A Fatal Feast Page 3

  “I don’t have an answer to that either, Mort. The question is, should I be concerned?”

  He cocked his head. “Probably just some nut having fun, but you never can tell.”

  “They were mailed in Ohio.”

  “Oh? Were they? Know anybody out there who might be up to something like this?”

  I retrieved them from his desk and put them back in my purse. I love Mort Metzger dearly, but there are times when he can be frustrating.

  “Why not leave them with me?” he suggested. “I can run them over to the state crime lab and see if they can pick up any prints.”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary, Mort, but thanks for the offer. Probably just some nut, as you suggest. How’s Maureen?”

  “She’s fine. She’s poring over her recipe books for a different way to cook the turkey.”

  “That’s . . . that’s wonderful,” I said, standing and thanking him again for his time. “Can’t wait to hear what she comes up with.”

  Once outside, I allowed my true feelings to surface. Maureen, as wonderful a person as she is, and as dedicated a cook as she can be, tends to come up with unusual approaches to standard dishes, and they’re not always successful. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be offended if I cooked the bird this year using my time-tested old-fashioned way of doing it.

  I was pedaling through the center of town when Tobé Wilson called my name. Tobé’s husband, Jack, is one of Cabot Cove’s most popular veterinarians. I got off the bike and joined her on a bench in a small park with a view of the bay. Tobé had always been a popular sight with tourists when she took her pet pig, Kiwi, for a walk. Many visitors to Cabot Cove had shots of Kiwi and Tobé among their vacation photos. Kiwi had recently succumbed to old age. I offered my condolences.

  “It was always fun seeing people’s reactions,” she said. “And Kiwi enjoyed the attention. I miss her.”

  “Of course you do,” I said.

  “And how are you, Jessica? I hear by the grapevine that you’re having problems with your next book.”

  “It’s true, and if I knew what was good for me, I would be home pecking away at the computer right now.”

  “You’ll get it done,” she said, smiling. “And it will be wonderful, as always.”

  I wished I shared her confidence.

  “Have you met the new folks on your road?” she asked.

  “No, I haven’t. Have you?”

  “Yes. The wife was in this morning with their cat, Emerson. Hair balls. She’s very sweet, very shy. Her owner, I mean. Her name’s Linda.”

  “They were at Mara’s yesterday when I was having breakfast with Seth. She’s become his patient. I’ve seen them coming and going from their house, but haven’t met them in person. Where are they from?”

  “She didn’t say, but she doesn’t know anyone here. I asked. Mara said Amanda thought they might be from out West, since he’s the strong, silent type.”

  The Carson home had been previously owned by Amanda Butterfield, widow of Sgt. Ira Butterfield, who was wounded by a grenade in World War II, and who died decades later. Mrs. Butterfield, in her nineties, had moved into an assisted-living facility some months back. The house was at the far end of my road, beyond a curve that shielded it from the view of other houses, including my own. The Carsons had arrived about two months ago, and though I’d seen them from a distance, we had yet to meet. From what I observed, they stayed pretty much to themselves. Linda was a small, demure brunette woman who seemed to move with purpose wherever she went. Her husband was much larger than his wife in every way.

  “I’ve been meaning to stroll by their house and introduce myself,” I said, “but just haven’t gotten around to it.”

  “You should. It’s always so hard moving into a new neighborhood,” Tobé said.

  “I’m glad you mentioned them,” I said. “I’ll make a point of paying a visit. Love to Jack.”

  I rode my bicycle home and took care of household chores, taking a break for a light lunch. At two, without even looking at my computer screen, I packed up some freshly baked blueberry muffins, put them in a shopping bag, and walked up the road to the house now occupied by our newcomers to Cabot Cove. It was one of the smaller homes in the area, set back from the road, a clapboard ranch house with mature, well-tended shrubs and pretty pink curtains in the windows. I hesitated to intrude on them without prior notice, but since I didn’t know their telephone number, I decided that it was probably all right.

  I knocked and waited. I heard movement inside the house, and a gruff male voice said, “Who could that be?”

