“I heard he was going to propose that the town turn it into a nature preserve and museum,” another customer offered.
“I didn’t hear that,” Mara said from where she turned a batch of home fries. “We already have enough nature preserves.” She leaned on the counter, and using the greasy spatula for emphasis, said in a conspiratorial voice, “I hear the mansion is going to become a school for the deaf and the blind. Seems that the young Mr. Worrell and his wife have a baby who’s hearing impaired.”
“What a shame,” I said. “Just goes to show money can’t buy everything. Here he is with more money than Ross Perot, good-looking, young—couldn’t be more than forty—and the only living heir to the Worrell fortune. You’d think he had it all. Then you hear something like this, and you realize that tragedy can hit anyone.” I took the napkin from my lap and placed it on the counter. “Breakfast was delicious as usual, Mara.”
“Leaving us so soon,” Mort asked.
“Yes. Have to run. Literally. A slow jog or fast walk through Monroe Park. Maybe I’ll spot more robins celebrating this lovely day.”
“Playing hooky, huh?” Seth said, laughing.
“Yes. I finished the latest book this past weekend and intend to take off some time before starting the next. Taking a breather, as they say. Sound good, Doc?”
“Therapeutic, Jess. That’s for certain. Like I always say, if I could write prescriptions for vacations and sabbaticals, I would. Far as this doctor’s concerned, stress kills more people than everything else combined.”
“Shame health insurance plans don’t cover prescriptions for vacations,” I said.
“Nothing preventative ever is,” Seth added with solemnity.
“That’s what’s wrong with this new health plan comin’ outta Washington,” Mort said.
“It’s got its good points,” said Seth.
“Hell it does,” the sanitation man said.
Sensing the beginning of a heated debate, I stood. “Have a wonderful day,” I said.
Mort handed me the five-dollar bill I’d left on the counter. “My treat,” he said. “Happy spring!”
“Why, thank you, Mort. That’s very kind. And yes. Happy spring!”
Chapter Two
“Please, everyone, take your seats so we can get started.”
Sybil Stewart, Cabot Cove’s new mayor, repeated her request, this time in a louder, more shrill voice. Her frustration at not being able to bring the press conference to order creased her round face into a grimace.
“P-l-e-a-s-e,” she implored. “Let’s show Mr. Worrell our best Cabot Cove manners.”
Sybil, who had always been an unabashed Nancy Reagan fan, including Ms. Reagan’s taste in fashion, smoothed the pleats on the skirt of her tailored crimson suit as she waited for order. Her suit and blouse were strictly big-city. Her red pumps were small-town.
A few people stopped their animated conversations and took their seats, but most ignored Sybil’s pleas. I looked around the congested room and couldn’t help but smile. Interest in today’s announcement seemed to have drawn all of Cabot Cove, as well as people whose faces were unfamiliar to me. No surprise, actually. Like most New Englanders, our town’s citizens
love
to talk about politics. Whether I’m waiting in line at Store 24 or having dinner at any of Cabot Cove’s restaurants, eavesdropping on conversations around me invariably picks up snippets of political debate. And not just local political talk. National politics, too. In the blood, I suppose. Or the clam chowder.
Jared Worrell, the reason for the press conference, stood quietly behind Sybil. Although this was the first time he’d been to Cabot Cove, he dressed like he belonged. His sport jacket was preppy muted-brown tweed. He wore tan slacks with a crease that would cut cheese, pale blue button-down shirt, subtly striped green-and-brown tie, and penny-loafers. His Roman nose and square jawline hinted at aristocracy, like a Kennedy. Although he lived in Southern California—Beverly Hills I’d heard—he was not my vision of a “Muscle Beach” surfer. He was quite short, thin, and pale. I judged him to be in his early thirties.
