A Fatal Feast (6 page)

“Oh, he won’t change his mind,” she said. “If he does, I’ll kill him.” She giggled; then her voice grew serious. “It’s my first Thanksgiving away from family and friends back home and I’d hate to spend it alone.”

“Where is home?” I asked.

She didn’t answer. Instead, she said, her voice discernibly cracking, “It’s so nice of you to think of us at a time like this. Thanksgiving is so special and—”

“Looking forward to having you and Victor,” I said, “and I can’t wait for you to meet the other guests. They’re very warm and welcoming. I know you’ll enjoy them.”

More composed now, she asked if she could contribute to the menu. “I make a good pumpkin pie,” she said.

“That would be wonderful,” I said. “Are you coming to the pageant?”

“Victor doesn’t want to, but I’ll work on him.”

We ended the conversation and I took another stab at the computer before deciding to pack it in and head downtown. I wanted to get my nonwriting errands out of the way. I would stop in at the sheriff ’s office to give Mort the letters, but not until after attending a meeting of a commission that had been formed to oversee the care of a small natural lake not too far from my house. It was a lovely body of freshwater, a popular spot with our local Audubon Club members who could be seen, binoculars raised or bird book in hand, strolling its shores, and there had been many times I’d visited the lake myself, to take in its beauty and tranquillity.

Mayor Shevlin had recently asked me to join the commission, and I’d readily agreed. Of course, that was before I realized that the crush of activities in November would interfere with finishing my manuscript. Still, I’m hard put to turn down requests to aid a good cause in Cabot Cove. And this was one of them. An unhealthy amount of weeds had begun to dominate portions of the lake, and we were debating how best to attack the problem. I was anxious to ensure that whatever means were employed to curb the invasive growth not upset the ecological balance. It was an important assignment, but yet another commitment that pulled me away from my work.

I thought about my conversation with Linda Carson. I was pleased that she’d taken me up on my invitation—but also somewhat disconcerted. Her husband sounded like a difficult man, and I hoped his disposition wouldn’t cast a pall on the festivities. Maybe he and Willie Copeland’s new friend, Archer Franklin, would find things in common to talk about. I knew I couldn’t seat Archer next to our current mayor—nothing can ruin a festive Thanksgiving dinner faster than a political squabble—but I worried that the table was filling up with alpha males, men with strong opinions and few compunctions about expressing them. I hoped the women would be able to keep the Thanksgiving atmosphere as it should be: warm—and civil.

The meeting of the lake committee, chaired by Mayor Shevlin, went smoothly and quickly and I was free sooner than I’d expected. I went directly to police headquarters but was told that Sheriff Metzger had been called out on an emergency and wouldn’t be back for an hour.

It was close to lunchtime and I decided to stop in at Mara’s for a quick bite. As I approached the dock, I had the feeling that I was being watched. I looked around and saw Hubert Billups perched on a low brick wall that defined one of the town’s parks, the same one where I’d sat with Tobé Wilson two days ago. He was dressed in his usual cold-weather garb, arms folded across his chest, eyes staring straight ahead. For a moment, I was tempted to cross the street and introduce myself in the hope of gaining some clue as to why he always seemed to be where I was. But I decided not to. I didn’t know how he would react and didn’t want to initiate a confrontation.

I reached the dock and stopped to chat with Richard Koser, one of Cabot Cove’s top photographers and a superb amateur chef.

“Got your menu set for next Thursday?” he asked.

“I think so, nothing exotic, just a traditional Thanksgiving dinner. You?”

“I’ve been experimenting. I thought I might try making a turducken this year.”

“You’ve been watching Paula Deen,” I said lightly.

“Haven’t seen her in ages. Why do you say that?”

“Maureen Metzger suggested I have turducken this year. She got the idea from Paula Deen’s show on the Food Network.”

“Go for it.”

“Not with my friend George coming from London for the holiday. I want a menu as close to traditional as I can muster.”

“Can’t argue with that. How many are you having?”

“Looks like twelve at this point, a few last-minute additions.”

“Always fun to have strays at Thanksgiving. Livens things up.”

