A Fatal Feast (16 page)

“I’d like you two to come down to my office in the morning and make formal statements,” Mort said.

“Of course,” said George.

“In the meantime, I suggest you lock up tight. Looks like we’ve got a homicidal nut running loose in Cabot Cove.”

George and I returned to my house, where I made coffee, and we sat in the kitchen discussing what had just transpired. I’d been reluctant to express what I’d been worrying about since coming across the body, and George sensed I was holding something back. “Tell me what you’re thinking, lass.”

“I know it’s an outlandish notion, but it has been running through my mind.”

“What’s that?”

“Do you think it could have been someone who was here tonight?” I said, chilled by the very thought.

“I can’t imagine that anyone close to you would be capable of such madness,” he said.

“I agree,” I said, “but there were others here who aren’t close to me, like Archer Franklin and Victor Carson. I really don’t know them.”

“Then it’s not unreasonable to consider them suspects, Jessica, but what about the women? You mentioned that Ms. Copeland was upset at his arrival.”

“Just a silly superstition about having thirteen people at the table. She was afraid it would result in tragedy. And look what happened. Now she’ll be convinced she was right.”

“Is she—?” He hesitated, patting the patch pockets on his jacket.

“Is she what?”

“Is she mentally unbalanced?”

His question took me aback. “No. Not at all,” I said. “Willie can be quirky, but I don’t see her as a murderer. As I said, I don’t know anything about Victor Carson, and the same holds true for his wife, Linda. Archer Franklin certainly didn’t have any love for Billups. We saw them fighting, and he’d made a number of comments about ridding the town of men like Billups.”

“True, but he behaved relatively rationally tonight. And he’s a wealthy businessman. Such men don’t usually stoop to stabbing people in the chest with a carving knife.”

“Ruthless ones stab competitors in the back now and then,” I said.

George grunted, pulled his pipe from his jacket pocket, and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“Thought I’d go outside and take a pull on my pipe. Helps me to think.”

“You can do your thinking right here,” I said.

“You don’t mind?”

“I’ve always been partial to the aroma of a pipe.”

George settled back in his chair. “What about your neighbor, Victor?” he asked as the flame from his match ignited the tobacco and sent a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air.

“I’ve been thinking about him. He probably represents the great unknown among people who were here, but why would he kill someone like Billups?”

“I don’t have an answer,” George said. “I’d say it’s highly unlikely that anyone gathered around your table today is a murderer. Let’s put that notion aside for the moment and step back. Billups was likely to have been killed by one of three people: someone he knew who bore him ill will, someone he may or may not have known, a deranged person, say.” He took a puff on the pipe.

“And the third?” I asked

“Someone he didn’t know at all, perhaps someone passing through, who selected him at random.”

I remembered Mort telling me about a man at Billups’s rooming house with whom Billups had had altercations. And there was Wally Winstead, a notorious Cabot Cove hothead consumed by jealousy over his wife, and who’d physically assaulted Billups. Who knows how many others he’d offended or enraged since his arrival in town?

George was right. There were ample avenues to follow to Billups’s murderer without turning a suspicious eye on those who’d shared our Thanksgiving table. It had to have been someone from town with a grudge against Billups, or he’d been slain during a chance meeting with his killer.

It was almost midnight when George announced that he was leaving. I walked him to his rental car.

“Okay to drive to Seth’s house?” I asked, aware that he’d had two short drinks of Scotch and water.

“I’m fine,” he said. He placed his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. “I’m sorry, lass.”

“Sorry about what?”

“That you’ve ended up close to another murder.”

“That seems to be my fate.”

“Sure you’ll be all right alone? I’ve slept on many a couch in my day.”

“I’ll be fine. I’ll lock up. We’ll go to Mort’s office first thing in the morning?”

“I’ll be here at eight.”

“I’ll be ready.”

