A Fatal Feast (13 page)

“Was the knife in it?” I asked, holding my breath.

“Afraid not, Jessica. It was empty. I thought you’d probably taken the knife but overlooked the box.”

“If only that were the case,” I said. “Thanks, Susan.”

My other calls didn’t fare any better.

“I never thought of it in the rush to leave with the dinners to be delivered,” I said to George after I’d exhausted my list of people to call.

“I didn’t either,” he said.

“I can’t believe I did this,” I said.

“I’m sure it will turn up,” he replied.

“What if it doesn’t? I didn’t want to use it—it’s more a piece of art than a kitchen knife—but Seth was so insistent.”

George took my hand. “We’ll look for it first thing in the morning,” he said.

“How am I going to tell him?”

“Seth? You don’t have to tell him right now. Chances are we’ll find it in a drawer and you’ll put it back in its case and return it, no one the wiser.”

“But if it’s gone, I should be the one to break the news.”

“Of course. However, I’m confident you won’t have to be passing along any bad news.”

Try as I might to adopt George’s positive outlook, I had a bad feeling about the knife. It was a valuable object, one that conceivably could fetch a lot of money if someone desperate for funds had taken it with the intention to sell it. My mood turned somber, and George took it as a cue to leave. When I realized that he’d picked up on my unhappiness, I apologized and asked him to stay longer. But he said, “It’s been a long day, Jessica. I’d best be getting back to Dr. Hazlitt’s house, my home away from home. Don’t worry, I won’t mention the knife to him, and in any case, you’ll be returning it to him safe and sound tomorrow.”

I walked with him to the car. “I owe you an apology,” I said.

“Whatever for?”

“For the way your visit is turning out. It seems that all I’ve had to offer since you arrived is a series of problems,
my
problems—weird letters, Mr. Billups setting me on edge, thinking someone broke into my house, and now the missing knife. I can’t believe I was so careless as to leave it behind. It’s just not like me.”

“Stop beating yourself up, Jessica. We all make mistakes.”

“True,” I said, smiling up at him. “Still, that doesn’t make me feel any better.”

“We’ll face all your problems together, lass—at least we will tomorrow. I’ll be here first thing, before the mail delivery I know you’re dreading. We’ll look at the next letter together, providing there is one. We’ll find Seth’s knife at the senior center and return it unscathed. Any dragons that come along, I’ll slay. And, oh yes, I’m sure you have a full day on tap preparing for your Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’ve put that out of my mind; I’d better bring it back to the front burner, so to speak. And we mustn’t forget the Thanksgiving pageant tomorrow night.”

“I’ll be happy to pitch in with your preparations for dinner, Jessica. Put me to work. I know how to Hoover a rug. I don’t claim much expertise around a kitchen, but I am good at scrubbing pots and pans, and I look quite spiffy in your aprons, if I do say so.”

I laughed.

“And as for your Mr. Billups, if he does decide to accept your invitation, we’ll welcome him with open arms the way Native Americans did when your Pilgrims arrived in their new world.”

I was overwhelmed at that moment with appreciation for this wonderful man who seemed to take everything in stride, who always had a reassuring word, and provided a subtle touch of humor when needed. I threw my arms around him and squeezed tight.

“I don’t know what I did to deserve that,” he said when we disengaged, “but I intend to do it again as quickly as possible.”

 

First on my agenda the following morning was to find Seth’s carving knife. Once I accomplished that—and I hoped that I’d be successful—it promised to be a day spent in the kitchen, as well as getting the dining room table set with my best china and silverware. I counted a dozen other chores to get ready for Thanksgiving dinner. There was a large tablecloth to be ironed, along with matching napkins. I’d pulled them out before going to bed and was relieved, and surprised, that I had fourteen of everything, although thirteen was all that was required.

Since Linda Carson hadn’t called, I assumed that she and her husband would be joining us as planned. I had mixed emotions about that. Victor had struck me as a strange duck, possibly antisocial, surely difficult. Could it be I’d misjudged him? True, I hardly knew the man. Maybe he was simply shy. I preferred the latter description, and decided that having him at Thanksgiving dinner would give me a chance to get to know my new neighbor better, and hopefully put him more at ease.

