A Fatal Feast (2 page)

My guess was that he suffered from some form of dementia rather than drinking, as Newt had suggested—I’d never seen him stumble—but I assumed he was harmless enough, and was glad that he was at least able to afford a room. My heart goes out to those who’ve fallen out of life’s mainstream, often through no fault of their own. Of course, some end up in that situation through their use of drugs or alcohol, and Cabot Cove has a few individuals like that, the natural consequence of the town’s growth. Fortunately, our mayor, Jim Shevlin, and the town council have instituted programs to help them abandon the street as a place to live.

I took a final glance at the computer screen and decided to open mail instead of continuing my struggle with the novel. One envelope, a classic number-ten size, caught my eye. My address had been meticulously hand printed. There was no indication of the sender’s identity. Strange, I thought as I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven white paper folded in thirds. I unfolded it. A large red letter
G
that had obviously been cut from a magazine was pasted in the center of the page. I stared at it for a long time. What could it possibly mean? Who’d sent it?
Why
had someone sent it?

I pulled a magnifying glass from my desk drawer and closely examined the paper and envelope. There was nothing I could see to provide a clue to the person behind this strange piece of mail. There was, however, the canceled stamp, which was smudged and almost impossible to read. I squinted through the glass in an attempt to decipher the post office of origin. The best I could make out was that it had been mailed from Ohio.

The doorbell rang. I laid the envelope and paper on the pile of other mail and went to the door, where a driver from the local cab company I use regularly stood. “I beeped a few times, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.

“Oh goodness, Nick,” I said. “I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry. Just give me a minute.”

“That’s what I figured. Take your time. No rush.”

I’d forgotten that I’d called for a taxi to take me to a meeting of the Thanksgiving pageant committee. I grabbed my purse and a folder containing the script, cast a final, fleeting glance at my mysterious piece of mail, and joined the driver outside. Before climbing into his car, I looked across the street. Hubert Billups was gone.

“Everything good with you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Nick asked as he pulled out of my driveway.

“Yes, everything is fine. Thank you for asking.”

Had I been honest, I would have said,
“I’m not sure.”

 

 

 

 

F
ollowing the meeting, I strolled over to Mara’s dockside luncheonette for a cup of tea and to catch up on the latest gossip. Obviously, I’d been the subject of some of it, and I thought I might learn something about my writing struggles that even I didn’t know.

Although the busy tourist season was over, there was still a crowd filling the seats. I craned my neck trying to spot an empty table, or at least one where the occupants looked as if they were waiting for a check. I’d resigned myself to a seat at the counter when Beth Wappinger waved at me. “Come sit here, Jessica,” she said, indicating the second chair at her table.

“Love to.”

“I have to get back to work in a minute,” she said, “but this way you don’t have to wait for a table to open up.”

I’d met Beth three years ago when she and her husband, Josh, moved to Cabot Cove from Portland, Maine. Soon after arriving, she opened a successful clothing shop in the middle of town that featured designer clothing at discount prices. She often kidded that without the shop, she’d go mad from boredom. Josh, a manufacturer’s representative, was on the road for most of every month, traveling the country in search of customers for the various firms he represented.

“All set for Thanksgiving?” she asked after a recently hired young waitress took my order.

“I wish,” I said, blowing a stream of air to emphasize my frustration. “It all comes on so fast, and with everything else going on, there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

“You must really be feeling the pressure,” Beth said, “with your book deadline and all.”

I laughed. “It seems the whole town knows about that,” I said.

“The price of fame, Jessica. You’re Cabot Cove’s first citizen.”

I started to deny that characterization, but Beth excused herself. “Have to run. I don’t like leaving my new teenage clerk alone for too long. Finish that book. Can’t wait to read it.”

As she left, Seth Hazlitt came through the door. I looked beyond him and saw Hubert Billups on the dock, leaning against a railing, arms crossed over his chest.

