Brandy and Bullets (26 page)

He spoke for ten minutes, explaining that he’d become interested in the CIA’s resumption of mind-control experimentation, and had obtained financing to produce a documentary on it. A source identified plans for converting the Worrell Mansion into a CIA think tank, which excited him. Norm knew Cabot Cove. It seemed a perfect centerpiece for his documentary.

He’d worked on a film in Los Angeles with a young musician, Maureen Beaumont. When he confided in her about his plans, she volunteered to check into Worrell to learn what she could about its inner operations. When she died—and Norm never bought for a minute that she’d killed herself of her own free will—he did what he had to do. He checked in himself.

Everything else he had to say was no surprise to me. It was what I’d decided had happened—the running car at the river, the note, the rental car waiting, his clandestine trip to Washington where, he told us, he’d nailed down what he needed to finish the documentary from an anonymous source within the intelligence community.

Sybil concluded the press conference by taking a string of questions from members of the press. No one on the panel had much to offer in the way of concrete evidence, including Mort.

“Let’s leave,” I whispered to Seth, “before they start asking
me
questions.” “See you back at the house,” I whispered in Jill Huffaker’s ear.

 

“It’s brilliant, Norman,” I said after he’d shown us an unedited version of his video documentary. We sat in my den—Mort Metzger, Seth Hazlitt, Norm and Jill Huffaker, Jared Worrell, Matt O’Brien, Susan Dalton, and Jo Jo Masarowski—whom I’d invited for the private screening. At first, Norman didn’t respond. He stared at the TV screen, his eyes misty. He’d used the remote control to freeze a frame of the final credits.

A picture of Maureen accompanied the text. A piece of classical music featuring a flute had provided the documentary’s music track.

“Did Maureen compose that music, Norman?” I asked.

Tears welled up in his eyes, and his lip trembled. He nodded. We hugged. I, too, fought back tears.

Later, after everyone had left except the Huffakers, Norm said, “Jessica, I’m very sorry to have put you through what you went through. Sheriff Metzger told me about your weekend at Worrell, the hypnosis, and you coming close to killing yourself.”

“It was an adventure.” I laughed. “I can sound blasé in retrospect. At the time, I wasn’t quite so cavalier.”

“I would imagine,” Jill said. She looked to Norman, then at me. “I’m afraid I have a very difficult admission to make to you, Jess.”

“Really?”

“Yes. All I can hope for is that you’ll understand the difficult position we were in when I did it.”

“I’ll certainly try,” I said. “It can’t be that bad.” They said nothing. “Can it?”

They held hands. Jill said, “I knew Norman wasn’t dead.”

“So did I,” I said.

“You didn’t
believe
he was dead. I knew for certain.”

“You did? For how long?”

“The entire time,” Jill said.

“And you never—”

“Not only that,” Norm said, “Jill was the one who planned my escape, how I’d do it, where I would go.”

“I think I understand,” I said. My sadness at having been strung along by Jill was evident, I knew, in my voice and face.

Jill continued: “When Norman realized they’d gotten on to him, the way they did with Maureen, and knew why he was there, he called me. Together, we decided he would fake his suicide, and get out of there as fast as possible.”

“And so you took Meti’s BMW to the bridge, left the note, walked to the Rent-a-Wreck, picked up the red Chevy, drove to Logan, and boarded a plane to Washington,” I said.

“Right. I met with my source, my ‘Deep Throat,’ then headed straight for the airport and flew home.”

“Every time we spoke on the phone, Jill, you knew that Norm was alive.”

“Afraid so, Jess,” she said.

“Nine out of ten times I was sitting right next to her,” Norm added.

I was torn between expressing anger that a friend would do that to me, and understanding their need to keep Norm’s whereabouts a secret, to sustain the suicide story until it was safe to surface.

“Well,” I said, “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit to being angry with both of you. On the other hand, I’m glad you’re alive, Norm, that you got to complete your documentary, and that we can be together again.”