We kissed good night and I watched him drive away. The mild night had turned chilly—or was it an inner chill I felt? I went to the house, ensured that the doors and windows were locked, poured myself a glass of cranberry juice, and settled behind the desk in my study. I’d forgotten about my novel and how far I was falling behind with each passing day. I stared at the computer screen on which the last page I’d written reminded me that I’d neglected to build upon it, advance the story, continue to lead my characters in the direction I intended for them.

“Go to bed,” I told myself, and reached to turn off the desk lamp. But the last of the letters I’d been receiving over the past eight days stopped me. “GLOTCOYB,” I said aloud.

Was there any connection between them and the fate that had befallen Billups? My earlier happiness had faded. I felt very much alone at that moment, impotent, unable to write my book or to make sense of anything—of unwelcome letters from a stranger, or the murder of a man who’d been watching me for weeks and who’d enjoyed dinner at my house only hours earlier.

I quickly undressed for bed and climbed beneath the covers. The full moon that had illuminated our grisly discovery was now positioned in the sky so that it was fully visible through one of the bedroom windows. Despite its beauty, it was too much of a reminder of what had occurred that evening. As I got out of bed and approached the window, intending to close the drapes, the honey-colored moon seemed to turn bloodred. I snapped the drapes together, scurried back to bed, and waited for sleep to deliver me from reality.

 

 

 

 

“A
ppreciate you folks coming in so early,” Mort said after George and I had given our statements.

“Nothing more you can remember?”

“Nothing I can think of,” I replied. “We were taking a walk and came upon the body.” I picked up a photo of the crime scene from Mort’s desk and examined it.

“You, Inspector?”

“I think we’ve covered everything, Sheriff.”

“Did you notice how the angle of the knife is straight in?” I said, turning the picture sideways to see if it made a difference.

George leaned over to see what I was looking at. “Whoever killed him slipped that knife between two ribs straight into his heart.”

“Do you have any leads, Mort?” I asked.

“Too soon for that, Mrs. F. I’m heading over to that rooming house where he lived. I sent one of my deputies there to make sure nobody disturbs it.”

“Mind if we tag along?” I asked.

“Now, why would you want to do that, Mrs. F?”

“I feel very much a part of this,” I said. “He’d been a guest at my dinner table hours before he was murdered, and had been spending an inordinate amount of time standing across from my house. Besides, there’s the matter of the knife that killed him. It belonged to Seth, and I lost it.”

“
We
lost it,” George corrected.

“I suppose there’s no harm in having you come with me,” Mort said, “provided you stay out of the way.”

“You have my word,” I said.

Mort’s expression said that he’d heard that from me before and didn’t necessarily buy it.

We drove to the rooming house in Mort’s marked vehicle. I’d not seen the building before, or at least hadn’t noticed it. I admit to having a stereotypical expectation of what it would look like. I was wrong. Instead of being run-down, it was a nicely kept, very large older house that probably once had been home to multiple families. A small garden in front was neatly tended, and a fresh coat of yellow paint glowed in the morning sun. An unoccupied Cabot Cove patrol car was parked to the side of a wide driveway.

We stepped up onto the porch that ran the width of the house and Mort knocked on the front door. A woman immediately peered out from the carpeted entrance hall.

“I’m Sheriff Metzger, ma’am,” Mort said, touching the brim of his Stetson.

“This is terrible,” the woman said, wringing her hands. I’d seen her before around town, although we’d never had an opportunity to speak. She was in her sixties, with salt-and-pepper hair that flowed freely over her shoulders and down her back. She wore a black leather jacket over a red turtleneck sweater, and a black skirt that almost reached her ankles. “To think that a tenant of mine was murdered gets my blood boiling. A person isn’t safe in this town anymore.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Mort said. “Where was Mr. Billups’s apartment?”

“Apartment? We don’t have apartments here, just rooms, but nice ones I can assure you. Never had no trouble with the law. I run a respectable establishment, check on my people before I let them stay. I don’t like havin’ a cop up there, I can tell you. Upsets the neighbors.”

“The room’s up there?” Mort asked, indicating the staircase.

