A Fatal Feast Page 19

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  To 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 i
n order to cast suspicion away from himself?

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

  My dear Jessica—The flight home was pleasant and uneventful. I miss you already, and hope you’ll venture across the pond for Christmas. The more

  I think about your theory of the Billups case, the more it appeals to this Scotland Yard inspector. Your sheriff’s reaction can be explained, I feel, by the rules of the Witness Protection Program as practiced here and in the States. When someone is relocated through the program, local law enforcement officers must be told of their presence in the community. Of course, they are bound to secrecy unless circumstances warrant a breach. Certainly, murder would constitute such a circumstance. Have to bob down to a meeting. Always a dashed meeting it seems. Fondly, George.

  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.”

  “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.