A Fatal Feast (17 page)

“That’d be Mr. Catalana. Pain in the neck, but not a bad sort.” Her voice dropped to conspiratorial level. “He’s paranoid, you know. Hears things, I think. But he always paid his rent on time. That’s what matters to me, and that they act respectful and don’t make a mess.”

Mort pointed to his deputy. “Write down the name Catalana,” he said. “We have to find this guy and bring him in.” He turned to the landlady. “First name?” he asked.

Her brows shot up. “Beverly,” she said, smiling and pulling a lock of hair across her shoulder, curling it around a finger.

“Not yours. His.”

Beverly’s face flooded. She dropped her hands to her side, where they fluttered like a bird unsure where to land. “Oh. Um. Pete. I mean, Peter J., I believe. Anyway, that’s what he wrote in the register.”

George rescued her from her embarrassment. “You said he always ‘paid’ his rent on time,” he said gently. “Does he no longer live here?”

She swiveled toward him. “Left this morning,” she said, recovering her poise. “Paid me for the week, packed his suitcase, and was gone.” Her face twisted in thought. “You don’t think that—”

“He leave a forwarding address?” Mort asked.

“No,” she said. “They never do.”

“We’ll want to see his place, too, in a few minutes,” Mort said, turning over items on the small desk that was among the sparse furnishings in Billups’s room.

“Then you can call me when you’re ready,” the landlady said crisply, her limited supply of patience evidently having been exhausted. “I can’t stand here waiting around for you. I’ve got chores to do.” She bustled out the door, making a show of staring down the deputy to get him to move out of her way.

Mort’s attention stayed focused on the desk. He opened its only drawer and pulled out the contents. On top of the pile was a menu, its edges frayed, the paper yellowed with age. He discarded it to the side, but I stepped closer to get a better look. Printed in fancy script at the top was DOWN-THE-HATCH. Below it was the establishment’s Boston address and telephone number.

Mort finished going through papers from the desk, slipped them into a plastic bag he drew from his pocket, and handed them to the deputy. “I don’t see anything here, but I’ll look them over again in the office in case I’m missing anything.”

“What about that menu?” I asked. “He might have had something to do with the restaurant it came from. One of the photographs has him posed in front of it.”

“Oh, yeah, I noticed that, Mrs. F, but the shot could’ve been taken when he was on vacation. We got a lot more to find out about what he was into in Cabot Cove before I go digging into what he did who knows how many years ago. I doubt it’s got anything to do with what happened here last night. I’m going to check out this Mr. Catalan’s room and head back to the office.”

“Catalana,” I corrected softly.

“Whatever. I gotta hurry. I’ve got Wally Winstead coming in at nine thirty.”

George looked quizzically at me.

“A fellow in town who accused Mr. Billups of flirting with his wife,” I explained.

“Coming?” Mort asked.

“May I take this menu with me?” I asked.

“You collecting old menus now, Mrs. F?” Mort asked, snorting. “From the looks of it, it’s from the Revolutionary War. Might be worth a fortune.”

“A new hobby,” I said with a smile.

“Suit yourself.”

“While I’m suiting myself, may I borrow one of these photos for a few days? I promise to return it.”

“Take ’em all,” Mort said, his patience with me finding its limit. “But if some next of kin shows up, you’d better be prepared to bring them right back.”

“Of course,” I said. “They’ll be on your desk Monday morning.”

He grunted and I refrained from saying any more in case he changed his mind. Mort has welcomed my assistance in the past, but he was clearly not pleased at the moment. Perhaps the presence of a Scotland Yard inspector was intimidating. George would never interfere with Mort’s investigation nor comment negatively on his analytical skills, but I could understand where having such an internationally experienced detective peering over his shoulder—so to speak—might make Mort ill at ease.

Mr. Catalana’s now-unoccupied room provided nothing of interest, and we returned to headquarters, where Wally Winstead was pacing out front. Judging from his crimson face, Winstead was angry at having been kept waiting. “It’s not like I got nawthin’ better to do except sit around here twiddlin’ my thumbs while you’re rammin’ around the countryside,” he told Mort as we walked into headquarters.

