Brandy and Bullets Read Online Free PDF

a favorite of mine, “Just in Time.”
    “Rain check,” I said, continuing to observe the crowd. “There’s Mort.”
    “Where?” Seth stood on tiptoes.
    “On the dance floor. With the blond lady.”
    Seth followed the direction of my finger and saw our friend, Cabot Cove’s sheriff, dancing with a woman who was a few inches taller, many years younger, and who looked as though she’d stood in a mold while her silver-and-black-sequined dress was poured over her.
    “Be damned,” Seth mumbled.
    “He looks nice in his tux,” I said.
    “Looks like a—I suppose he looks okay.”
    “And having a wonderful time.”
    “Uh-huh.”
    Friends from Cabot Cove approached, and we happily chatted: “Beautiful renovation”—“Lovely party”—“So exciting having artists in our town”—“Best party since New Year’s Eve of nineteen-eighty” —“Who’s the blonde with Sheriff Metzger?”
    Before that final question could be answered, Nelson Whippet, Cabot Cove’s wealthiest citizen (junk bonds on Wall Street) spirited me to the dance floor, leaving Seth looking lonely and forlorn, even though he was surrounded by friends.
    After a series of spirited dips and swirls, Nelson brought me back to where Seth was now talking with Mort Metzger, and others.
    “Whew!” I said, wiping my damp face. “Nelson takes dancing as seriously as his investments.”
    “You look real nice, Jess,” Mort said.
    “Thank you.”
    The slinky blonde was at his side.
    Mort realized we were all looking at her. He said, “This here is Susan Dalton. She’s a writer. Stayin’ here at the institute. Writing a murder mystery.”
    Susan smiled. “I admit it,” she said. “I am picking the brain of a real live law enforcement officer. A real live sheriff.”
    Morton beamed.
    My reaction was one of disbelief. Other artists-in-residence at the party were readily discernible from the other guests. No tuxedos. No patent shoes. No sequined gowns. Their uniforms were jeans, turtle-necks, and corduroy jackets with patches at the elbows.
    “Do you have a publisher?” I asked. I wasn’t prying. I was interested.
    “My brother has a friend who said he would look at the book once I write it. I’ve been trying to write it for ten years.” A giggle. “I hope being here will help.”
    “I’m sure it will,” I said.
    “Jessica is a mystery writer,” Morton said.
    Her eyes opened wide. “You are? Have I read any of your books?”
    “I—probably not.”
    As Seth and I walked away, I heard her say to Mort, “Jessica Fletcher? I’ve never heard of her.” Which was just as well.
    We continued to enjoy the party. The food was excellent (a fancy Boston caterer), and there was an unending supply of it: oysters on the half shell, oysters Rockefeller, pâté, deviled eggs, marinated artichoke hearts, shrimp wontons, crabmeat stuffed mushrooms, calamari, and more. Morton’s blond friend had deserted him for a tall, slender man who was identified as one of the institute’s psychiatrists. His name sounded Hungarian to me—Tomar Meti—although it could have been of any slavic origin. He looked Hungarian; black hair plastered to his head, closely cropped salt-and-pepper beard, probing dark eyes. And a good dancer. Ms. Dalton seemed to be enjoying herself.
    “Mrs. Fletcher.”
    I turned to face Beth Anne, the institute’s assistant director.
    “Dr. O’Neill thought you might enjoy a personal tour of the facilities.”
    “That would be lovely.”
    “The other guests will be shown around,” she said. “But Dr. O’Neill asked me to escort you and a few other selected guests on a more comprehensive tour.”
    I looked at Seth.
    “Dr. Hazlitt is welcome, too,” Beth Anne said.
    “Thank you,” Seth said. “You go ahead, Jess. Mort and I still have some eating to do.” It was good to see them acting like good friends again. They went off in pursuit of a waiter carrying a large tray of shrimp, and I followed Beth Anne to where a half dozen