I thought of the reluctant Victor Carson, and the overbearing Archer Franklin, and wondered whether “livening things up” accurately described how dinner would turn out.

“Well,” I said, “let me know how you like the turducken.”

“I’ll send you a picture,” he said with a chuckle.

Richard walked away. I turned before entering Mara’s and saw that Hubert Billups had moved to a vantage point from which he could see the luncheonette. I stifled another urge to approach him and quickly slipped through the door.

I’d beaten the usual lunch crush and had my pick of tables. I was about to choose one by the window when I heard, “Hi.”

Linda Carson stood at the counter.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m taking something out. Victor likes to eat lunch at home.”

Her large brown eyes said many things to me at that moment, although I couldn’t decide which of my reactions was valid. Sad? Dreamy? Looking for understanding?

“Home is always best,” I said. “I’m so pleased you and your husband will be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she said, and I was aware that she referred only to herself.

Mara came from the kitchen and handed Linda her takeout.

“Thanks,” Linda said. To me: “Well, I’d better get home before this gets cold.”

“Enjoy,” I said, and watched her leave.

“Nice lady,” Mara said, plopping down on a stool and blowing away a wisp of hair that had fallen over her brow.

“Yes, she is. She and her husband are coming to the house for Thanksgiving.”

“Oh? That’s good of you to share it with newcomers.”

“Have you met her husband, Victor?” I asked.

“He was in here, but we were never formally introduced,” she said, then cocked her head at me. “I understand another new face will be at your table this Thanksgiving.”

“Who’s that?”

“Mr. Moneybags.”

Mara must have seen my confusion. “The other new arrival?” she coached. “Mr. Franklin?”

“Oh, right. Willie Copeland is bringing him.”

“You’d think he owns Cabot Cove from the way he talks,” Mara said in a voice just above a whisper.

“He does seem a little—well, a little sure of himself.”

“He was in here this morning bragging that you and he were going to get together for some writer talk.”

“Did he?”

“Bet you’ll enjoy that, huh?”

I glanced at my watch. “Oh, my! It’s getting late. I’d better grab something to eat and go.”

Mara laughed. “And I’d better get back in the kitchen. The lunch crowd will be descending on me any minute.”

When I left, there was no sign of Billups. I returned to police headquarters, where Mort had just arrived. “Had an attempted robbery,” he said as he tossed his tan Stetson on the desk and loosened his tie.

“How did it end up?” I asked.

“Damn fool put on a ski mask, walked into the auto parts place out east, and poked his hand in his pocket like he had a gun there. The two guys behind the counter didn’t fall for it and jumped him, held him until we could get there. He’s not from around here.”

“That’s always good to hear,” I said.

“Let me see what you got.”

I handed Mort the four letters.

He flipped through them. “I’ll send them over to the lab right away.”

“Thanks, Mort. By the way, do you know anything about a recent arrival in town, a Mr. Hubert Billups?”

Mort rolled his eyes and shook his head. “Everyone’s asking the same question. I know who he is, but haven’t found out much about him yet. When the weather’s bad, we’ve had to roust him a few times from inside buildings. People in offices complained that he’d wander in, sit in the lobby dressed the way he is, and say nothing. And Wally Winstead went after him one day not long ago.”

“Why?”

“You know Wally, always thinking somebody’s flirting with his wife, Fran. Anyway, Wally sees Billups staring at his wife the way he does and accuses him of trying to seduce her.” Mort shook his head. “As though a scruffy character like Billups would appeal to her. Wally grabs Billups and throws him to the ground and screams like a banshee that he’ll kill him if he ever sees him eyeing his wife again.”

“Was Wally arrested?”

“No. One of my deputies saw it happen and warned Wally to get his temper under control.”

“Was Mr. Billups hurt?”

“Didn’t seem to be. He’s a troublemaker, no doubt about that. We’ve had a couple of calls from the rooming house where he lives. Some guy who also lives there keeps accusing Billups of stealing stuff from him.” Mort laughed. “I don’t imagine he’s got a lot to steal anyway.” He twirled an index finger at his temple. “Billups has got a screw loose, Mrs. F. Used to see a lot of his type in Manhattan. You know, they emptied out the mental wards and these people got nowhere to go, nothing to do. Other than that, I suppose he’s all right. I just wish he’d find someplace else to hang out when it rains. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, just that he seems to be spending a lot of time on the road across from my house.”

