A Fatal Feast Read online

  “I noticed that you and the inspector were down at the sheriff ’s office this morning. Does he have any leads on who killed that old man?”

  “Afraid not, at least none that he shared with me. How was your Thanksgiving?” I asked.

  “Nice. Josh was home—for a change.” She rolled her eyes up toward the ceiling. “I wish he’d get a job where he’s not traveling so much.”

  “Maybe he’ll get tired of being on the road and settle into a job here in Cabot Cove.”

  “That would be heavenly. How’s your book coming?” she asked with a mischievous grin.

  “Slow, but getting there. Thanks for asking.”

  “We’re all rooting for you to finish it,” she said.

  “And I’m sure all that ‘rooting’ will help.”

  “Sure you don’t want to try on one of these blouses? The bright colors will bring out the color in your cheeks and—”

  “Thanks, no, Beth. We’ll catch up again soon.”

  I walked down to Charles Department Store, where I thought George might have shopped for a gift for Seth, and inquired about him. David, one of the owners, said he hadn’t been in. As I was leaving, Kathy Copeland, Wilimena’s sister, came through the door. She was dressed as she usually was, in jeans, a flannel shirt, and boots. Kathy is an inveterate gardener. Thanksgiving was one of the few times I’d seen her this year when she hadn’t been wearing gardening clothes. But beneath that rough-hewn garb is a pretty, feminine woman who’s never found the right man to marry. Or perhaps she prefers to remain single. The contrast between Kathy and her sister is marked. Willie is an inveterate consumer, whether it’s high fashion, face-lifts, expensive cosmetics and perfumes, or diet products. She would never be caught with dirt under her fingernails. Unlike Kathy, she’s had several husbands, and is almost never without masculine company.

  “Great dinner yesterday,” Kathy said. “The turkey was cooked to perfection.”

  “I thought so, too,” I said. “I had a lot of help and it was an interesting mix of people.”

  She laughed. “It certainly was.” Her face became serious. “I was sorry to learn about Mr. Billups. And just as we might have gotten to know him.”

  “Yes, I was sorry, too.”

  “Well, I’ll see you soon.” She started to move toward the stairs leading to the second floor of the landmark store, but I stopped her. “Kathy, do you have a minute?” I asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Let’s go outside.”

  She looked at me quizzically but followed me to the sidewalk.

  “Kathy,” I said, “I know this might not be any of my business, and if I’m intruding where I shouldn’t, stop me.”

  “Okay.”

  “What do you and Willie know about Mr. Franklin?”

  She fidgeted with a button on her shirt. “Know about him? What do you mean?”

  “What I mean is, just what do you really know about him?”

  She looked down while gathering her thoughts. When she looked up, she said, “Gee, Jessica, I suppose we don’t know very much about him aside from what he’s told us. Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, you know me, Kathy, always asking questions and looking for answers. It’s in my writer’s genes, I suppose.”

  She cocked her head. “Come on, Jessica, level with me. Do you have suspicions about Archer?”

  “Frankly, yes.”

  She looked left and right before saying, “So do I.”

  “Care to share them with me?” I asked.

  “Let’s go over there,” she said, pointing to one of Cabot Cove’s many pocket parks created by Mayor Shevlin and his administration.

  “He’s too full of himself,” she said after we’d shooed two pigeons from a bench and claimed their seats. “He’s all bluster and boasting about his business success, how much money he has, the houses he’s sold, things like that.”

  “And you don’t think he’s telling the truth?”

  “I don’t know for sure whether he is or not. But that’s not what bothers me. For someone with all his alleged money, he’s a sponger.”

  “Sponging off you and Willie?”

  “Right. She ends up paying whenever they go out to eat, and he’s even borrowed money from her.”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Some business deal he said he had to act upon quickly but didn’t have immediate access to his funds. It really worries me, Jessica. You know Willie when it comes to men. She needs their attention and approval, and that’s gotten her into so much trouble over the years. She came into that money from the gold in Alaska, and it’s a lot. But it can go fast—and is.”