“Forgive us then, Jess?” Jill asked. “Forgive
me
?”

“Forgiving is for God, Jill. I’m just a writer. More coffee?”

“Yes, Mort, I understand,” I said.

“Seems the gun Meti gave you was owned privately by him. That might blow holes in his claim that the CIA provided it to him, and that he was doin’ official work for the United States government.”

“The government seems to be denying any involvement with the Worrell people.”

He chuckled. “No surprise there, Jess. You go to work for a spook agency, if you get caught, nobody knows you. You’re on your own.”

“How cold,” I said.

“Just the way it is. By the way, everybody’s out of the mansion. The Worrell Institute for Creativity is a thing of the past.”

“Glad to hear it. Susan Dalton, and Jo Jo Masarowski, called me. They’re back home. Susan is working on her murder mystery, using what happened at Worrell as her plot. Jo Jo says he’s developing a video game about hypnosis.”

“I can give him a name of a fella at Parker Brothers.”

“I’m sure he’d appreciate that.”

‘Talked to Seth this mornin’. That gal who swallowed all those pills is doin’ fine. Seth expects she’ll go home in a week or so.”

“Then she did try to kill herself, without any suggestion from O’Neill and company.”

“Yup. Got so upset over Maureen Beaumont’s death that she flipped.”

“Well, I’m glad she’s doing well. And thanks for the update.”

I hung up and went to tend plants in my living room. As I carefully poured water from a long-nozzled watering can, a car pulled up in front of the house. I watched as two men got out, said something to each other, then approached my front door. I opened it before they had a chance to knock.

“Jessica Fletcher?” one of them asked. He was short and slight. He wore a gray tweed jacket, muted green paisley tie, blue button-down shirt, and had a red scarf wrapped around his neck. His glasses were large and round. His hair was blond, and thinning. It raised up in wisps in the wind that whipped about my front patio.

His colleague looked like a policeman out of Central Casting. Big. Square. Short hair. Cheap, green raincoat. Thick-soled black shoes.

“Yes.”

The thinner man produced an ID: Special Investigator—Congressional Subcommittee on National Security.

“What can I do for you?” I asked.

“We’d like to speak with you, Mrs. Fletcher. Won’t take long.”

“About the Worrell Institute?”

“May we come in, ma’am?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

We settled in the living room. They declined my offer of coffee, or tea.

“You’re a famous writer,” the thin fellow said.

“I’m a writer. Famous? Maybe.”

“You’re obviously someone who cares about her country and its future.”

“Of course.”

“This experience you had at Worrell, Mrs. Fletcher. I understand it was somewhat traumatic.”

“It was—it was unsettling. But it’s over. The people there—Dr. O’Neill and his staff—caused the death of a young woman, in the name of scientific experimentation.”

“An unfortunate incident, Mrs. Fletcher.”

I’d begun to resent their presence, and the tone of the conversation. “Unfortunate incident?” That’s all it was?

“Dr. O’Neill and his colleagues acted on their own, Mrs. Fletcher.”

“That’s not the way I see it,” I said.

They looked at me as though I’d said something naughty.

“The Worrell Institute for Creativity was funded by a government agency,” I said. “The CIA, to be exact.”

“Mrs. Fletcher, the congressional committee I work for is charged with overseeing the intelligence activities of the United States. Naturally, we are concerned with any abuse of those activities, especially if they involve average citizens.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” I said. “Because in the case of the Worrell Institute, average citizens certainly were
involved.
”

He had a way of ignoring anything I said. It was annoying, at best.

“Dr. O’Neill and the others involved have claimed a connection with the United States government as a defense for their actions.”

“And?”

“We’re here to assure you, Mrs. Fletcher, that there was no such connection.”

“I don’t believe you,” I said. “I know different.”

Shrugs from both of them.

“O’Neill will be prosecuted for the death of Maureen Beaumont.”

“Thrown to the wolves.”

Shrugs.

