A Fatal Feast Page 14

  I examined then both. When I found the one with a small piece torn away from the front page, I knew I had Billups’s newspaper. It was the Boston Globe. If he bought the Globe every day, it confirmed for me what I suspected, that he might have lived in Boston at some point.

  “You said you check up on your tenants. Did you do that with Mr. Billups?”

  “Well, I check up as best I can. He said he didn’t have no arrest record. Sounded legit, and paid me the first week in advance.”

  “But he didn’t provide you with any other background information, like where he was from?”

  “No. And that’s a whole bunch of questions. That it?” she asked.

  “One more thing. Mr. Billups’s room didn’t have a bathroom.”

  “None of them do. They have to share the one in the hall.”

  “I didn’t see a toothbrush or comb in his room. Did he leave them in the bathroom?”

  “Probably. He’s got his kit on a shelf. Each roomer has a shelf in the bathroom. Don’t want anyone leaving their mess on my sink.”

  “May I see his kit?”

  “You can have it. I got someone interested in the room. Already stopped by to see it after you left. She’s going to call me later. I need that shelf cleared off for the new tenant. Of course, she didn’t look like someone who would want to stay here, and I’m not sure I want a woman anyway. They’re too much trouble.”

  Beverly trotted up the stairs and returned with a plastic bag holding the toiletry items belonging to the late Hubert Billups.

  I thanked her for her time and patience, and returned to the car. George had rolled down the windows, so there was only a faint aroma of pipe tobacco when I settled in the passenger seat.

  “Learn anything new?” he said, starting the engine.

  I sighed. “Nothing useful, I imagine.”

  As we drove back to my house, I remembered that there would be a mail delivery waiting. I mentioned it to George.

  “One hopes there won’t be another GLOTCOYB letter,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, giving him a small smile. “One hopes.”

  Our hopes were rewarded. The bundle in the mailbox did not contain another of the telltale envelopes.

  “Perhaps your torment is over,” George said as I sorted through the correspondence on the kitchen table. “The sender may have gotten bored.”

  “If it’s so, I’m grateful for that, but it doesn’t answer the question of why those eight letters were sent to me in the first place.”

  “You may never know, lass,” George said. “Some people get their jollies by sending anonymous missives and never revealing their identity.”

  “That would be a shame,” I said, tearing up an advertising circular.

  George laughed. “What do we have planned for the rest of the day?”

  “I haven’t really thought about it. I assume Mort will be questioning the others who were at dinner yesterday, both the men and the women.”

  “An equal-opportunity investigator.”

  “Appropriately so,” I said. I opened my shoulder bag and took out the plastic bag Beverly Shotwell had given me with Billups’s toiletries. I peered at the contents—a comb, a frayed toothbrush, an almost empty tube of toothpaste, and a rusty pair of scissors—nothing that gave any hint of the man or insight into the crime.

  Sighing, I unfolded the menu taken from Billups’s room, laid it on the table, then set the three photos next to it. I studied the face of the victim as a young man. Was there anything in these photos that could give us a clue to his life—and his death? Or were they simply mementos of happier days?

  “I have the feeling that your mind is shifting into high gear, Jessica. You get a certain look in your eye when the hunt is on.”

  “What look is that?”

  “Now don’t get offended, dear lady. It’s a look I take great pleasure in seeing. When you’re presented with a puzzle, it brings all your concentration into focus, sparks that famous inquisitiveness, and displays the uniqueness of your intellect. It’s a rare talent, and one I’m enjoying seeing you apply to the unfortunate soul who met his Maker last evening.”

  I sat back and directed a stream of air at my forehead. “I simply can’t accept that Mr. Billups was killed by some stranger. Wally Winstead is a hothead, it’s true, but how would he have gotten hold of Seth’s knife? The same is true for the other tenant from the rooming house, although his disappearance following the murder is suspicious.” I paused.

  “Go on,” George said. “What else are you thinking?”

  “Billups’s behavior since arriving in Cabot Cove was strange, to say the least—hanging around on the road across from my house, showing up where I happened to be in town, even accepting my invitation for Thanksgiving dinner. Then there are those letters with that indecipherable message. And I don’t believe that someone like Archer Franklin, with all his braggadocio, is capable of murder, despite his dislike of Billups and others like him.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is an awful thing to say, but somehow I don’t think Mr. Franklin would stab someone who stood facing him. Now, if Mr. Billups had been stabbed in the back . . .” I trailed off.

  “What about Mr. Carson?” George asked. “He’s not a known quantity to you. He lives on the road where the murder took place, and was at your senior center when the doctor’s knife was stolen.”

  I nodded in agreement. Everything George said was correct. But the set of circumstances he’d voiced didn’t add up to any tangible reason to suspect Victor Carson or his wife, Linda. “He might be an antisocial sort of fellow, but that doesn’t necessarily translate into being a murderer,” I said. And even though my new neighbors had been at the senior center, whoever used the knife to kill Billups could have gotten it or stolen it from someone else.

