“Certainly was,” he said, making another note on his pad.
“Are you—well, are you in charge of the investigation?” I asked. “I mean, from the institute’s perspective?”
“No, ma’am. Just making sure that no one walks out of here with anything.”
“You think the police would—?”
“Excuse me.” He went to where Mort stood with one of the technicians. “Are you finished?” he asked in a rather unfriendly tone.
“Almost,” Mort replied. “I’ll let you know when we are.” His tone matched Fechter’s. The young psychiatrist went to a corner opposite from where I stood, folded his arms across his chest, and watched the proceedings with a scowl.
“That’s it,” Mort announced a few minutes later. “Let’s wrap it up and get out of here.”
“You look exhausted,” I said as the technicians packed their bags. Mort’s bags were beneath his eyes. Stubble on his hollow cheeks added to his look of fatigue.
“Just realized I’ve been up for too long,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Got to go back to the office, then hit the hay.”
We left the building together.
“What’s your opinion now?” I asked.
“Hard to say, Jess. Wish the autopsy were being done here in Maine. Doc Johansen’s as good as there is. But that’s outta my hands, I’m afraid. Unless something comes up I’m not expecting, it’ll be suicide on the death certificate. Probably was.”
“But what about her hand not being tight on the weapon?”
His voice was heavy. “Got to excuse me, Jess. I’d better get home before I fall on my face.”
“By all means.”
I was up at six the next morning, and hard at work on my new novel,
Brandy
&
Bullets,
by seven. I stayed glued to my word processor until one that afternoon, when I spotted the mailman, Jerry Monk, approaching my mailbox. I met him there, and he handed me a bulging bunch of mail secured with a thick rubber band. “Think you win today, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said pleasantly.
“Win?”
“Most mail. Little game I play with myself to break the boredom.”
I laughed. “Which makes me your least popular person this day.”
“Might say that, only it’s not true. But you do get a lot of mail. That’s for certain.”
As I walked through my front door, I heard a woman talking: “... He’s been very depressed lately, and I was hoping you could keep on eye on him. Just look in on him from time to time to make sure he’s okay. Give a call back when you get a chance. I know you’re busy and...”
“Hello,” I shouted into the phone while turning off my answering machine.
“Jess?”
“Yes. I just walked in and—who is this?”
“It’s Jill, Jess. Jill Huffaker.”
Jill was an old friend who’d moved to Los Angeles five years earlier—Hollywood, actually—with her husband, Norman, a writer who’d sold two of his books to a major film studio, and then accepted a lucrative screenwriting contract. The novels that had been scooped up by a major film studio had been written under one of a few pseudonyms Norman had used over the years: B. K. Praether. They were westerns, but with few of the clichés we associate with that genre. One was called,
The Redemption of Rio Red,
the other,
The Bronze Lady of Bentonville.
Jill had been active in community theater in Cabot Cove, and had landed a few small parts in films, and on a television series, after moving to L.A. Nothing major, but enough to keep her spirits high about what might become a career to approximate her husband’s professional success.
“What a pleasant surprise,” I said. “How are you?”
“Fine. You?”
“Good. Norman?”
“Okay. Well, maybe not so okay. That’s why I’m calling. He just left for Cabot Cove.”
“Wonderful. Business?”
“Yes. Of a sort. He’s going to be spending a few weeks-at least he says it will be only a few weeks—at the new institute that opened there. Worrell.”
“Really? I just came from there. We’ve had a—I’m teaching a seminar in December.”
“That should be interesting.”
“Yes, it should. I heard you say that Norman’s depressed.”
“That’s right, Jess. He’s been suffering for the past few months from a malady you’re probably familiar with. Then again, considering how prolific you are, maybe you haven’t ever suffered writer’s block.”
I laughed. “Oh, yes, I have.” I thought of the depressed, blocked Maureen Beaumont; the warmth of my house turned chilly.
“I just thought you might be a dear and check in on him now and then. Frankly, I’m worried about Norman. He’s been drinking heavily. Put on a lot of weight. More bloat, I guess you could call it. He seems to have lost all his spark, his zest for life.”
The room grew colder still.
“Of course I’ll keep in touch with him. I’ll be going to the institute anyway now and then. I’ll just make it more of a regular habit.”
