A Fatal Feast (12 page)

“Well done, Jessica. You can get a job at any London carvery now,” George said after a half hour had passed. “Like me to take over for a bit, to give you a wee rest?”

“That would be great,” I said. “I’m supposed to join some of the guests. I won’t be too long.”

I placed some food on a plate and surveyed the room, which by now was three-quarters full. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Families that shared some of the larger tables were engaged in spirited conversations. Maureen Metzger had joined one such table, Willie Copeland and her sister, Kathy, another. I looked for Willie’s new romantic interest, Archer Franklin, but he apparently had left. Linda Carson had elected to help in the kitchen. Her husband, Victor, had joined a group of men clearing tables and carrying empty dishes and used silverware to the kitchen, where a clean-up crew was busy trying to keep up with the flow.

I spotted a table at which a family of four had settled after going through the serving line. As I headed in their direction, Fran Winstead, who’d recently arrived, slipped into a seat joining them.

As I turned to see if another table needed me, Sheriff Metzger and Seth Hazlitt came through the door.

“How are things, Jessica?” Seth asked.

“Great,” I replied.

“No problems?” Mort asked.

“Problems? No, why would there be?”

Mort nodded in the direction of the door, where Hubert Billups had entered and taken a seat at an empty table. He was dressed as usual, red-and-black mackinaw, scarf, and black wool cap. The only discernible change was his red beard, which looked as though it had grown a little longer

“Oh, I see,” I said. “No, no problems, Mort. Excuse me.”

I went to Billups and asked, “Mind if I join you?”

He looked up at me through deadened, watery, unblinking eyes.

I sat.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite a while now,” I said, smiling. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I know you’re new to Cabot Cove and—well, I wanted to welcome you to our town.”

He spoke without making eye contact with me. “I, ah—that’s okay of you,” he said, eyes fixed on the tabletop.

“I have to admit,” I said, “that seeing you so often on the road across from my house had me wondering whether you—whether you had some sort of interest in me.”

He silently shook his head.

I realized that he hadn’t gotten any food. “I don’t want to keep you from enjoying some turkey,” I said. “Go ahead and get a plate.”

He left the table and took his place at the end of the serving line.

I looked at Seth and Mort, who’d been watching, and smiled. Seth shook his head. Mort looked puzzled. As they headed in the direction of the buffet table, Victor Carson, in a great rush, passed my table and disappeared through the door.
How odd
, I thought,
he wasn’t here that long.
But I didn’t have time to dwell upon it because my eye caught Billups holding a tray with his dinner and a cup of iced tea. It looked as if he was debating whether to return to the table at which I sat, but when he saw me watching him, he shrugged, took the seat he’d previously occupied, and immediately began to eat.

“I’m so glad you could come today,” I said. “As I was saying before, I’ve noticed you on my road, Mr. Billups, and I—”

“Don’t mean no harm—to you,” he said. He spoke slowly, taking care to enunciate each word.

“Oh,” I said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you did.” I stopped talking for a minute to allow him to enjoy his dinner. “Is there any way that I can be of help in getting you settled here in Cabot Cove?” I asked. “I know how a new place can be daunting and thought maybe I could make the transition easier for you.”

I watched him as he processed what I’d said. When he had, he finished what was in his mouth, dabbed at it with his napkin, used his fist to cover a small burp, and said, again in his careful, deliberate way of speaking, “There’s not much you could do for me, missus.”

“Jessica Fletcher. Please call me Jessica.”

“I figure I have to work things out for myself.”

“And I’m sure you’re capable of doing just that, Mr. Billups. Do you have any family near here?”

Another slow shaking of his head. He finished the small portion of turkey and stuffing on his plate.

“What are you doing on Thanksgiving?” I asked. The minute it was out of my mouth, I knew what I would end up saying next.

He shrugged. “Excuse me,” he said, getting ready to leave.

“Mr. Billups,” I said, reaching and touching the sleeve of his mackinaw, “if you don’t have any place to go on Thursday—for Thanksgiving dinner—you’re welcome to come to my house. I have room at the table and—”

He stood and looked down at me. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s okay of you.”