“Ran a little late,” Mort said, motioning for Winstead to follow him to his office. We trailed along.

“I gotta get to work. How come I’ve been brought down heah?” Winstead demanded. He was a big, beefy man with a large, round face and head, with a series of corkscrew blond curls sprouting from his pate at odd angles.

“It’s about the murder last night,” Mort said.

“Murder? What murder?”

“Hubert Billups.”

“Who’s he?”

“The man you attacked about your wife, the old guy with the red beard.”

“That homeless bum? He got ’imself killed? Well, I’ll be.”

“Tell me about it,” Mort said.

Winstead squirmed in his chair, and for the first time seemed to notice that George and I were also in the room. “What are you doin’ here, Mrs. Fletcher?” he demanded.

“Don’t worry about them,” Mort said. “Where were you last night?”

“Now don’t jump down my throat. I don’t hafta answer your questions,” Wally said. He faced me again. “You writ-in’ some stupid story about this?”

“I suggest you lower your voice, sir,” George said.

Winstead turned to Mort. “If you want to know the truth, I was home last night with the wife.” His voice had increased in pitch.

“All night?” Mort asked.

“That’s right. A man oughta be able to spend a night with his wife.” He turned to me again. “If somebody killed that foolish old bum, he had it coming. Write that!”

“Who can vouch for your whereabouts last night?” Mort asked. I was impressed at how he maintained his composure, keeping his voice even and well modulated despite Winstead’s provocative manner.

“My wife.”

“Wives’ alibis don’t count,” Mort said. “Who else? You have Thanksgiving dinner with other people?”

“You chargin’ me?” Winstead said, standing and hitching up his trousers.

“Not at the moment,” Mort said.

“Well, then, I’ll be leavin’. All I did was pound up the fella, and he weren’t dead then. I don’t hafta be here.”

George and I expected Mort to stop him, but he didn’t say or do anything as the increasingly agitated Wally stormed from the office.

“I don’t figure he’ll go very far,” Mort said.

“It may not be my place to interject, Sheriff,” George said, “but I believe the man was lying about where he was last night.”

“Oh? What makes you say that?”

“He had all the physical signs in his voice and his face. His eyes opened wider than usual, and his pupils were dilated. That suggests to me that he suffered more tension than if he’d simply been telling the truth. He was thinking hard about what to say. That tension showed up in his voice, too. Did you notice how much higher it became when he had to come up with an answer to your question?”

“And he didn’t answer your question right away,” I added. “He asked me a question first. That gave him some extra time to think of an answer to your question, Mort.”

“I picked up on those things, too,” Mort said. “I’m going to let him stew in his juices a bit, then get him back in here for further questioning. I know what I’m doing.”

“Without doubt,” George said. “Very sound thinking.”

“And it’s time for us to leave,” I announced. “Thanks, Mort. I appreciate your allowing us to come with you this morning. Oh, did Seth’s knife provide any useful information?”

“Not yet. It’s at the state lab. I expect some preliminary info later today.” He seemed to relax now that we were making our departure. “By the way, Mrs. F, dinner was terrific yesterday. Best yet.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it, Mort. And please thank Maureen again for me. Her sweet potato casserole was superb.”

Mort chuckled. “Yeah,” he said, shaking his head. “It was. Whaddya know?”

 

 

 

 

W
e’d intended to go straight home, but when we passed the street on which Beverly’s boardinghouse was located, I asked George to turn in.

“Forget something?” he asked.

“I just want to ask her a question. You can wait in the car. I won’t be long.”

George pulled his pipe from his pocket. “Take your time,” he said.

Beverly recognized me when she answered my ring. “Did you leave your hat or something?”

“Didn’t have a hat,” I said. “I know how busy you are and I apologize for intruding on you again, but I did forget to ask you a question. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Might as well come in. With all these comings and goings, I’m not getting much done today anyway.”

“Beverly, I’m afraid I don’t know your last name.”

