Brandy and Bullets Read Online Free PDF Page B

others waited. Among them was Sybil Stewart, and the county’s district attorney, Arthur Goldberg.
    We began at the back of the mansion where an expansive greenhouse housed a European spa, replete with an anti-cellulite massage room. Another glass wing connected to the spa contained a heated Olympic-size swimming pool. “Nothing like a couple of laps to cure writer’s block,” Beth Anne said pleasantly.
    “I’m really impressed,” I said. “But how much does it cost an artist or writer to stay at Worrell? With all these extravagant amenities, I imagine it isn’t cheap.”
    “We work on a sliding scale,” she replied. “Dr. O’Neill would be a better source of that information for you. He’ll quote you the rates.”
    Rates? It was sounding and looking more like a resort every minute.
    We passed through the spa again, which smelled like eucalyptus, and entered a long, narrow, winding hallway. “We’ll take a quick peek at one of the guest rooms,” Portledge said. “I know that Nineteen is empty. There are sixty in all. We have almost a full house.”
    As we made our way toward Room 19, two things struck me as odd. First, there was a set of French doors with a fancy engraved brass plaque that read: “BEHAVIORAL SCIENCES UNIT.” I asked Beth Anne about it.
    “We do a lot of work with behavior modification,” she answered quickly over her shoulder.
    “What kind?” I asked, keeping step.
    “The usual. Helping our clients get over whatever creative problems they might be having. We have special accommodations for those who are really struggling.”
    She knew her script well.
    The second thing that piqued my interest was at the end of the hall, where a small, handwritten sign read: “ADDICTIONS CENTER.” Beth Anne’s face turned into a scowl as she pulled the sign down and shoved it in her jacket pocket.
    I stopped in front of the door as the others continued to follow her. Sensing that she’d lost one person, she stopped and glared at me.
    “Mrs. Fletcher?”
    “Addictions?” I said. “Alcoholism? That sort of thing?”
    “In case we were to have such a problem. We don’t!”
    In contrast to the opulent public rooms, Room 19 was Zen-like. The walls were stark white; one black-and-white print of a snowy landscape was the only thing to break the white expanse. A white bedspread with tiny pink flowers neatly covered a single bed. A tiny, two-drawer white dresser was on one wall, an equally small, white Formica desk on the other.
    “Spartan,” DA Goldberg said.
    “Functional,” Portledge said, leading us from the room. “As few distractions as possible. We want them to spend as little time in their rooms as possible.”
    I was about to comment that as a writer, the more time spent alone in my room, the more I’d get written. But I didn’t express that thought. I’d developed a feeling that Ms. Portledge preferred show-and-tell, without questions from her class.
    We reached one of two libraries, whose rich, oak paneling, floor-to-ceiling stacks of books, oversize armchairs, and large wooden desks made them considerably more inviting than Room 19 had been.
    Immediately off the library was a sundry-type store that sold magazines and books, supplies, drugstore items, and other necessities found in shopping concourses of the world’s grand hotels. There was even a laundry and dry-cleaning service. If Cabot Cove’s merchants expected a lot of business from the institute’s residents, they were in for a disappointment.
    Especially restaurant owners.
    The main dining room, or Thoreau Room, as it was called, served three meals daily. The smaller dining room, the Proust Room, served lighter fare all day long, including early-morning continental breakfast and late-night snacks.
    “Twenty-four-hour room service,” someone in the group said in disbelief when Beth Anne mentioned it.
    “Yes. Creative people don’t follow the same clock as most others. We try to accommodate.”
    Dr. O’Neill was waiting