“Come at three?” I said. “You obviously know where I live.”

“Thanks,” he repeated, and gave what amounted to a small bow. “Thanks.”

He was gone.

I sat there stunned at what I’d just done, my thoughts jumbled. Joining him had been, at best, an impetuous act, although it struck me as the perfect time to engage him face-to-face. It occurred to me immediately after sitting at the table that I might be breaking bread with a man who held some perverted sort of grudge against me. But that was pure conjecture on my part, and any concern I might have had quickly dissipated. After all, I was in a room with dozens of friends, including Cabot Cove’s sheriff.

But if deciding to join Billups represented an impulsive gesture on my part, inviting him to my home for Thanksgiving dinner was a rash, irrational act, at best. I don’t know what possessed me—I certainly hadn’t planned it—and I suppose it stemmed from a combination of sincerely wanting to provide Thanksgiving dinner for a lonely man, coupled with an ongoing obsession to know more about him. No matter what my motives, I was now faced with the reality of his possibly showing up. Had I created a scenario in which my other guests would be made uncomfortable at having Billups share their holiday table? A man who seemed to own only one outfit, and that one none too clean? Had I put Billups in an awkward position?

I’m not terribly proud of the fact that the moment he left the senior center I assured myself that he probably wouldn’t show up on Thursday because he wouldn’t want to be made more uncomfortable than he already was. It was a rationalization, but it was my out.

I carried our plates, his and mine, to Linda Carson, who took them from me and set them on the counter behind her.

“I saw your husband leave,” I said. “Was there a problem?”

“He just remembered an appointment,” she said, brushing her lips with her hand. “I really have to go, too. I wish I could stay but—” She untied her apron.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said, sensing that she was upset. “You run along. Thanks for all your help. See you on Thursday.”

I watched her gather her purse and jacket and head for the door. What was going on with them? I wondered. It must have beeen a troubled marriage. I felt sorry for her, as I would for any couple facing difficulties, but I also experienced a more self-serving feeling, and that had to do with Thursday’s holiday dinner. Would their problems carry over to the gathering? Would he, or they, even show up? Would they bring their troubles and resentments to the table?

I certainly had made a muddle of my guest list, inviting complete strangers to my house without any thought to how they would get along. I had wanted George to experience a “traditional” Thanksgiving at my home, but the dinner was becoming less traditional by the moment. Food was the easy part, but my mix of guests promised either very lively conversation, or a miserable atmosphere. My musings were interrupted by Gus Westerholm.

“Jessica, we have a problem,” he said.

“Oh? What’s the matter?”

“Two of our people who were supposed to deliver meals can’t do it. Wally dropped off Fran, so she doesn’t have a vehicle. And Rena is having car problems. Do you think that you could take over—?”

“Gus, you know I don’t drive.”

“I know, but your friend has a rental car. I thought maybe the two of you could do the deliveries, him driving and you showing the way. I’d offer to do it myself, but I really can’t leave here yet. There are only nine deliveries to make. The birds have all been carved.”

“Of course,” I said. “I’ll ask George.”

“You trust me to drive on the other side of the road all over Cabot Cove?” he responded when I broached the subject.

“You did very well earlier today. I’ll be right by your side.”

“Whatever you say, my dear,” he said. “I have to retrieve my jacket. It won’t take a jiffy.”

I managed to say goodbye to a few people, but our departure was hurried and hectic as we relayed dinners heavily wrapped in foil to George’s rental car.

“You go on and run,” Birgitta said. “Those meals get cold fast. And enjoy the rest of the evening together.” She gave me a sly wink. “He’s very handsome, Jessica, and so charming.”

It took us more time than we’d anticipated to drop off the dinners. We couldn’t just hurry away when those who were homebound wanted a little socializing. George was especially popular with the elderly ladies who lived alone. In some cases we had to help reheat the dinners. After the last platter had been delivered, George asked, “What’s next?”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s next,” I said, “is going home, giving my aching feet a rest, and relaxing with you. You are an absolute trouper, George Sutherland. I don’t know anyone else who would have thrown himself into our annual charity event as you did.”

