If my generosity of spirit hadn’t been accurately applied, however, I was left with only surprise that she was Dr. Michael O’Neill’s wife. He was gregarious and charming. She was—to be kind, a dolt. At least on this day.
Their choice of clothing for a Thanksgiving dinner said much about their differing personalities. Michael wore a navy cashmere blazer, snow-white turtleneck, and gray wool trousers with a razor crease. Amanda, who was tall and slinky, wore a painfully tight black dress cut low in front, massive gold hoop earrings that reached her bare shoulders, and stylish, albeit uncomfortable black platform shoes.
I looked at Michael O’Neill. If his wife’s unpleasant refusal to speak had made him uneasy, he wasn’t overt in showing it. Trying to put him, as well as everyone else, at ease, I said to Amanda, “That’s perfectly all right, Mrs. O’Neill. No need for everyone to have their say.”
“I’d like to say something.”
The voice belonged to Barbara McCoy, who sat to Amanda’s left. She was one of two young women from the Worrell Institute. Once Dr. O’Neill had accepted my invitation—and realizing the dinner table would need an extra leaf or two anyway—I asked whether there were artists at the institute who would be alone on the holiday. He came up with three: Barbara McCoy, a musician; Susan Dalton, the young woman in whom Mort Metzger had taken a liking at the opening party, and who was writing a murder mystery; and a young man, Jo Jo Masarowski, a “video artist” who looked like a poster boy for a FEED THE HUNGRY campaign. There is skinny, and there is pale, but Jo Jo had combined them into an art form of its own.
Barbara McCoy was a striking, although not necessarily attractive woman, who put herself together well, and whose self-confidence made you think of her as beautiful. Model-tall, and pencil-thin, her auburn hair was cropped extremely close, almost a crew cut. Unusually high and defined cheekbones created canyons in which aquamarine eyes dwelled. I pegged her at about the same age Maureen Beaumont had been at the time of her death.
McNeill had told me that Barbara was very much alone in the world. “She doesn’t have any family,” he’d said. “Her parents were killed in a plane crash two years ago. An only child.”
Ms. McCoy spoke slowly, softly, and deliberately. She had stage presence. “I’d like to thank you, Mrs. Fletcher, for inviting me here. May I call you Jessica?”
“Of course.”
Amanda O’Neill looked up and squinted at the large brass-and-copper chandelier above the table. Was she asking God for deliverance from the table?
“I’d also like to say something else. I promise I’ll make it brief. It’s a wonderful tradition you have here, Jessica, having people at your Thanksgiving table express thanks for something special in their lives. Well, along with being thankful for being here with you and your lovely friends, I’m especially grateful for having been accepted to the Worrell Institute. It’s been a lifesaver for me. I’m experiencing a major breakthrough. It’s incredible. I mean, it’s really a special place.” She looked at Michael O’Neill with adoring eyes. “I just wish it would stop getting such bad press, so that Dr. O’Neill can get on with the superb work he and his staff are doing.”
Amanda’s eyes went to her husband—annihilative beams of death and destruction drilling into his brain.
I assumed Barbara was finished, and I was about to ask Susan Dalton if she had anything to add. But then Barbara said, “Maureen Beaumont did not kill herself because of Worrell, even if the institute’s critics would like us to think she did. Maureen Beaumont killed herself because she couldn’t live with the guilt!”
We all looked at her quizzically. She was aware of the intense interest in her, laughed, and said, “How did I ever get on to
that
subject? Thanks again for inviting me to your table, Jessica.”
Amanda O’Neill pushed her chair back so hard it almost fell over, stood, dropped her napkin on it, and left the room. All eyes went to Michael. Certainly, her husband would go after her.
“Time to carve the bird, isn’t it?” he said. “May I do the honors?”
“Sorry, Doc, but bird carving is my territory,” Mort Metzger said. “Tradition. Every year I get to carve the turkey. Right, Jess?”
Seth said, “Maybe we ought to let a physician do the surgery. Might do a cleaner, better job. Unless, of course, he has other things to tend to.” He looked in the direction to which Amanda had made her escape.
“Are you sayin’ I don’t know how to carve a turkey?” Mort asked.
