“That’s all right,” I said. “But I must admit there was a moment there when I was frightened. Incredible, how you actually had me in a car. I wasn’t here in this club. I was in a car, behind the wheel.”
“Dangerous thing you do, Mr. James,” Seth said sternly.
“Not really, Doctor. What happened to Jessica doesn’t happen often. The moment I saw that she was in some sort of distress, I brought her right out of it.”
“Maybe that’s ‘cause Jess is a strong woman. What happens when you get somebody who’s a perfect subject for hypnosis, a ‘five’ on the Spiegel scale of hypnotizability?”
“You’re familiar with Dr. Spiegel’s Hypnotic Induction Profile?” Carson said.
“Ayuh. Took a course once with him down at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. Learned a lot.”
Two people came to the table and asked me for my autograph, which I happily gave them.
I said to Seth, “I didn’t realize you knew as much as you do about hypnosis.”
“I don’t know much, ‘cept that everything depends on the subject. Some folks are good, some not so good. You can do damn near anything with a good subject, one of those ‘fives’ I mentioned.” He looked at Carson James. “Am I right?”
“Yes. Well, you really can’t do
anything
with such a person.”
“You can’t?” I said. “I thought—”
Carson smiled. “I have a splendid idea,” he said. “It’s an hour before my next show. I know a fine little pub a block from here. What say we retire there for a much-deserved nightcap for Jessica, and continue this conversation?”
“Seth?” I asked.
“Fine with me,” he said. “Need a check.”
“Absolutely not,” Carson said. “My treat. Part of my deal with Tickletoes is that I get to entertain two guests at each show. You’re my two guests at this one. Come, I’d like to pick the doctor’s considerable brain about this thing I do for a living on the stages of the world.”
The pub was called Boston Beans. It was a small neighborhood place with a fireplace, and country-and-western music on the jukebox. We took a booth near the door. Seth and I each had a brandy, Carson a vodka martini, straight up. I resumed the conversation where it had ended at Tickletoes.
“I thought you could make people do things under hypnosis that are uncharacteristic of their basic nature,” I said.
“Not true, my dear Jessica,” Carson said, tasting his drink and pronouncing it satisfactory with a loud smack of his lips. Seth sat quietly and listened as Carson explained. “You see, no matter how skilled the hypnotist, or good the subject, people will not do something that violates their moral code.” He laughed. “You’ve heard about those teenage boys with the fantasy that they can hypnotize a young lady, and convince her to disrobe in their presence. Impossible ! Unless, of course, she is the sort of young lady whose moral code does not preclude such behavior. Am I right, Dr. Hazlitt?”
“Yes. And no.”
I raised my eyebrows at Seth. “Not your usual filled-with-conviction response to a question.”
“Mr. James here is basically right,” said Seth. “But people can be made to act contrary to their deep beliefs if the hypnotist, working with a very good subject, changes the visual.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
Seth explained: “One example is what Mr. James has raised, that of the common teenage male fantasy that a girl can be induced to disrobe. A hypnotist can’t command her to do that. But a skilled hypnotist might be able to convince this same young lady that she is alone in a room, and that the temperature of that room has become unbearably hot. Given that scenario, she might well remove her clothes.”
“Esterbrooks,” James said.
“Among others. A book,
The Control of Candy Jones,
explains it as well as any I’ve read. I have a copy, Jessica. Happy to lend it to you.”
“I’ll look forward to it. She was the famous model.”
“Among other things, including a CIA experimental guinea pig. Let me take it a step further,” Seth said. “A hypnotist would have a difficult, probably impossible time convincing even the best of subjects to shoot his wife—provided he loves her, of course, and is not a basically violent man. But again, by changing the visual, it could be done. The subject—and again I stress it must be a good subject, a ‘five’ on the Spiegel scale—could be convinced that when his wife walks through the door of his home, it isn’t his wife at all, but a hungry, rabid bear. He must shoot it in self-defense.”
“I see,” I said. “Fascinating.”
“Your physician friend is astute and knowledgeable,” Carson James said.
