Brandy and Bullets (19 page)

“Case closed,” said Seth, wiping his mouth with a napkin, sitting back, folding his hands over his corpulent belly, and smiling. “I never did like O’Neill much. Just proves that Jessica Fletcher’s got good taste—in everything—especially men.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” I said.

“I’m not done yet,” Mort said as Mara refilled our cups.

“I think you are,” I said.

“Hear me out?” our sheriff asked.

“I always hear you out,” I said.

Mort, too, checked the other customers. Secure that our conversation wouldn’t go further than the table, he whispered to me, “Ever consider, Jessica, that having a simple dinner alone with O’Neill might turn up some useful information about your friend, Huffaker?”

Seth sat up straight. “What’s goin’ on with Norman Huffaker?”

“Later,” I said, gently placing my index finger on Seth’s lips. To Mort: “Go on. I’m listening.”

“Seems to me, Jess, that whatever happened to your friend, and to the other victims—Miss Beaumont, who’s dead, and the gal recovering in the hospital—this Worrell Institute’s got something to do with it. You know I’ve never bought any of the official explanations. Still consider everything an open case.”

“Yes, I know that.”

“Dr. O’Neill runs that institute.”

“Right.”

“So, it strikes this cop that if anybody knows what’s goin’ on, it would be the boss. Dr. O’Neill.”

“Makes sense,” Seth said, anxious to be brought into the loop.

I didn’t need any further explanation from Mort as to what he wanted me to do. I said, “You want me to go to dinner with Michael O’Neill on a ruse, under false pretenses, in order to coax information from him.”

“Is that what you want her to do?” Seth asked Mort.

“Not a bad idea,” Mort said. “Just dinner. Could clear up a lot of unanswered questions about your friend.”

“I won’t go to dinner on that basis,” I said.

“Even if it would solve a murder?”

Would it? I silently asked myself.

“You’re asking one of the most honest women I know to lie,” Seth said.

“Not lie,” Mort said. “Play-act a little. Nobody gets hurt.”

“It would lead O’Neill on,” Seth said. “Make him think Jessica has feelings for him.”

“Just ’cause she accepts a dinner invitation? Nah. Just a dinner. What say, Jess? Could be real helpful.”

“I suppose—”

“Now, hold on here a second,” Seth said. “I don’t know what’s going on with the disappearance of your friend, Huffaker, but did it ever occur to either of you that O’Neill might be askin’ Jessica out to dinner so that
he
can find out what
she
knows?”

Seth’s challenge brought conversation to a halt. Mort and I looked at each other. We both were influenced by Seth’s comment. But our reactions were different. Mort was about to back off on his suggestion that O’Neill and I have dinner together.

For me, it gave me incentive to go through with it. If O’Neill was asking me to dinner in order to pump me, he had something to hide.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll have dinner with Dr. Michael O’Neill, director of the Worrell Institute.”

“You will?”

“Did you really tell Michael that Mara’s was my favorite restaurant?” I asked.

“No. I told him you liked Le Poisson.”

“As a matter of fact, I do,” I said brightly. “Have to get back. I’m having guests for lunch.”

 

I smelled fire. I ran into each room in search of smoke.

The doorbell rang.

“Not the clam pies,” I shouted to my empty living room. I’d put the pies in the oven over an hour ago, and had forgotten about them.

“In a minute,” I yelled at the front door as I headed for the kitchen. The pies were burned. Hopefully, some selective scraping would salvage them for lunch.

Jason and Jo Jo Masarowski stood at the door when I opened it. I’d invited them for lunch for two reasons. First, I wanted to further nurture the friendship they’d evidently developed since Thanksgiving. Jason needed a friend, and Jo Jo had filled that role. They shared a love of computers, something I never would have thought possible with Jason. Just goes to show that beneath an otherwise uninspired exterior can lurk intelligence that simply needs to be unleashed. Computers—and Jo Jo—had done that.

My second reason for inviting them was less altruistic. I needed Jo Jo’s computer expertise to bring up Norm’s disks on his laptop computer. Try as I had, I’d been unsuccessful.

“Come in, come in,” I said. The thaw was already giving way to colder, damper air. The sun had been shining earlier that morning. Now, the sky was an ominous gray, sinking lower with each passing hour. Another foot of snow was predicted to begin about eight, followed by freezing rain.

