A Fatal Feast (24 page)

“Hi, Mrs. F. Back safe and sound?”

“Yes, thank goodness. Mort, you said I could stop by. Does the invitation still hold?”

“Sure does, Mrs. F. Maureen whipped up a new dish. It was pretty good. We have some left over, if you’re hungry.”

“Sounds nice,” I said, my growling stomach testifying to not having had dinner. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

I hung up and sat back, trying to collect my thoughts so that I could present a concise, compelling case to Mort. As I was about to leave the study, my eyes rested on the pile of GLOTCOYB letters on my desk. I pulled out a new file folder, put the letters in it, and dropped the folder into a file drawer. I pushed thoughts of them from my mind as I called for a taxi.

Mort and Maureen had just finished cleaning up after dinner, but offered me a bowl of an experimental fish stew Maureen had made, along with a salad and French bread. They joined me at the dining room table.

“Now,” Mort said, “what’s this you say about having come up with something to do with the Billups case?”

“I’m eager to run it by you,” I said, “but first tell me about Wally Winstead. You’re sure he’s the killer?”

Mort nodded gravely. “You bet I am,” he said. Then he grinned. “I hate to admit it, but I had a little help from Scotland Yard.”

“Really? How so?”

“Well, you remember when you and the inspector were in my office while I questioned Wally?”

“Yes.”

“I kept thinking about what George said, that Wally was lying about where he’d been the night Billups got it. Remember? He said his eyes opened wide and his pupils got dilated, and that his voice got higher.”

“George has been studying signs of when a person isn’t telling the truth,” I explained to Maureen, finishing the last of her stew, which, I had to admit, was very good.

“I might study up some more on that subject myself,” Mort said. “Anyway, I decided to do some serious asking around about Wally’s whereabouts that night. He said he was with his wife, who confirmed it when I asked her. I didn’t believe her either. Her eyes got wide and her pupils dilated, and her voice got all high and squeaky.”

“Go on.”

“So I stopped in places I know Wally likes to go, that bar down on Shad Street, and the billiards parlor next to the movie theater. Bingo! It took some hard questioning, but I finally got the truth out of a couple of regulars in those places. Seems that Wally showed up at the bar about nine o’clock on Thanksgiving evening after getting into a row with his wife, had a lot to drink, and started talking about her, about how she was no good anyway, let other men make eyes at her. Then he starts up about Billups, about how he was following her around, and how no bum was going to flirt with his wife, the usual crazy stuff from Wally. According to the ones I questioned, the more Wally drank, the madder he got, railing about bums like Billups. He left the bar mad as the devil, still squawking about Billups and how he’d teach him a lesson.”

He sat back, arms crossed over his chest, a satisfied smile on his face.

“That’s it?” I said.

He came forward. “No, Mrs. F, that’s not it,” he replied, clearly irritated. “I brought him in and gave him a chance to deny he’d done it. He never did deny it. Claims he can’t remember where he was that night, but still says how Billups got what he deserved, nutty things like that. Winstead lied about where he was. He doesn’t have an alibi for the time the murder took place. He made threats against the victim. And, Mrs. F, he sure had the motive.”

I didn’t argue because what Mort said was obviously correct. But that didn’t necessarily mean that he had the right man.

“Have you charged him?” I asked.

“Not yet. I’m meeting with the DA tomorrow to discuss it. I think he’ll agree with me and go along with a formal charge.”

“What about the knife, Mort?” I asked.

“What about it?”

“Were his fingerprints on it?”

Mort shrugged. “Lab is still working on it.”

“I don’t remember seeing Wally at the charity dinner. Seth’s knife was taken from there.”

Mort’s smile was smug as he said, “You’re wrong, Mrs. F. After you and George took off to deliver the meals, Wally showed up. At least that’s what Archer Franklin told me.”

“Archer Franklin? How would he know? He left early.”

“Doesn’t mean he didn’t come back. He says he saw Wally come in toward the end. Didn’t stay long, according to Franklin, but he didn’t have to. Just hung around long enough to grab the knife he used to kill Billups.” He put up his hands in mock self-defense. “I know, I know, Franklin is a pain in the butt, sure not my favorite fellow. But that doesn’t mean he’d lie about Wally.”

“Unless he wanted to frame someone else for something he did himself,” I said.

Maureen had retreated to another part of the house during my conversation with Mort. She returned to offer me coffee and a slice of blueberry pie she’d baked that day. I passed on the pie but took the coffee.

“Look, Mrs. F,” Mort said wearily, “we checked everyone else out, including that other boarder, Catalano. Found him not twenty miles from here. He had a solid alibi for the time of the murder. Wally doesn’t. I’m sure it’s him. I can’t believe you still want to present this theory you’ve come up with.”

My enthusiasm for what I’d put together had waned in the wake of Mort’s belief that he had his man. Still, I couldn’t leave without justifying my visit.

“Mort,” I said, “what do you know about Victor Carson?”

He stared at me and shook his head.

“Mort?” I said.

“You know, I hate to say this, but I think we’ve discussed this enough,” he said. He stood, picked up his empty pie plate and went to the kitchen, leaving me stunned and confused. When he returned, I tried to resurrect the topic again, but he shut down all conversation. “Hate to be rude, Mrs. F, but it’s been a long day, and I have an even longer one tomorrow. Sorry to shoo you out, but I’m sure you understand. Want me to call you a cab?”

“All right,” I said, surprised that he hadn’t offered to drive me home.

The taxi arrived a few minutes later.

Mort didn’t see me to the door. Maureen did. “Did you really enjoy the stew?” she asked.

“Oh, yes, Maureen, it was excellent, very tasty.”

