that was the case, only the spring thaw would reveal its whereabouts.

I kept in close touch with Jill. She seemed to be accepting the situation with admirable aplomb. As much as I wanted to deliver promising news to her, I was careful not to plant false and misleading hopes. All I could do was assure her that I would keep tabs on progress in Cabot Cove, and report to her as things developed.

She seemed less anxious to travel to Cabot Cove than before. I told her I’d picked up Norm’s things, which seemed to make her feel better. “No sense in coming here, Jill, until—
unless
they find Norm. You’re better off staying where you are.”

My flirtation with canceling the seminar had to do with more than Norman Huffaker, and the weather. Truth is, I was nervous about doing it. I don’t consider myself a teacher, although I have found myself in front of a class on a few occasions, the most recent in New York City where I lectured on criminal detection.

But I wasn’t any more comfortable with that situation than I was with the contemplation of standing before a group of artists, writers, and musicians at Worrell, and telling them how to write a murder mystery. The reality is that I don’t know how I write my novels. They just seem to get done.

“Still nothing?” I asked Mort over the phone. It was the morning of my seminar.

“Nope, Jess. Ice is a foot thick on the river. Got a foot of snow on top of that. Afraid we won’t be making much progress till things warm up.”

“I know how hard you’re trying, Mort. Just thought I’d check in again.”

“Always a pleasure hearin’ from you, Jess, no matter what the reason.”

I stood in front of a floor-length mirror in my bedroom, admiring my brown-and-beige plaid wool skirt, ivory cashmere turtleneck, and beige cashmere blazer. I said aloud, “I’m delighted to see everyone here this morning.”

I shifted my pose, extended my hands in front of me, and said, less enthusiastically, “How lovely to see you all on this frigid Maine morning. I’m especially excited because it’s always a delight to spend an entire daytime with so many who share something in common—an interest in writing.”

My smile was forced, false. I felt like a beauty pageant contestant with Vaseline smeared over her teeth. Relax, I told myself. Be yourself. You’re in control. They’ll be hanging on every word. You don’t have to put on a show. Just talk about what you know. Be sincere. Use their questions as a basis for what to say next. Remember what FDR said: “The only thing we have to fear is—”

The phone rang.

“Good morning, Jessica. Michael O’Neill.”

“Good morning, Michael.”

“Getting ready for your seminar?”

“Oh, that? Haven’t had a minute to even think about it.”

“Spoken like a real pro. Good news. Your seminar is sold-out.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s sold-out. Not another seat available.”

“I’m sorry, Michael, but I don’t understand. I thought I was lecturing to artists-in-residence at Worrell.”

“Oh, but you are. The resident artists, plus those from outside who wish to avail themselves of your considerable experience and talent. Didn’t you see the ad?”

“No.”

“No matter. It would have been a shame to limit your seminar to the few writers here at the institute. You have quite a following. We even advertised in Boston. Quite a contingent signed up from there.”

“I—I’ll do my best.”

“Which will be far more than anyone can hope for. Need a ride? I’ll send a car.”

“No need. Jake’s Cab Company is on its way.”

“See you then.”

Our conversation over, I poured another cup of coffee and pondered the day. Amazing, I thought, how life goes on even when life has been taken.

It had only been a few days since Dr. Meti’s BMW, and the note allegedly written by Norm Huffaker, had been found at Moose River. A good-night’s sleep had eluded me ever since. I would wake up with intense, Technicolor visions of his body encased in ice beneath the river’s surface, grotesquely configured, arms and legs twisted into awkward directions, his face—that face I knew so well—frozen into a macabre expression. Were his eyes open? Had the river’s cold made it easier to die? They say that of all the ways for wild animals to die, freezing to death was the most painless and merciful. Had Norm frozen? Or had he drowned? Undoubtedly the latter.

If
he’d gone into the river at all.

I had to admit that with every passing hour, the likelihood of his being dead was increased exponentially. If he was alive, where was he? Why no phone call? To me. Certainly to his wife.

My last conversation with Jill had been late last night. I’d called her at midnight my time, which made it nine o’clock in Los Angeles. Our conversation reflected a pattern Jill seemed to have fallen into ever since I broke the news to her. She was becoming increasingly resigned to Norman being dead. She even talked of making funeral arrangements, a memorial service in Hollywood at which his many friends and colleagues in the movie business could pay their respects.

“Isn’t that a little premature?” I suggested. “Somehow, Jill, I—”

“No, Jess,” she said. “As much as I want to be optimistic, I’m afraid it’s time for reality to be let in the door. The reality is that Norman is gone. Dead. Frozen beneath that river. I’ve finally come to grips with it. That’s healthy.”

“I suppose so,” I said. “But give it a little more time. Maybe you should plan to come here.”

“I’ve thought a lot about that,” she said. “But I think you were right in suggesting I stay in California. Not because I’m waiting for a call from Norm any longer. But this is home, Jess. It was home for both of us.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said. “Probably academic anyway. I just heard on the radio that the airport at Bangor is still closed. They’re hoping to open it for limited flights by tomorrow. We got twenty-five inches.”