“Come in and warm yourselves up.”

“Smells like fire, Mrs. F.,” Jason said as they stepped into my foyer.

“Just our lunch,” I said. “I’m afraid the clam pies I planned to serve have burned. But I might be able to resurrect them. If not, there’s a big container of clam chowder in the freezer, and some fresh, crusty bread I picked up this morning from Sassi’s. You won’t go away hungry.”

I led them into the kitchen where I’d set the table. “I think we’ll go with the chowder,” I said, casting a disappointed eye at the blackened pies sitting on the counter. “And a salad. Take but a minute.”

“Can we help?” Jo Jo asked.

“No, thank you. Hard to burn soup. Just make yourselves at home.”

“Gonna need me to shovel again tomorrow morning, Mrs. Fletcher,” said Jason.

“Afraid so. It’s quite a storm they’re predicting. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Jason.”

Jason seemed pleased with himself, and looked to Jo Jo to be sure he’d heard my compliment. Jo Jo, it seemed to me, had assumed the role of a big brother to Jason. It was nice to see.

“Jessica, you mentioned something about computer problems,” Jo Jo said. “Mind if I take a look before lunch?”

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s go.”

They eagerly followed me into my office. “Excuse the mess,” I said, moving stacks of magazines off two chairs. “Before we get started, there’s something I need to tell you. But it has to stay inside these four walls.”

They nodded in agreement.

“What I have here is Norman Huffaker’s computer, and disks that were with it. I want to pull up what’s on those disks. I don’t know whether the information on them will be helpful in learning what really happened to Norman. He was a very good friend of mine.”

“I know that,” Jo Jo said.

“Maybe—just maybe you’ll find something for me that will put my mind at rest regarding his disappearance.”

“You don’t believe he jumped in the Moose River?” Jason asked.

“No, I don’t.”

“I don’t, either,” said Jo Jo.

“Well, then, let’s hope you two geniuses can prove that.”

I handed the disks to Jo Jo.

“No problem,” he said, booting up the computer and inserting one of the disks into the drive. A directory of what was on that disk filled the screen. Four files were named: MEMO 1, MEMO 2, MEMO 3 and MEMORANDUM.

“Can we pull up each of those?” I asked.

“Sure,” Jason said. “Show her, Jo Jo.”

Who would Norman be writing memos to? I wondered. Memos usually involved interoffice communication. Norman worked in isolation, crafting his screenplays in a small, prefab cottage located at the far end of his sprawling property in Hollywood. Any correspondence on Norman’s part would be in the form of a letter, not a memo.

Jo Jo brought MEMO 1 to the screen. It read:
“I’d like to hold a pep rally of sorts this afternoon to prepare us all for the opening of Worrell. Let’s meet in my office at
3.
Thanks. Michael.”

“This isn’t from Norman,” said Jason.

“Must be from Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “Remember what I’ve asked of you. Don’t tell anyone about these files.”

“No problem, Mrs. Fletcher,” Jason said.

MEMO 2:
“Sorry, guys. Have to reschedule today’s pep rally until tomorrow morning. Hope to see you all at 10 sharp. Donuts and coffee. Thanks. Michael.”

MEMO 3 was addressed to Beth Anne Portledge:
“Kudos to you for a fine job of scheduling. Keep up the good work. Michael.”

MEMORANDUM piqued my interest a little more:
“Regarding Jessica Fletcher’s murder mystery seminar. Let’s milk it for all we can, trade off on her name as much as possible. I suggest we open it up to the public. Charge top dollar. Bring your ideas on how to market Fletcher to the afternoon meeting. Michael.”

“Boy, that’s pretty sleazy,” Jo Jo said.

“See what’s on the other disks,” I said.

They were blank.

I wasn’t sure how to react to what I’d seen and the fact that the remaining disks didn’t contain information. Had the Worrell Institute—more specifically, Michael O’Neill—deliberately switched disks? Had Norman’s disks been taken by O’Neill?

Or was it a simple mistake? Under the heading of giving the benefit of the doubt, had the rush of pulling Norm’s possessions together for me to pick up resulted in a mix-up?

