Brandy and Bullets (4 page)

Our sheriff, Morton Metzger, had been invited to the party, and accepted. I certainly understood why the institute’s directors would want our sheriff on their side. But Seth was Cabot Cove’s leading physician. Not inviting him was a slight, in my opinion, or, at best, an oversight. The result? Seth was hurt.

“That’s wonderful news,” I said. “Have you rented a tux?”

“Ayuh. Harry had one fits me like a glove. Didn’t have to change a thing.”

“Great. I’m so glad you changed your mind.”

“Like I said, Jessica, I didn’t want to see you without a proper escort. Mort wouldn’t be much of one.”

I contained a laugh, simply said, “I’m really looking forward to being on your arm this evening, Doctor. And wear comfortable shoes. I understand there’ll be dancing.”

 

The circular drive leading up to the imposing Worrell Mansion was lined with illuminair lights—candles in paper bags with cutout designs. The effect was elegant. A near-full moon, a heavenly floodlight, washed the large stone mansion with white light. A dozen valet parking attendants scurried from car to car. The line was long. We waited our turn behind the stream of cars inching toward the entrance.

“I feel like I’m in Hollywood, not Cabot Cove,” said Seth as he put his Toyota Corolla in park. “It’ll be a half hour ‘fore we get to the door. Never seen so many cars in one place in Cabot Cove before. Looks like the whole damn town was invited, ’cept—”

I smiled and touched his arm. He was still stinging from not having been invited. “Probably a lot of out-of-towners,” I said. “From Boston. Maybe New York. From what I hear, the invitation list in Cabot Cove was very small.”

“It was?” he said, shifting into gear and covering another few feet of driveway.

“Yes. It was.” I hoped that made him feel better.

We finally reached a parking attendant, a young man who I recognized from town. “‘Evening, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said as he opened the door for me and helped me maneuver my floor-length black skirt out of the car. “Hello,” I said. “Dr. Hazlitt,” he said. “Hello, Billy,” said Seth. “Sticks in gear at times. Don’t strip ’em.”

“No, sir.”

“Name, sir?” Seth was asked the question by an Olympic-sized young man positioned just outside the front door.

“Hazlitt. Dr. Seth Hazlitt.”

Mr. Universe glanced quickly through a sheaf of papers. “Name, again, sir? You’re not on the guest list.”

“Fletcher. Jessica,” I said. “We’re together.”

Without looking again at the list of names, he said, “This way, ma’am. Sorry for the delay, sir.” I smiled at Seth, who looked unimpressed.

“The President here tonight?” Seth muttered as we passed into a wide, long foyer with a ceiling far above our heads. “Why all the tight security?”

“Undoubtedly to protect you from assassins.”

Once inside, we were passed along a lengthy receiving line. At its end were the Worrell Institute for Creativity’s director, Dr. Michael O’Neill, and his administrative assistant, Beth Anne Portledge.

“Mrs. Fletcher. We are extremely honored to have your presence here this evening,” O’Neill said. “We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival.” O’Neill was sixty-something, with a healthy head of silver hair, ruddy cheeks, and seductive, watery blue eyes. No debate about his family’s national origins. Irish through and through.

“Welcome to Worrell,” Ms. Portledge said pleasantly. She was short and borderline chubby, with a round face, minimal makeup, and straight brown hair pulled back into a tight chignon. She was dressed more for a business meeting than a party. Brown suit with narrow white stripes, white blouse with a large bow at the neck, and sensible brown shoes.

“Thank you very much, Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “This is my friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt.”

“Always nice to meet a fellow practitioner,” said O’Neill. “Specialty?”

“Family medicine.”

“Not enough of you to go around. I practiced family medicine once. Before going into psychialry.”

I hoped Seth wouldn’t launch into one of his condemnations of psychiatry. He didn’t, to my relief.

Although guests continued to come through the door, O’Neill and his assistant abandoned their spot on the receiving line and took us aside. “I’m looking forward to some good conversations with you, Mrs. Fletcher,” O’Neill said. “You’re obviously an extremely creative person. All writing is creative, but developing a murder mystery must rank high on the creativity list.”

“Actually, I think it’s more a case of perspiration than inspiration,” I said.