At a quarter to nine, George picked me up and we drove to the senior center, arriving just as the doors opened to admit a contingent of elderly ladies intent on a morning of Texas Hold’em. The longtime friends used to play bridge or canasta, but the popularity of big-money poker tournaments on TV had prompted them to change their game. They played with a vengeance, no-holds-barred, collecting pennies instead of chips and contributing the day’s winnings to the senior center refreshment fund.

George and I went to the kitchen and began our search for Seth’s knife. We opened every cupboard door and every drawer. We found nothing except the empty box that had contained the knife. We expanded our search to the main room, where the dinners had been served, but didn’t find it there either.

“Someone must have taken it,” I said as we walked out to the parking area in front of the building, the empty box in my hands.

This time, George said nothing, and I knew his optimism of the previous night had waned.

“I’m feeling terribly guilty,” I said.

“Don’t give up hope yet,” George offered, his optimism returning. “Maybe someone in your favorite food shop will know something.”

“Mara’s,” I said. “Yes, let’s check there.”

The luncheonette was the town’s Grand Central Station of gossip, rumors arriving daily and dispersing like so many trains to the far reaches of Cabot Cove. A knife like Seth’s would hardly go unnoticed if someone attempted to sell it locally. And that news would make its way to Mara’s. The only problem was: Just asking if anyone had heard anything about the knife would start the talk on the tracks. I’d have to work fast if I didn’t want Seth to hear about it from someone other than me.

“All set for turkey day?” Mara asked as we walked in.

“Still lots to do,” I said. “Mara, has anyone talked about finding an ornate carving knife used at the senior center yesterday?”

“Doc Hazlitt’s knife?”

“You already know about that?”

“Somebody said you’d been calling around looking for it.”

“I borrowed it from him and . . . it doesn’t matter.” Chances were that Seth had now heard about it, too. “If you do hear anything,” I said, “you’ll call me?”

“Sure will. Coffee? Tea?”

“Two cups of tea would hit the spot,” George said, looking at me for approval. I agreed.

“I can’t spend the day looking for it,” I said. “For one thing, I’m not sure where to start. And for another, there’s so much to do at home to get ready for the holiday.”

“It sounds as though the entire village knows by now, Jessica. My suggestion is we relax with our tea, then return to your house and hope someone calls.”

We finished our tea—I can’t say it helped me relax; my mind was buzzing—said goodbye to Mara, and stepped into the chilly fall air. At the end of the dock, where it meets the sidewalk, a scene was being played out that stopped us. Archer Franklin and Hubert Billups stood nose to nose, glaring at each other. It was Archer’s voice we heard as he boomed, “Lowlifes like you deserve to be put away, exiled to some godforsaken island where decent people don’t have to see or smell you.”

Whatever Billups said—he spoke too softly for us to hear—his words enraged his opponent even more. Franklin’s face had turned crimson. He shoved his index finger into Billups’s chest, sending him backward against a railing. Billups brought up a hand in a defensive gesture, but Franklin swatted it away, sending his fist flush against Billups’s cheek. Billups fell away to one side, grasping at the railing to keep from landing on the pavement. He scrambled to his feet and put up his fists, as if preparing to box. “These fists . . . are . . . lethal weapons,” he finally got out.

“You ever come near me again,” Franklin said, “and you’ll wish you were never born.”

Billups tried to advance against Franklin, but his gait was unsteady.

As Franklin poised to strike again, George sprinted forward and grabbed the man’s wrist in midflight. “Enough,” George said, bringing Franklin’s arm up behind him.

“Let me go!” Franklin demanded, struggling against George’s grip.

“Only if you calm down,” George said, his voice low.

Franklin whirled around when George loosened his grip. “Oh, it’s you,” he said, brushing off his sleeve.

George stepped around Franklin to block him from attacking Billups again. He rested his fingertips against Franklin’s chest. “There’s no need for fisticuffs,” he said. “I’m sure you two gentlemen can resolve whatever differences you have in a peaceful manner.” He risked a glance at Billups.

