A Fatal Feast (20 page)

“For a man of his alleged successes, I find that strange.”

“And he moved in with Kathy and Wilimena a few days ago.”

“Another bad sign.”

“Wilimena isn’t a stupid woman,” I said. “Surely she’s capable of seeing that Archer isn’t all he claims to be.”

“One would hope so, although you’ve said she craves male attention. I suppose that could explain the blinders she’s wearing.”

“Did you find a gift for Seth?” I asked.

“I certainly did. In our conversations, Seth revealed that, like me, he’s an avid reader of history.”

“No wonder you got along so well.”

“We did, in fact. Anyway, I noticed that Seth had the first and second volumes of Edmund Wilson’s excellent series of diary entries from the last century, spanning the twenties through the sixties. I found a bookstall outside of town that stocks rare and used books, and bought him the editions he was missing.”

“He’ll love it. He’s always been a fan of Wilson.”

“A crusty chap with an outsized ego, and intellect.”

“Edmund Wilson, or Seth?”

He laughed. “Wilson, of course. I’ll give Seth the books at dinner tonight.”

We decided to leave early for Seth’s to allow George to change into a fresh set of clothing. Scheduled to join us that evening were Jack and Tobé Wilson, who were running late, something to do with emergency surgery Jack had to perform on someone’s pet. Seth had been busy in the kitchen when we arrived, prepping a dinner of fresh brook trout dusted with oatmeal; broccoli; small Yukon Gold potatoes baked with onions, garlic and green peppers; and for dessert a pineapple upside-down cake fresh from Charlene Sassi’s bakery. With culinary matters under control, and with George off changing his clothes and finishing packing for our departure the next morning, Seth and I sat in his living room.

“I’ll be sorry to see him go,” Seth said.

“So will I. I feel as though I’ve barely seen him.”

“I have a feeling, Jessica, that Inspector Sutherland might be close to asking you a question.”

My raised eyebrows invited him to explain.

“He’s in love with you, you know.”

I looked down at my hands folded in my lap.

“But I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise.”

I looked up at my friend of so many years, who was smiling. “I assume you and George have been discussing me,” I said.

“Your name did come up a few times.”

“And you think, based upon those conversations, that he’s about to ask me a question?”

“Ayuh, and I’m sure I needn’t elaborate on what that question will be.”

“Are you telling me this, Seth, to warn me?”

“That’s a little harsh, Jessica.”

“If you are, I’ll consider it positively, as trying to spare me a surprise.”

“Well, now, if George Sutherland should propose marriage to you, there would be no surprise in that. I suppose I’m curious as to what your response might be.”

“And I don’t have an answer for you, Seth. It isn’t as if I haven’t thought about it many times since meeting George, but—”

“Ah, there he is, all garbed up,” Seth said as George entered the room.

“Have I missed anything?” George asked.

“No, just catching up,” Seth said, casting a sly smile at me.

Jack and Tobé arrived, and Seth poured drinks.

George, who’s usually in good spirits, was absolutely ebullient this evening. He isn’t what you would term a chatty man, not one for small talk, but he quickly fell into a storytelling frame of mind and entertained everyone with tales of cases on which he’d worked, especially those involving dumb criminals.

“. . . and so this bloke stands there blinking furiously and scratching his nose, sure signs that he’s lying. It’s called the Pinocchio Syndrome. There’s even a theory that blood rushes to the nose when you tell a lie, making it itchy. But the kicker, of course, was that he’d written his stickup note on the back of his business card. There’s a right turnup for the books, wouldn’t you say?”

With Jack and Tobé encouraging him, George continued to tell amusing stories during dinner. While I enjoyed them as much as others at the table, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Seth had said. Was George about to propose marriage to me? Seth had been right when he said that a proposal would not come as a surprise. George and I had discussed the subject of marriage on more than one occasion, although none of those conversations had involved a formal proposal. Rather, they revolved around our individual lives and whether marriage was in the cards for either of us. George had left little doubt that were I receptive to a proposal, he would offer one. But he was also well aware that I was not ready to commit to such a dramatic change in my life, and that I might never be.

