A Fatal Feast (22 page)

“Please excuse the mess,” he said, shifting piles from two chairs for us. His personal chair was a large, tan leather recliner next to a goose-neck floor lamp.

“You have quite a collection,” I said.

“I love books!” he said loudly. “Yours are over there, right-hand bookcase, third shelf from the bottom.”

I went to where he’d indicated and saw that he did, indeed, have virtually every one of my books, including the first as well as the most recent.

“Would you be good enough to sign them for me?” he asked.

“Of course.”

While I signed, he and George engaged in a conversation concerning a section of his library dedicated to Scottish history. I heard him say through a laugh, “I’m Irish, but I’ve always admired the Scots. They hold their liquor better.”

When I joined them I guided the topic back to Hubert Billups. “Do you know the other man in the photo with Mr. Billups?” I asked.

“I sure do. That’s Hubie’s brother, Harry.”

“I thought they might be related.”

“Another sad tale, I’m afraid,” O’Dell said. “Harry was killed the same night that Hubie was beaten up.”

“You say he was ‘beaten up,’” George said. “Victim of a robbery?”

“No. That would have made more sense. Hubie was beaten up by members of a gang here in Boston.”

“Gang?” I said.

“You know, mobsters, organized crime.”

“Why?” George asked.

“Well,” O’Dell said, “Hubie was a real hard-nose, stand-up sort of fellow. He wasn’t very big—you already know that from having met him—but he made up for his lack of size with a fierce temper.” O’Dell shook his head at the memory. “Oh, yes, Hubie was some tough guy, feisty, hardheaded, afraid of no one.” He smiled at this vision of Billups. “I used to say to him, ‘Hubie, you’re going to get yourself killed one of these days. You don’t mess with people like them.’”

“Them?”

“The mob, the wiseguys. I used to watch them come in to Hubie’s place, strutting around like they owned it. I’m convinced that’s what they wanted—to own it. The problem for Hubie and Harry—they were partners—was that these hoods
demanded
they give them their business, wouldn’t let the brothers run the place their own way. They kept putting the pressure on the boys, buy linens from this vendor, use this window washer, get your tomatoes from this guy, pay another one a king’s ransom to collect the garbage, things like that. And, of course, they tried to shake down Hubie and Harry to pay them a monthly fee for their ‘business advice,’ and to keep someone from burning the place down.”

“And Hubie and Harry resisted,” I said.

“Oh, did they ever. I warned them. I told those stubborn brothers that they’d better go to the police, blow the whistle, get some sort of protection. Know what Hubie said to me?”

George and I shook our heads.

“Hubie said, ‘Damon, I’d rather boil in hell than give in to those mugs.’ Well, I doubt whether Hubie’s in hell, more likely causing trouble in heaven, but it looks like he got what he wished for.”

“Tell us about how Harry was killed, and Hubie beaten up,” George urged.

“It happened one freezing winter night. I remember how cold it was. Had snowed the day before. I wasn’t there when it took place, of course. I only go to Down-the-Hatch during the day, although if the conversation is good I’ll stick around, maybe have dinner now and then. Anyway, I heard about it the next day when I went for lunch. The place was closed, crime-scene tape everywhere. Lil—she was a waitress at the time—she was standing out front crying like a baby. I asked her what had happened, and she told me that Harry had been murdered, and that Hubie had been beaten and wasn’t expected to live.”

“Must have been quite a shock,” George said.

“It certainly was. Took me a long time to get over it, and I’m not sure I ever have. Was months before I ever went back.”

“You mentioned that these mobsters wanted to take over Down-the-Hatch,” I said. “What happened regarding ownership once the Billups brothers were out of the picture?”

“It got complicated,” said O’Dell, “and I never really did understand the machinations that went on. But it seems that the ones who killed Harry and beat Hubie claimed that the brothers had sold the restaurant to them, and produced some sort of forged documents. It didn’t hold up as I remember, and they never did take over.”

“Were they ever charged with the murder and beating?” I asked.