  The door was opened by the woman I now knew was Linda.

  “Sorry to just stop by like this,” I said, “but I’ve been very delinquent in welcoming you to the neighborhood. I’m Jessica Fletcher. I live down the road, just beyond the bend.”

  She seemed momentarily surprised but quickly smiled and said, “It’s very, um, sweet of you to think of us.”

  “I baked these this morning,” I said, handing her the muffins. “They’re never as good as the ones from Charlene Sassi’s bakery in town, but they come close. At least that’s what I’ve been told.”

  “Thank you. I know we’ll love them. I’m Linda, um, Carson,” she said, pinching her nose. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  A black-and-white cat wound itself around her ankle and settled between her feet.

  “And this must be Emerson,” I said, leaning down and extending my arm so the cat could sniff my hand.

  “How did you know?”

  “My friend Tobé Wilson said you brought your cat in this morning for treatment.”

  A brief frown appeared. Then she gave a nervous giggle. “Silly cat,” she said. “It was just hair balls.”

  “Is Emerson named for the poet?”

  “No. The college.”

  “Oh. Did you go there?”

  “Where?”

  “Emerson College. In Boston.”

  “No!” Linda wiped her lips with her fingers. “I mean, a friend of mine did and this was her cat. She couldn’t take it home. Her mother was allergic. So she gave it to me. I couldn’t very well change the cat’s name, now, could I? So it’s still Emerson.”

  “I see,” I said. “But I detect a slight Boston accent there. Am I right? Is that where you’re from?”

  Linda scratched the side of her nose. “Boston is a nice city, so I’m told. We’ll have to take a trip there soon.”

  “Well, I’m glad we’ve gotten to meet. Welcome to the neighborhood, and to Cabot Cove.”

  A large man wearing black sweatpants and sweatshirt, and sandals, suddenly appeared behind her, and eyed me suspiciously. His heavy beard line testified to not having shaved for a few days. “This is Jessica Fletcher,” Linda told him. “She stopped by to say hello and brought us these muffins.”

  “Yeah? That’s nice,” he said, taking the bag and peering inside.

  “This is my husband, Victor.”

  “Hello, Victor,” I said, offering my hand, which disappeared inside his like a ball in a catcher’s mitt.

  “I won’t keep you,” I said.

  “We’d invite you in,” Linda said, glancing behind her, “but the house is such a mess. We’re still getting settled.”

  “I know what a chore that can be,” I said. “We’ll probably see each other again at the Thanksgiving pageant. I hope you’ll be there.”

  “I read about it in the local paper,” she said without committing herself.

  I wondered whether they had children but thought it would be too nosy to ask. Children especially enjoy the annual pageant. “We also serve a Thanksgiving dinner at the senior center for those who have nowhere else to go or can’t afford to buy a turkey. We can always use extra help.”

  Then it occurred to me that because they were new to the community, they might not have plans for the holiday. “Do you have family in the area?” I asked.

  “No,” Linda answered as her husband stepped out of view.

&n
bsp; “I’m hosting Thanksgiving dinner at my house this year. There’s always room for more—that is, if you don’t have other plans.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. I mean, um, that’s so generous of you—we don’t have plans, but—that’s so nice of you. I’ll ask Victor and call you. Is that all right?”

  “Of course. My number is in the book. Fletcher. Jessica Fletcher,” I said, sounding a little like James Bond. “You’ll enjoy the other guests, I’m sure, and we’ll tell you all about our local attractions. Well, it was good meeting you. I’ll look forward to your call.”

  I don’t know what the correlation might be, but my goodwill visit to my new neighbors seemed to free up my mind, and I had my first productive session at the computer in days. Better start doing more good deeds, I told myself as the words finally came.

  Chapter Four

  The third letter arrived in the next day’s mail.

  Like the previous two, my address was neatly printed on the standard letter-sized envelope. There was no return address. This time, I inspected the postmark before opening it. Cabot Cove!