“About many things,” I said. “Carson, I now understand how people can be tested to determine their hypnotizability. This Hypnotic Induction Profile you both seem to know so much about. But you didn’t test the subjects you brought to the stage tonight. Or did you? Did you know them before the show, have an opportunity to find who would be your best subjects?”
Carson laughed. “You mean were they ‘plants,’ shills for my act? Heavens, no, Jessica. That would be cheating.” He looked to Seth. “Wouldn’t it, Doctor Hazlitt?”
“Ayuh. That it would.”
“If there is one talent I’ve developed over the years, Jessica, it’s the ability to size up people upon first seeing them. Good hypnotic subjects are generally easygoing, malleable individuals, eager to please others. I observed the audience from backstage and decided on those six. As it turned out, I was right, although two of them were not as easy to work with as the other four. So I concentrated on those four.”
Seth smiled, shook his head. “I’d heard that about stage hypnotists,” he said, “but you proved it to me tonight. Impressive, Mr. James.”
“Thank you, Doctor. Coming from a man of medicine makes it especially complimentary.”
“Well,” I said, “time for this shopped-out lady—and hypnotic subject—to get to bed. Was I—was I a good subject, Carson? I was once told I wasn’t a good hypnotic subject.”
“Medium,” he replied. “Good enough, as you discovered in your runaway automobile.”
I pushed back my chair. “I loved the whole evening, Carson, especially this talk we’ve had. Makes one think.”
“Yes, it does.”
Seth paid for the drinks, the bartender called us a cab, we said our goodbyes to Carson, and headed back to the hotel.
“Buy you a drink, or a cup of coffee,” I said as we walked into the lobby.
“Had enough to drink,” Seth said. “Coffee will keep me awake.”
“Decaf won’t,” I said. “Please. I have a million questions to ask this expert on hypnosis, who I didn’t know was an expert.
“I’m no expert.”
An hour later, I’d received a primer in hypnosis, including some of Seth’s theories about how Sirhan Sirhan might have been programmed to murder Robert Kennedy.
“Whew!” I said as we rode the elevator to Seth’s floor. My room was a few floors above. “Lots to chew on.” The doors slid open.
“Don’t chew too much, Jessica. Your friend is a nice man. But I still don’t think people should use hypnosis in nightclubs.”
“Maybe you’re right. Sleep tight, Seth. Breakfast at eight?”
“Let’s make it seven. Everybody and his brother’ll be there by eight.”
Chapter Eight
Thanksgiving Day
“What am I most thankful for?”
As a prelude to serving Thanksgiving dinner, I’d asked each of my guests to choose the one thing for which they were most grateful.
Sheriff Morton Metzger chewed his cheek and looked up at the ceiling. “I guess I’m most thankful for all the great friends I have here in Cabot Cove.”
His answer brought forth a clapping of hands, and a few “Amens.”
Now it was Norman Huffaker’s turn. I was pleased to see Norm so relaxed, and enjoying himself. There were no signs of depression in him this night. His hair was neatly combed, and his clothing had that freshly cleaned and pressed look. The French blue knit sweater he wore had the same dramatic effect on his eyes as eyeliner might have. Norm’s eyes were shockingly blue. Paul Newman had nothing on him, at least in the eyes department.
“Well, Norm?” I said.
He paused for what seemed an eternity before saying, “I’m thankful, I guess, for the passage of time.”
He looked at me and actually blushed. I’d forgotten how shy Norman could be when asked to say something in front of more than a few people, in this case many of them strangers. He didn’t strike people as a reticent man, but that was because his outward persona, and reputation as a successful writer, was misleading. One thing I’d noticed over the years was that when he was with his wife, Jill, he was much more outgoing. She gave him a certain confidence, I suppose, that he lacked within himself.
“Passage of time?” Seth Hazlitt said.
“Yes. Because time strengthens friendships.” Norm smiled and raised his third glass of white wine. The rest of us returned his toast.
“Thank you, Norm,” I said. “That was lovely. And eloquently put.”
“No surprise,” said Mort Metzger. “After all, he’s a writer.”
“To the contrary,” I said. “Most writers are inarticulate. Including this one.”
“Don’t be so self-effacing, Jessica,” Seth said. “I don’t hardly know a more articulate woman.”
