Brandy and Bullets by Jessica Fletcher Page B

a friendly little experiment in the interest of science.”
    I looked to Seth, whose expression said I should accommodate Carson. It wasn’t what I wanted to see. I wanted Seth to shake his head, which would have given me the resolve to decline. But Seth hadn’t given me that sign, and Carson was still motioning, so I stood, straightened my dress, and climbed up next to him. The applause was loud.
    “Ever see the world’s greatest mystery writer go into a trance?” he asked the audience.
    “Do it!” someone yelled.
    “Awright!!”
    “Carson, I really don’t think I should—”
    “Relax, Jessica. Close your eyes. Think of pleasant thoughts. A beach at sunset. Relax. Relax. That’s right. Think of your lovely home in Maine. A fire burning. Warm. Comfortable. Just hear me. Your eyes are closed because your eyelids are heavy. Very, very heavy. That’s right. Your left arm is attached to helium-filled balloons and wants to float up over your head. Lighter and lighter. Let it go, Jess. Let it float free.”
    I can only report in retrospect what I felt during the time with Carson James on that small stage. It was blissful. I was totally relaxed, felt light as a feather. Seth told me later that I had a wide smile on my face throughout, until—
    Until Carson had me sit in a chair. “You’re driving down a beautiful coastline, Jessica,” he said.
    That’s when, according to Seth, my smile changed to a frown, and then a panicked look crossed my face. Carson saw the change, too, and asked if I was feeling all right.
    “She doesn’t drive,” Seth hissed from the audience.
    My arms stretched in front of me, and my right foot tapped the floor in search of a brake pedal. Carson quickly brought me out of my trance, thanked me, and I returned to the table.
    “You looked right petrified up there,” Seth said.
    “I was driving a car, Seth. I was afraid because I didn’t know how to stop it. I thought I was going to plunge over a ledge.”
    “Damn fool thing for him to be doin’ to people,” Seth said.
    “Well, it’s over,” I said.
    Carson ended his act by whistling the first few bars of “When Johnny Comes Marching Home” into the microphone. The people at surrounding tables who’d been his earlier subjects went into their crazy routines again, a chicken clucking and flapping her elbows, the young man with the baseball hat standing, his arms extended above his head in a circle as he attempted an intricate ballet move. Carson brought them back to the stage, told them everything he’d said would now be forgotten, and that hearing that particular song would no longer mean anything to them. He took his bows and strode from the stage.
    Minutes later he was at our table. He took my hand in his and said, “I’m sorry, Jessica. It never dawned on me that you didn’t drive.”
    “That’s all right,” I said. “But I must admit there was a moment there when I was frightened. Incredible, how you actually had me in a car. I wasn’t here in this club. I was in a car, behind the wheel.”
    “Dangerous thing you do, Mr. James,” Seth said sternly.
    “Not really, Doctor. What happened to Jessica doesn’t happen often. The moment I saw that she was in some sort of distress, I brought her right out of it.”
    “Maybe that’s ‘cause Jess is a strong woman. What happens when you get somebody who’s a perfect subject for hypnosis, a ‘five’ on the Spiegel scale of hypnotizability?”
    “You’re familiar with Dr. Spiegel’s Hypnotic Induction Profile?” Carson said.
    “Ayuh. Took a course once with him down at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital in New York City. Learned a lot.”
    Two people came to the table and asked me for my autograph, which I happily gave them.
    I said to Seth, “I didn’t realize you knew as much as you do about hypnosis.”
    “I don’t know much, ‘cept that everything depends on the subject. Some folks are good, some not so good. You can do damn near anything with a good subject,