It was good to hear her laugh. “You just confirmed my decision to stay put,” she said.

And that’s how we ended our talk.

I’d packed my briefcase the previous night with everything I thought I’d need for the seminar. But I checked it again that morning. There was a lesson plan of sorts, which included points I didn’t want to forget to bring up. I packed copies of some of my novels to distribute; O’Neill’s announcement that the crowd would be large meant that most aspiring writers in it would not receive them.

I’d also prepared a list of writers’ associations to distribute. The writer’s world can be lonely. Having the opportunity to join other writers for lunch, or an occasional cocktail, can be therapeutic, a surrogate employee cafeteria.

I included several drafts of my most recent novel, replete with my careful, copious pencil edits as an example of one of two favorite sayings about writing: All good writing is rewriting.

The other is: If I had more time, I would have written less.

I kept adding to the briefcase. I tossed in what I consider to be the “Bible” of style, punctuation, and grammar these days, the
Chicago Manual of Style.
I also decided to include in my bag of tricks a copy of
Gin and Daggers,
a novel written by a dear and departed friend, Marjorie Ainsworth, who was considered by many to be the world’s reigning queen of the mystery novel. I’d been a houseguest at her London mansion the weekend she was murdered. Months following that, I received in the mail from her solicitor the original manuscript of
Gin and Daggers,
which Marjorie had willed to me. The note from her attorney that accompanied the manuscript enjoys a special, framed spot in my office:
“The torch has been passed. Ms. Ainsworth often said she considered you her favorite colleague, and wanted very much for you to possess this.”

As I pulled
Gin and Daggers
from the shelf, my eyes focused on two novels that stood next to it. As part of my compulsive nature, my bookshelves are carefully arranged by category, including a large selection devoted to books written by friends, and inscribed to me. Norman Huffaker’s two early western novels,
The Redemption of Rio Red,
and
The Bronze Lady of Bentonville,
written under his pseudonym, B. K. Praether, were included in that collection. I placed them in the briefcase, too. I could use all the props I could muster. Norm’s books would allow me to open a discussion of why writers are often compelled to write under different names, usually because certain books marked a drastic departure from the style for which they were well-known. And, of course, when ghostwriting a book for someone else demanded the author’s anonymity.

I checked the wall clock. I still had time before Jake arrived, and took my coffee into my den where I’d placed Norm’s computer, and other belongings, in a closet. I opened the computer carrying case. Secured inside by a Velcro strap was the computer itself, a marvel of miniaturization. A marvel to me, at least. My word processor was large. The keyboard was full-sized, and the monitor took up considerable desk space. But here was everything in a small package.

I removed the computer, pressed on a latch, and raised the screen, which was hinged to the body. I knew a laptop computer contained batteries, which meant I could probably turn it on without plugging it in. Dare I try? My computer illiteracy had me in a firm grip. I wasn’t sure what would happen if I hit the “ON” button. Everything erased from the internal disk? Smoke and flames?

I turned it on. A light flashed. I leaned closer and read the writing just below the light. “LOW BATTERY.”

I fished through an outside pocket of the case and pulled out an AC cord, found the tiny extrusion into which one end was plugged, and inserted the other end into a wall socket. After a few beeps, and a barrage of technical information that flashed across the screen, a brightly colored mosaic informed me I had entered the world of something called “WINDOWS.”

“My goodness,” I said.

A tiny arrow sat between two of many icons on the screen. That, I knew, had to be moved to one of the icons if anything were to happen. But how to move it?

A mouse. I’d played with computer mice (is that the correct plural in computerese?) before on a friend’s computer.

More digging through another outside pocket produced what I assumed was this computer’s version of a mouse. It had a little ball on top. I squinted to read the labels above inputs at the rear of the computer, found the one for the mouse, and plugged it in. My thumb went into spasm as I tried to roll the ball in such a way that it would direct the small screen arrow to the icon that said “MICROSOFT WORD,” which I assumed was the writing program Norm used.

Eventually, I succeeded. I clicked a button on the side of the ball’s housing. Nothing. I tried a few more times with the same negative result. Then, inadvertently, I clicked twice on it, and everything changed on the screen. It became blank, with only a blinking cursor.

I was trying to figure out how to access the internal disk when there was a loud knock at my door. I went to it and faced Jake Monroe.

“Is it time?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Come in, Jake. Only be a minute. I have to turn off the computer.”

“Gettin’ fancy,” he said.

“I suppose so. Pour yourself some coffee. It’s in the carafe in the kitchen.”

I was sure there were rules to follow when turning off the laptop, but I didn’t know them. I simply touched the power button, hoping it wouldn’t hurt the machine. I grabbed my briefcase, put on my L.L. Bean parka and duck boots, and was off to the Worrell Institute for Creativity.