“Eventually. From what I heard, the screws were put to the gangster behind the takeover, and to save himself, he ratted out his own goons who did the deed. They went to prison.”

“What about the man who ordered the killing and beating?”

O’Dell shrugged. “I have no idea what happened to him. Anyway, Hubie survived, although he was never the same. I only saw him once after he came out of the hospital. I couldn’t believe the way he looked and acted, his speech slurred like he was drunk, walking funny, you know, like an old man. It was really sad to see this tough little guy reduced to that.”

“And that was the only time you saw him?” George asked.

“That’s right. Folks told me that whatever money Hubie got from the sale of Down-the-Hatch went to pay his hospital bills, and what was left went to his wife.”

“He was married?”

“Oh, yes, he was. She was a beauty, and a real spitfire. She used to come in the place now and then, and everybody liked her. Hubie used to say that she had to be a saint to put up with him, and he was right. They got along fine. At least it seemed that way to me.”

I fetched the scanned copy of the photograph of Billups and a woman that I’d taken from his rooming house and showed it to O’Dell.

“That’s Connie, all right.”

“Is she still alive?” I asked.

“I believe so. You can give her a call. I have her number—if she’s still there.”

He rummaged through a bulging address book until he found it.

“Speaking of pictures,” I said, “can you identify what’s in this one?” I handed him the photograph of Billups receiving a plaque.

O’Dell nodded. “That was the Boston mayor giving Hubie a citizenship award. Hubie used to sponsor amateur boxing here in Boston, gave kids from the poorer parts of town something positive to do. Hubie probably would have been a pretty good fighter himself if he’d pursued that, probably in the lightweight or welterweight division. He loved those kids he trained, always said it was better for them to punch each other in the ring than in some back alley.” He sighed at the memory. “Can I get you folks some coffee and cake? I’ve got a nice pound cake in the freezer, defrosts in no time flat.”

“I think we’ve taken enough of your time,” I said. “You’ve been very gracious, Mr. O’Dell.”

“Please call me Damon,” he said. “If you want to try calling Hubie’s wife—I suppose she’s his widow now—you can do it from here.” He pointed to a phone half buried beneath books.

I took him up on his offer and dialed the number. It rang quite a long time before it was picked up.

“Hello?” a female voice said.

“Hello. Mrs. Billups?”

“I was. Who’s asking?”

“My name is Jessica Fletcher. Damon O’Dell was kind enough to give me your number.”

“Damon! A blast from the past. Say hello to the old rascal for me.”

“I’ll do that. Mrs. Billups, I’m here in Boston with a friend from London. We’re trying to find out what we can about your husband, Hubert.”

“I wouldn’t know anything about him,” she said in a strong voice. “Haven’t seen him in years. Not since the divorce.”

She obviously didn’t know of his death. I hated to be the one to break it to her, but I felt I had to. I told her that he’d died in Cabot Cove, Maine, on Thanksgiving evening.

Her reaction was delayed. When she finally did speak, she simply said, “I didn’t know.” Then she asked, “How did it happen? He’d been sick?”

“No,” I replied. “Mrs. Billups, could my friend and I come visit? We’re here in Boston only overnight—my friend flies back to London tomorrow—and I would very much appreciate being able to talk with you in person. I promise not to take too much of your time.”

“I guess so,” she said. “Poor Hubie. He never was the same.”

I suggested that we come to her home, but she vetoed that.

“Would you like to meet us at Down-the-Hatch?” I asked.

There was a long pause. “Haven’t been there since it sold. Probably wouldn’t know anyone anymore.” She sighed. “All right. Wouldn’t hurt to see what they’ve done to the old place.”

I offered to buy her dinner, but she turned me down. We agreed to get together at six. It was now four o’clock, two hours to kill.

After thanking O’Dell profusely, and promising to send him a signed copy of my newest book when it was published—assuming I’d ever finish it—we left and walked slowly along Boylston Street in the direction of Boston Common, one of the loveliest public gardens and parks in America. We’d intended to stroll the common, but the weather had turned increasingly wintry, and after a half hour of brisk walking, we opted to stop in a pretty tearoom and bakery.

