Brandy and Bullets Read Online Free

there might be some writing that goes on. Even erotic poetry is considered writing.”
    I was desperate to leave. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I was aware, of course, that Cabot Cove was a conservative community, steeped in what probably would be considered old-fashioned values. In most instances, I shared those values, and was glad I lived in a town where they existed.
    But there is a difference between old-fashioned values, and straight-out prejudice and broad-brush smearing of classes of people—any class of people. I was in the process of rationalizing to myself that Sybil’s behavior was an aberration, that reason would ultimately prevail, when she said, “Jessica Fletcher, as we all know, is a respected mystery writer. Not the sort who goes to writers’ camps. Yesterday, we heard Mrs. Fletcher speak out at the press conference on Mr. Worrell’s behalf. Now that she’s had time to sleep on it, I’m certain she realizes that our concerns about the Worrell Institute are justified.”
    Being put on the spot like that offended me, as did the assumption that I’d come to my senses. I stood. “I’m afraid you’re wrong, Sybil. I haven’t changed my view any more than you have. Excuse me. I must go.”
    No one said anything as I put on my raincoat and headed for the door at the rear of the room. But I stopped, turned, and said, “What bothers me is that assumptions are being made before the institute opens and its residents arrive. Are we that closed-minded that we aren’t willing to give it a chance?”
    Men on the council fiddled with their empty cups, and removed imaginary lint from winter-worn sweaters and jackets. A few coughed nervously. A council member, Sue Maehart, a good friend, smiled and nodded.
    Buoyed by her encouragement, I went on: “I did not intend to say anything this morning. But as long as I’ve made an effort to be here, I do have something to say. All writers are not drunks. Nor are they sexaholics. Some writers drink. Some even enjoy sex, I hear.” Several in the room laughed. Sybil was not amused.
    “And, yes, some writers drink and enjoy sex. But, I also hear that there are lawyers, doctors, plumbers, teachers, scientists, and astronauts who do, too.”
    “She’s right about that,” a man muttered to his wife. “Especially the lawyers.”
    “I love this town and its people,” I said. “But would anyone deny that we could use a cultural boost? We have our movie theater. And the high school drama productions are always darn good. But the Worrell Institute for Creativity could establish Cabot Cove as a cultural center to be envied. It will draw talented men and women to our community, writers and artists, poets and essayists. Eventually, it might become the cultural mecca of New England. But only if we stand behind it. Or, at least, not kill its potential before it has a chance to get off the ground.
    “You talk of our children. Many of Cabot Cove’s children could be gifted writers, only they don’t know it because it hasn’t been nurtured in them. A place like the Worrell Institute can inspire them.” I paused. “It can inspire the writer in all of us.”
    Sue Maehart applauded. Others joined.
    “Finally,” I said, “if I haven’t changed your minds, consider this. No matter what you think or say, the mansion has been sold to this Corcoran Group in Boston. It will become a creative center. That is the reality. And I suggest we get on to more pressing matters—like who will collect our garbage next week.”
    I opened the door.
    “Jessica?”
    I turned. “Yes, Sybil?”
    “I didn’t know that great writers were supposed to be great speakers as well.”
    I sighed, smiled. “Just another misconception, Sybil. But thank you for the compliment.”
    I left realizing that I had finally become involved in politics.
    Stick to writing was the advice I gave myself.
     
    And so spring turned to summer in Cabot Cove, and I started work on my new novel. Everything