  “I understand your concern,” I said.

  “And now he’s staying with us.”

  “Oh? When did that happen?”

  “Two days ago. He said it’s only temporary until he closes on a house he plans to buy. He said he doesn’t feel safe on his houseboat, that there have been break-ins at the marina. I haven’t heard about any break-ins. Have you?”

  “No, I can’t say I have.”

  “You know how Cabot Cove is. I find it hard to believe we wouldn’t have heard about any criminal activity in such a well-to-do neighborhood. Do you know what I think?”

  “Tell me, Kathy.”

  “I think—I think that somebody’s after him and he’s hiding out with us.”

  “The law?”

  “Maybe. Or somebody else he’s conned. I can’t sleep at night worrying about it.”

  “Have you discussed your feelings with Willie?”

  “I tried, but right away she jumps to his defense. She says I don’t understand the way big business works and the pressures someone like him suffers.” Kathy gave a soft snort. “The problem is I think I understand only too well. Please don’t tell her about this conversation, Jess. She’d be furious.”

  “I won’t,” I said. “I promise.”

  She stood. “I’d better go. I need to buy a new coffeepot at Charles. Willie burned the one we had last night. She left it on the stove and forgot about it until the living room got smoky. It’s ironic, really.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “We’d been talking about Archer when the pot burned, and I’d been telling her to wake up and smell the coffee.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  My search for the missing Scotland Yard inspector was not successful, and realizing that I was famished—and would never make it to dinner without something in my stomach—I stopped in for a quick bowl of minestrone at Peppino’s, where its owner, Joe DiScala, greeted me at the door. A lively crowd had gathered in the bar and I opted for a small table there. Friends greeted me as I settled in. Unlike those who like to get a jump on the holiday season and fill the stores in search of bargains, I take the Friday after Thanksgiving as a day of relaxation. The planning and preparations for the big Thursday meal are but a happy memory; it’s time to relax and enjoy a “down” day. There would be plenty of leftover dishes as the weekend progressed, which might explain why a decidedly nonturkey dish had its appeal.

  As I savored my soup and freshly baked hot bread, Joe joined me. After the requisite conversation about our respective Thanksgiving dinners—Peppino’s had been closed on Thursday in honor of the holiday—he mentioned Hubert Billups’s murder and asked if I knew anything about the investigation.

  “Absolutely nothing, Joe,” I said. “What have you heard?”

  He nodded toward the bar, where a spirited discussion was taking place about how Cabot Cove was changing, and not for the better. I picked up snatches of the conversation: that Franklin guy was right; the police weren’t doing their job; the mayor had lost touch; and there were too many outsiders arriving.

  I shrugged. “There are bound to be changes,” I said, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean they’re bad for the town. It’s still relatively crime free, and—”

  I turned to see Archer Franklin and Wilimena Copeland come through the door, Franklin leading the way, with Willie
leaning on her cane, bringing up the rear. Joe got up to accompany them to the main dining room, but Franklin spotted me and came to the table.

  “Ah,” he said, “my favorite writer.”

  “Hello, Archer. Hello, Willie.”

  “About that call I made to you regarding the sheriff,” he said. “I went down there and gave my statement. I still think it’s outrageous that an upstanding, law-abiding citizen is hauled into police headquarters like a common criminal. I gave that bozo of a sheriff a piece of my mind that he’ll not soon forget.”

  “I’m sure he appreciated your input.”

  Willie shifted her feet, an expression of discomfort on her face. I asked how she was doing.

  “All right,” she said, sounding as though she was unsure. To Franklin: “Let’s get a table. I’m hungry.”

  “Can’t have my honey suffering hunger pangs, now, can I?” Franklin said. “I’m still looking forward to getting together with you to discuss my works.”

  “Oh, I am, too, Archer,” I said.

  After seating them, Joe returned carrying an espresso demitasse for me.

  “Do they come in often?” I asked.

