A Fatal Feast Page 6

  The clear skies over Cabot Cove had been replaced by a lower ceiling over Boston, gray clouds moving in from the southwest. I piloted the Cessna on approach to the airport, and listened on my headphones. Jed maintained communication with the various FAA controllers, and I followed their instructions. I admit that my palms became damp as I aligned the plane with the active runway at Logan and guided it down—to a picture-perfect landing. We taxied to an area of the field where private planes were directed and parked near the operations building.

  “He’s coming in on Virgin Atlantic?” Jed asked as he shut down the engine.

  “Right.” I checked my watch. George’s plane wasn’t due in for another forty-five minutes. Of course, a scheduled arrival time depended upon the sort of headwinds the flight encountered on its way across the Atlantic. Westbound flights were sometimes delayed because of prevailing winds that generally blew from west to east; eastbound flights often arrived early because they have that same wind at their backs. Because of that, virtually every speed record is set by aircraft flying from west to east.

  Signature Flight Support at the general aviation facility on the north end of the airport provided us with a shuttle to Terminal E from which Virgin Atlantic operates. A glance at the arrivals board indicated that George’s flight was right on schedule, which still gave us enough time to grab a quick lunch and coffee at Bruegger’s. I paid the check and we strolled down to the arrivals area outside security.

  The secrecy surrounding Seth’s shopping expedition lingered in my mind during lunch, but faded from my consciousness as I anxiously scanned the incoming passengers in search of George. Eventually he emerged, looking as handsome and debonair as ever in his classic heather tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, pressed gray slacks, tan button-down shirt and maroon paisley tie, and ankle-high leather boots shined to a dazzling glow. He spotted me, waved, and picked up his pace.

  “My goodness, what a sight for these sore eyes,” he said, placing his hands on my arms and looking into my eyes. He pulled me to him, gave me a quick buss on the cheek, then turned to Jed. “Aha,” he said, “the man who delivered Jessica safely, and will do the same for us on the way home.”

  “Inspector,” Jed said, shaking hands. “Good to see you again.”

  “Good flight?” I asked.

  “Splendid, as usual. Mr. Branson certainly knows how to run a top-notch airline.”

  “Let’s head back,” Jed said. “There’s some nasty weather in the forecast.”

  The flight back to Cabot Cove was as smooth as it had been to Boston. I would have preferred that George sit up front with Jed, but Jed insisted that I take advantage of the trip to build up more piloting time. George sat in one of two rear seats and peppered Jed with questions about flying and the dials in the cockpit. George had flown once before with me at the controls, a leisurely sightseeing flight that showed him Cabot Cove and its environs from the air. I made another smooth landing, which elicited applause from the rear seat. Jed instructed a young man, who helped him out in return for free flying lessons, to call a cab for us, and a half hour later we walked through the door of my house. George dropped his suitcase in the foyer and followed me into the kitchen.

  “I feel very much at home here,” he said.

  “I want you to feel that way. Cold drink? Lemonade? Coke? Something stronger?”

  “I wouldn’t mind a wee dram of whiskey, if you have it.”

  “Coming right up.”

  We settled in my den with his drink—I opted for lemonade—and caught up on our respective lives. I’ve always been fascinated at his tales of the crimes and criminals he’s encountered, and even more so now that he was a ranking member of Scotland Yard’s elite antiterrorism unit. We talked for an hour, easy conversation that testified to the comfortable relationship we’d developed. I had been waiting for an opportunity to mention the series of strange letters I’d been receiving, and when he inquired about what was new in my life, I showed him the latest one, which had arrived that morning. He studied it carefully. The gravity with which he addressed it, and his concern over the fact that there were others, was written all over his face. I recounted what the previous ones had contained. I told him that I’d given the others to Mort Metzger, which George thought was a prudent decision.

  He handed the letter back to me and said, “I know it’s easy to dismiss these as nothing more than some silly prank, Jessica, but I believe they deserve serious consideration.”

  “You really think so?”

  “I think you know me well enough to realize that I wouldn’t say such a thing if I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what these pasted letters represent, but someone is sending you a message, and that in itself should be heeded.”

  “Maybe the crime lab will come up with someone’s prints.”

  “A possibility,” George said. He repeated aloud the letters that had arrived to date—“G, L, an O, a T, and now a C. Do you think, Jessica, that this is the end of the letters?”

  “I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “It could be. Tomorrow is Sunday, so we have no mail delivery. We’ll have to wait until Monday to see if there are any more.”

  “We have people at the Yard who specialize in deciphering obscure codes. Of course, your FBI is good at that, too. Have you contacted them?”

  “No. I didn’t think it warranted getting the FBI involved. There haven’t been any direct threats.”

  “Well, no need to create a kerfuffle just yet. Let’s keep it in your pocket for the future.” George yawned.

  I smiled. “You must be exhausted with the time change and all. I think it’s time I delivered you to Seth’s house.”

  Mentioning his name reminded me of Seth’s errand in Portland. That he hadn’t said anything was curious, but of course he was allowed his own secrets. We all were, hard as that was to accomplish in Cabot Cove.

