Brandy and Bullets Read Online Free Page A

gets used by a writer, they say. Every life experience, every person met. I’m no exception. I started each day that spring and summer by taking a long walk up to the Worrell Mansion, where construction crews busily renovated the stately old queen into what it would become—the Worrell Institute for Creativity. Huge earth-moving machines and dozens of men (and a few women who wore their hard hats with equal pride as their male counterparts) transformed the mansion. The tranquil summer was punctuated by the whine of power saws, and the hammering of nails. Representatives of the Corcoran Group conferred with architects. Progress was afoot in sleepy Cabot Cove, and it was met with mixed reactions.
    Overall, the clamor against the institute had pretty much abated. Many townspeople found work with the construction gangs. Mara saw an opportunity. She rented a small truck, outfitted it with a coffee urn, loaded it with Danish and sandwiches, and brought her luncheonette to the site to feed the hungry crews. Every motel within ten miles was booked to capacity. While there were still those who grumbled about what was to become of Cabot Cove once the institute opened in the fall, most chose not to look this gift horse in its mouth.
    And I found inspiration in the Worrell Mansion that summer. My new novel would revolve around a murder that takes place in a creative artists’ retreat that has been established in a small New England town. I told no one of this, of course, lest they think I intended to profit from this new chapter in Cabot Cove’s life story.
    Which, of course, was exactly what I was doing.
    I toyed with various titles as I progressed on the book. Artists in Crime. The Creative Murders. Creativity Most Foul. None of which pleased me. Eventually, the book would be called Brandy & Bullets. But that part of the story is still to come.

Chapter Four
    Autumn—That Same Year
    Autumn, my favorite time of year, always arrives earlier in Maine than other parts of New England. This year, it came earlier than ever. The clear blue sky seemed bigger and higher; the air had a crispness that was welcome after an unusually warm and humid summer. Soon, winter would roar into Maine with its customary fury. But for now, perfection reigned.
    One of my favorite rites of passage each fall has been to take a five-mile walk through Cabot Creek Preserve, a wildlife refuge with soaring, full trees that boast the most vibrant primary colors during peak foliage. That’s what I did this morning. I took along my binoculars with hopes of spotting any of the myriad species of birds that top the endangered species list, a few of which have historically called the preserve home. I had no such luck. I could only hope they hadn’t yet joined the extinction list.
    The picture-perfect weekend weather forecast received rave reviews from local inns, and bed-and-breakfasts; NO VACANCY signs were up everywhere as tourists drove hundreds of miles to marvel at what I’ve always been able to enjoy from my kitchen window.
    But tourists and townspeople weren’t the only ones to thank Mother Nature for a splendid weekend. The official opening of the Worrell Institute for Creativity was scheduled for that night. Renovations on the mansion had been completed only days ago, and last-minute touch-ups were still going on. Resistance to the center had continued to decline, although there were still a few vocal citizens who spoke against it at every opportunity. Mara’s Luncheonette was their favorite forum, which was why I’d been eating most of my breakfasts at home. Sybil Stewart had eased off on her public condemnation of the mansion’s new use, which gave her time to settle the threatened garbage strike, and to focus on other more pressing town matters. Evidently, my little speech had had some impact upon her thinking, especially the part in which I pointed out that no matter what anyone thought, or felt, the center was about to become a reality. “It’s a