A Fatal Feast (25 page)

“That’s really great, Beth. Congratulations to you and to Josh.”

“Thanks. I just received a new line of sweaters. One of them has your name written all over it.”

“How nice of you to let me know, but it’ll be a couple of days (I was really thinking weeks) before I can get to your shop.”

“Just don’t take too long. I’d hate to see them gone before you take a look. How’s the book coming?”

“It’s coming—fine. Just fine. Speaking of that, I’d better get back to it.”

“Go to it, girl. Don’t waste those creative juices. Bye.”

The phone rang again before I could call Mort. “How was your weekend in Boston with George?” Seth asked.

“Wonderful, Seth. I was sorry to see him leave, of course, but it was nice getting away together for a day. How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Jessica. I’ll tell you why I’m calling. Mort stopped in this morning.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. He came by to tell me that you’d dropped over to his house last night and were acting strangely.”

“Strangely? Why in heaven’s name would he say that?”

“Now, don’t get your feathers ruffled. You know Mort. He has your best interests at heart. He said you were, well, not making sense, maybe because you were fatigued from your Boston fling.”

“That’s ridiculous, Seth. I wasn’t at all tired and . . . did he indicate what I said that led him to the conclusion that I was ‘acting strangely’ ?”

“No, nothing specific. You are all right, I take it.”

“Of course I am. Thank you for asking, but I’m fine, just fine.”

“I know it’s not my business, but I thought maybe your conversation with George might have unsettled you.”

“What conversation? Oh, I know what you’re getting at, Seth. Did George propose to me? The answer is no.”

“He didn’t? Well, that’s interesting. Guess I didn’t read the fellow right.”

“Did George ever tell you he was planning to ask me to marry him?”

Seth cleared his throat. “Not in so many words, but—”

“But you just assumed he would.”

“Well, I’m pleased that you’re feeling well. I’ll let you get back to your novel, Jessica, now that you don’t have any more distractions.”

That devil,
I thought after hanging up. He’d put me through the wringer warning me that George planned to propose when it was simply a guess on his part. And now he’d called because he was curious about whether he’d been right. Was Seth happy that George hadn’t proposed, or disappointed for me?

And what about Mort, telling Seth that I’d acted
strangely
at his house? What was he doing, setting up a situation where if I further pursued the Victor Carson matter I would be viewed as unstable? I hated to think that of him, but I couldn’t assign any other motive.

I decided that it didn’t matter what Mort was thinking. It was entirely possible that I had a former mobster living just down the road from me, a man who ordered that the Billups brothers be beaten and killed, and who might well have murdered the survivor of that attack after leaving Thanksgiving dinner at my home.

At a little before noon I pulled out a shopping bag and put in the photos I’d taken from Billups’s room at the boardinghouse, intending to return them to Mort. When I dialed his number, however, I was informed that the sheriff was out and wouldn’t be back until four. Good, I thought. I’d devote the next four hours to my novel. Hoping to pick up where I’d left off, I spent the first hour reading the most recent three chapters in order to capture the flow and rhythm I’d established. Confident that I had, I went to the kitchen to make tea and a light lunch of crabmeat on Ritz crackers. As I waited for the kettle to boil, I went to the living room to retrieve the day’s newspapers and happened to look out the window. The sky had turned gray, and there was a mist in the air, but I could easily see Victor Carson standing across the road, at the same place where Hubert Billups used to station himself.

It occurred to me with a jolt that, despite my fears, Billups probably hadn’t been watching my house at all. No, he’d likely been there keeping an eye on the Carson house, out of my line of sight because of the road’s curve, but visible from where Billups had been, and where Carson now stood. Why was Carson there now? Was he returning to the scene of the crime, or was he keeping an eye on my house? Had word gotten back to him of my trip to Boston and the questions I’d asked? Impossible. That left only Mort as a viable source of such information. As his local “handler,” Mort might have mentioned to Carson my having expressed interest in him last night, and that my question obviously had to do with the Billups murder. Mort would never deliberately expose me that way, but then why was Carson there? I couldn’t come up with an answer that made sense.