  The sheet of plain, white letter-sized paper provided the background for three letters cut from magazines. G-L-O. The G had been righted, the three letters aligned in a row spelling GLO.

  GLO? What words begin with GLO? Glory? Glove? Globe? Glossary?

  Or do the letters together stand for something?

  I tried assigning possible words to them—Give Love something? Grand Lake—? I’d fly-fished for salmon on Grand Lake Stream in northern Maine a few times. Gallant Lads Overcome? Gentlemen Like Oceans? Guns, Loss, Ominous? Ooh, I don’t like that one.

  It was an impossible exercise, but I kept at it until the ringing phone brought it to a halt.

  “Hi, Jessica. It’s Maureen.”

  “Good morning,” I said to our sheriff’s wife. Maureen had married Mort after he and his first wife, Adele, had parted ways. Maureen, a softhearted redhead with a cheerful outlook had rescued Mort from despair and brought interest and enjoyment back into his life. She attacked every activity with enthusiasm, if not always aptitude, and cooking was an abiding passion of hers.

  “Got a minute to talk about the feast?” she asked.

  “Thanksgiving dinner? All right.”

  “I was watching the Food Network and Paula Deen was on and came up with an absolutely dynamite idea for a different way to cook the turkey this year—except that it’s not a turkey.”

  For some reason, I thought of former Yankee great Yogi Berra and his twisted sayings. When is a turkey not a turkey?

  “You use a turducken.”

  “Of course.”

  “It’s a turkey except that you put a duck inside a chicken and put the chicken inside the turkey. You cook it just like you would a plain old turkey. It sounds fabulous. Paula says—there I go sounding as though we’re pals—she says it gives three different flavors at the same time. What do you think?”

  “I, ah—it’s fascinating, Maureen. Actually, I was served it once at a dinner in Memphis. It was quite good.”

  “I knew you’d appreciate it. What say we try it this year?”

  “It’s an interesting recipe, Maureen, but I was thinking more along the lines of a traditional roast turkey because of George coming to celebrate with us. You know, show our Scottish guest what an old-fashioned New England Thanksgiving meal is like.”

  “I see your point,” she said, her tone mirroring her disappointment. Then she brightened. “Maybe I can come up with something unusual to go with the turkey, some side dish, like a special stuffing.”

  “I like that idea,” I said, relieved.

  “What do you think of jalapeño peppers?”

  “I don’t think they quite fit the definition of traditional, but would you mind if we discussed this another time? I have to run.”

  “I bet I interrupted an important creative burst you’re having this morning, and I apologize, knowing the trouble you’ve been having with your book.”

  “No apologies needed. You didn’t interrupt anything important,” I said, thinking of my efforts to make sense out of GLO. “We’ll talk again later.”

  I got back to work on the novel but didn’t get very far. My mind kept drifting to words with those three letters. When eleven o’clock rolled around, I put the computer on STANDBY, grateful that Wilimena Copeland had invited me to join her for lunch downtown. Perhaps the distraction would help me focus better later on. Our reservation was for twelve, but I wanted time to stop at the post office before I met her.

  Midday is not the best time to visit the Cabot Cove Post Office. The window closes at noon while the three postal workers in the back take their lunch break together, and doesn’t reopen until an hour later. Why they couldn’t alternate and have two take lunch while the third kept the service open during that time was one mystery I’d never been able to solve. Even knowing this, I wasn’t prepared for the line of customers trying to squeeze in their business before the lunchtime hiatus. I checked my watch, trying to calculate if I had enough time to talk to the postmistress before I was to meet Willie. I might make it.

  If Mara’s holds first place in the gossip wars, the post office runs a close second. The two ladies and one gentleman behind the desk are the repositories of all news in town, gleaned from customers as they pick up their packages or buy stamps. As a consequence, each transaction takes a bit more time than it might if there was no juicy information being exchanged. So I was not surprised when I finally reached the front of the line and Lee, the postmistress, asked, “How’s that book going, Jessica? Beth Wappinger said you were stalled.”

