A Fatal Feast (15 page)

“Happy Thanksgiving, Mr. Billups. Please come in.”

 

 

 

 

I
walked into the dining room and announced, “We have another guest.”

Conversation stopped and everyone looked at me, and then beyond to Billups, who stood in the archway between the living and dining rooms.

“Mr. Billups—I’m sure he doesn’t mind being called Hubert—is a little late, but that’s certainly no problem.”

Billups remained motionless, a blank expression in his eyes. He’d obviously washed up, and had trimmed his red beard a little. I was pleased that he’d shucked his usual uniform and wore a yellowed, slightly stained, double-breasted white dinner jacket, gray shirt, skinny black tie, tan cargo pants, and low black sneakers, a proud man who’d tried to dress for the occasion.

I grabbed his place card from a small basket on the breakfront, set it down at one of the two unoccupied spots at the table, and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Billups. I’m sure no one will mind waiting until you’ve had your clam chowder and salad.”

Seth had a wry smile on his face as he said, “Welcome, Mr. Billups, and happy Thanksgiving.”

Across from him, Mort was in shock, his face a wrinkled question mark as he looked at me, then back at Billups, who’d taken his seat. Susan Shevlin ladled chowder into the new arrival’s soup bowl and placed a salad next to it.

“Jessica, can we talk?” Wilimena whispered in my ear.

We went to the kitchen.

“Jessica, what have you done?” she asked in a low, panicked voice.

“Inviting him? He’s new in town and alone. Besides, I have my reasons for wanting to get to know him better.”

Wilimena sighed deeply and crossed her arms in front of her. “This is terrible,” she said.

Her comment surprised me, and I asked why Billups’s arrival had upset her so.

She replied with great gravity, “It makes thirteen, Jessica.”

“Thirteen
what
?”

“Thirteen people at the table.”

I couldn’t contain the laugh that erupted from me. “Are you really that superstitious, Willie?”

“Oh, you can laugh all you want, Jessica Fletcher, but having thirteen at the table can only result in tragedy.”

“Well,” I said, “we’ll just have to weather that storm. Why don’t you go back and join the others? I’m sure everything will be fine.”

Her face was set in a concerned scowl as she grabbed her cane from where she’d hung it on the counter and squeezed past Mort, who was coming into the kitchen.

“Are you having some kinda breakdown, Mrs. F?” he asked.

“Of course not,” I said.

“What’s
he
doing here?”

It would have been easy to pretend that I didn’t know which “he” Mort referred to, but I simply said, “Enjoying Thanksgiving dinner with us.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. F. Don’t you think it’s taking a chance, inviting a guy like that into your home? He . . . he . . . could be a killer, for all we know. I still don’t have a lot of information on the guy and I’ve been asking around for weeks.”

“He’s alone on a holiday and I’m offering him dinner and a bit of kindness. What kind of chance am I taking? I’ve got the sheriff on one side of the table and a Scotland Yard inspector on the other. If I’m not safe with the men in this house, I never will be.”

Mort shook his head. “You’re always full of surprises,” he said, and departed the kitchen. I followed him and saw that Billups had finished his chowder and salad, and was listening to something Jim Shevlin was saying.

“Everyone ready for Tom Turkey?” I asked brightly.

The main part of the meal went smoothly despite the unexpected presence of Billups. He wasn’t talkative, although he did respond to comments and questions from others at the table. And when we were making toasts—to everyone’s health, to the hostess and her visiting Scotland Yard inspector, to welcome new neighbors—he raised his glass and called out, “Down the hatch.” Everyone laughed except Linda, who had swallowed too quickly and coughed; her husband helped by pounding her on the back.

George sampled every dish and condiment, complimenting the various chefs who had contributed to the meal, and saving his highest praise for Maureen’s praline sweet potato casserole, an opinion shared by everyone else, including me.

“It’s a Southern recipe,” she told him shyly. “I know Jessica wanted to have a classic New England menu for you, but I figured she wouldn’t mind if we had sweet potatoes from another part of the country. It’s still American.”