Shielded from Franklin, the ragged man had leaned against the railing, holding on with one hand while the fingers of his other hand shifted his jaw from left to right, testing to see if it was broken.

Franklin forced a smile. “That
gentleman
, as you called him, assaulted me.”

“The only assault I saw came from you,” George said, as I caught up to them.

The sound of a siren drew everyone’s attention. We all turned as Mort Metzger’s marked sheriff’s car came to a screeching halt. Mort assessed the scene and slowly climbed from the behind the wheel. “Guess I missed the action,” he said, ambling to where we stood, his eyes flicking from Billups to Franklin and back. “What’s going on? Mara called to report a fight.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Franklin said, stepping forward. “This—this
bum
assaulted me and I defended myself.” He waved a hand at Billups, who inched along the railing.

Mort grabbed him before he could walk away. “Are you making trouble again?” he asked.

Billups replied, “I didn’t do nothing to him. I swear it.”

Mort turned to Franklin. “You want to press charges?” he asked.

“No, that won’t be necessary,” he said, puffing out his chest. “But I do suggest that you do a better job of ridding the streets of scum like this. If you can’t efficiently carry out your responsibilities to keep the citizens of this town safe, then we should consider finding a replacement who will.” He looked around at the few people who’d gathered to watch what was going on. “Isn’t that right?”

Anger flared in Mort’s eyes, but he didn’t respond. Instead, he turned to Billups. “You want to press charges against Mr. Franklin?”

The red-bearded man shook his head.

“Really, Sheriff,” Franklin growled.

“You okay, Mrs. F?” Mort asked me.

“I’m fine.”

“You, Inspector?”

“We’re both fine, thank you.”

“Well, then, I suggest everyone go on their way,” Mort said, turning in a circle. “All of you. We don’t need this sort of nonsense the day before Thanksgiving.”

The small crowd melted away and we watched Billups shuffle up the street and disappear around a corner. Without another word, Mort got back into his car and drove off, leaving George, me, and Archer Franklin standing at the end of the dock.

“I’m sorry that you two were spectators at this unfortunate episode,” Franklin said to me, conveniently forgetting George’s role in preventing him from throwing the next punch. “The sheriff is right. With a festive dinner at your home tomorrow, Jessica, it’s best that we all forget it. Isn’t that right, Inspector? I just hope that both of you won’t think poorly of me for defending myself against an obvious madman.”

I wasn’t sure that Billups was the madman here, but Franklin’s suggestion that we all put the incident behind us felt right.

“Can I drop you two anywhere?” Franklin asked. “My car is down the street. It would be no trouble at all.”

“Thank you, no,” George said. “I have a car.”

“How do you like driving on the right side of the road for a change?” Franklin asked, laughing.

“I’m enjoying it very much, thank you,” George said, taking my arm. “Coming, Jessica?”

“Yes. Goodbye, Mr. Franklin.”

“Looking forward to tomorrow,” he called after us.

“Wait until he finds out who’s sitting at the same table with him,” I said so only George could hear.

George chuckled.

We didn’t turn to acknowledge Archer, simply climbed in the rental car and drove home, where, after leaving a message on Seth’s answering machine, I tried to put the missing knife, and the altercation we’d just witnessed, out of my mind as I focused on getting ready for the next day’s festivities.

I was well into it, with George lending a hand, when I happened to spot Newt walking toward the mailbox. George accompanied me to the door.

“ Morning, Mrs. Fletcher; Inspector.”

“Good morning, Newt,” I said.

“Here you go,” he said, handing me that day’s mail. Right on top of the pile was another neatly addressed letter. I must have gasped because George placed his arm over my shoulder and said to Newt, “Have yourself a wonderful Thanksgiving, sir.”

“Oh, I expect to,” Newt said with a broad smile. “Got my brother and his wife coming in from Texas; should arrive any minute now. You folks have a good one, too.”

We opened the latest missive in the kitchen. Sure enough, an eighth letter had been added, a tiny pink, lowercase
b
. The postmark was Bangor, Maine.

“GLOTCOYB,” I said through a sigh. “At least tomorrow won’t bring another. There’s no mail on a holiday.”