  “I must look like I came home with the milk,” George said, rising. “I’m knackered. I hate to end this conversation. We see so little of each other as it is, and I relish every moment.”

  “I do too, George, but I want you to get settled in for a good night’s sleep. I’ll call Seth to tell him we’re on our way, and then I’ll call a cab.”

  To my surprise, Seth said he would swing by to pick George up. He arrived fifteen minutes later. The men greeted each other warmly, and we walked together to Seth’s car, where George deposited his suitcase in the trunk.

  “What’s the schedule tomorrow?” George asked. “Will I have time to hire a car? I don’t want to keep badgering my generous host here.”

  “Not really a problem,” Seth said gallantly. But I thought renting a car would be a good idea. I didn’t have an extra bicycle. I didn’t even know if George knew how to ride one, although I assumed he did. A car would allow us to get around easily without inconveniencing a friend or relying on local cab service. I hoped George would be okay driving on the “wrong” side of the road for him.

  “We should have plenty of time,” I said. “I thought it would be nice to just hang out, as the teenagers like to say. A pancake breakfast at church, and then a walk around town. There’s a rental agency near the docks.”

  “Sounds good to me,” George said.

  “I brought in some dinner for George and me,” Seth said. “Nothing special, already cooked. Just needs to be heated up. Join us, Jessica? I bought plenty.”

  “I’m tempted,” I said, “but I’ll pass. I’ll let you gentlemen become reacquainted over your dinner, and George, I’m sure, will want to head to bed early.”

  Although it was somewhat awkward in front of Seth, George and I embraced before he climbed into the front passenger seat, and Seth got behind the wheel.

  “I’ll drop Inspector Sutherland here at eight, Jessica. That too early for you?”

  “Not if it isn’t for you and George. See you then.”

  I watched them drive away and a sadness descended upon me. I hadn’t wanted the evening to end, and briefly re
gretted not taking up Seth’s invitation. But it was best for Seth and George to have time together alone. George was going to be a houseguest for a week, and I wanted them to establish a good relationship. They were both intelligent, thoughtful men who would have much to discuss. My presence would only interfere with their “man talk.”

  I returned to the house and sat in my study reading through chapters I’d already written in the hope that it would spur some creativity. It didn’t. I contented myself with leftovers for dinner, changed into my nightclothes, and went back to reading a novel I’d started earlier that week. Maybe good writing by another author would get my own literary juices flowing. I enjoyed the novel and finished it a little before ten when I got up sleepily from my recliner, brushed my teeth, and climbed into bed.

  It promised to be a wonderful Thanksgiving week with George here to be part of it. That reality brought a smile to my lips as all other thoughts—letters from some crazy person, Hubert Billups’s odd behavior, and my stalled novel—floated into the ether and sleep descended upon me.

  Chapter Seven

  When I’d gone to bed, the sky put the lie to Jed Richardson’s forecast of nasty weather. It was overcast, but breaks in the clouds allowed stars to twinkle through. As it turned out, however, he was right. It just took longer for the storm to arrive than he’d anticipated. It erupted at three o’clock Sunday morning. Winds rattled the house, and torrents of rain poured down. It passed quickly, but lingered long enough to awaken me. I tried to get back to sleep but finally gave up at five.

  I made a pot of tea, and read the morning papers, which had been left at my door until the sun came up over the eastern horizon, painting the clouds a vibrant orange. I usually enjoy early mornings, although I would have preferred to sleep a little longer this day. If sunrise was any indication of what the weather would be like, we were in store for what Seth would term “a fat day,” plenty of sunshine in which to enjoy my walk with George.

  Showered and dressed long before Seth pulled up in front of the house, I was anxious to ascertain the sort of evening they’d spent together. Had it been pleasant and easygoing? I hoped so. I looked for signs in Seth’s expression. From what I could see, he seemed in good humor. I intended to ask him about his secretive trip to Portland, but that would have to wait until we enjoyed some private time together.

  “What did you two do in my absence?” I asked when George got out of the car and held the door for me.

  “Seth gave me a tour of his surgery,” he said. He climbed into the backseat and added, “or rather ‘doctor’s offices’ I believe is the correct term here.”

  “For a while there, I wasn’t certain we were speaking the same language,” Seth said with a chuckle as he backed from the driveway. “Served him one of Charlene Sassi’s pies for dessert and he thanked me for the ‘pudding.’ And later he wondered if I played ‘draughts.’ ”

  “Drafts?”

  “That’s checkers.”

  Language differences aside, judging from the demeanor of both men, their time in each other’s company had been positive. Spirits were high, and they took turns recounting what they’d discussed during their meal.

  “Of course,” George said, “I didn’t last long after dinner.”

  “I didn’t know whether he was tired from the trip, or was bored with the conversation,” Seth said.

  “I assure you it wasn’t boredom,” George said quickly through a chuckle. “I slept like a baby. It’s a lovely flat, Seth, and I hope you know how much I appreciate you taking in this weary traveler.”