“I don’t mind where the recipe comes from when it’s as delicious as this,” I said, smiling at her.

Mort grinned and winked at his wife. I was willing to bet that he’d be delighted to eat these sweet potatoes another day, but I doubted there would be any leftovers for him to take home.

After the turkey and its accompanying dishes had been consumed and the plates and silverware removed to the kitchen, I suggested we take a break in the living room before coffee and dessert. As was usually the case at Thanksgiving dinner, everyone had eaten too much and needed a respite before attacking the array of pies and cakes provided by the guests, and by yours truly.

As I’d done at the table, I found myself interested in the interaction between people. Contrary to what I’d expected, Archer Franklin had kept his ego in check. For the most part he ignored Billups; an expression of disgust crossed his face each time he glanced in the direction of the newcomer, but he refrained from making any comment. Wilimena had spent most of the dinner looking concerned, as though a calamity would ensue at any moment. Her sister, Kathy, poked her with her elbow and whispered admonitions to stop being a baby. Mort kept his distance from Billups, and did the same with Victor Carson, who rivaled Billups as a noncommunicator. Linda Carson’s spirits were high throughout the meal, chatting constantly while stealing peeks at Billups. She must have been wondering why I’d invited him. Seth staked out his favorite chair, a plump, overstuffed one where he fought to keep his chin from dropping to his chest. I sympathized with him. The heavy meal had made me drowsy, too.

“Coffee, Mr. Billups?” I asked.

“No, thank you. I’ll be going.”

“But you haven’t had dessert.”

“Thank you for the dinner. You’re okay. G’bye.”

I walked him to the door. He said nothing else as he went down the front steps, walked across the road, and disappeared from my sight. An odd man, to be sure, and I wondered what his life had been like prior to coming to Cabot Cove. My intention to learn more about him hadn’t been successful, but maybe others at the table had gleaned information.

I returned to the living room, where George was in a discussion with Mort, Mayor Shevlin, Archer Franklin, and the Copeland sisters. I picked up snippets of their conversation as I gathered empty glasses to take to the kitchen, where Maureen, Susan, and Linda helped with the cleanup. Franklin was pontificating about what was wrong with Cabot Cove and what he’d do to fix it—provided, of course, that he was in a position to do anything. Seth had dozed off. Victor Carson stood at the window, his attention on anything but the room and those in it. He turned and intercepted me.

“Enjoying yourself ?” I asked.

“Huh? Yeah, very much, only I’m not feeling too good.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. Can I do anything for you, get you something, an aspirin or—?”

“I think I’d better leave,” he said.

“If you’d feel better at home, I certainly understand.”

I turned toward where the guests were talking. Mort’s focus was on us, a frown on his broad face.

Victor went to the kitchen to tell his wife that he was leaving. Her expression immediately fell. I could see that she was torn: stay, or go with him?

“You stay,” he said, and without a parting word he was gone from the house.

With two down, the eleven remaining guests enjoyed dessert and even livelier conversation than before—Willie had cheered up considerably—until fatigue set in and it was time to end the day. As I said goodbye to my friends at the door, I looked across the road and saw Hubert Billups pacing back and forth. Was he waiting to talk with someone? I wondered.

“I’ll see if he wants a lift into town,” Seth said. But Billups waved Seth off when he stopped the car. Perhaps he would have accepted if the weather had been foul, but it was a lovely, unusually mild November evening, with plenty of stars and a full moon.

Once back inside, George suggested we finish the cleanup. The lure of the couch and the urge to let everything slide was powerful, but I knew he was right. An hour later, a little after nine, the house was put back together, and the only reminder of the earlier feast—apart from the aluminum foil packets in my fridge—were the delicious aromas that still lingered in the air.

“In the mood for a walk?” George asked.

“Good idea,” I said, “get rid of some of these excess calories.”

We went along the road in the direction of town, arm in arm, and all was well with the world. Dinner had been a rousing success, especially since it was clear that George had gotten a taste of the holiday traditions and its food, exactly what I had hoped for him.

“Happy?” he asked.