  “She did? Well, I have been more productive in my life,” I replied, “but it will get done. It always does.”

  “And how can I help you today?”

  “I’m not sure you can, Lee, but I thought you should be aware of these three letters I received.” I pulled the papers from my purse and spread them out on the counter in front of her.

  “Oh, doing a little arts and crafts, are we?” she said, smiling.

  “Lee, you don’t understand. Someone is using the postal service to send me anonymous letters.”

  “When did you get them?”

  “The G was the first one. I got the L yesterday and this one today.”

  “Someone is sending you a message.”

  “Yes, I can see that, Lee. But what kind of message?”

  “I don’t know, Jessica. The post office only delivers the mail. We aren’t responsible for what’s in it.”

  “Isn’t there some policy that outlaws the use of the U.S. Postal Service to send threats through the mail?”

  “I don’t see any threats here. It’s just cutout letters.” She put her finger on the O of the letter that had arrived that morning. “What a pretty color. I used to have a dress in that pink.”

  “You don’t see this as threatening?”

  “Frankly, Jessica, I don’t. It’s probably just a fan who wants to get your attention.”

  “Well, if that’s the case, he or she has accomplished the goal.” I refolded the letters and tucked them in my purse.

  “Is there anything else I can do for you today?” she asked.

  “I guess not. Sorry to have wasted your time.”

  “No problem. Good luck on the completion of your book.”

  “Thank you.”

  I left the post office and arrived at the restaurant with five minutes to spare before I was due to meet my friend.

  Wilimena, better known as Willie to her friends and to her sister, Kathy, had decided to settle in Cabot Cove after a harrowing experience during an Alaskan cruise. She’d disappeared during that trip, and Kathy and I had set out to find out what had happened to her. As it turned out, she’d come into possession of a stash of gold that had been panned by a close friend of a distant relative, Dolly Arthur, whose brothel was Alaska’s most famous sporting house. Willie had ended up trapped in a remote cabin and would have died had Kathy and I not come to
her rescue. In a lovely gesture, she had donated a sizable portion of her treasure to renovate our senior citizen center.

  Wilimena had been an inveterate flirt who had gone through a succession of husbands before arriving in town. For a while, it seemed that she was content to leave the adventurous portion of her colorful life in the past. That lasted until a wealthy gentleman, Archer Franklin, decided that Cabot Cove was the perfect place in which to enjoy his retirement.

  Bingo!

  Willie was introduced to the new retiree, applied her famous magnetism, and they’d soon become an item, according to Cabot Cove’s informal news channel—the rumor mill. I hadn’t met Mr. Franklin yet, although gossip had already started circulating that characterized him as opinionated and, shall we say, less than modest about his achievements. That didn’t mean, of course, that he was those things, and I would reserve judgment until I’d encountered the man myself.

  I joined Wilimena, who’d already secured a table, her cane hooked over the back of her chair. She’d suffered a mangled leg during her Alaskan adventure and went through months of grueling rehabilitation. Despite walking with a pronounced limp, she’d remained an extremely attractive woman who assiduously worked on her looks and figure. She greeted me warmly.

  “How’s the book coming?” she asked.

  “Oh, it’s coming along all right.”

  “I hear you’re having some trouble finishing it.”

  “I can’t imagine where you heard that,” I said, laughing.

  “Wasn’t it on the billboard out by the highway?” she asked, tongue firmly in cheek, and joined in the laughter.

  “So,” I said, “what’s new in your life?”

  “Lots,” she replied, then became conspiratorial. “I have a new beau.”

  “So I’ve heard,” I said.

  “How did you know already? Did Kathy tell you?”

  “No. Must have been on that same billboard. Tell me about him.”

  “He’s quite a guy, maybe a little old for me but in good shape. He exercises regularly and—”

  “And?”

  “And he’s loaded. He said he made his fortune in the commodities market. Not that I know anything about how that works, but he obviously does. He’s thinking of buying a house in Clamshell Cove. He keeps his houseboat in a slip there. He’s living on it until he decides which house to buy.”