  At George’s encouragement, I spent the next half hour trying to get back into my novel. It wasn’t a successful attempt, which I knew would be the case when I sat down. I’m not very good at writing in fits and starts, and that had been the situation for the past few weeks. My friends know that once I settle in for full days of writing, I’m in a hibernation of sorts and best left alone. That’s what I needed: a two-week stretch of uninterrupted time to immerse myself in the novel and not be distracted by bizarre letters, a lost knife, men being stabbed to death across the street, or holiday preparations. My writing required time with no phone calls and no visitors—even the wonderful man currently sitting in my living room reading my day’s pile of newspapers.

  The ringing phone didn’t bother me because I was getting ready to call it quits anyway.

  “Jessica, it’s Archer Franklin.”

  “Hello, Archer,” I said warmly, thinking how nice it was that he was calling to thank me for dinner. It had been a lovely Thanksgiving, the subsequent events notwithstanding.

  “I need to see you.”

  “Oh? About what?”

  “About this pathetic excuse Cabot Cove has for a sheriff.”

  “Oh!” My hackles went up. Although Mort Metzger and I had had our run-ins now and then, he was a fine law enforcement officer, and I didn’t take kindly to slurs about him.

  “He wants me to come in for questioning.”

  “Ah,” I said. “It must be about the murder. I assume he wants to interview everyone who was at dinner with the victim. George Sutherland and I gave our statements at police headquarters this morning.”

  “And someone of your stature allows this buffoon to drag you to his office?”

  “I don’t know why you’re calling me about this. Sheriff Metzger is doing his usual good job, and I suggest that you should do what he asks.”

  There was an energetic snort on the other end.

  “Mr. Franklin?”

  “Our law enforcement officers should be ridding our streets of bums like the one who was killed, and not harassing leading citizens.”

  Leading citizens? I doubted that this newcomer to Cabot Cove could claim that status.
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  “Mr. Franklin, I really must go. I have—”

  “What’s with this Mr. Franklin business, Jessica. It’s Archer. Remember?”

  “Yes, of course. Sorry, but I really have to run. Bye.”

  What nerve, I thought as I rejoined George and recounted the conversation.

  “A wee bit full of himself, isn’t he?” George commented.

  “Worse than that,” I said. “I can’t imagine what Wilimena sees in him.”

  “Dollar signs?”

  “I prefer to think she’s got more character than that. I certainly hope she does. But I don’t know why she doesn’t see through him.”

  “People tend to see what they expect to see, Jessica.”

  “True.” I stopped, staring off into space.

  “What is it, Jessica?”

  “George, I have an idea.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  George listened intently as I told him what I wanted to do. When I finished, he sat back, closed his eyes, and his lips formed a small, wry smile. His eyes opened. He leaned close to me and said, “I can understand why your crime novels are so successful.”

  “ ‘Crime novels,’ I repeated. “That’s right. You don’t call them ‘mystery novels’ in England.”

  “Call them what you will,” he said, “your success has everything to do with the way your mind processes grisly matters like murder, to say nothing of your tenaciousness and inherent curiosity.”

  “You sound like Seth.”

  “Not a bad person to emulate.”

  “But you do think I’m right.”

  “Yes. Frankly, I’m surprised that your sheriff doesn’t share your belief that knowing as much as possible about the victim’s past can be pivotal to solving his murder.”

  “Mort deals very much with the here and now,” I offered in defense of our sheriff, “and he sometimes jumps to conclusions prematurely. I’m afraid that’s what he’s doing here, treating Mr. Billups’s murder as having to do with a recent event or random incident. He may be right, but I can’t help feeling there’s more to it than that.”

  “Your instincts have been solid ever since I first met you, Jessica. By all means follow them.”

  I’d decided to find out as much about Hubert Billups as possible. I knew that it might prove to be an academic exercise, turning up nothing that would bear upon his murder. Then again, I’ve always been a believer in the past influencing the present. Or, to put it more plainly, we are who we were. It seemed at first blush that Billups’s past was unrelated to his arrival in Cabot Cove, and to his death. But things on the surface often cover up deeper truths, like finding an artistic masterpiece beneath a less valuable painting.

  George was scheduled to leave from Boston on Sunday for his flight back to London. I suggested instead that we travel to Boston the next day, Saturday, and do a little snooping into Hubert Billups’s background in search of something, anything, that might help make sense of his vicious murder. George readily agreed.

  I called Jed Richardson to see whether he could change his schedule and fly us to Boston tomorrow. He said he could accommodate us, and we booked him for a nine-o’clock departure.

  “I’d like to make Seth aware of our change in plans,” George said, looking at his watch.

  “He’s invited us for dinner tonight, and I accepted on our behalf. You can let him know then.”

  “Yes, I can. But I planned to bring him a little gift as thanks. Would you care to accompany me into town to pick something out?”

  “Mind terribly if I don’t? I have a little catching up to do.”

  “Working on your novel?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “I’m guessing you have another sort of computer work in mind,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I shouldn’t be too long. I’ll ring you up when I’m on my way back.”