“You think he’s stalking you?”

“I wouldn’t go that far.”

“Want me to warn him to stay away?”

“No, that’s not necessary. I just thought I’d like to know more about him.”

“He bothers you, just call and I’ll have one of my men talk sense to him.”

I got up to leave and thanked Mort for taking care of the letters.

“No problem.” He looked as if he wanted to say more.

“Was there something else, Mort?”

“Say, Mrs. F, just thought you’d want to know, Maureen has come up with a couple of new recipes for sweet potato casserole she’s been testing out on me. I’ve eaten sweet potatoes for dinner for two nights running while she experiments with ingredients. The kitchen looks like a bomb hit it. I’m not complaining—I like sweet potatoes as much as the next guy—but maybe if you two settled on what exactly it is she’s going to make—”

“I’ll give her a call.”

“Would appreciate it. You know how excited she gets when it comes to cooking.”

I sighed. I knew only too well what he meant.

Hubert Billups was not standing in front of my house when I returned home, thank goodness, but my relief was short-lived. When I tried to insert the house key in the lock, my front door slowly swung inward. I was certain I’d locked the door when I left.
Hadn’t I?

Slowly, I pressed the door open and peered into the hall and up the stairs before I entered the house.

“Hello!” I called out, thinking perhaps a neighbor with the key had come in for some reason. “Anyone here?” There was no answer.

With a shiver, I closed the door behind me and listened carefully to hear anything out of the ordinary. The house was silent. Shaking my head, I went straight to the kitchen. Perhaps Seth, who considered my carving knife a useless relic, had stopped by to drop off his special carving knife that he’d insisted I use for the holiday. Or maybe Maureen put one of her sweet potato dishes in the refrigerator, or possibly my neighbor Tina Treyz came in to borrow a Bundt pan for her poppy-seed lemon cake. But the kitchen appeared undisturbed.

You’re being foolish,
Jessica, I told myself.
Hubert Billups has you spooked and now you’re imagining things. You’ve been so distracted, you must have forgotten to lock the door.

Even though I was convinced I was alone, I tiptoed to the study and stood in the doorway observing the layout of the room. The face of the monitor was black. I walked to the computer and nudged the mouse. The screen sprang to life and the page I’d been working on before I left lit up. There was no new copy. The sentence I’d been struggling with was still there in all its stilted glory. Why had I thought there might have been something else on the page? Had I imagined that someone—Hubert Billups—had broken into the house to leave me a message?

Everything seemed to be as I’d left it. I stared at the pile of mail, then gasped. Where were those anonymous messages with the cutout letters? They weren’t on top of the other correspondence. I rushed across the room, my heart pounding, and flung open the drawers on my desk, frantically riffling through the papers in search of them. Not in the drawers, not under the manuscript box, not in the wastebasket, not at the bottom of the pile of mail. Then I sank into my chair. Of course they weren’t here. I’d left them with Mort. I’d completely forgotten a visit I’d just returned from not ten minutes ago. I ran a hand through my hair, my fingers trembling.

This whole business is playing havoc with your brain,
I told myself.
The next time Hubert Billups stations himself across the street from my house, I will find out exactly why he’s there and what he wants.

With the mystery of the missing letters solved, I should have been able to pick up my day where I’d left off and get back to work. But when I sat down at the computer, my hands were still shaky.
Tea
, I told myself,
a cup of red bush tea will settle me down
.

I jumped up and went to the kitchen, filled the kettle, set it on the stove, and returned to the computer, blindly rereading the awkward sentence as I strained to hear the sound of the kettle’s whistle. Instead, I heard the floor above my head creak. My eyes flew to the ceiling, and the feeling of panic washed over me again. Was Billups upstairs? Was he poised behind a door, waiting for me to walk unawares into my bedroom?