“Modest. But I think there’s more to it than that. I’ve been studying the creative process for many years. I’ve traveled the world trying to identify just what makes the creative mind work. That’s what brings me to Worrell. We’re going to focus sharply on the creative processes used by the artists-in-residence.”

“Fascinating,” I said. I could have added “surprising.” It sounded more like group therapy than an artist’s retreat.

“Nice meeting you, Doctor,” Seth said, taking my elbow. He was obviously anxious to move on.

“The ballroom is just over here,” said O’Neill. “Beth Anne, would you be kind enough to hold the fort while I escort this lovely lady to the party?”

The ballroom was already crowded with elegantly dressed people, few of whom I recognized. I spotted Cabot Cove mayor Sybil Stewart, who wore a fancy red gown and who chatted with a knot of guests. An orchestra that sounded like all society ball orchestras played bouncy show tunes, which had a number of couples spinning about the dance floor. It was all very festive, hardly what I expected at a party to open a creative center. I expected any moment to see a line of debs come down the winding staircase.

“Save me a dance,” Dr. O’Neill said.

“My pleasure,” I said.

He returned to the foyer. A waitress passed with a tray of caviar canapes and stuffed mushrooms. Seth stopped her and loaded up a cocktail napkin with her wares. I nibbled on a canape as he lightened a waiter’s tray by taking two glasses of champagne from it. I raised my glass. “To fall,” I said.

“To winter,” he said, frowning. “Dance?” The orchestra was playing a favorite of mine, “Just in Time.”

“Rain check,” I said, continuing to observe the crowd. “There’s Mort.”

“Where?” Seth stood on tiptoes.

“On the dance floor. With the blond lady.”

Seth followed the direction of my finger and saw our friend, Cabot Cove’s sheriff, dancing with a woman who was a few inches taller, many years younger, and who looked as though she’d stood in a mold while her silver-and-black-sequined dress was poured over her.

“Be damned,” Seth mumbled.

“He looks nice in his tux,” I said.

“Looks like a—I suppose he looks okay.”

“And having a wonderful time.”

“Uh-huh.”

Friends from Cabot Cove approached, and we happily chatted: “Beautiful renovation”—“Lovely party”—“So exciting having artists in our town”—“Best party since New Year’s Eve of nineteen-eighty” —“Who’s the blonde with Sheriff Metzger?”

Before that final question could be answered, Nelson Whippet, Cabot Cove’s wealthiest citizen (junk bonds on Wall Street) spirited me to the dance floor, leaving Seth looking lonely and forlorn, even though he was surrounded by friends.

After a series of spirited dips and swirls, Nelson brought me back to where Seth was now talking with Mort Metzger, and others.

“Whew!” I said, wiping my damp face. “Nelson takes dancing as seriously as his investments.”

“You look real nice, Jess,” Mort said.

“Thank you.”

The slinky blonde was at his side.

Mort realized we were all looking at her. He said, “This here is Susan Dalton. She’s a writer. Stayin’ here at the institute. Writing a murder mystery.”

Susan smiled. “I admit it,” she said. “I am picking the brain of a real live law enforcement officer. A real live sheriff.”

Morton beamed.

My reaction was one of disbelief. Other artists-in-residence at the party were readily discernible from the other guests. No tuxedos. No patent shoes. No sequined gowns. Their uniforms were jeans, turtle-necks, and corduroy jackets with patches at the elbows.

“Do you have a publisher?” I asked. I wasn’t prying. I was interested.

“My brother has a friend who said he would look at the book once I write it. I’ve been trying to write it for ten years.” A giggle. “I hope being here will help.”

“I’m sure it will,” I said.

“Jessica is a mystery writer,” Morton said.

Her eyes opened wide. “You are? Have I read any of your books?”

“I—probably not.”

As Seth and I walked away, I heard her say to Mort, “Jessica Fletcher? I’ve never heard of her.” Which was just as well.

We continued to enjoy the party. The food was excellent (a fancy Boston caterer), and there was an unending supply of it: oysters on the half shell, oysters Rockefeller, pâté, deviled eggs, marinated artichoke hearts, shrimp wontons, crabmeat stuffed mushrooms, calamari, and more. Morton’s blond friend had deserted him for a tall, slender man who was identified as one of the institute’s psychiatrists. His name sounded Hungarian to me—Tomar Meti—although it could have been of any slavic origin. He looked Hungarian; black hair plastered to his head, closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard, probing dark eyes. And a good dancer. Ms. Dalton seemed to be enjoying herself.