  He nodded and leaned across the table. “He’s a good customer and all, but so difficult. He sends everything back. He chooses a wine, sniffs the cork, swirls it around in his glass, tastes it, and says it’s no good. The pasta is never al dente enough, the sausage too spicy. You’d think he was paying the bill.”

  “She pays?”

  “Always. She’s a nice lady.”

  He didn’t have to finish his thought. He obviously felt that Willie was being used by Franklin, which mirrored her sister’s view.

  I paid and stepped outside. During the time I’d been inside Peppino’s, the blue sky had changed to ominous gray, with towering black cumulus clouds moving west to east, carrying with them potent thunderstorms. A few raindrops had already begun to fall, but by the time I’d pedaled halfway across the parking lot, the sky opened and rain came down in sheets, instantly soaking me.

  I considered going back to the restaurant and waiting it out, but I was already a soggy mess; better to head for home, a hot shower, and change of clothes.

  There were times as I moved slowly along the road leading to my house that the rain was so dense I had trouble seeing. Apparently drivers had difficulty seeing me, too, since so many of the passing cars splashed water on me. It really didn’t make much difference. I couldn’t get any wetter.

  Standing water covered portions of the road where drainage was poor. Some of it was quite deep, and I was concerned that I might take a tumble while pushing through it. That fear became reality when I was halfway home. A car, driving too fast for the conditions, went whizzing by, its side-view mirror coming dangerously close. I swerved in a nervous reaction, lost traction, and fell on my derriere, leaving me sitting in a foot of water. I pulled myself up, relieved that the only damage was to my ego. I picked up my bike and decided walking might be a safer choice for the next portion of the trip. I’d taken a few steps when I heard a horn. I turned. George pulled up next to me. He cranked open his window and said, “Need a ride, lass?”

  “George!” I shouted. “Thank goodness.”

  He put on the car’s flashers, popped open the trunk, jumped out, and helped wedge my bike into the “boot,” as he called it. By the time he’d gotten back into the car, he too was soaked, and we both made a “whooshing” sound as we settled on the seats.

  “What possessed you to try and bicycle home in this downpour?” he asked, shifting into gear and pulling away.

  “I thought that—no matter. I’m just glad you came along.”

  “You look absolutely beautiful with water running off that fine nose,” he said.

  “I’m a mess.”

  “All in the eye of the beholder, Jessica. You’ll soon be warm and dry.” He hummed “Singin’ in the Rain” as we continued the trip. We passed the spot where we’d come upon the lifeless body of Hubert Billups, and the chill I experienced had nothing to do with the clammy clothing pasted against my body.

  Once home, I gave George a sweat suit to change into—three sizes too big for me, it had been a recent gift that I hadn’t found time to return—while I took a hot shower and put on another sweat suit that was my size. With our wet clothes in the dryer, George lit the logs in the fireplace and while we sat in front of the flames and enjoyed steaming cups of tea, I told him of my conversations with Kathy Copeland and Joe DiScala about Archer Franklin.

  “If what they say is true,” George said, “I feel sorry for Ms. Copeland.”

  “I thought for a while that she’d latched onto him because he was rich,” I said, “but it now looks as though it’s the other way around. I Googled him and found nothing under the name Archer Franklin.”

  “For a man of his alleged successes, I find that strange.”

  “And he moved in with Kathy and Wilimena a few days ago.”

  “Another bad sign.”

  “Wilimena isn’t a stupid woman,” I said. “Surely she’s capable of seeing that Archer isn’t all he claims to be.”

  “One would hope so, although you’ve said she craves male attention. I suppose that could explain the blinders she’s wearing.”

  “Did you find a gift for Seth?” I asked.

  “I certainly did. In our conversations, Seth revealed that, like me, he’s an avid reader of history.”

  “No wonder you got along so well.”

  “We did, in fact. Anyway, I noticed that Seth had the first and second volumes of Edmund Wilson’s excellent series of diary entries from the last century, spanning the twenties through the sixties. I found a bookstall outside of town that stocks rare and used books, and bought him the editions he was missing.”

  “He’ll love it. He’s always been a fan of Wilson.”