  “My pleasure,” Seth said, sounding as though he meant it. “George was telling me about the psychological training Scotland Yard offers. They’re teaching their staff how to judge whether or not someone is lying.”

  “How interesting,” I said. “Is it usually accurate?”

  “Spot on,” George said. “It requires careful observation, but I’d say it’s close to infallible, although there are always exceptions. If the criminal element know the same signals we do, they can always find ways to outsmart the system.”

  “Still, the information could come in handy in my practice. Patients are not always straightforward with their doctors.”

  “Did he teach you?” I asked Seth.

  “A few tips.”

  “I’d love it if you’d teach me, too,” I told George. “I can use it in one of my novels.”

  “Happy to.”

  Seth dropped us at the church, where after the service we enjoyed a pancake breakfast served up by members of the congregation.

  “I’m ready for that walk,” George said as we stepped outside, “and let’s make it a brisk one. I never should have had that last pancake.”

  We set off for downtown, saying little and enjoying the bracing fresh air touched with the briny aroma of the waters that define much of Cabot Cove. As usually happens when I walk through town, I ran into friends who want to stop and chat. I was delighted to introduce George to those who hadn’t met him during his previous visit to Cabot Cove. Of course, I knew that our appearance together was going to spur on the gossips, who most likely would conjure up a closer relationship between us than was the case, but I really didn’t care. Rumors have a way of developing legs, as they say, and there’s nothing you can do to dissuade people once they’ve bought into them.

  We stopped at the car rental agency downtown, and George arranged to pick up a vehicle later that morning. We wandered to the docks and watched the boats come and go, commercial fishermen hoping for a plentiful catch, and some die-hard recreational boaters who wouldn’t put their crafts up in dry dock until the first snow.

  “What a charming place this is, Jessica,” George said after lighting his pipe. The aroma reached me and caused me to smile. My late husband, Frank, smoked a pipe on occasion and I’ve always enjoyed the aroma of pipe tobacco.

  “Living here as I do, it’s easy to forget how wonderful it is,” I said. “I’m afraid I sometimes take it for granted. It takes a visitor from out of town to remind me of its charm.”

  “It’s so—it’s so quintessentially American,” he said.

  “Just a slice of America,” I said, “but a precious one.”

  As we looked out over the water, I turned to allow the sun to play on my face. As I did, I saw Hubert Billups standing at the far end of the dock. George had rested his hand on my arm and felt me tense. “Something wrong?” he asked.

  “No, it’s just that—”

  George glanced in the direction I’d been looking. “Is it that bloke?” he asked. “The one who looks like a tramp? ”

  “Yes. Well, no. He’s not a tramp. He lives in a rooming house near one of our industrial parks. He’s new in town. His name is Billups. Hubert Billups. He seems to spend a great deal of time watching me.”

  “Watching you?” George scowled in Billups’s direction. “Has he threatened you?”

  “No. Never. I haven’t even spoken with him,” I said, “but he has been spending a lot of time on the road across from my house.”

  “That’s a bit sticky.”

  “Probably not,” I said. “He’s harmless enough.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t know. I—”

  “Is your Sheriff Metzger aware of this?”

  “Yes. I mentioned it to him.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’ll send one of his officers to speak with him if he causes me any trouble.”

  “I’m not persuaded we want to wait until he causes trouble.”

  “I don’t want to create problems for someone unnecessarily,” I said. “I know when to call for help.” I smiled up at him. “I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.”

  “So you have,” George replied, looping an arm around my shoulder. He focused his attention on the water and boats again, taking contemplative puffs on his pipe.

  “Let’s continue our walk,” I suggested.

  We were leaving the dock when we bumped
into my new neighbor.

  “Hello, Linda,” I said.

  She seemed in a rush but stopped to return my greeting.

  “I’d like you to meet my friend, George Sutherland,” I said. “He’s with Scotland Yard. He’s visiting Cabot Cove for the holiday.”

  “Oh. That’s nice,” Linda said, but she didn’t smile.

  “A pleasure meeting another of Jessica’s friends,” George said.

  “We’re not. I mean we just moved here recently,” Linda said. “I’d better get home. Victor is waiting for me.”

  She scurried off, causing George to laugh and ask, “Is she always in such a rush?”

  “It seems that way. I don’t know her that well. She and her husband bought a house down the road from me a few months ago. I invited them to join us for the holiday dinner on Thursday.”

  “How large a gathering will it be?”

  “Twelve.”

  “And you’re doing all the cooking?”

  “Not all of it. Linda is going to bring a pie, and Sheriff Metzger’s wife, Maureen, is helping.”

  “Nice lady. I remember her from when you and your friends visited my family homestead in Wick.”

  “And a wonderful visit it was, I might add.”

  “A shame that a murder took place while you were there. You seem to have a penchant for being where murders occur.”

  “Don’t remind me,” I said, laughing. “Come on, let’s go pick up your car. I think we’ve walked off those pancakes.”

  “I’m so glad you and Seth had a nice evening together,” I commented as we settled at my kitchen table with steaming mugs of black coffee in front of us.