“Thank you, Seth. But I like to think I write better than I speak. And now, Dr. Hazlitt, speaking of articulate people, it’s your turn.”
Seth rose. “I have the same thing to say as I did last year, and the year before that, and the year before that. I’m thankful, most of all, for Jessica’s hard sauce.”
“Hear, hear.” There was much laughter.
“What about you, Jess?”
“Hostesses should be seen and not heard,” I replied.
“Not on your life. Hostesses should be seen and heard.”
I peered into my almost empty wineglass, smiled, looked up, and said, “I am very thankful for the beauty that surrounds me every day, and for the good health that allows me to enjoy it. Maine, and this town, is a joy to behold. But even more beautiful is the beauty that emanates from wonderful friendships. I’m one lucky lady to have so much beauty grace my Thanksgiving table. Thank you for sharing this day with me.”
“Not bad for an inarticulate woman,” said Mort.
Until this moment, most of the conversation had been between myself, and friends of long-standing. But there were others at the table who hadn’t as yet been heard. My Thanksgiving guest list had grown considerably since I started putting it together.
Seated next to me was a young man in his early thirties. I’d befriended Jason after having hired him to tend my garden and lawn. Jason didn’t have family, at least not to my knowledge, and had been through more foster families in his youth than he could remember. He’d drifted into Cabot Cove a few years ago and stayed, doing odd jobs like gardening, washing dishes, and shoveling snow, with some house painting and car waxing thrown in. He lived alone in a small apartment above Sassi’s bakery, where he sometimes helped out in the kitchen.
The assumption of most people in town was that Jason was mildly retarded. But that certainly didn’t represent anyone’s clinical evaluation. All I knew was that he was a lovely person with a strong work ethic. So strong, in fact, the minute snow starts to accumulate, Jason’s out there shoveling for his regular customers. Ne need to call him, nor does it matter what time the snow arrives. I’ve awakened more than once in the predawn hours to the steady scrape of his shovel.
“Your turn, dear,” I whispered to him.
He mumbled without looking up, “Thank you for inviting me to dinner. It looks delicious. That’s all.”
I put my arm around him. “I’m so pleased you’re here with us, Jason.”
Dr. Michael O’Neill, director of the Worrell Institute for Creativity, was next in line to offer special thanks to the gathered. I’d extended the invitation to him and his wife, Amanda, at the last minute, much to the chagrin of Charlene Sassi, whose bakery I’d stormed last night at closing time in search of extra pies. Despite much protestation—“Gory, Jess, this store doesn’t have enough room to change your mind”—she found a few extra pies—“For special last-minute people like you”—to round out my dessert menu.
“I’m next?” O’Neill said in mock terror, his hand over his heart.
“You certainly are,” I said.
I’d invited the O’Neills yesterday during a phone conversation concerning my upcoming seminars on mystery writing. I casually asked what he was doing for Thanksgiving, and he replied, “No plans.”
“Would you join me and my friends?” I asked.
There wasn’t any hesitation. “What a lovely gesture,” he’d said. “What time would you like Amanda and me to be there?”
O’Neill looked at others around the table and cleared his throat. “I’d like to thank everyone at Cabot Cove for making us—and I speak for myself, my wife, and the Worrell Institute—feel so welcome.” He scanned our faces. He and Amanda were certainly welcomed by everyone at my Thanksgiving gathering. But he might have been better served leaving out mention of the Worrell Institute, considering the ominous series of events that had recently occurred there. An uneasy silence spilled over the table.
I sipped my wine. “Amanda?” I said to O’Neill’s wife. “I believe you’re next.”
“Michael said he was speaking for me,” she said. Her voice was cold, and distinctly unfriendly.
It had become obvious to me soon after the O’Neills arrived that Amanda did not share her husband’s enthusiasm at having accepted my invitation. She’d said little. There are many people whose quiet demeanor at gatherings is appealing, if not welcomed. Amanda O’Neill’s taciturn silence, however, spoke of arrogance. But I gave her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps she was usually gracious and generous in her social skills, but had been angered by something that happened before arriving at my house. I’d met her at the opening gala for the institute; she’d seemed gracious and hospitable enough in that setting.