Brandy and Bullets (21 page)

“Pick you up later, Mrs. Fletcher?” Jake Monroe asked as he delivered me in his taxi to the Worrell Institute for Creativity. It was nine o’clock Saturday morning. The most recent snowstorm hadn’t been as severe as forecast. It blew through quickly, leaving a splendid day. Warming sunshine. Brilliant blue sky. White cotton-ball clouds swiftly sliding by overhead.

“No need, Jake. I’m being picked up by—by Dr. Hazlitt.”

“Okay,” he said. “Help you in with your bags?” I’d brought a small suitcase, and Norman’s laptop computer in its padded case. Jo Jo and Jason had shown me how to use it, at least to the extent I could write something on the screen, and store it on the small disk. Of course, I didn’t plan to use it. But it seemed sensible to bring the tool of my trade, at least for show.

“No, thank you,” I said. I didn’t want Jake to know I was staying the weekend. “Just a few manuscripts. Nothing heavy.”

As he drove off, I took a deep breath, said under my breath, “Here goes nothing,” and went up the steps.

“Good morning,” a slightly overweight young woman with café-au-lait skin at the reception desk said through a wide smile.

“I’m Jessica Fletcher.”

“Oh, I don’t think you are.” Her voice was lightly tinged with her Caribbean heritage.

“Pardon?”

“Dr. O’Neill has you registered under a different name, Mrs. Fletcher. Alexis Peterson.”

“Alexis Peterson?” I smiled. “Fine. Then that’s who I’ll be. At least for this weekend.”

“Here you are, Mrs. Peterson. This is your room key. And this booklet explains where things are, and how they work at Worrell.”

“Thank you. Is Dr. O’Neill here?”

“He most certainly is. In fact, he’s been hovering at the desk for the past twenty minutes hoping to personally greet you. But an important phone call came for him that he took in his office. I’ll tell him you’ve arrived. In the meantime, I’ll call Joe to help you with your bags.”

“No need to—”

“Jessica!”

Michael O’Neill came down the stairs two at a time. “Forgive me.” He kissed me on the cheek, and took my bags.

“You mean Alexis, don’t you?”

He put his hand over his mouth, a mock rebuke of his indiscretion. “Oh, of course. I forgot. Yes. Alexis! You don’t mind?” He took my elbow and led me to the stairs. “I thought keeping your stay here anonymous was prudent.”

“I think it’s a good idea,” I said as we started to ascend. “I never even thought about it.”

“Just trying to be accommodating.”

“Which I appreciate. Of course, it would be silly for me to use a false name inside Worrell. I’ve already met so many people here.”

“Yes. But for the outside world—we still get calls from those damnable media people—it would be better to keep your visit private.”

“No argument from me. I’d hate for Vaughan Buckley—that’s my publisher in New York—to think the advance he’s paid me will never result in a book.”

We reached the second floor and walked down the empty, silent corridor leading from front to back of the mansion. “It’s so quiet,” I said. “Everyone in their rooms creating?”

“A few, I suppose. Or sleeping. If I had the time, I’d mount a separate study as to why creative people stay up all night, and sleep all day.”

“Not this creative person,” I said.

“You’re the exception, Jessica. Oops. Alexis. Dining room is near empty for breakfast every morning, except for weekends when we have an excellent brunch. Our chef’s blueberry pancakes rival Mara’s. You’ll see.”

“I can’t wait for morning.”

When we reached the end of the hallway, Michael gestured to a door. “Here you go, Jessica. Room Twenty-four. I put you at the end to give you the most privacy.” He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, found the one he sought, and opened the door. I wished he didn’t have a key to my room. Nothing unusual for the manager of an inn, or hotel, to have a master key. But considering Michael’s professed interest in me, I would have preferred that he not have such easy access to my room. The old chair-propped-under-the-doorknob routine might be in order that night.

Such negative thoughts left me, however, when I stepped inside. The room was flooded with sunshine, washing everything in it—a single bed with a simple white bedspread, four-drawer white dresser, a bleached wooden desk, and a solid, thoroughly uncomfortable-looking wooden desk chair—in pleasant, uplifting light.

The blinds at the oversize window had been rolled up. I looked out on an endless row of tall, stately pine trees rustling in the breeze. “The view is lovely, Michael. So peaceful.”

“My favorite room in the mansion,” he said. “It’s the most private and, believe it or not, one of the largest.”

I grinned. It was hard to believe that this room, approximately the size of the walk-in closet in my bedroom at home, was bigger than most at Worrell. “Size doesn’t matter,” I said. “Somehow, I have the feeling that the simple act of spending two days in this room will work wonders for me and my writing.”

Michael sat on the end of the bed. He laughed, not at anything specific, but because he seemed to be in an especially good mood. “Jessica,” he said, “I had a marvelous time at dinner the other night. I haven’t danced like that in years. Amanda wasn’t much for dancing. Of course, as our relationship deteriorated—which happened over a long period of time—dancing was hardly at the top of our activities list.”

“I can imagine,” I said absently, continuing to gaze out the window. I silently wished he would leave. I wasn’t in the mood to be his mother-confessor, his shrink. What happened in his marriage, and its ultimate demise, meant nothing to me.

But I didn’t want to offend him by summarily cutting him off. I was there to learn everything I could from him about Norman Huffaker, and what his true purpose might have been in coming to the Worrell Institute.

