Brandy and Bullets (6 page)

“Has her family been notified?”

“I don’t know. Dr. O’Neill said he’d take care of that.”

“Was he there when you went to the mansion?”

“No. That’s why he called, I guess. Said he arrived right after I left. That doctor with the funny accent—Meti is his name—Dr. Meti was there. Sort of took over things.”

“Was he cooperative?” I asked.

“I suppose you could say that. Stayed out of my way at least.”

“Did he offer any information about the girl?”

“No. But O’Neill did when he called. Said she was having trouble with her work. Was depressed over how it was going. Some sort of thing she was writing. A musical composition.”

“How long had she been at the institute?” I asked.

“Couple of weeks, according to O’Neill.”

“Was she in some sort of therapy at the institute? I noticed at the party that there were doors leading to a behavioral sciences office. And there was an office that deals with addictions. Was the young woman high on anything?”

“Not that I know. Dr. Meti said she’d been in her room all day except for a personal meeting with Dr. O’Neill. She apparently went back to her room after that meeting. Skipped dinner in the dining room, according to Meti. I suppose O’Neill was last to see her.”

“Well, Mort, I enjoyed our breakfast. Lunch for you. My treat.” I paid Mara, and we stepped into the cool, refreshing air. It was a crisp Maine fall day, typically pre-Thanksgiving weather with lots of sunshine, and a cameo appearance from a snowflake or two. A schizophrenic wind blew. It was calm one minute; the next minute the wind howled like a nor’easter.

“I’ll be calling Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “I have to firm up the seminar I’m teaching first week in December.”

“What I told you is between us,” Mort said.

“Of course. Thanks for sharing it with me.”

“If you and that naturally curious mind of yours runs across anything might be of use to me, you’ll pass it along?”

“Count on it.”

Mort drove off in his patrol car, and I went to a pay phone at the end of the dock. Dr. O’Neill wasn’t in. I was transferred to Beth Anne Portledge, O’Neill’s administrative assistant. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Fletcher, but with the tragedy that happened last night, Dr. O’Neill is very busy. So am I, as a matter of fact. The press has gotten wind of it and—”

“I won’t keep you,” I said. “I was hoping to meet with Dr. O’Neill today regarding my December seminar.”

She exhaled an audible whoosh of air. “I don’t know if he’ll be free at all today.”

“I don’t mind taking my chances just stopping by. Say later this afternoon?”

“If you wish.” She sounded annoyed.

I walked out on the main dock and marveled at the power of the water as it slammed against boats and wooden pilings. The wind had picked up and now blew more consistently. I pulled my green Barbour jacket and red Scottish plaid scarf closer around me and continued to watch as the boats were rocked in the choppy water, and seagulls flying into the wind were rendered motionless, suspended in midair.

I walked the length of the dock. If I were a painter, I thought, I’d choose to paint in Cabot Cove; its natural beauty would make even a bad painter look good. I thought about how great painters managed to capture the light, the flow and the emotion of a scene in their art. In much the same way I try to do in my writing.

I looked out to sea over churning black water and my senses were overwhelmed. The ocean has always given me a sense of satisfaction rivaled by little else in my life. It trivializes things I take too seriously in my day-to-day living. It rekindles my spirituality. It’s these things in life that I too often take for granted: an inconsequential walk along a beach, or through the woods. When I open myself to the potency of nature and its cleansing effect, I’m grateful to be alive. If only the young musician at the institute had chosen to take a walk, instead of her life.

 

When I arrived at the Worrell Mansion at three that afternoon, the circular drive in front of it was chockablock with cars and vans. The signs on two of the vans indicated they were from broadcast media, a television station from Bangor, the other belonging to one of our two local radio stations. The Cabot Cove
Gazette’s
station wagon was there, too, as was Mort Metzger’s sheriff’s car.

As I was about to climb the steps to the front door, a swell of people, reporters, a camera crew, and unidentified others filed out.

“What’s going on?” I asked Matilda Watson, the
Gazette’s
owner.

“Press conference just ended,” she replied, walking quickly by.