“Mrs. Fletcher.”

I turned to face Beth Anne, the institute’s assistant director.

“Dr. O’Neill thought you might enjoy a personal tour of the facilities.”

“That would be lovely.”

“The other guests will be shown around,” she said. “But Dr. O’Neill asked me to escort you and a few other selected guests on a more comprehensive tour.”

I looked at Seth.

“Dr. Hazlitt is welcome, too,” Beth Anne said.

“Thank you,” Seth said. “You go ahead, Jess. Mort and I still have some eating to do.” It was good to see them acting like good friends again. They went off in pursuit of a waiter carrying a large tray of shrimp, and I followed Beth Anne to where a half dozen others waited. Among them was Sybil Stewart, and the county’s district attorney, Arthur Goldberg.

We began at the back of the mansion where an expansive greenhouse housed a European spa, replete with an anti-cellulite massage room. Another glass wing connected to the spa contained a heated Olympic-size swimming pool. “Nothing like a couple of laps to cure writer’s block,” Beth Anne said pleasantly.

“I’m really impressed,” I said. “But how much does it cost an artist or writer to stay at Worrell? With all these extravagant amenities, I imagine it isn’t cheap.”

“We work on a sliding scale,” she replied. “Dr. O’Neill would be a better source of that information for you. He’ll quote you the rates.”

Rates? It was sounding and looking more like a resort every minute.

We passed through the spa again, which smelled like eucalyptus, and entered a long, narrow, winding hallway. “We’ll take a quick peek at one of the guest rooms,” Portledge said. “I know that Nineteen is empty. There are sixty in all. We have almost a full house.”

As we made our way toward Room 19, two things struck me as odd. First, there was a set of French doors with a fancy engraved brass plaque that read: “BEHAVIORAL SCIENCES UNIT.” I asked Beth Anne about it.

“We do a lot of work with behavior modification,” she answered quickly over her shoulder.

“What kind?” I asked, keeping step.

“The usual. Helping our clients get over whatever creative problems they might be having. We have special accommodations for those who are really struggling.”

She knew her script well.

The second thing that piqued my interest was at the end of the hall, where a small, handwritten sign read: “ADDICTIONS CENTER.” Beth Anne’s face turned into a scowl as she pulled the sign down and shoved it in her jacket pocket.

I stopped in front of the door as the others continued to follow her. Sensing that she’d lost one person, she stopped and glared at me.

“Mrs. Fletcher?”

“Addictions?” I said. “Alcoholism? That sort of thing?”

“In case we were to have such a problem. We don’t!”

In contrast to the opulent public rooms, Room 19 was Zen-like. The walls were stark white; one black-and-white print of a snowy landscape was the only thing to break the white expanse. A white bedspread with tiny pink flowers neatly covered a single bed. A tiny, two-drawer white dresser was on one wall, an equally small, white Formica desk on the other.

“Spartan,” DA Goldberg said.

“Functional,” Portledge said, leading us from the room. “As few distractions as possible. We want them to spend as little time in their rooms as possible.”

I was about to comment that as a writer, the more time spent alone in my room, the more I’d get written. But I didn’t express that thought. I’d developed a feeling that Ms. Portledge preferred show-and-tell, without questions from her class.

We reached one of two libraries, whose rich, oak paneling, floor-to-ceiling stacks of books, oversize armchairs, and large wooden desks made them considerably more inviting than Room 19 had been.

Immediately off the library was a sundry-type store that sold magazines and books, supplies, drugstore items, and other necessities found in shopping concourses of the world’s grand hotels. There was even a laundry and dry-cleaning service. If Cabot Cove’s merchants expected a lot of business from the institute’s residents, they were in for a disappointment.

Especially restaurant owners.

The main dining room, or Thoreau Room, as it was called, served three meals daily. The smaller dining room, the Proust Room, served lighter fare all day long, including early-morning continental breakfast and late-night snacks.

“Twenty-four-hour room service,” someone in the group said in disbelief when Beth Anne mentioned it.