“I knew at dinner, Jessica, that you and I would find some wonderful common ground,” he continued. “That’s one of the reasons I’m delighted you decided to spend the weekend with me.” (With me? I thought). “It will give us a better opportunity to really get to know one another.”

“I hadn’t—thought of it that way,” I said.

“Almost like living together, isn’t it?” He laughed. “My mother would never have approved.”

I turned to face him. Time to get the conversation back on my alleged writer’s block. “This is all so pleasant,” I said. “But I musn’t forget the serious reason for my being here. I try to ignore this problem I’ve developed recently with my work, but it’s never far from the surface.” I bit my bottom lip to indicate trying to hold back a tear, and looked at him with what I hoped would be perceived as desperate eyes. I was acting; my appreciation of what actors do every day increased tenfold.

“It’s been hard, hasn’t it?” Michael said, his voice sympathetic. He patted the bed next to him. “Come. Sit down.”

I shifted into an agitated state, paced the room, wrung my hands. “What I hope,” I said, “is that my locking myself in this room for a few days, with no interruptions, I’ll break through this creative logjam and begin writing again.”

“And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

“I know that, Michael. I’m counting on our therapeutic sessions to help, too.”

Someone knocked at the door.

“Come in,” I said.

A lanky, older gentleman, with long, mouse-colored hair, and wearing glasses tethered to his neck by a red ribbon, stood with a tray on which sat a pitcher of ice water, and two glasses. I motioned him in, and indicated the dresser. As he placed the tray on it, I opened my purse.

“No, Jessica,” O’Neill said. “No tipping at Worrell. Thank you, Joe.”

Joe closed the door behind him. Unfortunately, O’Neill didn’t leave with him.

“Michael,” I said, “I’ve had one heck of a headache since I got up this morning. Would you be offended if I asked you to leave so I can get in a nap?”

He stood. “Of course not, Jessica. I understand. You rest. We’ll get together in, say, an hour? Will that give you sufficient time alone?”

“That will be fine,” I said. “Thanks for understanding.”

“I am, after all, a psychiatrist. Understanding is what I’ve been trained to be.”

I smiled. “Of course,” I said. “See you in an hour. Where?”

“I’ll come by and pick you up.” He closed the blinds on my window, patted my pillow, and backed out of the room.

The moment he was gone, I unpacked my small suitcase and placed the few hang-up clothes I’d brought with me in the tiny closet. I opened the blinds and stood at the window to once again admire the view, which was pure, innocent, and tranquil. I opened the window, inhaled deeply, and focused more intently on the trees, as though they contained the answers I sought about Norman Huffaker—and what was really going on at the Worrell Institute.

The trees answered with their noncommittal swaying.

I unzipped the padded bag, placed Norm’s computer on the desk, and put paper, pens, pencils, and a few paperback books I’d brought along into the single desk drawer. The chair was as uncomfortable as it looked.

I thought of the conversation I’d had with Mort and Seth the night before. Mort was still enthusiastic about my checking into Worrell. But Seth had a growing list of reservations, the most meaningful that I might be putting my life in danger. “Strange things been happening here,” he’d said, his somber face and voice mirroring his concern.

“I’ll be fine,” I told him. “You two know where I’ll be.”

“That won’t be much help,” Seth countered. “After the fact sort of help, if you catch my drift.”

At Seth’s insistence, we settled on my placing a call to him, or to Mort each day I was at Worrell, at about five in the evening, if possible, without arousing undue notice on Michael O’Neill’s part, or his staff. I agreed to it only to placate Seth’s concerns. I certainly didn’t see the necessity for it.

The only other person I’d told of my plans to spend the weekend at Worrell was Jo Jo Masarowski. But I wasn’t honest with him about my reasons for checking in. I told him I needed a few days of uninterrupted concentration, and thought Worrell was just the place to provide it. I wasn’t sure he believed me, but he didn’t question it. Jo Jo’s newfound friend, Jason, knew I’d be away somewhere, and promised to collect my mail and newspapers, and to shovel if another storm hit in my absence. I didn’t worry about Jo Jo telling Jason where I was. There’s a limit to how many people you can worry about.

I opened the information packet I’d been given at the front desk.

“Bearers of the creative
flag?”
What have we come to, I wondered, as I read the dining room and spa schedules, which seemed to contradict the advice to hide your watches and clocks. If you wanted to eat at Worrell, you’d better know what time it was.

But the spa services were inviting, at least in their written descriptions. Like a walking example of the Toyota commercial—“You asked for it, you got it”—I’d developed the headache I’d lied about to O’Neill. The Worrell spa offered ammatherapy, a variation of massage that penetrates pressure points, allowing energy to flow. I’d once enjoyed that sort of massage at an Arizona spa. I dialed the number, but it was busy.

I was five minutes into a fifteen-minute catnap on the too-soft mattress when someone knocked. “Jessica. It’s Barbara McCoy.”

I slowly got up and moved to the door. A DO NOT DISTURB sign hung on the inside doorknob. Too late for that now. “Hello, Barbara,” I said, straightening my skirt.

“Hi, Mrs. Fletcher.” She hesitated, then hugged me, which I thought strange considering we didn’t know each other very well. “Sorry to disturb you. You look like you were napping.”

“That’s all right. Just a few winks before getting into the routine. How did you know I was here? In this room?”

“Everybody knows you checked in. Mrs. Peterson, they’re calling you.”