I entered the mansion and was immediately confronted by Michael O’Neill, the institute’s director.

“Hello,” I said.

“Jessica Fletcher. What brings you here? Do we have an appointment?”

“No. I spoke with Ms. Portledge this morning and—”

“She told you to come?”

“No. She was very protective of you and your time. But I said I’d stop by and take a chance. Here I am.”

“Not a good time, I’m afraid.”

“I can imagine. I understand you held a press conference.”

“Not much choice, I’m afraid. It seemed easier to get it over with in one swipe. I had no idea the press could be so aggressive and demanding.”

“Their job.”

“I suppose so. Well, now that you’re here, we can grab a few minutes together. Come. We’ll find some peace and quiet in my office.”

I followed his long, purposeful steps up a flight of stairs to a suite at the end of a long corridor. He instructed his secretary to hold all calls, and ushered me inside.

The office was spacious. Two walls were painted a forest green; bold. Dark floor-to-ceiling wood-paneled bookshelves lined the other two. A sliding ladder provided access to the upper shelves. A huge Oriental rug dominated the center of the room. A seating area was formed by a large leather couch and two oversize leather wing chairs. Lighting was indirect and flattering. The soft strains of Vivaldi came from unseen speakers.

“Have a seat, Jessica. Coffee? Tea? Something stronger? I have some red zinfandel that’s quite nice.”

“Nothing, thank you, Doctor.”

“Michael. Remember?”

“Yes. Michael.”

“Mind if I have something? Strictly for medicinal purposes.” He laughed. “An old joke, but apropos. It’s been an anxious day, and night.”

“Please. Go ahead.”

He poured himself what I assumed was brandy into a snifter, inhaled its fumes, then sipped, smacked his lips. “Excellent.” He sat in a high-backed leather chair behind his leather inlaid desk and smiled. “Now. I assume you want to discuss your December seminar.”

“Yes. Any idea why this young woman took her life?”

His smile turned to laughter. “I have a feeling, Jessica, that you’re more interested in what happened here last night than you are in December and seminars.”

“If you’d rather not—”

“Professional interest? Plot for your next best-selling book?”

“Absolutely not. Just curious.”

He nodded, sipped, placed the snifter on a fabric coaster, and propped his feet on the edge of the desk. “A tragic occurrence, Jessica. Ms. Beaumont had so much to live for. She was beautiful, talented, and well liked. On the surface, she had it all. But inside, she was possessed with an extremely fragile ego. Almost nonexistent. There seemed to be little in her life that mattered except her music. The composition she came here to complete seemed to elude her each day, and she became more despondent. We tried to boost her self-esteem, give her the resolve to finish the work. She was particularly upset that others her age, musicians and composers she knew, were ahead of her in terms of creative output. We did everything we could to help her put things in a more realistic perspective. Obviously, we failed.”

“She’d been in therapy with your staff?”

“We don’t offer therapy in the traditional sense, Jessica. Did we work with her as a therapist might? Of course.”

“Dr. Meti?”

He frowned. “You’ve met Tomar?”

“Yes. At the party.”

“He worked with her. So did I. I had a session with her shortly before she took her life.”

“A therapeutic session?”

“If you insist.”

I decided I’d asked enough questions about the death, and was about to shift the conversation to my upcoming seminar, but O’Neill stayed with the suicide. “This may sound callous to you, Jessica, but I don’t intend it to be. We tried everything in the short time she was here—group, role-playing, hypnotherapy, behavior mod. But with someone as fragile and full of self-doubt as she was, even self-hate, there was little that could be done. With such artists, suicide is not uncommon.”

“That doesn’t sound at all callous to me, Michael.”

“Maybe the fact that I view her death in a positive light will.”

“Positive light?”

“Not that she took her life. But we can learn from Maureen Beaumont’s death. That’s one of the missions of the institute: To study the creative process and artist in the hope of breaking through the sort of problems Maureen suffered. There are hundreds of other Maureen Beaumonts. Maybe thousands. Young, talented, promising artists who hate themselves and cannot rise above the demands they, and others, have placed upon them. Hopefully, what we learn from Maureen Beaumont will help ward off other senseless deaths.”