Had he decided that by formally proposing marriage, it might break through my resolve to not alter my life? Was he planning to do it in front of my friends in the hope that they would pressure me to accept? Or was it Thanksgiving that prompted him to choose this time and place to pop the question?

I thought of that famous bit of folklore involving Captain Myles Standish, the Pilgrims’ military leader, who though fearless in battle was hopelessly shy when it came to women. He’d fallen in love with Priscilla Mullens but couldn’t muster the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage. He enlisted the aid of his friend John Alden to approach her on his behalf, which Alden did. Priscilla was reported to have replied, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” Alden took her suggestion, and he and Priscilla were married soon after.

Seth might have meant well in forewarning me, but all it accomplished was to set me on edge throughout dinner. I kept looking at George for a sign that he might actually be poised to propose, but he gave no indication of it.

Following dinner, and after we’d helped clear the table and tidy up the kitchen, we returned to the living room for coffee and after-dinner drinks. If it were going to happen, I decided, it was now. My heart skipped a beat when George, a glass of Seth’s vintage brandy in his hand, asked for everyone’s attention. I closed my eyes and waited.

“My visit here has been a wonderful one,” George said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of spending much time with Dr. and Mrs. Wilson, but I intend to rectify that the next time around. I’m especially grateful to Dr. Hazlitt, who opened his home for me and has been a splendid host.” George left the room, returning seconds later carrying the neatly wrapped books he’d purchased. He handed the package to Seth, whose expression indicated he was truly surprised.

Seth tore off the paper and removed Edmund Wilson’s volumes one by one, admiring each as he did. “This was certainly unnecessary, George,” he said, “and I’m touched by your generosity, as well as your taste in literature.”

George laughed. “I thought you’d enjoy having the complete set.”

“That I do, and I intend to read every word,” Seth said. He got to his feet, reached behind his chair, and came up with another package, this one wrapped in silver paper. “Seems to me,” he said, “that this might be a good time to become a gift giver, too.” He crossed the room. “For you, Jessica,” he said.

“What is this for?” I asked, turning the small but surprisingly heavy package in my hands.

“Open it and find out,” Tobé said.

All eyes were on me as I pulled on the red silk ribbon and the wrapping fell away to reveal a gleaming marble statue of a man holding a writing tablet and quill pen.

“What’s it supposed to be?” Jack Wilson asked.

I found the answer by reading what was inscribed on a brass plate at the base:

“It’s lovely, Seth,” I said. “Thank you.”

“I figured since you’ve been having trouble finishing your latest book, your regular muse might have skipped out on you, so I came up with this new one, compliments of Willie Shakespeare.”

“Where did you have it done?” I asked.

“Up in Portland. Remember Regina Gormley?”

“Of course I do. She’s a wonderful sculptress. I was sorry to see her leave Cabot Cove after her husband died.”

“She moved to Portland. We’ve kept in touch, so when I had this idea to get you a new muse, I called her. She came up with Shakespeare and that quote. Flew up with Jed Richardson to pick it up personally.”

I kissed Seth’s cheek and said, “I have a feeling, Seth, that this new muse is exactly what I need. With him looking over me, I’ll have that book written in no time.”

At ten thirty, with Seth nodding off, we called it a night. I was still waiting for George to do what Seth had indicated he might, but to my relief it didn’t happen. Although the Wilsons offered to drive me home, George insisted it was his pleasure. I had mixed emotions about that. On the one hand, I wanted to extend the evening with him. On the other, I was afraid that he would use our time alone to raise an issue that I wasn’t ready to face.

“You were full of wonderful stories,” I told him as we drove.

“I had a wonderful audience,” he said. “I felt very much as though I was with family.”

“You’ve been adopted,” I said lightly.

“Lucky me.”

We pulled into my driveway. George shut off the engine and walked me to the door.