Dr. Michael O’Neill would have the answers.

“Excuse me,” I said, leaving Jo Jo and Jason with the computer. “Have to make a phone call.”

O’Neill said he was delighted to hear from me. He became almost giddy when I told him I was having problems with my manuscript, and had decided that a pleasant dinner out, especially with someone whose business was helping writers get over their blocks, made more sense than sitting at my word processor and struggling.

“Tonight?” he said when I suggested I was free.

“Not if it’s inconvenient for you,” I said.

“Inconvenient? Not at all. And even if it were, Jessica, I would move mountains to make it convenient. Pick you up at seven?”

“That will be fine.”

“Le Poisson? I understand it’s excellent.”

I smiled. “So I’ve heard. See you at seven.”

Jo Jo and Jason were playing a game on Norm’s laptop when I returned to the office. “Lunch will be ready soon,” I said.

They mumbled an acknowledgment, but their attention was riveted on tiny figures scurrying over the screen.

“I understand from Jo Jo that you’re quite a computer whiz, Jason.”

Jason looked up. “He said that?”

“I sure did, buddy,” Jo Jo said. “I tell everyone that.” Jason beamed as he confidently returned to the game.

I’d removed everything from Norm’s bag, and had spread it out on my desk. I picked up the label maker and showed it to the boys. I couldn’t help but laugh. Norm’s obsession with labeling everything in his life included the label maker itself. “LABEL MAKER” it said.

Jo Jo and Jason laughed along with me.

Jason took the labeling machine from me and turned it on. A digital display lit up. “Hey, Mrs. Fletcher, look at this,” he said.

Jo Jo and I leaned over Jason’s shoulder and read the message on the display.

“WORRELL DOCUMENTARY/SENSITIVE.”

“Why would it say something like that?” I asked.

“It was the last label he made,” Jason said. “The memory holds on to the last message.”

“I see,” I said.

“Wonder what it means,” Jason said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I have a feeling I’m about to find out.”

 

Le Poisson had been open for less than a year. A New York couple had bought the low, rustic building and converted it into Cabot Cove’s most romantic restaurant, at least if your definition of that term has been honed in a Pocono Mountains honeymoon retreat. It’s also wildly expensive. New York prices.

The chef, imported from Manhattan, had a nice touch with his dishes, especially seafood. And the main dining room was pretty. Candlelight. Sensuous music from CDs oozed from multiple speakers.

Michael O’Neill and I sat in one of many red velvet booths. Others were occupied by young couples, probably celebrating something special, I decided, their elbows touching, and, often, their lips, as well.

Michael was nicely turned out for our “date.” His dark gray three-piece suit looked as if it had been fitted to him just hours before. Not a silver hair on his head was out of place. His complexion was naturally ruddy; this night it looked to have benefited from a facial. It was pink. and soft. I noticed for the first time that his carefully manicured nails were polished. A mark on his negative side.

He’d taken the evening seriously.

I, of course, could not claim to have done the same, and felt a modicum of guilt about it. Not that I hadn’t taken time to look presentable. I’d been saving the white silk dress I wore for a special night out. And I had spent more time than usual applying my makeup.

Still, my dishonest reason for being there caused me discomfort. Worse, I couldn’t get George Sutherland out of my mind.

George Sutherland.

He was the handsome, urbane Scotland Yard inspector I’d met a few years ago in London during my fateful visit with my friend and reigning queen of mystery writers, Dame Marjorie Ainsworth. A few sparks had flown between George and me, as they say, and we’d kept in touch by mail, and an occasional phone call. He’d planned two trips to the United States, both of which were canceled at the last minute because of cases in which he was involved. I’d planned a trip to London, but a bad case of last-minute flu scotched (no pun intended) that plan. The problem was that George Sutherland was seated next to me in the red velvet booth at Le Poisson, not Michael O’Neill. The psychologists say thinking of someone else while with another isn’t unusual—or even bad. I suppose it isn’t, but I still wished it weren’t the case.

Michael studied the wine list. “Will you be having fish, or red meat?” he asked.

“I—I haven’t seen the menu.”

“A pink wine would cover all bases, but they lack character and body. Might I suggest a bottle of white? We can go to red later, if your selection calls for it.”