His demeanor, and ability to look me straight in the eye throughout his explanation, earned him credibility. On the other hand, there was a coldness that was off-putting. It sounded, well, callous. Maureen Beaumont had been reduced to a guinea pig of sorts, an experiment. Yes, if something could be learned from her unfortunate state of mind and death that would save others, a small good might come from her demise. I didn’t want to be too judgmental of O’Neill. Perhaps he hadn’t put it as nicely as I would have wanted. He was under stress. A talented young woman had died in the institution of which he was in charge. I gave him the benefit of doubt.

I would have been happy to get off the subject. But he insisted upon staying with it. “Maureen was living under a thick, dark cloud, Jessica. One of the last things she said to me during our session yesterday afternoon was, ‘My mind is like a bad neighborhood that I don’t want to go into alone.’ I suggested she stay out of that neighborhood, that she explore a new one. She said she’d try. Evidently, she didn’t try hard enough.”

“Her family must be taking it pretty hard,” I said.

“They’ve already made arrangements to have their daughter’s body flown back to California for burial. I understand your sheriff, Mr. Metzger, isn’t too happy they’ll be performing the autopsy out there instead of here.”

“Isn’t that unusual?” I asked. “I thought the authority for an autopsy would rest with the jurisdiction in which the death took place.”

“Not always. California was her home. The wishes of the family are being honored.”

“I understand,” I said.

“I hate to be rude, Jessica, but I’ve scheduled a meeting with Ms. Portledge and some of the staff to try and put this tragedy in better perspective. Could we postpone discussing your seminar? Maybe next week, after the dust settles.”

“Of course. Sorry to barge in on you this way. I’ll call to set up a meeting. Is there anything I can do regarding Ms. Beaumont?”

“No. But thank you for asking. I’ll see you out.”

“No need. I dropped bread crumbs on our way here. I’ll just follow them.”

“All right. I think I’ll hide here for the few minutes I have before the meeting. Some quiet thought is very much in order.”

And to have another drink, I surmised.

As I descended the stairs to the entrance foyer, Mort Metzger was coming through the front door.

“I saw your car,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Didn’t know you’d be here, either, Jess.”

“I just met with Dr. O’Neill.”

“About the death?”

“Ah—about my seminar. But we did discuss the suicide. Just in passing.”

“I’m going back to her room. We’re still dusting for prints, and taking photos.”

“Can I tag along?”

“Sure.” He motioned me into a comer of the foyer. “Want to know what’s goin’ on?” he asked.

“Always.”

“They’re shippin’ the body out of the state. Back to California.”

“I heard.”

“Smells, if you ask me.”

“Can’t you fight it? Legally, I mean?”

“Not if the county prosecutor goes along with it. He has.”

We walked down the long, narrow corridor that was familiar to me because of the tour I’d been given by Beth Anne during the party, and stopped at a door with yellow tape across it that read: CRIME SCENE. Mort held up the tape, and I ducked under. He followed.

A white bedspread with small pink flowers had been showered with blood, now darkened with age. The dresser and desk were coated with a layer of white dust used in searching for fingerprints. White masking tape crudely traced the outline of how her body had been positioned on the floor. Dried blood had accumulated in the area where her head had been.

“Who’s the man taking notes?” I asked Mort.

“Oh, him? Another psychiatrist from the institute.”

The man to whom I’d referred was, I judged, to be in his mid or late thirties. He was handsome despite having facial features that were too small for his head. He wore half-glasses. His jacket was gray tweed, his shirt a blue button-down. He wore a yellow-and-green paisley bow tie.

“Name’s Fechter,” Mort said. “Donald Fechter.”

“Hello,” I said, approaching him.

He looked up from his notepad.

“My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’ll be teaching a seminar here in December.”

“Oh. I’m Dr. Fechter.” We shook hands.

“What a terrible thing,” I said, nodding at the white tape on the floor.