Since the death of the Worrell family’s patriarch more than a hundred years ago, the mansion had been held in a trust agreement with Cabot Cove that stipulated that as long as the town maintained it, its use as a conference center, park, and playground was to be enjoyed by all the town’s citizens. And enjoy it we did, along with the tourists who traveled to our sleepy village on the ocean to soak up the grandeur of another time. L.L. Bean in Freeport and lobster dinners up and down Maine’s coast would always be bigger attractions. But Worrell had its share of out-of-town admirers, and the local economy benefited from their tourist dollars. Whether what Mr. Worrell would announce this morning would change things was why we’d all shown up at city hall—to hear first-hand what the future held.
As the last surviving family member, Jared Worrell had come to town to fulfill the terms of the trust agreement. Every five years, on the sixteenth of March, the senior surviving member of the Worrell family was free to discontinue the trust agreement, and to sell the property. Until this day, the senior surviving member had been Jared’s elder sister, Waldine, who would always send a letter informing us that the agreement would remain in force for another five years. But Waldine Worrell had died the previous summer. It was now Jared’s responsibility to make the decision about his ancestors’ family mansion. That he’d decided to come in person made townspeople nervous. If he was going to extend the trust agreement, all he had to do was write a letter as his sister had done. Then again, some reasoned, he might have decided to personally appear in order to bask in the limelight of announcing that the mansion would be donated outright to Cabot Cove. Glass half-full, or half-empty? The speculation would cease in a few minutes, when Jared Worrell officially put an end to it.
“Quiet everyone!” Sybil Stewart had given up trying to cajole the crowd to attention. She fairly yelled into the microphone, and her new approach worked. She was a woman to be reckoned with. The room became relatively silent.
“Thank you. As you all know, Jared Worrell has come to Cabot Cove to make an announcement about the future of the Worrell Mansion. If you’re wondering whether I’ve been made privy to what he is about to say, I assure you I haven’t been. Among many of Mr. Worrell’s admirable traits, discretion is obviously one of them.” She glanced at Worrell, who smiled. Not a big smile. Just a hint. He stood straight, hands at his sides, his eyes slowly scanning the room. A self-assured man, I thought. Great wealth always helps establish such confidence.
Sybil continued, “I know that Mr. Worrell has a busy schedule and must leave immediately following his remarks. So I won’t take any more time. Mr. Worrell.”
Worrell stepped to the podium, glanced down at an index card, said, “Thank you for all being here. I know how important my family’s residence has been to Cabot Cove. I also know that there is understandable concern in this room about the future of Worrell Mansion. Let me assure you that you will be happy to hear what I have to say this morning.”
Sybil tried to initiate a round of applause, but her hands were the only ones to be heard. The faces around me were serious. You don’t tell someone from Maine that he’ll be happy, and expect him to applaud. Like people from Missouri, and I suppose just about everywhere else, telling us to be happy doesn’t work. “Show me!”
Jared sipped water from a glass and continued: ‘Too often, stately houses and sprawling grounds end up in the hands of greedy developers who only see such properties as sites for intrusive condominiums and ugly shopping malls. That will not be the case with my family’s home and gardens.”
This time, Sybil’s applause was joined by a scattering of others.
“I am pleased to announce today that the Worrell Mansion has been sold to the Corcoran Group, an investment banking group based in Boston.”
There were groans, and a few boos.
Worrell held up his hands and gave another small smile. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “But hear me out. The Corcoran Group is a prestigious and community-conscious organization. Its development record in Boston is pristine, and worthy of civic pride. I did not sell the mansion to the Corcoran Group without attaching strings. There will be no condos, no shopping malls. The sale assures that my family’s residence will become a retreat for writers, artists, and musicians.”
I sat in the rear of the room because I’d arrived a few minutes late. My friends, Seth and Mort, were up front. The expressions on most faces were disbelief and dismay. The gap between Jared Worrell and his audience was wide. As far as he was concerned, keeping Worrell Mansion from becoming a mall or housing development was worthy of a standing ovation. From the perspective of the Cabot Cove citizens who crowded the room, anything short of the status quo was a blow. The mansion was being sold. A retreat for artists and writers? What did
that
mean?
“For those of you who are skeptical of what I’ve just announced, let me elaborate, and put you at ease. The Worrell Institute for Creativity, which will be its official name, will become a sanctuary where writers and artists can come for inspiration, in much the same way this great estate’s solace and beauty has inspired many of you through the years. It will attract great writers and artists, as well as fledgling writers and artists who might one day be great.