“I knew I could count on you, Jess. Working on something new?”
“Yes. Well into a new novel. No writer’s block. At least not yet. Any chance of you coming here to visit Norm?”
“Not planning on it, but you never know. I’ll let you go. Thanks again. Maybe I will plan to visit. Talking with you makes me realize how much I miss the East Coast, and friends like Jessica Fletcher.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Jill. Norman will be in good hands.” I winced as I said it. I knew my hands would be good. But considering what had happened to the young flautist, I probably shouldn’t be issuing such positive statements about the Worrell Institute for Creativity.
Chapter Six
“Make that two pumpkin and one apple,” I said, proud that I’d finally made up my mind. Usually, I’m capable of making swift, rational decisions, especially if the dilemma is of some importance. It’s over little decisions that I often trip, my mind changing as rapidly and often as New England weather.
Like deciding what pies to order. Give me a murder plot to unravel, and I leave no clue unturned. Ask me how many pies I need for Thanksgiving dinner, and I inevitably arrive at a hung jury.
“No, wait,” I said to Charlene Sassi, owner of Cabot Cove’s finest fancy food store and bakery. How she could own a bakery and still maintain her pencil-thin figure will always be an enigma to me. “Bear with me for a minute, Charlene. I’m still not sure how many I need.”
I looked up at the wood-beamed ceiling from which dozens of pretty wicker baskets hung, closed my eyes, and silently counted once again the number of guests who would be sitting at my round oak table on Thanksgiving Day, one week from today. “Okay, all set,” I said. Charlene had waited patiently despite a crush of other customers, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side. “Two apple pies, one pumpkin, and one clam. That’ll do it. I think.”
“You said you’re having seven guests, right?” she said. “Unless they come in extra large sizes, you’ve ordered more than enough.”
“Thanks for your patience. Pick them up Thanksgiving morning? You open at six?”
“Ayuh. Same time, same place, just higher prices. Next?”
My order for holiday pies placed, I headed for lunch with old friend and screenwriter Norman Huffaker. He’d gone straight to the Worrell Institute for Creativity upon arriving in Cabot Cove, and called me that evening. It was good to hear his voice, although he sounded different than the last time we’d talked. But that was over a year ago. I probably sounded different, too.
He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about meeting for lunch, but I prevailed. “I promised Jill I’d keep an eye on you,” I said lightly, adding a laugh for emphasis. He didn’t laugh. I sensed annoyance.
“All right,” he said. “Lunch it is. But we’ll have to make it a quick one. I came to Worrell to get over this damnable block I’m having. Nothing ever gets written over lunch.”
And that’s how we left it. I was tempted to call it off. I certainly didn’t want to be perceived as having intruded upon his work for something as frivolous as lunch. On the other hand, I wanted to see him. After all, he was an old friend. And—I wasn’t at all guilty about this—I wanted to hear what scuttlebutt he might have picked up about Maureen Beaumont’s alleged suicide.
I’d chosen for us to meet at a pleasant inn diagonally across the road from Sassi’s bakery. The inn’s bar and restaurant was called The Office, although it wouldn’t be confused with any office I’ve ever seen. The dining room was warm and inviting, with richly paneled walls on which stunning landscapes and seascapes by local artists were proudly displayed, and were for sale. The many windows were graced with gingham curtains. A walk-in fireplace was used year-round. The tables were large, and tastefully set with quilted placemats, sparkling crystal, and weighty silverware. It had become a favorite meeting place: the dining room for family brunches, tasty lunches, and hearty dinners, and the bar a congenial spot for drinks after work. Everything came under the watchful eye of the inn’s owner, Mick Jones, who wore many hats: bartender, host, waiter, and even busboy when the crush was on.
The air was invigoratingly cold as I left Sassi’s and headed for the inn. I’d neglected to thoroughly dry my hair that morning and shivered as a chill raced from my head down my spine. A recurrence of last year’s pneumonia was not part of my winter agenda, and I hurried across the road and inside the inn. I’d requested the table directly in front of the fireplace when I made the reservation, and it was waiting for me, the advantage of having become a regular customer. I shed my coat and sat in my favorite wooden armchair. The heat from the fireplace warmed my back; I could look out over the dining room. The chair felt like an old friend. Had I sat in it enough to cause it to have adjusted to the curves of my body? Certainly not, but I preferred to think that.