“That’s right, second floor, third door on your left.”

“May we?” Mort said.

“Just make sure you wipe your feet,” she said stepping back to pull the door wide. “I just cleaned up there.”

We did as instructed. Mort didn’t bother introducing George or me to the landlady, which was just as well. We followed the sheriff up the stairs to where a uniformed officer leaned against the wall next to an open door. A short strip of yellow crime-scene tape was draped across it. He snapped to attention upon seeing Mort, who said, “Relax, Joey. Nobody’s been in there?”

“No, sir. I made sure of that.”

“Good job.”

The officer removed the tape and we followed Mort into the room. I’d arrived with another conventional notion, that Billups’s room would be messy, and maybe even dirty. It was anything but. Neat as a pin, although I didn’t know if that was Billups’s doing or his landlady’s. The bed was made, and no clothing was visible. The wastebasket was empty, except for a torn piece of newsprint. I reached down and pulled it out. Nothing was written or printed on it. I dropped it back in the basket.

Mort opened the only closet, in which the few pieces of clothing Billups possessed were neatly arranged. I went to a table next to his bed. On it were three small silver frames holding color photographs. I picked one up to examine its picture, but Mort said, “I’ll be the one to do that, Mrs. F.”

I replaced the frame on the table and took a few steps away to allow Mort to get close to the table, but not so far back that I couldn’t see the photos along with him.

The first showed a man I assumed was a beardless Billups at a much younger age. He stood next to a beautiful woman on a beach. Both wore bathing suits. He had his arm around her shoulders, she had hers around his waist; they looked very much in love.

The second photo was more recent Billups, again minus his red beard. He stood in front of a storefront window next to another man; both wore suits and ties. There seemed to be a strong resemblance, and I surmised they were related.

Mort placed the second photo on the table and picked up the third.

“Mind?” I asked as I retrieved the second picture and studied it more closely. Behind the two men—the two brothers?—was a sign above the window, DOWN-THE-HATCH. It wasn’t a very good photo, and had faded over time. But from what I could tell, Down-the-Hatch was a restaurant or bar.

“I suppose you want to take a look at this one, too,” Mort said, handing me picture number three. This shot was of Billups being presented something by a white-haired gentleman. I had no idea who that man might be, but the setting had all the trappings of a politician’s office.

“Interesting,” I said, placing it next to the other two.

“What’s interesting?” Mort asked.

“The pictures. I wonder where they were taken.”

“No idea, Mrs. F. Never found out where he was from.”

“Wherever it was, he could have made an enemy there,” I added.

Mort sniffed as his eyes roamed the room but said nothing.

George had stood silently in the doorway, obviously not wanting to appear to be intruding on Mort’s turf. Finally, he said, “I’d say that the victim had a confrontation with someone last night.”

Mort turned. “I’d say that goes without saying, Inspector.”

George smiled. “That he’d been stabbed in the chest means he’d faced his attacker, as opposed to someone sneaking up from behind. That’s all I meant.”

“You mentioned that he’d had an altercation with someone here at the rooming house,” I said to Mort. “Have you spoken with him?”

“Not yet, but I will.” He poked his head out the door and instructed his deputy to bring the landlady to the room.

She arrived, and not at all happy at being summoned. “You know my business doesn’t stop just because you’re up here, Sheriff,” she said. “I’ve got more rooms to clean and dinner to get on for my tenants, and that means a trip to the market. Thanksgiving emptied the shelves, as it is. If I don’t get there soon, the best produce will be gone. I don’t imagine you’re going to hang around and explain to my tenants why I can’t put a decent dinner on the table. And don’t tell me to go. I’m not leaving this house until you do.”

“Can’t be helped, ma’am,” Mort said, doffing his hat. “Sorry to inconvenience you. We’ll try not to keep you too long.”

“See that you don’t,” she said, but Mort’s courteous manners had disarmed her and her voice had softened.

Mort asked about the roomer who’d accused Billups of having stolen his things.