Brandy and Bullets Read Online Free PDF Page A

Hazlitt.”
    Mr. Universe glanced quickly through a sheaf of papers. “Name, again, sir? You’re not on the guest list.”
    “Fletcher. Jessica,” I said. “We’re together.”
    Without looking again at the list of names, he said, “This way, ma’am. Sorry for the delay, sir.” I smiled at Seth, who looked unimpressed.
    “The President here tonight?” Seth muttered as we passed into a wide, long foyer with a ceiling far above our heads. “Why all the tight security?”
    “Undoubtedly to protect you from assassins.”
    Once inside, we were passed along a lengthy receiving line. At its end were the Worrell Institute for Creativity’s director, Dr. Michael O’Neill, and his administrative assistant, Beth Anne Portledge.
    “Mrs. Fletcher. We are extremely honored to have your presence here this evening,” O’Neill said. “We’ve been anxiously awaiting your arrival.” O’Neill was sixty-something, with a healthy head of silver hair, ruddy cheeks, and seductive, watery blue eyes. No debate about his family’s national origins. Irish through and through.
    “Welcome to Worrell,” Ms. Portledge said pleasantly. She was short and borderline chubby, with a round face, minimal makeup, and straight brown hair pulled back into a tight chignon. She was dressed more for a business meeting than a party. Brown suit with narrow white stripes, white blouse with a large bow at the neck, and sensible brown shoes.
    “Thank you very much, Dr. O’Neill,” I said. “This is my friend, Dr. Seth Hazlitt.”
    “Always nice to meet a fellow practitioner,” said O’Neill. “Specialty?”
    “Family medicine.”
    “Not enough of you to go around. I practiced family medicine once. Before going into psychialry.”
    I hoped Seth wouldn’t launch into one of his condemnations of psychiatry. He didn’t, to my relief.
    Although guests continued to come through the door, O’Neill and his assistant abandoned their spot on the receiving line and took us aside. “I’m looking forward to some good conversations with you, Mrs. Fletcher,” O’Neill said. “You’re obviously an extremely creative person. All writing is creative, but developing a murder mystery must rank high on the creativity list.”
    “Actually, I think it’s more a case of perspiration than inspiration,” I said.
    “Modest. But I think there’s more to it than that. I’ve been studying the creative process for many years. I’ve traveled the world trying to identify just what makes the creative mind work. That’s what brings me to Worrell. We’re going to focus sharply on the creative processes used by the artists-in-residence.”
    “Fascinating,” I said. I could have added “surprising.” It sounded more like group therapy than an artist’s retreat.
    “Nice meeting you, Doctor,” Seth said, taking my elbow. He was obviously anxious to move on.
    “The ballroom is just over here,” said O’Neill. “Beth Anne, would you be kind enough to hold the fort while I escort this lovely lady to the party?”
    The ballroom was already crowded with elegantly dressed people, few of whom I recognized. I spotted Cabot Cove mayor Sybil Stewart, who wore a fancy red gown and who chatted with a knot of guests. An orchestra that sounded like all society ball orchestras played bouncy show tunes, which had a number of couples spinning about the dance floor. It was all very festive, hardly what I expected at a party to open a creative center. I expected any moment to see a line of debs come down the winding staircase.
    “Save me a dance,” Dr. O’Neill said.
    “My pleasure,” I said.
    He returned to the foyer. A waitress passed with a tray of caviar canapes and stuffed mushrooms. Seth stopped her and loaded up a cocktail napkin with her wares. I nibbled on a canape as he lightened a waiter’s tray by taking two glasses of champagne from it. I raised my glass. “To fall,” I said.
    “To winter,” he said, frowning. “Dance?” The orchestra was playing