  George knew me too well. I’d already dismissed any notion of trying to work on my novel. Instead, I booted up the computer again, went to Google, and typed in “Down-the-Hatch.” Four sites came up, and I clicked on the first, the official Web site for a restaurant and bar. According to its self-serving blurb, it was one of Boston’s oldest eating and drinking establishments in the Back Bay area, and further billed itself as “the real answer to Cheers.” Two color photographs were posted. The shot taken of the exterior, although updated, was unmistakably the same setting that appeared in the picture of Billups and the man I thought might be his brother. The interior photograph showed a large masculine room with a long bar running along one side, and tables filling up the other. The bill of fare hadn’t changed significantly; it reflected the same options as the menu Billups had saved, offering what can only be described as pub fare—chicken wings, burgers, salads, soups, and “pies affectionately baked on the premises.” There was no listing of owners or managers.

  A second posting was a review of Down-the-Hatch in the Boston Globe. It wasn’t a particularly positive one, although the reviewer did say that the establishment had been at its location for sixty-six years and served a loyal clientele.

  Posting number three was simply a listing of Boston pubs that included Down-the-Hatch.

  The fourth was decidedly more interesting. It was a brief article taken from the Boston Herald. According to the reporter, Down-the-Hatch had been shuttered during an investigation of the finances of its new owners, who were alleged to have ties to organized crime. I printed out that story before scrolling through the next two dozen entries in search of a follow-up but found nothing, nor did the name “Hubert Billups” together with “Boston” produce anything on Google.

  Before shutting down the computer, I typed in the name Archer Franklin on a whim. The only thing I knew about his background came from Wilimena, and her knowledge was based upon what he’d told her. Of course, I’d also experienced firsthand his bravado and heightened sense of self-importance. While links to several “Franklin Archers” popped up, I couldn’t find anything on Archer Franklin, the man who claimed to be an expert in the commodities market.

  Strange, I thought, that a man with the level of business success he claimed to have wouldn’t have had anything written about him, not even a mention in the well-known business magazines, nor the obscure ones for that matter. Was Archer Franklin his real name? If not, why would he have chosen to assume a new identity?

  Further research yielded nothing more and after an hour, I was too fidgety to stay chained to my desk. I’d wished I hadn’t encouraged George to go into town alone. His trip was coming to an end, and all the events of the past few days had dashed my hopes of a leisurely visit, with quiet times to catch up on our respective lives. Thinking he may have preferred to present Seth with his gift in private, I called the house.

  “Stopped by a bit ago on his way into town,” Seth said when I asked for George. “I’ve been busy with patients. He did tell me that he’ll be leaving tomorrow instead of Sunday. What brought that about?”

  I considered what to tell Seth. If I said I was going to Boston to dig into Hubert Billups’s background, he’d undoubtedly be critical of me for poking my nose into what is a police matter. So I said instead, “I thought George would enjoy a day and night in Boston, Seth. He seems pleased with the idea.”

  Seth laughed. “I’ll miss having him here,” he said. “He’s a fine gentleman.”

  My face lit up. I’d been nervous about George staying with Seth, based upon tensions that seemed to have existed between the two men during previous meetings. How nice that Seth agreed with my assessment of George.

  “We’ll have to get him back here again soon,” I said.

  “Ayuh, that we will, or visit him across the pond.”

  “I like that idea even better,” I said. “If George comes back, Seth, please ask him to call.”

  “Happy to, Jessica. See you this evening.”

  I realized with horror that I’d sent George off without even offering him lunch, and decided to head into town on the off chance I’d run into him, and we could g
rab a bite together. It was a beautiful, sunny day, with mild temperatures still dominating the region. Despite George’s admonition not to ride my bike until the GLOTCOYB matter was resolved, I elected to do just that. I needed the exercise, wanted to stretch my legs and breathe in some fresh air.

  I noticed that the front tire on my bicycle was low on air, used my trusty hand pump to fill it up, and headed downtown. I looked for George’s rental car along the way but didn’t spot it. I parked in the bike rack in front of the clothing shop that Beth Wappinger had opened. She was already decorating her store window for Christmas. When she saw me, she waved me inside. I hadn’t intended to stop in, but couldn’t be rude.

  “I knew you’d want to see those new blouses,” she said to me just as another customer called out to her. Beth raised a finger to indicate she’d be with me in a minute. I’m not an avid shopper and never have been, although there have been times when I’ve enjoyed picking out a new outfit for a special occasion, especially when I had travel plans. Idly, I looked through the rack of new blouses Beth had gotten in. Although they were pretty enough, I wouldn’t buy one. While I do love bright colors, I’m more of a traditionalist than drawn to modern styles. I insist on comfort, and lean toward classic designs that will wear well for many years, my New England taste coming to the fore.

  The other customer left—without purchasing anything, I noticed—and Beth joined me. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she said, touching the blouses. “He’s a hot new California designer. I was lucky to get on his list.”

  “They’re lovely,” I said, meaning it, “but not really for me, Beth.”

  “They are a little, well, lively,” she said. “What brings you downtown?”

  “Just out for a ride. It’s a lovely day.”

  “And how is that handsome Scotland Yard inspector of yours?”

  “George is fine, although it hasn’t been the sort of visit I envisioned for him. Too much going on.”

  “Like a murder,” she said.

  I nodded. “Yes, like a murder.”