Brandy and Bullets

Table of Contents

 

 

“Hello?” I said. My voice was thick with sleep. As always happens when the phone rings at an odd hour, I expected the worst possible news.

“Suppose I woke you. Sorry about that.”

“It’s—it’s four-thirty in the morning.” I pulled my plaid-flannel sheets and down comforter over my head and pressed my ear against the earpiece.

“Who is this?”

“Sheriff Mort Metzger.” He sounded offended that I didn’t know.

“Why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”

“They found somebody dead up at Worrell.”

“Who?” I asked.

“A young woman. ’Bout twenty-nine, thirty. Name’s Maureen Beaumont. A classical musician. Played the flute, I think.”

“How did she die?”

“Gunshot to the head.”

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First Printing, August 1995

Copyright © 1995 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP.
Murder
,
She Wrote
is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All Rights Reserved.

 

 

 

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eISBN : 978-1-440-67349-8

“The usual, Jess?”

“Not today, Mara. Spring has sprung and I’ve sworn off blueberry pancakes. Bikini season’s just around the corner.”

“You wear a bikini?” Mara asked over her shoulder as she drew coffee from a stainless-steel urn behind the counter.

“No. My girlish figure has never been girlish enough to run the risk. But I would like to be able to fit this summer into what bathing suits I do own.”

“Aw, come on, honey,” said Mara in her usual upbeat voice. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You look fabulous. Me? I’m another story. I only eat broken cookies because the broken ones don’t have calories. Doesn’t work. The hips keep getting bigger, the shoulders smaller. Sure about the pancakes?”

“Yes, I’m sure. But thanks for the compliment. One egg. Over easy. English muffin, dry. Coffee. Skim milk. Sweet’n Low.”

“Gorry, Jess,” said Seth Hazlitt, Cabot Cove’s senior and most popular physician, and my dear friend. “You sound like the girl in that movie—what was it?—
When Henry Met Sweetie?
”

Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Morton Metzger, another good friend, sat up straight and grinned with satisfaction at having come up with the right title. “It’s Harry and Sally, Seth. Where’d you get Henry and Sweetie, for cryin’ out loud? It’s Harry and Sally. Everybody knows that.”

There was laughter up and down the counter of Mara’s postage stamp-sized luncheonette. Cabot Cove had other larger, and certainly more elegant eating places, but none with the waterfront charm and down-home comfort of Mara’s. Somehow, the ripped vinyl chairs and cigar burns on the edge of the counter and tables made the simple, good food taste even better. But probably the most palatable aspect of the small luncheonette was the spirited conversation. Every table, and every stool at the counter held an opinion—on everything. Including movies.

“I loved
When Harry Met Sally
,” Kurt Jones, our local pharmacist with his faded movie-star looks of another era, chimed in. “That was some scene. The two of them were sitting in a restaurant and the girl faked—”

“Yes, that’s the same movie, Kurt,” I quickly said, hoping to kill the topic. But my attempt breached one of many unwritten rules of debate in Mara’s. Nothing was off-limits. If you dared step in for breakfast, you went with the flow.

“That was some funny business,” said a lobster fisherman who, until now, had been content to silently attack his overflowing plate of corned-beef hash. His partner, whose weather-beaten face and ink-black fingers defined Maine fisherman, sat next to him. He gave out with a knowing laugh and launched into his critique of the movie’s most memorable scene.

I again tried to change the subject. Mara giggled. She’d been serving breakfast to the town’s fishermen for almost seventeen years, seven days a week, the doors open at five A.M., the grill fired up by five-thirty. She’d heard it all. And thrived on it.

The men at the counter continued to eat their substantial breakfasts as they launched into a series of risqué comments, punctuated by winks, elbows in the ribs, and explosive laughter. It was obviously more fun talking about Harry and Sally than the hard, cold day they faced out on the Atlantic.

“Finally, a real spring day,” I said as Mara served my breakfast. “I saw a robin out my kitchen window this morning.”

“Don’t get too used to it,” said Seth. “Just a tease. You know full well, Jessica, that spring doesn’t come to Maine until July.”

“July? Try, August,” said Kurt, as he put on his coat.

“Another day it’ll be colder’n a moose yard,” one of the fishermen said.

Kurt bumped into a small table, sending menus to the floor.

“Gawmy SOB, ain’t he” came from the fishing contingent at the counter.

Kurt winced at the down east reference to his clumsiness and left.

“I suppose I’m just the eternal optimist,” I said. “As far as I’m concerned, spring is here to stay.”

“To optimism,” said Mort, lifting his glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice.

I returned his toast with my coffee cup.

“Goin’ to the press conference tomorrow?” Seth asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” I said.

“Should be interesting to see what this Worrell fella has up his sleeve,” said Mort. “Somethin’ scandalous most likely. Seems nobody holds a press conference lest there’s a scandal to hush up. Last time Cabot Cove had one was what, ten years ago? When the padre announced his resignation after that boy accused him of sexual misconduct.”

“We had one more recently than that,” said Seth. “Remember? Martha called a conference to announce she was pregnant and was takin’ maternity leave from bein’ mayor.”

“I certainly do,” Mort replied, dabbing a moistened corner of his napkin at egg yolk that had slid down his chin and onto his brown uniform tie. “Sorry,” he said. “What about you, Jess? Got any inside information on what Worrell’s up to?”

“Afraid not. At least nothing official. But I think you rumormongers are going to be disappointed.”

“How so?”

“Because from what I hear—and it’s strictly hearsay—there’s not going to be any scandal involved. My information is that Mr. Worrell is simply going to announce that he’s donating Worrell Mansion to Cabot Cove.”

“That would be terrific,” one of the town’s sanitation workers said. He’d been listening to our conversation from a table behind us. “It’s some big place. What’ll the town do with it?”

I shrugged. “Probably what it’s always done with it. Use the grounds for picnics and ball games. The difference will be the town will own it, instead of just having access to it.”