Free Brandy and Bullets by Jessica Fletcher Page B

you well. I look forward to speaking with you, and to seeing you once again. Ta ta for now. Oh, by the way, my new number is 617-555-3553.”
    It was the perfect weekend to go to Boston. I hadn’t been there for some time, and Seth had mentioned he was planning to go in the next couple of weeks to do some Christmas shopping. My Thanksgiving shopping was basically completed. I’d shelved working on my book. The weekend was free of social obligations.
    Yes. I would go, and encourage Seth to go with me.
    There was another reason for deciding to head for Boston and this “charming little dive” called Tickletoes. I’ve always been fascinated with hypnosis. Although I’ve never been a subject of it—I was told I wouldn’t be a good one—I delved into it a number of years ago as background for a novel in which hypnosis played a role in the resolution of the plot. I consulted with doctors known for their use of it in medical situations, and walked away from the learning experience impressed and excited about my newfound knowledge. It would be fun to see a professional practice hypnosis, even in a nightclub setting.
    And, I reminded myself as I went through the process of convincing myself to take Carson James up on his offer, that hypnosis was part of the package offered at the Worrell Institute for Creativity. A refresher course couldn’t hurt.
    Carson sounded sincerely pleased when I reached him and said I would be there for his Saturday night show, and that Seth had agreed to accompany me. Carson’s only reservation, which he proclaimed in his theatrical, overblown fashion, was that many doctors look upon stage hypnotists with scorn.
    “Not this doctor,” I quickly told him. “The only thing Seth scorns are people who are scornful. See you Saturday.”

Chapter Seven
    The only problem in going away with Seth Hazlitt is that he’s the quintessential early-morning person. He’s always up at the crack of dawn, showered, shaved, and breakfasted by six, jolly and alert, excited about what the day might bring. I respect that. But leaving for Boston at five A.M. Saturday morning “in order to beat the traffic” seemed a bit much.
    “Could we leave at six?” I asked, thinking I’d offered a reasonable alternative.
    “By six, Jessica, everybody and his brother’ll be on the road. Be at your house at five sharp.”
    We were Boston-bound at 5:05.
    I love Boston, always have. I’ve stayed at a number of fine hotels there, but the Bostonian has become a particular favorite of late. Despite its central location—just across from Faneuil Hall and the bustling Quincy Market—it has the quiet charm of a small, secluded European retreat, with its cobble-stone courtyard entrance, sedate lobby, and tastefully furnished and decorated rooms. I believe in indulging myself in a hotel’s better rooms when traveling. Once I’ve committed to the cost of staying at a hotel, the few extra dollars to upgrade seem worth it. I’d reserved a room with a fireplace and with a balcony that afforded a wonderful view of the market. Seth doesn’t share my enthusiasm for a touch of opulence when traveling. I reserved the smallest, least expensive room for him, on his instructions.
    Although it wasn’t yet Thanksgiving, the holiday season was in full swing in Boston that day, as shoppers braved a brisk, cold wind in search of the perfect early Christmas gift. Seth and I were swept up in the spirit, and I returned to the hotel delighted that I’d gotten such an impressive start on my list. I was also exhausted. Carson James had told me that Tickletoes was a comedy club catering to the younger set, which meant the entertainment started late, and ended even later. The first show was at nine-thirty. It was now five-thirty. Seth and I had agreed to meet for dinner at Seasons, the hotel’s fourth-floor restaurant, at seven. That left me an hour and a half to sink into my room’s Jacuzzi, relax in front of a fire—undoubtedly to doze a