Brandy and Bullets by Jessica Fletcher

staying with it. “Maureen was living under a thick, dark cloud, Jessica. One of the last things she said to me during our session yesterday afternoon was, ‘My mind is like a bad neighborhood that I don’t want to go into alone.’ I suggested she stay out of that neighborhood, that she explore a new one. She said she’d try. Evidently, she didn’t try hard enough.”
    “Her family must be taking it pretty hard,” I said.
    “They’ve already made arrangements to have their daughter’s body flown back to California for burial. I understand your sheriff, Mr. Metzger, isn’t too happy they’ll be performing the autopsy out there instead of here.”
    “Isn’t that unusual?” I asked. “I thought the authority for an autopsy would rest with the jurisdiction in which the death took place.”
    “Not always. California was her home. The wishes of the family are being honored.”
    “I understand,” I said.
    “I hate to be rude, Jessica, but I’ve scheduled a meeting with Ms. Portledge and some of the staff to try and put this tragedy in better perspective. Could we postpone discussing your seminar? Maybe next week, after the dust settles.”
    “Of course. Sorry to barge in on you this way. I’ll call to set up a meeting. Is there anything I can do regarding Ms. Beaumont?”
    “No. But thank you for asking. I’ll see you out.”
    “No need. I dropped bread crumbs on our way here. I’ll just follow them.”
    “All right. I think I’ll hide here for the few minutes I have before the meeting. Some quiet thought is very much in order.”
    And to have another drink, I surmised.
    As I descended the stairs to the entrance foyer, Mort Metzger was coming through the front door.
    “I saw your car,” I said. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
    “Didn’t know you’d be here, either, Jess.”
    “I just met with Dr. O’Neill.”
    “About the death?”
    “Ah—about my seminar. But we did discuss the suicide. Just in passing.”
    “I’m going back to her room. We’re still dusting for prints, and taking photos.”
    “Can I tag along?”
    “Sure.” He motioned me into a comer of the foyer. “Want to know what’s goin’ on?” he asked.
    “Always.”
    “They’re shippin’ the body out of the state. Back to California.”
    “I heard.”
    “Smells, if you ask me.”
    “Can’t you fight it? Legally, I mean?”
    “Not if the county prosecutor goes along with it. He has.”
    We walked down the long, narrow corridor that was familiar to me because of the tour I’d been given by Beth Anne during the party, and stopped at a door with yellow tape across it that read: CRIME SCENE. Mort held up the tape, and I ducked under. He followed.
    A white bedspread with small pink flowers had been showered with blood, now darkened with age. The dresser and desk were coated with a layer of white dust used in searching for fingerprints. White masking tape crudely traced the outline of how her body had been positioned on the floor. Dried blood had accumulated in the area where her head had been.
    “Who’s the man taking notes?” I asked Mort.
    “Oh, him? Another psychiatrist from the institute.”
    The man to whom I’d referred was, I judged, to be in his mid or late thirties. He was handsome despite having facial features that were too small for his head. He wore half-glasses. His jacket was gray tweed, his shirt a blue button-down. He wore a yellow-and-green paisley bow tie.
    “Name’s Fechter,” Mort said. “Donald Fechter.”
    “Hello,” I said, approaching him.
    He looked up from his notepad.
    “My name is Jessica Fletcher. I’ll be teaching a seminar here in December.”
    “Oh. I’m Dr. Fechter.” We shook hands.
    “What a terrible thing,” I said, nodding at the white tape on the floor.
    “Certainly was,” he said, making another note on his pad.
    “Are you—well, are you in charge of the investigation?” I asked. “I mean, from the institute’s perspective?”
    “No, ma’am. Just