“Many of its rooms will be converted into guest rooms and suites. The conference center will be used in much the same capacity it has for decades, a setting for seminars, workshops, and other creative endeavors. There will also be, I understand, numerous functions each year to which you, the public, will be invited, indeed urged to attend. While the institute will be privately owned, it is the desire of the Corcoran people that it be an interactive facility with the good citizens of this community.”
“How do we interact with a bunch ’a weirdo writers?” one of our crusty citizens tossed at Worrell.
Worrell laughed gently. “I promise you’ll have the opportunity to ask questions when I’ve completed my statement.”
He continued: “The eighty acres of land that surround the mansion will be preserved just as it is. That is to say, there won’t be any development of it. The land and gardens will be used by those in residence for walks and inspiration. I can envision writers choosing to bring their laptop computers into the gardens, perhaps to sit under a tree and create great novels and poems.” He laughed, alone. “I have no idea how writers work, but I do know that they need inspiration. I believe that this magnificent place that was once the home of my family, and that has played such an important part in your lives, will be revived into a vital cultural center, a place of inspiration for the men and women who create our works of art, and for each of you as you claim, with pride, that Cabot Cove has become a revered and international cultural city. That concludes my prepared statement. I have time for a few questions.” He glanced at two men and a woman who stood at the side of the room. The woman pointed to her watch. Worrell nodded.
“What about the playground?”
“Yes. What about the children of Cabot Cove?” shouted a thirtyish woman in the front row, whose loud, offensive voice was well-known to all of us. Her question was met with applause, and a chorus of “Hear! Hear!”
Jared took another sip of water and smacked his lips. “Let me just say that all the specifics haven’t been worked out yet. However, as a parent, I know the importance of parks and playgrounds, and I have made that known to the Corcoran Group. I’m confident that even though existing playgrounds might have to be moved, room will be found on the property for a new playground, larger and better equipped than the current one.”
An elderly gentleman stood. Walter was a retired physics teacher at our local community college. His voice was deep and resonant. “Mr. Worrell,” he intoned, “it is my understanding that at these type of writers’ retreats, a lot more sex goes on than writing.”
A few uncertain snickers circled the room.
Jared replied, “I wouldn’t know about that, sir. But I assure you that the new owners will see to it that the Worrell Institute for Creativity is a place for writers to write, and for artists to create. Next.”
One of our mailmen, Jerry Monk, who’d been delivering to my house for a few years, stood. He was overweight, and totally bald, and he spoke with the labored breathing that overweight invariably causes. “Mr. Worrell, no offense. But we all know that writers drink a lot, and even use drugs. That’s common knowledge. No secret about it. They have to, I hear, to keep writing their stories.” He looked at the people next to him before adding, “Sounds to me like this town is going to pot.”
Laughter, and applause.
I had to say something. I’m a writer. I enjoy an occasional glass of wine with dinner. I’ve never used drugs in my life.
I stood. “Sir, if I might,” I said, hopefully loud enough to cut through the noise. People turned and looked at me. “My name is Jessica Fletcher. As a writer of more than thirty novels, I feel compelled to take issue with the mistaken perception expressed here this morning about writers and artists. I assure any of you who share Jerry Monk’s view of us—of me—that you’re wrong. Believe me, your concerns and fears about having creative people in residence at this new institute are unfounded.”
I expected some response. There wasn’t any. Just stares. I took a deep breath and continued: “Ladies and gentlemen, I personally know just about all of you. We’ve shared many years together in this town that we love. Frankly—and I understand your concerns—I believe that what Mr. Worrell has presented us today, that his family’s ancestral home will become the Worrell Institute for Creativity, could prove to be a positive thing for Cabot Cove. It could spawn a cultural center of which we can all be proud. I—endorse it, and I hope you will, too.”
I sat and thought about what I’d just said. I hadn’t intended to endorse this new use of the Worrell Mansion. All I wanted to do was defend writers. The endorsement just came out.