“I would appreciate it, gentlemen, if you would leave now.”

They stood. The thin one said—the other had said nothing, and was unlikely to—“The government of the United States sincerely appreciates your discretion in this matter, Mrs. Fletcher. The President of the United States has asked me to personally present this to you.” He handed me a large envelope.

“What is it?” I asked.

“A token of appreciation for your patriotism.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” I said, standing and indicating the direction in which the door was located. I accompanied them out to the patio. The larger man looked up into the blue sky, smiled, and uttered his first words: “Looks like spring is here.”

“And just in time,” I said. “Thank you for stopping by. And please thank the President for his kind gift.”

I watched them get into their automobile and drive away, resumed watering my plants, and went to my office where I opened the envelope bearing the Presidential seal. In it was an eight-by-ten color photograph of the President and First Lady, posing on the White House lawn with their Dalmatian, Boopsie, who’d garnered headlines when he bit his master, prompting press cynics to praise the inherent wisdom of dogs. The photo was inscribed to me:
“For Jessica Fletcher. A fellow patriot. God Bless!”.

I placed the photo into a lower desk drawer, booted up my word processor, waited for the blank screen to appear, and brought up the file:
Brandy
&
Bullets.
By Jessica Fletcher.

It was good to be working again.

Cross the
Golden Gate Bridge
with America’s
favorite sleuth
in the
Murder, She Wrote
mystery novel

 

Martinis
&
Mayhem
by Jessica Fletcher
& Donald Bain

 

 

 

 

 

 

Once George disappeared through the crowd, and buoyed by the thought of having him around for a whole week, I left the Top of the Mark and headed out for some evening sightseeing.

Fisherman’s Wharf: I snacked on a crab cocktail from a sidewalk vendor, purchased a lovely tooled-leather address book from a local artisan, and enjoyed a cup of Irish coffee at a communal table in the Buena Vista Cafe, where that scrumptious concoction was first introduced to this country by famed San Francisco columnist, Herb Caen. From there, I hailed a taxi and asked the driver to take me down Lombard Street, “the world’s crookedest street,” which he did, and which I found to be fun even though I’d done it numerous times before.

My internal dinner bell went off, and I headed for Chinatown,
the
Chinatown, for an appetizer of minced squab wrapped in lettuce leaves, and lobster broiled in ginger sauce, at Celadon.

I arrived back at my hotel, the St. Francis, at eleven feeling wonderful and thought of Abraham Maslow, the pioneering psychologist, who identified one of the signs of sanity as having the ability to recognize and enjoy “peak experiences”—those moments, large or small, when you are at one with the world, and when your senses explode in celebration. A lovely climbing rose bush wet with dew. A sudden snap of cool air after a period of hot and humid weather. A baby’s smile. A lick from a loving dog’s warm, wet tongue.

The physical beauty of San Francisco. Excellent food. Bracing air. Friendly people. The anticipation of a week with Chief Inspector George Sutherland.

At that moment, according to Maslow, my sanity was beyond debate.

 

“Good morning, Mrs. Fletcher. It’s seven o’clock, and sixty-one sunny degrees outside. Have a wonderful day.”

“I certainly intend to,” I said to the recorded wake-up message.

I’d decided to skip the gym that morning, and to ease into the day at a more leisurely pace. I’d done plenty of walking the night before. Besides, having decided to take a walk across the Golden Gate Bridge would make up for any lost time on the exercise bike.

It had never occurred to me before to take such a walk. I didn’t even know it was possible for pedestrians to cross that famous span.

But Robert Frederickson had suggested it. And the cab driver who’d driven me down the hairpin turns of Lombard Street last night had casually mentioned that crossing the Golden Gate on foot was one of his favorite things to do on a day off.

And so I decided it offered a chance to do something different in a city rife with different things to do.

I wanted an early start; new adventures are always more enjoyable, at least to this early riser, when experienced in the cool, crisp morning air. The vision of the bridge showered in the early morning light was palpably pleasant.