Brandy and Bullets (20 page)

“That sounds like a good idea,” I said.

“The
Chateau Grillet,”
he told the waitress.

We fell into a predictable silence, each of us looking about the dimly lighted room and pretending to be interested in what we saw.

“Well, Jessica, I must admit I was surprised when you called. I had the sinking feeling the past few days that it wasn’t your busy schedule that precluded having dinner with me. It was more a matter of not wishing to spend social time together.”

“Not true, Michael.” To what extent would I be pressed to extend my lie this evening?

“Yes, I know that now. I am delighted to be here with such a beautiful and talented woman. You dress me up, Jessica. But then again, I’m sure I’m not the first man to have told you that.”

“Oh, you are. I mean—I’m so glad you chose this restaurant.”

“Cabot Cove’s best. For Cabot Cove’s most illustrious citizen.”

“I’m afraid you’ll have to stop flattering me. I might begin to believe it.” I laughed softly, and wished the wine would arrive.

Which it did, instantly. The waitress, whose golden hair was swept up into a large bun, and who wore a woman’s black tuxedo, expertly removed the cork from the bottle, and held it out to Michael. He took it, pursed his lips, inhaled the cork’s aroma, and declared the wine to be fit, at least from an olfactory perspective. A small amount was poured into his balloon snifter. Another sniff, a sip, subtle swishing about in his mouth, and a satisfied nod.

“To the beginning of a fulfilling relationship—for both of us.”

I clicked my rim to his.

“Shall we order before getting down to serious conversation?” he asked.

“That will be fine.”

“Might I order for us both?”

“By all means.” I didn’t like it when someone else ordered what I was to eat, unless it was in an ethnic restaurant where that other person knew what was outstanding, and what wasn’t. But I wasn’t about to stand on that principle. The menu, which left prices off the copy handed to me—in this day and age?—was straightforward, steaks and chops, lobster, a few French-sounding dishes, a pasta special, and the usual side orders.

“Caesar salad for two, and chateaubriand for two,” he told the waitress. To me: “Rare, Jessica?”

“Medium rare,” I said.

“Medium rare it is,” he said. “I understand your New York cheesecake is outstanding.”

“It’s very good,” said the waitress.

“Reserve us two pieces for dessert,” Michael said.

“I couldn’t,” I said.

“We’ll take it with us,” he said. “As a late-night snack. Back at my place.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows, smiled at me, and left.

“So, how are things going with you, Jessica? I was sorry to hear that you’d bumped into a wall of sorts in your writing.”

“Just a low one,” I said. “What’s upsetting is that it’s never happened to me before.”

“Undoubtedly a momentary detour. I would imagine that your friend’s unfortunate demise has contributed to it.”

“Norman?”

“Yes. Mr. Huffaker was a brilliant man. At least that was the impression I got from our unfortunately short relationship. A grim thought, his body frozen beneath that river.”

I shuddered.

He placed his arm over my shoulder, pulled me close.

“How foolish of me, bringing up an unpleasantness on such a pleasant occasion. Forgive me.”

A trio of musicians began playing Broadway show tunes, a medley of familiar melodies.

“Aha,” Michael proclaimed. “Please.” He stood and extended his hand.

I hesitated. I wasn’t in the mood for dancing. On the other hand, I’d decided to be there that night with a purpose in mind—to learn what I could about Norman’s disappearance, the missing disks, the last entry on his label-making machine, and anything else about the Worrell Institute for Creativity that might help provide me with answers. Feeling very much the Mata Hari of Cabot Cove, I took Michael’s hand and allowed him to lead me to the postage stamp-sized dance floor. The trio was playing “Just in Time” at an easy tempo, and we moved to the pleasant beat.

Please don’t dip me, I thought. I hate being dipped.

He didn’t, until the band had segued into “Night and Day.” As that tune ended, Michael pushed me over and held me hovering above the floor, like an ice-dancing partner.

He laughed as he escorted me to our booth. “Afraid I’d let you fall, Jessica?”

“Never occurred to me for a minute,” I said.