“As much as I love your friends, Jessica, I admit I’m looking forward to our trip tomorrow, just the two of us.”

“It will be a busy time,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be spending much of it trying to fit pieces into the Billups puzzle.”

“Correction,” he said. “
We’ll
be looking for those missing puzzle pieces. Besides, what would a trip with Jessica Fletcher be without a hefty dose of intrigue?”

I laughed. “What a reputation to have,” I said.

“Just one of many things I—I love about you, lass. Go on, now, get yourself inside. Have you packed?”

“No.”

“Then get to it. What shall I do with the car?”

“You can give it to Jed at the airport. People do that all the time.”

“Very good. What time would you like me to collect you?”

“Come by at seven thirty. We can have breakfast here before heading for the airport.”

George wished me a good night’s sleep, waited until I locked the door behind me, and left.

I dressed for bed and came back downstairs to place my newly acquired muse next to the computer. “I expect you to do your thing, William Shakespeare,” I said, patting his marble head.

I dropped into my chair and thought of the evening, thought of everything that had happened recently: my unfinished book; the busy time leading up to Thanksgiving; the GLOTCOYB letters that sat on my desk, their origins as mysterious as the reason behind them; and, of course, my plans to get on a plane to Boston the next morning. Would the trip shed light on Billups’s death and on who might have killed him? Perhaps not, but that wouldn’t deter me from finding out all I could about his past, and how it might be connected with his murder.

But all those thoughts took a backseat to George Sutherland.

Seth had been wrong about George planning to propose that night. Had George decided not to inject that potentially awkward situation into his final night at Seth’s house? Would he consider our trip to Boston a more suitable time and milieu? Or had Seth simply been hazarding a guess based upon conversations they’d had?

My final question on the topic, with Shakespeare watching over me, was whether Seth had inadvertently slipped into the role of John Alden, speaking for George but unwilling to approach the subject on his own behalf?

Had the “muse” of Thanksgiving descended upon us all?

 

 

 

 

J
ed was standing next to the Cessna when we arrived.

“Drive their car over to the rental agency down by the dock,” he instructed his young helper. “They’ll give you a lift back.”

We climbed into the aircraft, with me in the left-hand seat, so I could log some additional piloting time—I hadn’t flown this much in a very long time—and George wedged into one of two rear seats. A few minutes later I pushed the throttle to the wall and we picked up speed down the runway. There was a stiff crosswind, which necessitated some pressure on my part to hold the plane’s nosewheel on the white center stripe, but we soon lifted off and were headed for Boston.

“What’s the drill?” Jed asked after we’d landed at Logan Airport. “When do I pick you up, Jess?”

“Sunday afternoon,” I replied. “Is four okay with you? George’s flight to London leaves at three.”

“Sure. Not a problem.” He shook George’s hand. “Travel safe, Inspector,” he said, “and come back soon.”

“Oh, I intend to do that,” George said. “Many thanks for the smooth flights.”

We got into a cab in front of the terminal. “The Lennox Hotel, please,” I told the driver, “on Boylston at Exeter.”

I’d stayed in this charming Back Bay hotel on previous visits to Boston and enjoyed its European feel coupled with modern amenities. It had opened in 1900 but fell on hard times. Recent renovations had brought it up to four-star excellence. There was an added attraction to staying at the Lennox. Down-the-Hatch was also located on Boylston Street, not far from the hotel.

I’d booked adjoining rooms, including a corner unit that featured a working fireplace. I assigned that room to George. After a bellhop had delivered our luggage, we agreed to meet in the lobby in a half hour. George was sitting there when I stepped off the elevator.

“What’s first on the agenda?” he asked.

“A stop at Down-the-Hatch,” I said.

“Ah, haven’t gone pub crawling since my early days with the metropolitan police.”

“Just one pub, George. I have no idea what Billups had to do with Down-the-Hatch, but there was that photo of him posing in front of it, and the menu found in his room. There has to be some connection.”