“Don’t mind Mort, Jessica. He was so excited when he solved the murder, he was singing when he got home yesterday. I guess he just isn’t ready for anyone to take away that satisfaction.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Maureen. Thanks. Talk to you tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

T
o say that I was taken aback by Mort’s refusal to discuss Victor Carson is a vast understatement. In all the years since becoming Cabot Cove’s sheriff, Mort’s been unfailingly polite and willing to listen. That’s not to say that he’s always concurred with my analyses. Far from it. But he’d never before shut me off so abruptly, and I pondered late into the evening why he’d done it on this particular night.

I’d flown home from Boston after having conjured up what I considered to be a credible scenario that would explain why Hubert Billups was in Cabot Cove, and the reason for his murder. George had reminded me that my theory was just that, more supposition than substantiation, but that it was as plausible as any other explanation, and might be a reasonable path to pursue further. This was hardly the ringing endorsement I was hoping for, but I was willing to admit to Mort that the explanation of events was pure speculation on my part. All I wanted was for him to hear me out, and to possibly provide some validation based upon what he knew about Victor Carson.

Billups had owned Down-the-Hatch in partnership with his brother, Harry. Local mobsters had put the squeeze on them, not only to pay for various services, but with the intention of eventually taking over the place. Hubert and Harry balked, which led to Harry being killed, and Hubert suffering a life-threatening beating that left him mentally and physically challenged.

According to Damon O’Dell and Connie Billups, the thugs who did the deed had been ordered to do it by a higher-ranking gangster named Vincent Canto. Canto, it seems, had turned state’s evidence against his underlings and been cut some sort of a deal by the authorities. His whereabouts were unknown, at least to O’Dell and Connie. George Sutherland’s assumption was that he’d disappeared into the Federal Witness Protection Program, his identity changed to protect him and his family from retribution by fellow mobsters.

When George had talked about the Witness Protection Program, I’d begun to see pieces of the puzzle fall into their slots. What if Victor Carson was, in fact, Vincent Canto, and had been relocated to Cabot Cove as part of his plea deal? George had said that it’s recommended that the people going into the program use the same first name as their real ones, or choose first and last names that start with their initials.

Victor Carson.

Vincent Canto.

V
and
C
.

Carson was an enigmatic man, at best. Initially, I’d chalked up his behavior to being shy and socially unsure of himself. He was certainly a bear of a man, which matched Canto’s nickname according to Connie Billups. It seemed to me that he behaved like someone who was hiding a past, not exactly antisocial, but pretty close to it, and certainly a man of few words. Flimsy, I know, but given what Billups’s former wife had said, coupled with what I’d learned from O’Dell, the picture led me to wonder whether there wasn’t a less sanguine reason behind Victor’s reclusive manner.

Could Billups have learned through some source that Canto, aka Carson, was in Cabot Cove? If so, he’d taken that information with him to his grave. But whether he knew in advance or simply happened upon his former tormentor, once he found Carson, Billups may have planned to seek revenge. If so, it’s not too far a stretch to think that Carson recognized Billups and killed him to protect his new identity and life.

It was a neat solution even if there were some gaping holes in it, and I was sorry our sheriff didn’t want to hear it. However, the more I reflected upon Mort’s unusual behavior, the more I was able to cut him some slack. He’d arrested Wally Winstead for the murder, and was confident that he’d solved the case. I’ve known my share of law enforcement officers over the years who, in their zeal to break a case, rushed to judgment, focusing on the closest and most accessible suspect. There’s no defending that behavior, of course, not when innocent people end up convicted while the guilty go free. But I suppose it’s only human nature to want to succeed as quickly as possible and to take the easiest available route. With that in mind, my compulsion to get to the truth in the Billups murder—the
real
truth—was about to pick up steam.

I’d sent George an e-mail before retiring for the night. In it I’d voiced how much I hated to see him go, assured him I’d give serious consideration to spending Christmas in London, and told him of my disappointing meeting with Mort Metzger and that he’d made an arrest in the case, Wally Winstead, whom George had sensed was lying. I added, of course, that Mort had credited George for pointing that out. Archer Franklin also came to mind. He’d placed Winstead at the charity dinner at the senior center, which would have given Winstead access to the murder weapon. Had Franklin told the truth? It would be easy enough to confirm that Wally came to the senior center simply by querying the others who’d been in attendance. I had no reason to doubt Archer’s word, except for my inherent dislike of the man. Had he given Mort that useful bit of information in order to cast suspicion away from himself?

George’s return e-mail the following morning fueled my resolve to go forward.

Of course! That had to explain Mort’s reaction to me when I mentioned Victor Carson. I’m not a betting person, but I was now confident that what I’d suspected was true. Victor Carson
was
Vincent Canto, and Mort was duty bound to conceal his identity.

My elation was short-lived, however. I needed Mort’s cooperation if I were to proceed, but his hands were tied by regulations. Unless, as George pointed out, unusual circumstances justified a breach of the secrecy rule. Murder! Could there ever be a more ironic state of affairs than a criminal under government protection killing someone?

I settled in my home office and decided upon my best approach to Mort. I was aware, of course, of my promise to myself to work on my unfinished novel, and even though I’d filed away the GLOTCOYB letters, they were still a loose end I intended to pursue. But neither of those issues seemed important enough to trump the Billups murder.

I was about to pick up the phone to call Mort when it rang.

“Jessica, it’s Beth Wappinger.”

“Good morning, Beth. How are you?”

“I—am—wonderful!”

Her glee came through the line and caused me to join in her laughter. “What’s happened?” I asked.

“Josh is changing jobs.”

“Oh?”

“He’s getting off the road—finally! He’s been hired by King Industries here in Cabot Cove to be their new national sales manager. There’ll be some travel involved, but nothing like he’s been doing for the past eight years.”