“Very. You?”

“Verra much,” he said, the Scots accent clear. He squeezed my arm and smiled.

We covered what I judged to be a mile or a little less, and turned around. I was enjoying the crisp air and the company, so when we reached the house, I suggested that we continue to the end of the road, where the Carsons’ home was located.

“Not the friendliest fellow,” George commented when I mentioned the Carsons.

“He seemed terribly uncomfortable, but his wife certainly enjoyed herself,” I said. “It was almost as though she seldom gets to go out and felt free for the first time.”

“About your Mr. Billups,” George said as we slowly strolled along the shoulder of the road, “not a bad chap. His presence seemed to unsettle the sheriff, although everyone else took it in stride.”

“Not Wilimena Copeland. Billups was the thirteenth person at the table, which really bothered her. I had no idea that she was so superstitious. But I agree with you. Mort was on edge the minute he walked in. I’m sorry if Billups took away some of the pleasure of the holiday for Mort. I didn’t stop to think of the run-ins he’d had with Billups, including the fight we witnessed between him and Archer Franklin. I really can’t blame Mort for being uneasy.”

Clouds had begun to roll in and obscured the moon during much of our postprandial stroll.

“I should have brought a flashlight,” I said.

“Let’s head back,” George suggested.

We’d reached the Carsons’ house. Lights shone through the windows. Their cat, Emerson, suddenly sprang out of a bush and ran across our path, causing me to jump. George pulled me close. “At least he’s not a black cat,” he said, chuckling.

“Now don’t tell me you’re superstitious, too.”

“Not a bit. I’ll even walk under a ladder to prove it to you.”

“There’s no need for extreme measures,” I said.

We retraced our steps, the moon playing hide-and-seek with the clouds. When we were halfway home, they parted and the full moon came to life, shedding light over the swath of weeds that ran alongside the road, the feathery heads of dried grasses rippling in the breeze.

We were within yards of the house when George stopped. “What’s that?” he said, pointing to an area of tall grass to our right.

I squinted to see what had captured his attention. Something in the grass now glistened in the moonlight, tiny specks of brilliance twinkling like earthbound stars.

It wasn’t until I was ten feet from it that I recognized what it was.

The hilt of Seth’s knife!

That should have been cause for celebration.

But there would be no celebration.

The elaborately crafted carving knife protruded from a body—a man’s body from the glimpse I saw of his clothes. The moon had washed out the colors. It wasn’t until George knelt beside the victim and swept aside the wispy grass that we saw the lifeless eyes of Hubert Billups.

 

 

 

 

G
eorge stayed with the body as I ran to the house and called 911. Within minutes police and medical personnel started to arrive, their flashing lights, blaring sirens, and crackling radios penetrating the night. Mort Metzger eventually joined his officers and took charge of the scene. They used crime-scene tape to create a wide off-limits area around Billups’s body. George and I stood next to Mort’s squad car and watched as his deputies performed their official duties. An officer videotaped the body from a variety of angles, as well as the surrounding area. Another of Mort’s deputies took measurements. When Mort felt that things were appropriately buttoned down, he came to us.

“Well, he’s definitely dead. You called it in, huh, Mrs. F?” he said.

“That’s right. George and I were taking a walk and spotted the handle of the knife sticking up. I was elated at first, thinking we’d found Seth’s missing knife, but then we saw Mr. Billups.”

“Before you found the body, did you notice anything out of the ordinary or see anybody else while you were walking?” Mort asked.

George and I looked at each other. “No,” I replied. “There were cars that passed us, but no one on foot.”

We turned as the medical examiner’s ambulance arrived. The tape was pulled back to allow it to get close to the body, and two men in white coats placed Billups inside. I noticed that the knife had been carefully secured in a brown evidence bag by an officer wearing latex gloves.

Residents of other houses had ventured forth to see the cause of the commotion. Included among them were Linda and Victor Carson. They stood apart from others. She leaned against him, and he had his arm around her. I was pleased to observe their closeness, even though my instinct that theirs was a troubled marriage hadn’t abated.