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when Beth Anne delivered us back to the ballroom. “Enjoy your tour?” he asked me.
    “Very much. The services you offer are remarkable.”
    “Just following some old, wise advice, Mrs. Fletcher. Anything worth doing is worth doing right. Might I speak with you for a moment?”
    “Of course.”
    We went to a relatively quiet comer of the large room. “Mrs. Fletcher—”
    “Please. Make it Jessica.”
    His eyes sparkled. “And my name is Michael. Would you consider teaching a few seminars, maybe two a year, for our residents? You don’t need to answer now. But will you at least think about it? We’re honored that you live in Cabot Cove.”
    “That’s a fascinating offer,” I said.
    “We’ll compensate you handsomely”
    “I will. Think about it, that is.”
    “Splendid. That’s all I ask. Why not give me a call in a few days. We can discuss it further.”
    “I will.”
    “Ready for dinner?”
    “Dinner?” I laughed. “There’s more food to come? I’m already overfed.”
    “Always room for a little more good food, Jessica.”
    Seth and Mort had already navigated the long tables overflowing with racks of lamb, prime rib, lobster, and dozens of other beautifully prepared and presented dishes. Using my five-mile walk of that morning as rationalization, I sampled a few items, then danced, more for the exercise than the lure of the music. Finally, Seth and I decided it was time to head home. We said our goodbyes, waited outside for the parking attendant to bring Seth’s car from where it had been parked, and we drove down the driveway toward the main gate where we were stopped by a uniformed guard who scrutinized us, wrote down the license plate number, and waved us through.
    “Like visitin’ the CIA,” Seth muttered.
    “Yes,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing. Enjoy yourself? Glad you came?”
    “Sort of.”
    “It’s an impressive operation, isn’t it?”
    He grunted. “Something not quite right about it,” he said. “Not quite real.”
    I laughed. “Certainly not real, as in Cabot Cove. Can’t wait to get home and take off these shoes.”
    “And me, this damn tuxedo.”
    “Nightcap?” I asked as we pulled up in front of my house.
    “No, ma’am, but thank you. Look at that, Jessica.”
    I looked at what he pointed to, the lights of the Worrell Mansion glimmering faintly from its hilltop perch on the outskirts of town.
    “Pretty,” I said.
    “Ayuh. And strange. But what can you expect from a bunch of crazy shrinks? Thanks for bringin’ me, Jessica. Always proud to be on your arm.”

Chapter Five
    “Hello?” I said. My voice was thick with sleep. As always happens when the phone rings at an odd hour, I expected the worst possible news.
    “Suppose I woke you. Sorry about that.”
    “It’s—it’s four-thirty in the morning.” The lamp on my night table was still on. The book that had kept me up until a few hours ago, and that had been resting on my chest when my eyes finally closed, had fallen off when I reached for the phone. I pulled my plaid flannel sheets and down comforter over my head, and pressed my ear against the earpiece.
    “Who is this?”
    “Mort.” He sounded offended that I didn’t know. “Sorry it’s so early.”
    “You already said that. It’s all right. But why are you calling at this ungodly hour?”
    “They found somebody dead up at Worrell.”
    “What? Is this a bad dream?”
    “It’s no bad dream you’re having, Jessica.” He laughed. “I said somebody’s been found dead at the Worrell Institute.” He sounded eerily jubilant considering the time of day, and the circumstances.
    “Who?” I asked.
    “A young woman. ’Bout twenty-nine, thirty. Name’s Maureen Beaumont. A classical musician. Played the flute, I think.”
    “How did she die?”
    “Gunshot to the head. Preliminary ruling is a suicide.”
    “Is that your ruling?” I asked.
    “Nothing certain yet, but looks that way to me. ’Course, I haven’t really dug into it.