Carson saw me standing at the window and headed back toward his house. His unexpected presence sent a chill up my spine. If my supposition about him was correct, he was capable of anything, including murder.

I tried to work on my novel, but my mind kept drifting to Victor Carson, aka Vincent Canto if I was right, and Hubie Billups. Finally at four, I called Mort, who’d just returned from a meeting of Maine law enforcement officials.

“I don’t have time to talk,” he said curtly.

“It doesn’t have to be this minute,” I said, “but I must speak with you, Mort.”

“Give me a call tomorrow, Mrs. F.”

“Mort,” I said sternly, “this is extremely important. I’ve never known you to put me off this way.”

There was silence on his end.

“I think you’ve arrested the wrong person in Hubert Billups’s murder. Won’t you please hear me out?”

What he said next was preceded by a long, pained sigh. “Mrs. F,” he said, “I know you’re a smart lady and all, but you’re wading in deep waters here, maybe water that’s over your head.”

“That may be,” I replied, “but I’m willing to take that chance. Besides, I’m a pretty good swimmer.”

Another sigh. “If I talk with you, do you promise what I say will stay between us?”

I hate making promises that I might not be able to keep. If I didn’t get any satisfaction from Mort, would I push further and bring in another law enforcement officer or agency? It was a possibility. But I decided that Mort was the one I had to convince, and promised him our conversation would remain between us.

“All right,” he said, “but I don’t want to do it here at headquarters. I’ll come to your house.”

“Fine. Tonight?”

“I’ll drop by at eight.”

“Wonderful.”

“Just remember, Mrs. F, that I have to go by some rules.”

“I understand, Mort, and I don’t expect you to violate those rules.”

With a great weight lifted from my shoulders, I spent what was left of the day working on my book, with frequent trips to the window to see if Carson was on the road. He wasn’t. I assumed Mort would have dinner before coming by my house, so I limited refreshments to cookies, his favorite ice cream—chocolate chip—and a fresh pot of coffee. He arrived precisely at eight, wearing jeans, a red-and-black plaid shirt, and boots.

He seemed uneasy from the moment he walked through the door, and I tried to make him comfortable.

“I appreciate this,” I said after we’d settled at the kitchen table and I’d served us.

We made small talk for a few minutes, avoiding the reason for his visit until I said, “Mort, I’d like you to hear me out before responding.”

“Okay, Mrs. F,” he said. “Shoot.”

I laid out for him the conclusions to which I’d come about Victor Carson and Hubert Billups’s murder. I tried to gauge Mort’s reactions from his facial expressions, but he was a blank. When I finished, I sat back and waited.

He made a few false starts before getting to his response. “Mrs. F, you never fail to amaze me,” he said.

My mood brightened. “Are you saying that I’m right, Mort?”

“No. I’m not saying that.”

“I understand how important it is for you as the sheriff to keep under wraps the fact that someone in the Witness Protection Program may be living in Cabot Cove. I respect that. But I also know that if that same person were to commit a serious crime, you have an obligation to come forward. Surely protecting the identity of a man who turned state’s evidence isn’t as important as solving a murder.”

“
If
he killed anyone,” was Mort’s retort.

“Of course, “I said, “but isn’t it incumbent upon you to at least question him about it?”

“Sure, and I’ll do that. That doesn’t mean I’m agreeing that he’s who you say he is, or that he’s here in Cabot Cove under the Witness Protection Program. You have to realize, Mrs. F, how many agencies are involved, all the red tape I have to go through. The U.S. Marshals Service is the one in charge, but the decision to put somebody in the program comes straight out of Washington, the Department of Justice. Any idea how much money is paid guys in the program?”

“No.”

“Sixty grand a year.”

“That’s quite a reward for someone who’s broken the law.”

“I’ll tell you something else. Only about seventeen percent of criminals in the program ever break the law again, compared to forty percent of cons coming out of prisons. Based on those statistics, I think it’s doubtful that Carson did what you’re accusing him of doing. But like I said, I’ll clear it through channels and arrange an interview. That satisfy you?”