“Mind company, Jessica?” Cabot Cove’s beloved physician and my dear friend asked, sitting without waiting for an answer.

“You look chipper this morning,” I said.

“Feeling tip-top. Just came from the hospital, where I checked in on Mrs. Watson. She came through the surgery just fine. Lucky thing I had my suspicions about what was ailing her and sent her to the specialists.”

“You’ve always been a superb diagnostician, Seth.”

“I try.” He motioned for the waitress and ordered a short stack of Mara’s signature blueberry pancakes, with a side of bacon. Seth may be a wonderful diagnostician, but he sometimes comes up short as a nutritionist, particularly when it involves his own diet.

We talked about a variety of things, including my plans for Thanksgiving dinner. Eventually, he brought up George Sutherland joining us this year. “So I hear Scotland Yard will be making an appearance at your groaning board. You’ve been after him to come here for Thanksgiving for years now.”

“I know, and I’m so pleased he’s decided to do it. Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday, warm and welcoming to everyone, a reminder of everything good about our country.”

“No running yourself crazy buying gifts, you mean.”

“That, too. Just sitting down together for a good meal and giving thanks for all we have. I’m happy to show him another side of our country than he gets from the media.”

“Where’s he staying?” Seth asked.

“I don’t know. His decision to come was so last-minute. I meant to call around this morning to find him a hotel or motel, but time got away from me. I’ll do it when I get home.”

“Make any progress on your novel?”

I sighed. “No, I haven’t.”

I sat back as the waitress set Seth’s plate in front of him.

“Not like you to get behind in your work, Jessica,” he said, concentrating on pouring syrup over the pancakes. He’d first cut them into pieces. “Makes for nice edges to catch the syrup,” he explains when someone questions his practice.

“ ‘ My work,’ ” I said with an exasperated sigh. “I know I’m behind.” I leaned closer. “Seth, did you happen to notice the fellow on the deck wearing the red-and-black jacket when you arrived?”

“Ayuh, I did. Why do you ask?”

“This may sound silly, Seth, but he’s been spending a lot of time lately outside my house.”

“Is that so? What’s he do there?”

“Just stands and stares.”

“No harm in that. Probably hoping for a handout, like a moose bird.”

“Perhaps, but his constant presence is a little unnerving.”

“Constant?”

“Well, often enough.”

Seth twisted in his chair to see Billups through the window. “Seems peaceful enough,” he said as the waitress topped off his coffee cup.

“I’m sure you’re right,” I said.

I considered mentioning the strange letter I’d received, but decided I didn’t want to come off more paranoid than I already had. “I’d better get moving,” I said, “if I’m to find George a hotel room.”

“Soon as I finish my pancakes I’ll drive you home,” he said.

His attack on his breakfast was interrupted a number of times by people saying hello and stopping to chat with Cabot Cove’s favorite physician. Fran Winstead asked if she could get a renewal on her husband Wally’s blood pressure medicine.

“Ayuh. Call me at the office in an hour,” Seth told her.

I recognized one couple who’d waved at him, although I didn’t know their names. They’d moved into a house at the end of the road on which I lived. I asked Seth who they were.

“Name’s Carson, Mr. and Mrs. Haven’t met him yet, but his wife’s a new patient.”

I mentioned that they’d bought the old Butterfield house, which had been on the market for some time. “I haven’t had time to stop by to say hello.”

“Seem like nice folks,” Seth commented, enjoying his last mouthful of pancakes and bacon and wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Should be good neighbors.”

When we left Mara’s, I noticed that Hubert Billups was no longer on the dock.
Good
, I thought. As irrational as it might be, his presence generated discomfort for me.

Back home, I started calling hotels in the area, beginning with what I considered the nicest ones. No luck. Every one was booked solid over the holiday weekend. The better motels were full, too, as were the few bed-and-breakfasts in which I felt George would be comfortable. “Sorry, Jessica,” I was told by innkeeper Craig Thomas, who, with his wife, Jill, owned Blueberry Hill. “We’ve been sold out for months. If we’d known you needed a reservation we would have—”

“That’s okay, Craig,” I said. “I know how late I am in looking for space. Please keep me in mind if you get a cancellation. Love to Jill.”