  “A crusty chap with an outsized ego, and intellect.”

  “Edmund Wilson, or Seth?”

  He laughed. “Wilson, of course. I’ll give Seth the books at dinner tonight.”

  We decided to leave early for Seth’s to allow George to change into a fresh set of clothing. Scheduled to join us that evening were Jack and Tobé Wilson, who were running late, something to do with emergency surgery Jack had to perform on someone’s pet. Seth had been busy in the kitchen when we arrived, prepping a dinner of fresh brook trout dusted with oatmeal; broccoli; small Yukon Gold potatoes baked with onions, garlic and green peppers; and for dessert a pineapple upside-down cake fresh from Charlene Sassi’s bakery. With culinary matters under control, and with George off changing his clothes and finishing packing for our departure the next morning, Seth and I sat in his living room.

  “I’ll be sorry to see him go,” Seth said.

  “So will I. I feel as though I’ve barely seen him.”

  “I have a feeling, Jessica, that Inspector Sutherland might be close to asking you a question.”

  My raised eyebrows invited him to explain.

  “He’s in love with you, you know.”

  I looked down at my hands folded in my lap.

  “But I’m sure that doesn’t come as a surprise.”

  I looked up at my friend of so many years, who was smiling. “I assume you and George have been discussing me,” I said.

  “Your name did come up a few times.”

  “And you think, based upon those conversations, that he’s about to ask me a question?”

  “Ayuh, and I’m sure I needn’t elaborate on what that question will be.”

  “Are you telling me this, Seth, to warn me?”

  “That’s a little harsh, Jessica.”

  “If you are, I’ll consider it positively, as trying to spare me a surprise.”

  “Well, now, if George Sutherland should propose marriage to you, there would be no surprise in that. I suppose I’m curious as to what your response might be.”

  “And I don’t have an answer for you, Seth. It isn’t as if I haven’t thought about it many times since m
eeting George, but—”

  “Ah, there he is, all garbed up,” Seth said as George entered the room.

  “Have I missed anything?” George asked.

  “No, just catching up,” Seth said, casting a sly smile at me.

  Jack and Tobé arrived, and Seth poured drinks.

  George, who’s usually in good spirits, was absolutely ebullient this evening. He isn’t what you would term a chatty man, not one for small talk, but he quickly fell into a storytelling frame of mind and entertained everyone with tales of cases on which he’d worked, especially those involving dumb criminals.

  “. . . and so this bloke stands there blinking furiously and scratching his nose, sure signs that he’s lying. It’s called the Pinocchio Syndrome. There’s even a theory that blood rushes to the nose when you tell a lie, making it itchy. But the kicker, of course, was that he’d written his stickup note on the back of his business card. There’s a right turnup for the books, wouldn’t you say?”

  With Jack and Tobé encouraging him, George continued to tell amusing stories during dinner. While I enjoyed them as much as others at the table, I couldn’t stop thinking about what Seth had said. Was George about to propose marriage to me? Seth had been right when he said that a proposal would not come as a surprise. George and I had discussed the subject of marriage on more than one occasion, although none of those conversations had involved a formal proposal. Rather, they revolved around our individual lives and whether marriage was in the cards for either of us. George had left little doubt that were I receptive to a proposal, he would offer one. But he was also well aware that I was not ready to commit to such a dramatic change in my life, and that I might never be.

  Had he decided that by formally proposing marriage, it might break through my resolve to not alter my life? Was he planning to do it in front of my friends in the hope that they would pressure me to accept? Or was it Thanksgiving that prompted him to choose this time and place to pop the question?

  I thought of that famous bit of folklore involving Captain Myles Standish, the Pilgrims’ military leader, who though fearless in battle was hopelessly shy when it came to women. He’d fallen in love with Priscilla Mullens but couldn’t muster the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage. He enlisted the aid of his friend John Alden to approach her on his behalf, which Alden did. Priscilla was reported to have replied, “Why don’t you speak for yourself, John?” Alden took her suggestion, and he and Priscilla were married soon after.