“It was fun. And I’ll do anything to stay close to you, Jessica. I want to share as much of your life as possible.”

At home, snifters of brandy in our hands, we toasted the success of the event.

“I noticed you chose to sit with that Billy-no-mates who’s been loitering outside,” he said.

“Does that mean someone without a friend?”

“Yes.”

I nodded. “He does seem a sad soul, and it was a perfect time to approach him,” I said. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while but for some strange reason never got up the courage.”

“What did he have to say for himself ?”

“Not much.”

“How much?”

“He said I was ‘okay.’ ”

George smiled. “I’d certainly agree with his assessment.”

“George, I invited him to Thanksgiving dinner.”

He moved to speak, but nothing came out of his mouth. Whatever he had intended to say, he decided to keep it to himself.

“I know, I know,” I said. “I shouldn’t have. But the idea just came to me and—”

George placed his hand on mine. “I’m not surprised,” he said. “You’re just being Jessica.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Oh, it’s decidedly good,” he said.

“He didn’t say he would come. He probably won’t. And to be perfectly honest, there’s a part of me that hopes he won’t.”

“Whether he does or not, the invitation has been extended. You’ll just have to wait and see.”

I changed the subject. “Did you get an opportunity to sit down at one of the tables?” I asked.

“Not officially. But the turkey was excellent. I managed to nip a piece now and then.”

“I hope it doesn’t spoil your appetite for Thursday.”

“Not a chance, Jessica,” he said, turning toward me. He reached out and touched my cheek. “One of my favorite dishes.”

There was a brief pause in the conversation. I wouldn’t say it was awkward—I’ve never felt awkward with George—but I broke the mood by asking: “Did you happen to speak with my new neighbor, Linda Carson, or her husband? I introduced you to her in town.”

George settled back on the sofa. “Briefly,” he said. “She’s a nervous little thing, isn’t she?”

I nodded. “I have a feeling their marriage isn’t a very happy one. Her husband came with her and pitched in a little, but he didn’t stay long. She scooted out right after him.”

“Oh, well,” he said, “that’s what makes this an interesting world, its people, everyone different, everyone with their own pains and pleasures, triumphs and failings.”

We sat silently for a while, content with our individual, unstated thoughts. I couldn’t help being happy that our relationship had grown into one this comfortable and accepting, neither of us feeling the necessity to keep the conversation going, just sitting together, feet up on an ottoman, content, at least for the moment, as the rest of the world passed by.

But my peaceful thoughts were jarred by a less happy one. George sensed it.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday,” I said.

“I believe you’re right.”

I sighed. “There’ll be another mail delivery.”

“Ah, yes. Will there be another upsetting letter? Perhaps there won’t be, Jessica.”

“I wish I were certain of that.”

Another period of introspective silence followed until I suddenly sat up and dropped my feet from the ottoman. I gasped. “Oh, good heavens!” I said.

“What’s the matter, Jessica?”

I moaned. “I have to go. Right now. George, please. Get up! We have to go.”

“For goodness’ sake, lass,” George said, his Scottish brogue thickening, “are you all right?”

“We have to go. I can’t believe I forgot all about it.”

“Whatever it is you forgot, I’m certain we can resolve it tomorrow.”

“No, you don’t understand,” I said, frantically pushing my tired feet into my shoes. “We have to get it now.”

“What do we have to get?”

“Seth’s knife.”

 

 

 

 

R
ather than rush back to the senior center, which would have been locked up for the night, George suggested I make a series of calls to the people who’d worked there with me. I couldn’t in good conscience ask anyone to leave their home to open the building for me at this hour, but perhaps I could find reassurance that the knife was safely stowed away. Susan Shevlin momentarily raised my spirits. “I saw the box,” she said. “I put it on a shelf in one of the kitchen cupboards.”