Free Brandy and Bullets by Jessica Fletcher Page A

did you know that someone else at Worrell tried to kill herself last night?”
    “No.” His red face turned ashen. He put his drink down and rubbed his eyes.
    “Norm. Are you okay?”
    “What was her name?” he asked.
    “I don’t know. Mort didn’t mention it.”
    “I’ve got to go, Jess. I forgot I have a meeting at Worrell this afternoon.” .
    I didn’t believe him for a moment.
    “Sorry.” He motioned Clara to the table. “Put a stop on that second beef stew,” he said. “And give me the check. I have to run.”
    Clara looked quizzically at me before heading for the kitchen. “Norm,” I said. “Is there something wrong? Did my mentioning this latest tragedy upset you?”
    “Of course not. We’ll do this again soon.” He put on his coat as Clara laid the check on the table.
    “Norm, I’d love it if you would come for Thanksgiving dinner next week. I’ll be making my hard sauce. Please come.”
    “Sure, that would be great, Jess.” He laid money on the check, kissed my cheek, and headed for the door.
    “What was that all about?” Clara asked.
    “1 have no idea. But I’d like to know.”
    “If you find out, Jess, let me know, too. Never seen anybody scoot outta here so fast. Still want your stew?”
    “Yes, please. I always get hungry when I’ve been abandoned at a table.”
    As usual, the beef stew was excellent, but my mind wasn’t on food. Obviously, my mention of this latest suicide attempt at Worrell had upset Norm enormously, sent him scurrying away. Why? It couldn’t have been that he knew the victim, because I hadn’t mentioned any name. Strange. Would he show up for Thanksgiving? I doubted it. But I resolved not to let him off the hook too easily I’d keep in touch and remind him of it. I wanted him there° more than ever.
    Clara brought me a glass of brandy after lunch.
    “You have the wrong table,” I said.
    “No, I don’t, Jess. Your friend told me on his way out the door to bring this to you.”
    I took a sip from the fat snifter and turned my face toward the fire. Should I call Jill and tell her of Norm’s unusual behavior? I decided not to. Maybe he did have a meeting he’d forgotten about. Maybe he suddenly wasn’t feeling well and didn’t want to worry me. Maybe ...
    I hate maybes.
     
    I ran all the errands on my lists despite the sleepiness the brandy had induced, and was happy to return home where I made a cup of strong tea, and munched on a cranberry cookie Charlene Sassi had insisted I put in my purse.
    There were several messages on my answering machine. One caught my attention for two reasons: It was from a person I hadn’t seen or talked to for quite a while; and, it was an invitation I immediately decided to accept.
    I’d met Carson James on a flight between Chicago and Houston. I was on tour promoting a book, and he was on his way to appear in a Houston nightclub. Carson is a stage hypnotist, a performer.
    We kept in touch on an irregular basis. Although he’d invited me on many occasions to catch his act, it never worked out. We fell out of touch about two years ago. But here he was. He said on my machine’s tape:
    “Hello there my dear. This is your ghost from Christmas past. Wonderful to hear your voice again, even though it’s recorded and distorted. You really should have the machine checked. Poor quality. I call to report that following a two-year hiatus, during which I served my country in the Peace Corps—I’ll fill you in on that later—I’m alive and well and living in Boston. I’m also back on the nightclub circuit, and am performing this weekend at a charming little dive here in Boston called Tickletoes. I insist that you be my guest, Jessica, and will not accept a negative reply. And please feel free to bring a friend, or some significant other. It won’t cost you anything, except, of course, getting to Boston, hotel, and other incidentals of traveling, which, I know, you are intimately familiar with. I trust this message finds