“It’s Shotwell.”

“Well, then, Ms. Shotwell.”

“You can use Beverly. I don’t mind.”

“And I’m—”

“I know who you are. Think there’s anyone in town don’t know who Jessica Fletcher is?”

While that news didn’t come as a complete surprise, I can’t say I was exactly pleased, but I simply said, “And you must call me Jessica.”

“Okay.
Jessica
.”

She led me into a small parlor that was not unlike my own, with a wooden rocker and an upholstered wing chair pulled up to a fireplace, and a faded settee nestled in the curve of a bay window. The room smelled like beeswax.

I perched on the settee and she took the rocker. “Ms. Shotwell, Beverly,” I began, “I noticed how clean the rooms were upstairs, and here as well, of course.”

Her eyes scanned the room. “I take great pride in keeping this place up,” she said.

“And you’ve done a wonderful job.”

She gave a sharp nod.

“Tell me,” I said. “Did you clean up Mr. Billups’s room this morning?”

“I did, although I didn’t have to make up the bed.”

“Ah, yes. Of course not. But when you were cleaning, did you happen to notice anything different? Was anything missing? Or was anything there that you hadn’t seen before?”

“Not that I saw.”

“Was Mr. Billups a neat man?”

“Pretty much like the rest. Not neat. Not messy.”

“Did you empty his wastebasket?”

“Always do.”

“What was in it?”

“I don’t snoop on my tenants, Jessica.”

“Of course not,” I said quickly. “But as an observant person and someone accustomed to straightening rooms and emptying baskets, you would be aware if there were anything unusual or—”

“Nothing interesting. It was only yesterday’s newspaper. That was all.”

“Do you still have it?”

“Believe so. Haven’t taken out the trash yet.”

“Would you mind giving it to me?”

“You can have the whole trash bag if you want.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

She left the room and a moment later returned with two folded newspapers. “He used to buy a paper every day. Big reader, I guess. Don’t know which was his.”

I examined then both. When I found the one with a small piece torn away from the front page, I knew I had Billups’s newspaper. It was the
Boston Globe
. If he bought the
Globe
every day, it confirmed for me what I suspected, that he might have lived in Boston at some point.

“You said you check up on your tenants. Did you do that with Mr. Billups?”

“Well, I check up as best I can. He said he didn’t have no arrest record. Sounded legit, and paid me the first week in advance.”

“But he didn’t provide you with any other background information, like where he was from?”

“No. And that’s a whole bunch of questions. That it?” she asked.

“One more thing. Mr. Billups’s room didn’t have a bathroom.”

“None of them do. They have to share the one in the hall.”

“I didn’t see a toothbrush or comb in his room. Did he leave them in the bathroom?”

“Probably. He’s got his kit on a shelf. Each roomer has a shelf in the bathroom. Don’t want anyone leaving their mess on my sink.”

“May I see his kit?”

“You can have it. I got someone interested in the room. Already stopped by to see it after you left. She’s going to call me later. I need that shelf cleared off for the new tenant. Of course, she didn’t look like someone who would want to stay here, and I’m not sure I want a woman anyway. They’re too much trouble.”

Beverly trotted up the stairs and returned with a plastic bag holding the toiletry items belonging to the late Hubert Billups.

I thanked her for her time and patience, and returned to the car. George had rolled down the windows, so there was only a faint aroma of pipe tobacco when I settled in the passenger seat.

“Learn anything new?” he said, starting the engine.

I sighed. “Nothing useful, I imagine.”

As we drove back to my house, I remembered that there would be a mail delivery waiting. I mentioned it to George.

“One hopes there won’t be another GLOTCOYB letter,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, giving him a small smile. “One hopes.”

Our hopes were rewarded. The bundle in the mailbox did not contain another of the telltale envelopes.

“Perhaps your torment is over,” George said as I sorted through the correspondence on the kitchen table. “The sender may have gotten bored.”

“If it’s so, I’m grateful for that, but it doesn’t answer the question of why those eight letters were sent to me in the first place.”