you’re probably familiar with. Then again, considering how prolific you are, maybe you haven’t ever suffered writer’s block.”
I laughed. “Oh, yes, I have.” I thought of the depressed, blocked Maureen Beaumont; the warmth of my house turned chilly.
“I just thought you might be a dear and check in on him now and then. Frankly, I’m worried about Norman. He’s been drinking heavily. Put on a lot of weight. More bloat, I guess you could call it. He seems to have lost all his spark, his zest for life.”
The room grew colder still.
“Of course I’ll keep in touch with him. I’ll be going to the institute anyway now and then. I’ll just make it more of a regular habit.”
“I knew I could count on you, Jess. Working on something new?”
“Yes. Well into a new novel. No writer’s block. At least not yet. Any chance of you coming here to visit Norm?”
“Not planning on it, but you never know. I’ll let you go. Thanks again. Maybe I will plan to visit. Talking with you makes me realize how much I miss the East Coast, and friends like Jessica Fletcher.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Jill. Norman will be in good hands.” I winced as I said it. I knew my hands would be good. But considering what had happened to the young flautist, I probably shouldn’t be issuing such positive statements about the Worrell Institute for Creativity.
Chapter Six
“Make that two pumpkin and one apple,” I said, proud that I’d finally made up my mind. Usually, I’m capable of making swift, rational decisions, especially if the dilemma is of some importance. It’s over little decisions that I often trip, my mind changing as rapidly and often as New England weather.
Like deciding what pies to order. Give me a murder plot to unravel, and I leave no clue unturned. Ask me how many pies I need for Thanksgiving dinner, and I inevitably arrive at a hung jury.
“No, wait,” I said to Charlene Sassi, owner of Cabot Cove’s finest fancy food store and bakery. How she could own a bakery and still maintain her pencil-thin figure will always be an enigma to me. “Bear with me for a minute, Charlene. I’m still not sure how many I need.”
I looked up at the wood-beamed ceiling from which dozens of pretty wicker baskets hung, closed my eyes, and silently counted once again the number of guests who would be sitting at my round oak table on Thanksgiving Day, one week from today. “Okay, all set,” I said. Charlene had waited patiently despite a crush of other customers, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side. “Two apple pies, one pumpkin, and one clam. That’ll do it. I think.”
“You said you’re having seven guests, right?” she said. “Unless they come in extra large sizes, you’ve ordered more than enough.”
“Thanks for your patience. Pick them up Thanksgiving morning? You open at six?”
“Ayuh. Same time, same place, just higher prices. Next?”
My order for holiday pies placed, I headed for lunch with old friend and screenwriter Norman Huffaker. He’d gone straight to the Worrell Institute for Creativity upon arriving in Cabot Cove, and called me that evening. It was good to hear his voice, although he sounded different than the last time we’d talked. But that was over a year ago. I probably sounded different, too.
He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about meeting for lunch, but I prevailed. “I promised Jill I’d keep an eye on you,” I said lightly, adding a laugh for emphasis. He didn’t laugh. I sensed annoyance.
“All right,” he said. “Lunch it is. But we’ll have to make it a quick one. I came to Worrell to get over this damnable block I’m having. Nothing ever gets written over lunch.”
And that’s how we left it. I was tempted to call it off. I certainly didn’t want to be perceived as having intruded upon his work for something as frivolous as lunch. On the other hand, I wanted to see him. After all, he was an old friend. And—I wasn’t at all guilty about this—I
I laughed. “Oh, yes, I have.” I thought of the depressed, blocked Maureen Beaumont; the warmth of my house turned chilly.
“I just thought you might be a dear and check in on him now and then. Frankly, I’m worried about Norman. He’s been drinking heavily. Put on a lot of weight. More bloat, I guess you could call it. He seems to have lost all his spark, his zest for life.”
The room grew colder still.
“Of course I’ll keep in touch with him. I’ll be going to the institute anyway now and then. I’ll just make it more of a regular habit.”
“I knew I could count on you, Jess. Working on something new?”
“Yes. Well into a new novel. No writer’s block. At least not yet. Any chance of you coming here to visit Norm?”
“Not planning on it, but you never know. I’ll let you go. Thanks again. Maybe I will plan to visit. Talking with you makes me realize how much I miss the East Coast, and friends like Jessica Fletcher.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Jill. Norman will be in good hands.” I winced as I said it. I knew my hands would be good. But considering what had happened to the young flautist, I probably shouldn’t be issuing such positive statements about the Worrell Institute for Creativity.
Chapter Six
“Make that two pumpkin and one apple,” I said, proud that I’d finally made up my mind. Usually, I’m capable of making swift, rational decisions, especially if the dilemma is of some importance. It’s over little decisions that I often trip, my mind changing as rapidly and often as New England weather.
Like deciding what pies to order. Give me a murder plot to unravel, and I leave no clue unturned. Ask me how many pies I need for Thanksgiving dinner, and I inevitably arrive at a hung jury.
“No, wait,” I said to Charlene Sassi, owner of Cabot Cove’s finest fancy food store and bakery. How she could own a bakery and still maintain her pencil-thin figure will always be an enigma to me. “Bear with me for a minute, Charlene. I’m still not sure how many I need.”
I looked up at the wood-beamed ceiling from which dozens of pretty wicker baskets hung, closed my eyes, and silently counted once again the number of guests who would be sitting at my round oak table on Thanksgiving Day, one week from today. “Okay, all set,” I said. Charlene had waited patiently despite a crush of other customers, hand on her hip, head cocked to the side. “Two apple pies, one pumpkin, and one clam. That’ll do it. I think.”
“You said you’re having seven guests, right?” she said. “Unless they come in extra large sizes, you’ve ordered more than enough.”
“Thanks for your patience. Pick them up Thanksgiving morning? You open at six?”
“Ayuh. Same time, same place, just higher prices. Next?”
My order for holiday pies placed, I headed for lunch with old friend and screenwriter Norman Huffaker. He’d gone straight to the Worrell Institute for Creativity upon arriving in Cabot Cove, and called me that evening. It was good to hear his voice, although he sounded different than the last time we’d talked. But that was over a year ago. I probably sounded different, too.
He wasn’t overly enthusiastic about meeting for lunch, but I prevailed. “I promised Jill I’d keep an eye on you,” I said lightly, adding a laugh for emphasis. He didn’t laugh. I sensed annoyance.
“All right,” he said. “Lunch it is. But we’ll have to make it a quick one. I came to Worrell to get over this damnable block I’m having. Nothing ever gets written over lunch.”
And that’s how we left it. I was tempted to call it off. I certainly didn’t want to be perceived as having intruded upon his work for something as frivolous as lunch. On the other hand, I wanted to see him. After all, he was an old friend. And—I wasn’t at all guilty about this—I
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