The lack of accommodations should not have come as a surprise, but it did. I hadn’t considered that the Thanksgiving holiday would bring scores of visitors to Cabot Cove. Had George announced months ago that he was coming, finding him suitable lodging would not have been so difficult. But he’d made his decision only a few days ago.

Initially, I’d considered having him stay at my house, but thought better of it. The Cabot Cove grapevine was spending far too much time speculating on my activities as it was. Furthermore, my friends had been linking George and me romantically ever since we first met in London years ago, and I didn’t want to feed their well-meaning fantasies. Of course, there was some truth to their conjecture. George Sutherland and I had immediately “connected,” and romantic sparks had developed. But we’d been content to express our feelings verbally and to leave it at that. Both widowed, we’d forged busy, independent lives for ourselves, separated by the vast Atlantic Ocean, and had decided to honor that, unless . . . unless we had a change of heart. That hadn’t happened yet, and I didn’t know if it ever would.

While I was trying to come up with an alternate housing solution for George—and looking longingly at my inactive computer screen—Seth called.

“Any luck finding a hotel for your friend?” he asked

“No.” I recounted my attempts.

“Seems like you’ve got a problem on your hands.”

“More than one,” I said. “Seth?”

“Ayuh?”

“Is anyone visiting
you
over Thanksgiving?”

“No. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you have that wing on your house that your live-in housekeeper used to use. It’s a lovely apartment, with a nice view of the garden, and—”

“And?”

“And I was just wondering—I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t in this bind—and I thought that maybe George could, um—”

“Spit it out, woman!”

“George would be the perfect houseguest—he’s extremely considerate of others—and it’s only for four days—well, maybe five—and he’d be spending most of his time with me at my house and at events around town—and I know how much he would appreciate it, to say nothing of how much I would appreciate it. Would you mind terribly if he stayed with you?”

There was silence on the other end.

“Seth?”

“I’m here, Jessica. I don’t suppose I have much of a choice.”

“Of course you do,” I said, “and if it’s too much of an inconvenience, I perfectly understand.”

I also understood that Seth’s ambivalence was not based solely on a reluctance to have someone share his house for five days.

While he and George had gotten along on those few times they’d been together, there was little doubt that my friend of many years harbored a certain distrust of George, not personally, but because George’s interest in me was evident. Seth could be extremely paternalistic where I was concerned, like a father protecting his teenage daughter, and I admit that now and then I’d resented his intrusion into my personal life. But those feelings never lasted very long. I have no greater friend than Seth Hazlitt, and his quirks and idiosyncrasies—and they were legion—were easily and quickly excused. I knew he always meant well and had my best interests at heart, at least as he perceived them.

There was also the supposition on the part of some of my friends that Seth’s interest in me was more than paternalistic, and that he considered George a competitor for my affections. It was all silly, of course, but that was the reality of the situation.

“It won’t be an inconvenience at all, Jessica,” Seth said, sounding very much as though he meant it. “Of course, I’ll be seeing patients in my office wing.”

“And I can promise that George will go out of his way not to disturb you. Thank you, Seth. You’re a doll.”

He grunted something in response and we ended the call.

I spent a few hours trying to get back into the manuscript but wasn’t successful. My eyes kept going to the sheet of paper with the large
G
on it. What could it possibly mean? I asked myself over and over. Could it have something to do with George?

At five that afternoon, I dressed for a dinner engagement at a downtown restaurant. As hard as I tried to dismiss the mysterious letter, it was entrenched in my thinking, and by the time the taxi pulled into my driveway, I realized how frazzled I’d become—the letter, the stranger named Hubert Billups, Thanksgiving right around the corner, George’s arrival, the pageant, and my manuscript that seemed to be going nowhere.