A Fatal Feast Page 20

  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.”

  Chapter Twenty-four

  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.”

  I stepped back to allow her to enter. “I can’t imagine what could be so urgent. Is your telephone out?”

  “No,” she said, shaking off the rain. A small smile appeared on her lips and I turned to see Victor looming in the doorway. He stepped over the threshold and forcefully closed the door.

  I was suddenly stricken with fear.

  “I really don’t think that—”

  Victor pushed by me and went to the living room.

  I said to Linda, “Can’t whatever brings you here on this dreadful night wait until tomorrow?”

  “No, it can’t,” Victor barked from the other room.

  I drew a deep breath and said to Linda, “Then go into the living room and wait with your husband. I need to change clothes.”

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, checking the windows, then pulling the curtains into place.

  “All right,” I said, tightening the belt of my robe. “Why are you here?”

  They turned to face me.

  “Smart lady like you, I think you can figure that out,” Victor said, his tone menacing.

  “Yes, I think I do know,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady so as not to betray my nervousness. “Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss it?”

  Linda looked to my couch, and I knew what she was thinking. “It doesn’t matter if you’re wet,” I said. “It’ll dry.”

  She sat, and I joined her. Victor went into the kitchen, checked the back door and closed the blinds.

  “Why did you have to do it?” Linda asked.

  “Do what, Linda?”

  “Go sticking your nose into our business.”

  “That was never my purpose,” I said. “I found the body of a murdered man across from this house; that was the business I wanted to know more about.”


  I glanced at Victor, who’d come back into the room and stood with his arms crossed over his sizable chest.

  “You don’t understand,” Linda said. “You don’t understand what we’ve been through.”

  “I’m sure I don’t,” I said, “but that doesn’t seem to be the point. A man was killed. There’s no possible excuse for that. I didn’t know Mr. Billups, but—”

  “That didn’t stop you from inviting that . . . that bum to your Thanksgiving dinner,” Linda said.

  “No, it didn’t. I enjoy including newcomers to Cabot Cove at my holiday table, which should be obvious. I didn’t know you and Victor when I invited you to join us.”

  “I don’t care about Thanksgiving,” Victor said to his wife. “Get on with it.”

  “Sheriff Metzger said you went to Boston. How did you know we were from Boston?”

  “I went to Boston to look into Hubert Billups’s background,” I said, dismissing any initial disappointment at Mort having involved me. I suppose he didn’t have a choice. He had to explain to them why he’d called them in. “I guessed you were from Boston when I met you, Linda. You named your cat for a Boston College, and a Boston accent is hard to camouflage, especially from a fellow New Englander.”

  “I told you,” Victor growled at her.

  “And on the assumption we were from Boston, you poked your nose into our affairs.”

  “I knew nothing of your affairs. All I knew was that you had all the physical signs of a liar and I wondered why you would lie about such unimportant things. However, once I was in Boston, I learned about Vincent Canto.” I shot a look at Victor, but his face was impassive. “I came back from Boston, Linda, with suspicions about your husband, suspicions you’re now confirming.”

  She flared in anger. “Confirming what, Jessica? That Victor and I were sent here by the stinking feds, that they took our lives away and settled us in this hick town?”

  I wasn’t about to debate the merits of Cabot Cove. Instead, I said, “It’s my understanding that you and Victor were sent here because your husband turned state’s evidence about a murder and beating that took place in Boston some ten years back.”

  “Victor had nothing to do with that,” she said, chin raised, lips pressed together to put an exclamation point on her denial.

  “That may be true,” I said, “but it isn’t the issue. Evidently, Mr. Billups thought otherwise. He must have believed that your husband was responsible for his beating and the death of his brother. Isn’t that right? That’s what you thought he believed too, and you assumed that he came to Cabot Cove to seek vengeance. It seems to me that the real question is whether your husband confronted Billups and—”

  “And killed him?”

  “Yes, and killed him.”

  “Victor did not kill that man, Jessica,” she said. “He’s innocent.”

  I looked to Victor for confirmation from him. He said or did nothing, just glared at me.

  “Don’t you see what your snooping has done, Jessica?” she asked, her voice hard. “We’ve been living like Gypsies for years, first one town, then another. We’re never allowed to return home to see family and friends, always living a lie with phony names, trying to keep to ourselves so the truth doesn’t come out, attempting to fit into every new community without giving away too much. It’s been hell, pure hell. I tried to make a normal life for us no matter where we lived, a rinky-dink town in the Midwest, some dreadful place in Texas. Always someplace remote because we were afraid that Victor’s whereabouts had been leaked. Do you know what it’s like to get up every morning, look out the window, and expect to see someone standing outside with a gun waiting to kill your husband?” Her eyes glistened with anger. “Always having to make nice with people you could care less about so that they’ll think you’re just a normal couple, stay on their good side, don’t risk having them raise questions about you.” A small, sardonic smile crossed her lips. “Always hoping you won’t run into a self-righteous busybody like you who insists on satisfying her curiosity no matter who it hurts. I despise people like you!”