Because I was early, and Norman hadn’t arrived yet, I took out my small black leather notebook, scrutinized my “To Do” list, added a few items, and crossed off others. My first stop after lunch would be Zach’s Orchard and Farm where I’d order the turkey, and stuffing to which I would add certain ingredients to make it uniquely mine. The grocery store was next on the list: yams, cranberries, potatoes, onions, and makings for what had become my “famous” hard sauce. Charlene’s pumpkin and apple pies were fabulous on their own, but adding my hard sauce to them was always, and literally, icing on the cake.
Liquor? Although I’m not much of a drinker, I always keep a fully stocked bar for guests. My only concern was Jill’s comment that Norman had taken to heavy drinking. I intended over lunch to invite him to my house for Thanksgiving, and didn’t want to exacerbate any problem he might be having with alcohol. On the other hand, I don’t believe in penalizing moderate drinkers to accommodate someone with a problem. Norman was a big boy, as they say. My bar would be open. Alexander’s Fancy Wine & Spirits was added to the list.
I knew someone had entered the dining room by the sudden blast of cold outside air that preceded the new arrival. Norman closed the door and eyed the room. I stood and waved him to the table.
He walked slowly in my direction, lips pursed, his six feet, four inch frame somewhat bent. He moved slowly, like a man unsure of his destination. He could have been drunk. If he was, his drinking problem was greater than even his wife knew. It was barely noon.
I was heartened when a smile crossed his face as he reached the table. We hugged. “You look fabulous, Jessica,” he said. “And please don’t feel a need to reciprocate the compliment. I wouldn’t want to make a liar out of you.”
“You look—fine,” I said.
He’d made a liar out of me.
His face was bigger, bloated, and blotchy His hair was matted, needing a healthy dose of shampoo. I noticed two things as he unbuttoned his topcoat. A button was missing. And, his hands shook. I pretended not to notice.
“Thought you’d appreciate the fireplace,” I said, looking into it. “I assume your blood’s been thinned by all those glorious sunny days in Hollywood.” He politely joined my laughter, and we sat.
“Gets cold in L.A. sometimes,” he said absently, his gaze on the fire which illuminated eyes that were, to this observer, glassy. I hadn’t smelled alcohol on his breath. But then again I’ve never had a particularly keen sense of smell. He seemed mesmerized by the flickering flames.
“Norman? Come in, Norman.”
He jerked his head toward me. “What?”
“You okay?” I asked.
“Am I—? Okay? Oh, sure. Sorry. Got lost in my thoughts for a moment. Fires do that to me. They suck you in. At least they do me.”
“Me, too. Very hypnotic.”
He leaned his elbows on the table and said, “Well, Jessica, it’s really great to see you. I’m glad we’re doing this. And sorry if I came off the oaf when you called. I was tired. Damn time difference. Throws off your circadian rhythm.”
“Yes.”
“How’ve you been?” His attention drifted back to the fireplace.
I was tempted to say, “Dying of a dreadful disease, thank you. And you?” just to see if he was listening. I didn’t, of course. He was obviously troubled, about what I didn’t know. His inability to complete his latest screenplay? If his current mood was the result of so-called writer’s block, I could certainly understand, especially with a writer like Norman Huffaker. Although I’ve always considered myself a productive writer, my yearly output paled in comparison to his. He’d always been impressively prolific, banging out one screenplay after another on any number of subjects—documentaries, comedies, romances, westerns. If that ability to turn thoughts into words on paper had deserted him, I hoped that Worrell would renew his spirit, and return him to productivity.
“Vodka gimlet,” he told Clara, our waitress, who’d been serving me since The Office opened three years ago. A glass of sherry was appealing, but I thought of all the shopping I had to do and chose a cup of tea instead.
We chatted about Norman’s plane trip to Cabot Cove—the flight had been delayed, adding to the fatigue he felt upon arriving—until his drink was served. He downed it, pointed to the almost empty glass, and told Clara, “Let’s do this again.” She shot me a raised-eyebrow look and headed for the bar.