We started on our salads.

“A red zinfandel with your beef?” he asked. Without waiting for an answer, he motioned the waitress over and ordered a bottle. “Just coming into vogue,” he said to me. “Although, Lord knows why it’s taken so long. A worthy wine, less silky than Merlot, which is too soft for my taste, but with sufficient body to please most palates.”

“I agree with you completely,” I said.

I made a decision in the midst of his monologue on wine.

I was there, at Le Poisson, with him.

I was there for a reason.

Either push it to its limits, or go home.

“Michael,” I said, “I haven’t been able to find any of Norman Huffaker’s computer disks.”

He gave me a puzzled look. “I thought I gave them to you,” he said.

“I did, too. But the ones included with Norman’s laptop were—all blank.”

“I don’t understand,” he said. “I thought—”

“Just a mix-up, I’m sure,” I said.

“I’ll check into it first thing in the morning.”

“I’d appreciate that.”

“Or, we could go back to the institute after dinner and take care of it tonight.”

“No need for that,” I said. “The salad was delicious.”

“Nothing better than Caesar. Dance before our entrée arrives?”

“Love to. But no dipping.”

“As you say, Jessica.”

We spun about the floor with other couples. Michael was a good dancer. I had to give him that. “How is your divorce going?” I asked.

“Dreadfully”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Under the best of circumstances, it can’t be pleasant.”

“And these are the worst of circumstances. You saw Amanda’s behavior on Thanksgiving. I was appalled.”

“No need to be.”

“A troubled woman, Amanda. I just hope she gets the help she needs.”

“I think our dinner has arrived,” I said.

Our waitress carved the beef table side.

“You mentioned that my seminar provided some—I think you said ‘much-needed cash flow,’ ” I said.

“Yes. The beef is excellent.”

“Very good. Done perfectly. I suppose it’s none of my business, but I can’t help but be fascinated at how an institute like Worrell supports itself. I suppose there are grants and the like. Government programs—”

“Some.”

“Do you get to Washington much, Michael?” I asked, thinking of Norman.

“On occasion. More wine?”

“Worrell is such a large place to run. I can’t imagine what the artists pay to be there covers everything.”

He laughed heartily. “Hardly,” he said, savoring a spear of asparagus.

“I’m surprised you haven’t used all the artistic talent you have at hand to raise funds.”

“How so? An art exhibition?”

“That would be a wonderful idea. Or a concert. Maybe a documentary that could be shown on television, Public Television, or something.”

“An interesting idea, Jessica. I’ll bring it up with the staff.”

I wasn’t sure whether to continue this line of conversation. Why not? I wasn’t at the restaurant for a meal. I was there to learn things from Worrell’s director.

“Was Norman Huffaker working on some sort of documentary about Worrell?” I asked, tossing the question out as though the answer didn’t matter.

O’Neill’s face said more than his lack of words ever could. It turned hard. He stared at his plate, then slowly turned to me. “Whatever gave you that idea?” he said.

“Nothing specific,” I said. “I just know that he’d recently turned to making television documentaries. I thought he might have—”

“Not about Worrell,” Michael said.

I ate as I formulated my next question. I had many to ask. What I wanted to avoid was setting Michael on-edge, cause him to think I’d taken him up on his dinner invitation for mischievous reasons.

“Tell me about this sudden writer’s block you’ve been experiencing, Jessica.”

He’d brought the conversation back to solid ground, something with which he’d be more comfortable.

And I saw it as an opportunity. I’d toyed all evening—all day, as a matter of fact, since breakfast with Mort and Seth—with using writer’s block as a means of getting closer to the inner workings of Worrell. Would my claim of needing help play with O’Neill, or would he see through it? The only way to find out was to deal that card and see if he picked it up. He’d given me the opening.

“Frankly, Michael, I’ve never experienced anything like it in my career,” I said, injecting what I hoped was an appropriate degree of frustration and concern in my voice. “Oh, I’ve had an occasional day, maybe even a week, when my writing wasn’t going well. When I simply couldn’t bring myself to sit in front of my word processor for more than five minutes at a stretch. But this is different. It’s been almost a month now that I’ve been blocked.”