“I can’t ask for more,” I said. “I know you’ve arrested Wally Winstead, but—”

Mort waved to stop me. “The DA doesn’t think we have a strong enough case to formally charge him, too circumstantial,” he said. “I’m releasing him tomorrow, only he’ll know we’ll be watching him and doing more digging. I still think he’s the perp.”

Mort hadn’t eaten his ice cream, which had melted into a cold chocolate-chip soup.

“I’ll get you a fresh bowl,” I said.

“Don’t bother, Mrs. F. I’d better get on home. Remember, nothing said here leaves here.”

“Like Las Vegas,” I said.

“Huh?”

“A TV commercial. Thanks for letting me share my thoughts with you.”

“Anytime, Mrs. F. I’ll be in touch.”

 

 

 

 

I
slept soundly after my conversation with Mort. I suppose having taken action,
any
action, had been therapeutic. To use a sports metaphor, the ball was in his court now, and all I could do was wait to hear from him again.

I awoke refreshed and eager to tackle my novel. After fixing myself a large breakfast, a rarity for me, I settled at my computer and got to work. The writing went smoothly. Despite my sizable morning meal, I was ravenous by one and took a break, sending George a brief e-mail update on my meeting with Mort. I returned to the book after a lunch of leftover turkey salad. At five o’clock I sat back and allowed a welcome feeling of satisfaction to wash over me. The book was back on track.

Aside from a few phone calls, my only serious disruptions that day were self-generated. At each break from the computer, my mind drifted to the scenario I’d conjured. I wondered when Mort would call Victor Carson to ask him about the Billups murder. I no longer had any doubts that Carson had been relocated to Cabot Cove under the Federal Witness Protection Program. Mort’s responses, while not involving an outright acknowledgment, certainly supported that thesis. I was tempted to call him but sat on that urge. I’d already put our sheriff, and my friend, in an awkward position, and I knew he wouldn’t appreciate being prodded. That old virtue, patience, had to be the byword at this juncture, and I was determined to practice it. But by seven that evening my curiosity was threatening my good intentions.

Seth had called to see if I wanted to go out for dinner, but I’d declined. I did the same with the Kosers, who invited me to their house for turducken stew that Richard had concocted from Thanksgiving leftovers. I’d had enough of my own leftovers and was happy to treat myself to a hamburger I’d taken from the freezer earlier.

The weather had turned nasty, with strong winds and heavy rains in the forecast. The thought of leaving my warm, dry house wasn’t appealing. I contented myself with the burger and a salad, after which I changed into my robe and slippers, intending to spend the rest of the evening finishing a novel I’d started reading days earlier.

I was immersed in the story when I heard a thud at the rear of the house. The wind had picked up, bending trees in my backyard and sending the rain in horizontal sheets. I went to my rear kitchen window and peered into the darkness. I couldn’t see anything and decided a loose piece of lawn furniture or tree limb had caused the noise. I returned to the living room and picked up the book again. A few minutes later I heard a similar sound that made me jump. This time I flipped on the outside light, opened the kitchen door, and squinted into the storm, seeing nothing but wind-whipped rain.

Back in my chair, the book opened to where I’d left off, a different sound reached my ears. I looked up to see Linda Carson, her face pressed against the glass of my front window. This apparition was followed by a pounding on my front door.

I wasn’t sure what to do. There I was, in my pajamas and robe, hardly in the mood for an unexpected visitor. But a far greater concern gripped me. Why was she coming to my house on such a dismal night? Could it have been prompted by what I’d told Mort, and what he might have done as a result?

I went to the front door and heard her say, “For heaven’s sakes, Jessica. Please, open the door.” I looked out. She stood in the rain, water running down her face and matting her hair. The expression on her face was what I can only describe as desperation. Comforted that I didn’t see Victor standing with her, I opened the door a crack and said, “I’m really not dressed for company, Linda. Couldn’t you have called?”

“Please, Jessica,” she said, placing a hand against the door and pushing it open farther. “This is really urgent.”