  I listened to her rant. At the same time my mind went in different directions.

  I didn’t doubt that being in the Witness Protection Program was a difficult life. On the other hand, those who enter the program are often criminals who avoided jail time by cooperating with authorities. Being relocated to a new town with a set of restrictions attached seemed to me to be eminently preferable to a life behind bars. If what I’d learned about Carson, aka Canto, was correct, he’d ordered the beatings of Harry and Hubert Billups, resulting in the death of one and the permanent injury of the other. Who knew how many other innocent people he’d ordered be killed or maimed to achieve his dishonest goals.

  While it was true that the spouses of such people were forced to suffer along with them, the decision to link their lives with criminals was their own. Didn’t she know what he did for a living when she married him? Maybe, maybe not. Nevertheless, all her whining about their life in the Witness Protection Program didn’t change the fact that Hubert Billups had been murdered, and that whoever killed him deserved to be punished.

  I decided to be more direct. I stood, approached Victor, and asked, “Did you kill Hubert Billups?”

  He hesitated a long time. “No,” he said finally, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Do you really think I’d tell you if I did?”

  I turned to Linda. “Do you have any idea who killed him, Linda?”

  She looked down and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “No,” she said in a soft voice.

  I was tempted to accuse her of lying but said instead, “Are you sure about that, Linda?”

  She glanced at me, then looked away again.

  As silence engulfed the room, the initial fear I felt upon their arrival began to build again. Here I was directly confronting them about a capital crime, alone with them in my house, the wind howling outside, rain beating against the windows, and the curtains shut tight to prevent anyone from seeing in. What was their purpose? Were they here to threaten me, to force me to recant the questions I’d raised? I’d already given Mort my hypothesis regarding the case. Did they want to inflict punishment, and leave me with a daily reminder that my investigations could end in pain? If so, no one would be able to hear my cries for help.

  I now knew who Victor Carson was. He was in reality Vincent Canto, a mobster from Boston for whom inflicting human suffering was not a foreign concept, a man who’d murdered before and would undoubtedly do so again if it served his purpose.

  “I realize this is awkward for you, and I’m not looking to make your lives more difficult,” I said. “You’ve already spoken with Sheriff Metzger, and I suggest we all sit down with him again tomorrow. If indeed you had nothing to do with Billups’s death, you have my apologies.” I stood and took a few steps toward the door to indicate that I wanted them to leave. For a moment, I thought Victor was about to follow me. But Linda remained on the couch, her eyes fixed on the floor, fingers of one hand drumming against the others. She looked up at Victor and said sharply, “We’re not going anywhere.”

  The bluntness of her statement froze me.

  The phone rang.

  “Don’t answer that, Jessica,” Linda ordered, but I’d already reached the phone and lifted the receiver.

  “Mrs. F, it’s Mort.”

  “Mort!”

  I tried not to let them see the expression on my face, but my relief faded away when I turned to see Linda standing in the kitchen doorway. She held a small handgun and lifted her arm.

  “I just wanted you to know, Mrs. F, that I had the Carsons come in for an interview. Frankly, I don’t think he had anything to do with Billups’s murder. I really pressed and—”

  “Thank you, Mort.”

  “Mrs. F, are you okay?”

  The weapon Linda held was now pointed directly at me. I shuddered when I heard her release the safety and pull back on the hammer.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Mortimer. I’m afr
aid I can’t talk to you right now.”

  “Mortimer?” He laughed. “You’ve never called me that before. That’s not my name.”

  “I appreciate the call Mortimer. I have to go. Thank you for calling.”

  I replaced the phone in its cradle and faced Linda Carson. “Set the gun down, Linda,” I said gently. “You’ll only make things worse.”

  She seemed momentarily unsure of herself, and I thought she might put the gun away. But her face mirrored a newfound resolve. She said, “If you think for one minute, Jessica, that I’m going to let someone like you make our lives even worse than they’ve already been, you’re crazy.” She stepped closer to me, the gun pointed at my chest.

  “That was Mort, calling to say he didn’t think Victor killed Hubert Billups.”

  “Too late now,” she said.

  “He’s right,” I said. “Victor wasn’t the murderer.”

  “I already told you that.”

  Victor came up behind his wife, his cold eyes taking in the scene, revealing nothing. “Hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to wait here all night.”

  I backed away until reaching the kitchen counter, next to the door leading to my patio. I leaned against the counter, drew a deep breath, and said to Linda, “It was you who killed Billups, wasn’t it?”

  “You’re guessing. You have no proof whatsoever, against either of us.”

  “That’s not true. One thing that always bothered me about the case was the angle of the knife, the way it had been jabbed into Billups’s chest. Your husband is such a big man, and Billups was so small. The knife went straight in, parallel to the ground. Someone your husband’s size would have brought a knife down from above or maybe up from below. Isn’t that how you would have done it, Victor?”

  “Don’t listen to her,” he said.

  “But when you put your arm out,” I continued, “it’s at exactly the height of the fatal wound.”