“You’ve certainly hidden it,” he said. “I would never have guessed, based upon your unfailingly good spirits.”

“I suppose I’m embarrassed about it,” I said. “Here I am teaching a seminar on how to write, and the preacher is unable to do what she preaches.”

“Do as I say, not as I do.”

“Exactly. The thing that’s really distressing is that my publisher is upset with me. First time that’s ever happened. Vaughan is—his name is Vaughan Buckley. He owns Buckley House—Vaughan is a love, and he’s never had to push me to deliver a book. Not that I ever gave him reason to. But this new book is being published to coincide with the anniversary of the discovery of an important archaeological find in Costa Rica. I used that as a basis for the plot.”

I touched his hand, and blew a stream of air up into my hair. “Here I am going on about my problems, and you’re gentleman enough to indulge me.”

“I’m interested in you, Jessica. Professionally. And personally.”

“That’s very sweet of you, Michael.”

“You must eat. Your meal is getting cold.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

His hand now took mine, and massaged it. “Let’s not have any apologies. I’m just concerned that you’re experiencing this problem. Perhaps I could help.”

“I don’t know how,” I said.

“Some time with me at the institute? A long weekend? Focused therapy? It could all be done quietly, and quickly. You aren’t like most of the men and women who come to Worrell to get over creative problems. You’re a consummate professional. All you need is a few hours, perhaps a few days, of boring in on what is keeping you from completing your book.”

“Do you really think so?” I asked.

“I really know so.”

I couldn’t believe how easy it had been. Once I’d decided to try and spend time inside Worrell, I assumed it would take a great deal of pleading and cajoling on my part to get O’Neill to agree.

But here he was opening the door. Maybe I’m a better actress than I’ve always given myself credit for.

“Are you sure it wouldn’t be too much of an imposition?” I asked.

“I would be deeply hurt if you refused,” he said.

“I’ll pay, of course.”

“No, you won’t. How wonderful if I were to play some small part in unleashing new and potent creativity in the world’s greatest mystery writer.”

“You’re flattering me again, Michael.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I must be coming off as a giggly, dim-witted female. All I needed was a fan to flutter in front of my face as I said, in a Southern accent, “Mah goodness, sir, you flatter me too much, I fear.”

I checked his expression. He wasn’t viewing me in that light. He seemed pleased with the way things were going.

“This weekend?” he asked.

“Yes. I think that will be fine. I haven’t any plans, and—”

“You mentioned, Jessica, at your house on Thanksgiving, that you’d been hypnotized in Boston. That friend of yours, the stage hypnotist.”

“That’s right. I’m sure you disapprove of him.”

“Why?”

“For using such a powerful medical tool for entertainment purposes.”

“Not at all. I’ve seen a number of stage hypnotists. Some of them are as good, maybe even better, than many doctors. What interests me is that you were a good subject.”

“Carson seemed pleased,” I said. “That’s my friend’s name. Carson James.”

“Aha. I bring this up, Jessica, because I think hypnosis would provide the fastest, and most effective way of breaking through your writing block. Would you be willing to undergo intensive hypnotherapy with me?”

“With you personally?”

“Yes. And some of my staff. Dr. Meti is without peer as a clinical hypnotist.”

“I think so.”

“Splendid. Now eat your dinner. The beef is prime.” He squeezed my hand. “And so are you, my dear.”

 

I anticipated some grappling at the end of the evening. But I was spared that. O’Neill’s subtle amorous advances at dinner weren’t carried over to bringing me home. He was the perfect gentleman.

“I suggest we keep your date at the institute a secret between you and me,” he said as he stood inside my foyer. It had begun to snow heavily, and I expected a suggestion that we share a nightcap in front of the fire. Instead, he said, “I’ll call you in the morning, Jessica, and finalize arrangements. Thank you for a lovely evening. It was a pleasure sharing dinner with you.”

“The pleasure was all mine.”