“No,” Seth said. “But we got Dr. O’Neill here. Might be in the holiday spirit to give him a chance.”
O’Neill laughed, waved his hands. “I’m a psychiatrist, not a surgeon,” he said. “I vote for tradition. The sheriff does the deed.”
“Could I—?”
“Yes, Jason?”
“Could I carve the turkey?”
“Well, usually Mort does, and—”
Mort’s eyes met mine. He nodded.
“Of course you can, Jason,” I said.
“I know how. Miss Sassi taught me.”
“Splendid. I’ll get you started.”
As I led Jason to the kitchen, I glanced at Michael O’Neill, who’d fallen into a spirited conversation with Worrell’s resident artists. He seemed jolly enough. But how long would he allow his wife to be absent without checking on her? Maybe she had a set of car keys and had gone home. I silently hoped that was the case. She’d put on a pall on everyone.
I left Jason with the turkey and the necessary tools for carving, and returned to the dining room with a steaming bowl of creamed onions, which I placed in front of O’Neill.
“My favorite,” he said.
I decided while in the kitchen that even if Michael wasn’t about to check on his wife’s whereabouts and well-being, I had an obligation to do so as hostess. I went to the living room where she was huddled in front of the fireplace, her arms wrapped about herself. “Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes. I mean, I’m not feeling very well.”
“I’m sorry. You look cold. Would you like a sweater, a shawl? I have a cashmere one that—”
“I just need some time alone,” she said, her eyes fixed on the flickering flames.
“Of course. Come join us when—when you’re ready.”
Jason had done a masterful job of carving, and was obviously pleased at our acknowledgment of his skill. As we dug in to the bountiful bowls and platters of food, I forgot about Amanda. I think everyone else did, too, including her husband, who ate with gusto. His conversation was as enthusiastic as his appetite.
“More wine?” I asked Norman Huffaker, whose glass was empty. O’Neill’s glass had also been drained.
“Sure,” Norman said.
As Seth fetched a new bottle of Chablis that was chilling in my refrigerator, I asked Jo Jo Masarowski about video art. That prompted a bits-and-bytes monologue that quickly lost me in its technical jargon. Although I’d recently abandoned my trusty old Remington manual typewriter for a word processor, my knowledge of how it worked was limited to turning it on, and following the simple set of instructions that allowed me to write, store what I’d written on a little disk, and print it out.
Norman had launched into a discussion of wine with Michael O’Neill. They both seemed knowledgeable on the subject. Wine, like computers, was another area of vast mystery to me. I find the ritual of sniffing corks, inhaling fumes, and sipping before sending a bottle back because it “lacks body,” or “its bouquet is too timid,” to define pretentiousness. It either tastes good or it doesn’t.
“Could I have a private word with you?” The question was asked me by Susan Dalton, the blond mystery writer who’d taken up residence at the Worrell Institute.
“Certainly,” I said.
We both stood and were about to head for the kitchen when Amanda O’Neill suddenly appeared in the doorway between the dining and living rooms. “Michael,” she said sternly.
Michael looked up, returned his attention to the table, and took another hurried fork of chestnut stuffing.
“Michael!” Her voice was louder this time, and more demanding. She disappeared from view.
All attention now focused on him. He sighed, rolled his eyes—the gesture seemed to be directed at Barbara McCoy—stood, stretched, and said, “Excuse me.
“We’ll talk in a minute,” I said to Susan Dalton.
Although the conversation between the O’Neills was muffled, the tone of their voices clearly indicated that they were having an angry confrontation. Michael returned to the dining room, came to my side, crouched, and whispered in my ear, “I think we’d better be going. Amanda isn’t feeling well.”
He wished everyone a happy Thanksgiving. I followed him from the room, intending to say goodbye to his wife. But she’d already found her coat and had left the house without a word.
“Thanks for a lovely day, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “We must do it again. My house next time.”
Unlikely.
I looked through the living room drapes after he left. Amanda was sitting in their car’s passenger seat, her arms in a death squeeze around her body, her face a mask of anger. He spun his wheels as he backed from my driveway, and roared up the street.