“What do you think?”

“I’m not sure what to think, George,” I said. “We know that Billups once owned Down-the-Hatch with his brother, Harry, and that the mob tried to muscle in on their business. They balked and Harry paid with his life. What I’m not clear about is what happened to Hubert after his hospitalization. His wife—actually, his former wife—might be able to fill in the gap between his injuries and his arrival in Cabot Cove.”

“That’s a lot of years to cover.”

“I know, but it doesn’t make sense to me that he just happened to end up in town. Why Cabot Cove? He must have come there for a reason.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” George said. “Men like that are apt to wander without specific destinations. If he left Boston and traveled north along the coast, eventually he would hit Cabot Cove. He may have lived somewhere else to the south for a time until he got the urge to move.”

“True, but—”

“Jessica.”

“Yes?”

“You do realize that what we find out from his former wife, and what we’ve learned from Mr. O’Dell, may make an interesting story but may have absolutely no bearing on why Billups was killed.”

I drew a deep breath. He was right, of course. Our trip to Boston a day ahead of his scheduled departure might end up being nothing more than a wasted exercise, a self-serving trip for me. But despite silently acknowledging that possibility to myself, I knew I’d do it again should a similar situation develop.

I turned and looked at George, who smiled. Was he thinking behind that smile that I might not be the woman he thought I was, that my compelling need to get to the bottom of a mystery bordered on obsession? Did he think I was wasting the precious little time we had to be together, squandering our chance for some intimacy by chasing a red herring? I hoped not.

My thoughts then naturally shifted to what Seth had told me, that George was likely to propose marriage. He hadn’t as yet, and frankly I hoped he wouldn’t. I’d braced myself ever since Seth mentioned it, mentally forming the words that would allow me to decline as graciously as possible to spare him hurt feelings. But those words had never truly gelled. Did that mean that my resolve to maintain my single status wasn’t as set in stone as I thought it was?

“Jessica?”

“What?”

“Your mind is elsewhere again.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sorry. Do you think this trip is pure folly?”

“Of course not.”

“I’d understand if you did.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“We could have been seeing the sights in Boston on your last full day here.”

“Your face is the sight I most prefer, lass,” he said. “I never was one for doing the tourist route.” He checked his watch. “Maybe we should be going.”

I nodded, and motioned for our check.

“How will we know her?” George asked after we’d stepped outside and looked for a taxi.

“She said she’d be wearing a red beret and a black cape.”

George laughed. “Quite an outfit for an older woman.”

“Maybe she was a child bride. Maybe Mr. Billups robbed the cradle.”

“I hope not.”

“There’s a cab,” I said, sending George off the curb to hail it.

The bar at Down-the-Hatch was overflowing with patrons when we returned. It was a convivial crowd and loud, most of them standing and talking and laughing, happy to be in out of the cold and celebrating Saturday night. I stood on my tiptoes and scanned the faces, looking for someone who might be Connie Billups. George tapped my shoulder and indicated a small table against the wall and away from the throng. A woman in a red beret, black cape folded over the back of her chair, was alone, a drink in front of her.

“Are you Connie?” I asked, coming up to her. At her nod, I said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is George Sutherland.”

She took us in with heavily made-up, wary eyes. “Hello,” she said.

It was difficult to guess her age; her face was unwrinkled, her skin glowing, and her hair was a shade of copper that didn’t exist in nature.

“Would never have recognized the place, you know, if it weren’t for the sign over the door.”

“Has it changed that much?” I asked, taking the seat opposite hers. George dragged a chair over from an adjacent table.

“A bar gets a lot of wear and tear, especially the floor,” Connie said, eyeing the Mexican tile beneath her feet. “Ours was wood.” Her gaze roved over the room, taking in all the details. She looked up at the pressed-tin ceiling. “And of course every owner has a vision of how they want it to be. At least they kept the name. That’s nice.”

A waiter with a long, drooping black mustache came to the table. “You having dinner, folks?”

I looked at Connie and she shook her head. “No, thank you,” I said to the waiter, “but you can bring us something to drink.”