“What a witch,” Barbara McCoy said as I rejoined my guests. Mort and Seth announced they were heading for the den “just to check on bowl game scores.” Translation: It was time to watch football. Jason and Jo Jo, who seemed to have taken a liking to each other, went to the kitchen to talk, and to start the cleanup despite my protestations. I was surprised to see that Jason had demonstrated to Jo Jo a knowledge of computers, at least to the extent that he seemed to understand what Jo Jo was talking about. That left me at the table with Susan Dalton, Barbara McCoy, and Norm Huffaker.
Although the two young women seemed friendly enough during dinner, I sensed a certain—call it unease—between them. Nothing overt, just a pulse that I felt, like a low-voltage electrical current.
“It’s marvelous that you’re enjoying yourself so much at Worrell, and getting so much out of it,” I said to Barbara.
“It’s a wonderful place,” she said eagerly. “Everyone on the staff is outstanding, and I’ve met so many other interesting artists. It’s very inspiring.”
“And you, Susan? How is it going for you and the murder mystery you’re writing?”
“Better every day.”
Barbara announced that she had to return to the institute. “I promised myself I’d have a section of my score completed by morning,” she said. “That’s one of the things I’ve learned there. Make a commitment to yourself, and keep it.”
“I could use a little of that discipline,” I said.
“Maybe you should check in,” Norman said, his words slurred from too much wine. His choice of terminology was strange, I thought. “Check in?” Sounded like a hospital, or—mental institution?
“I might just do that,” I said.
“Sad, isn’t it?” Norm said.
“What’s sad?”
“That someone can be so driven by a need to create that she’d kill herself over it.”
“Maureen Beaumont,” I said.
“Yeah. She became obsessed with her inability to compose something great.” He poured himself brandy from a bottle I’d brought to the table. “ro feel so blocked, so completely worthless that you blow your brains out. To be that unhappy because you can’t create something better than the next guy.”
“How about dessert?” I asked, injecting added gaiety into my voice.
Norman went on as though he hadn’t heard me. “Why does anybody kill themselves?” he asked no one in particular. “I mean, how is their mind working? What are they thinking? Where’s the reasoning? How is their mind processing what’s going on around them?”
“That’s what’s awesome about the Worrell Institute,” said Barbara. “They study just that sort of thing with creative artists.”
“Suicide?” I said.
“Yeah,” Norm responded. “What makes a blocked artist go over the edge?”
“How do they do that?” I asked.
“In-depth sessions with the artists,” Norm said. “The couch. Free association. Behavior mod. Hypnosis.”
“Hypnosis,” I repeated.
“You were hypnotized last weekend,” Norm said, pouring himself another drink he didn’t need. I’d told everyone at dinner about my experience in Boston, although I soft-pedaled my brief fling onstage as one of Carson James’s hypnotic subjects. “Just playing along,” I said. “Show business. It kept the act going.” Seth gave me one of his best skeptical looks, but didn’t challenge me.
I repeated to Norman that I’d been nothing more than a willing participant in Carson James’s show. “Dessert time,” I announced. “The pies, and hard sauce, await us.”
“I’ll go back with you,” Norman told Barbara.
“Will you stay awhile?” I asked Susan. “Looks like I’m losing the crowd. I’ve already lost two of my male friends to ‘third-and-long.’ ”
“Sure,” she said.
Jo Jo decided to return to Worrell with Barbara and Norman. I called the cab company that had brought them to the house, and the owner of the service, Jake Monroe, arrived minutes later. He was the only driver that day because none of his employees would work on Thanksgiving. Jake waited inside as his passengers said their goodbyes, and I insisted he take half a pumpkin pie with him. The premature exit by the O’Neills, and now the departure of this contingent, left me with an excess of dessert.
“Last run of the day, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jake said. “Wife’s got dinner waitin’ for me.”
“You’ve certainly earned it,” I said.
Susan, Jason, and I cleaned up in the kitchen, then joined Seth and Morton in the den for coffee and pie. The game must not have been too exciting because Seth had dozed off in my recliner, and Mort was reading a newspaper.
“Splendid pie,” Seth said after finishing his second piece of apple, with hard sauce, of course.
“Pass your compliments along to Charlene Sassi,” I said.
“I have to go home,” Jason said.
“I suppose I should, too,” said Susan Dalton.