A Fatal Feast
Page 1
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
OTHER BOOKS IN THE MURDER, SHE WROTE SERIES
Manhattans & Murder
Rum & Razors
Brandy & Bullets
Martinis & Mayhem
A Deadly Judgment
A Palette for Murder
The Highland Fling Murders
Murder on the QE2
Murder in Moscow
A Little Yuletide Murder
Murder at the Powderhorn Ranch
Knock ’Em Dead
Gin & Daggers
Trick or Treachery
Blood on the Vine
Murder in a Minor Key
Provence—To Die For
You Bet Your Life
Majoring in Murder
Destination Murder
Dying to Retire
A Vote for Murder
The Maine Mutiny
Margaritas & Murder
A Question of Murder
Coffee, Tea, or Murder?
Three Strikes and You’re Dead
Panning for Murder
Murder on Parade
A Slaying in Savannah
Madison Avenue Shoot
Obsidian
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First published by Obsidian, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, October 2009
Copyright © 2009 Universal Studios Licensing LLLP. Murder, She Wrote is a trademark and copyright of Universal Studios. All rights reserved.
OBSIDIAN and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA:
Bain, Donald, 1935-
A fatal feast: a murder, she wrote mystery: a novel/by Jessica Fletcher & Donald Bain. p. cm.
“An Obsidian mystery.”
“Based on the Universal television series created by Peter S. Fischer,
Richard Levinson & William Link.”
eISBN : 978-1-101-14071-0
1. Fletcher, Jessica (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women novelists—Fiction. 3. Thanksgiving Day—Fiction. 4. Maine—Fiction. I. Bain, Donald. II. Murder, she wrote (Television program)
III. Title.
PS3552.A376F’54—dc22 2009017373
Set in Minion
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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With gratitude to Angela Lansbury for having given life to the wonderful character of Jessica Fletcher.
Chapter One
“Mornin’, Mrs. Fletcher.”
“Good morning, Newt. Lovely day.”
“That it is. Pleasure to be out on a day like this.”
He pulled a sheaf of mail from his bag and handed it to me. “Seems like you got quite a lot today.”
“I’m not certain that’s a good thing,” I said, sifting through the envelopes. “Depends on what’s in them.”
“S’pose that’s true. Mebbe somethin’s there can help uncatch that there typewriter of yours.”
My face reflected my surprise. “You know about that, Newt?”
He looked contrite. “Didn’t know it was a secret,” he said, “the way folks are talkin’ in town. Well, better keep to m’rounds. You have yourself a good day, Mrs. Fletcher, and good luck finishin’ that book.”
As he turned to walk away, we both looked across the street to where a man stood.
“Do you know him, Newt?” I asked.
“No, I wouldn’t say I know him, but I know who he is. Name’s Billups. Hubert Billups.”
“He must be new in town,” I said. “I’d never seen him before last week.”
Hubert Billups had a long, scraggly red beard. He was like a statue, arms crossed over his chest, eyes focused down the road, although I’d caught him staring at me several times. It was an unseasonably warm day for mid-November, yet he was dressed in a red-and-black wool mackinaw, scarf, black wool cap, and heavy boots, the same outfit I’d seen him in on most days the past week as he stationed himself on the side of the road across from my house.
“You okay, Mrs. Fletcher?” Newt asked, taking note of my concerned expression.
“What? Oh, yes, Newt, I’m fine.”
“He’s from away, come up heah about a month ago, or so I’m told,” my mailman said. “He’s livin’ in that rooming house over behind the industrial plant. Somebody said he was a cook once, only you can’t prove it by me. Strange-lookin’ fella, doncha think? I see him around town now and then, just sittin’ on a bench or inside one of the buildings when it rains. Just sits and stares. Probably tetched or mebbe a rumdum, if you ask me. Well, you take care, Mrs. Fletcher. I hear that friend o’ yours from overseas is comin’ for Thanksgiving. That mu
st give you somethin’ t’look forward to.”
The Cabot Cove rumor mill was operating in high gear.
I sighed. “Yes. I am looking forward to it. Thanks for the mail, Newt. Best to your family.”
I returned to the house, where I settled in my study and plopped the letters, catalogues, and other mail on my desk. I swiveled in my chair and looked at the words on my computer screen. Those same words had been there for two days; seeing them caused a knot in my stomach.
Newt had been right. I’d recently suffered a rare case of writer’s block on my latest mystery novel, whose deadline was coming up fast, December 15 to be precise. I’ve always prided myself on meeting publishing deadlines. I know other writers who consider deadlines set by their publishers to be arbitrary, at best. I’ve never felt that way. For me, meeting deadlines is a sign of professionalism in any line of work, and above all I like to consider myself exactly that, a professional.
But unless I broke through this bout of inertia, my track record of always delivering on time was about to be broken. While I readily took responsibility for having lagged behind in my writing, other external forces had also played a part.
It was a little more than a week until Thanksgiving, which naturally meant a flurry of activity having nothing to do with mystery novels or any other form of professional writing. I’d agreed to host Thanksgiving dinner at my house this year, although Sheriff Mort Metzger’s wife, Maureen, an enthusiastic if unseasoned cook, offered to help me with meal preparation. There would be nine of us at the dinner table, including—as the town obviously knew, based upon Newt’s comment—my dear Scottish friend from London, Scotland Yard inspector George Sutherland. I didn’t harbor any illusions that the number of guests would remain at nine. In past years, there were always a few last-minute additions to the dinner table, which was fine with me. With a few extra leaves, my table can squeeze in fourteen.
George and I hadn’t seen each other in many months and I was delighted when he accepted, albeit at the last minute, my invitation to experience a traditional American Thanksgiving holiday in Cabot Cove. I wanted it to be special for him and intended to go all out in serving up a splendid meal, along with the requisite warm feelings that always accompany it.
I looked at the computer screen again and winced.
When will I find time to finish the book?
There were other distractions that kept me from my writing.
Each year, the town held a Thanksgiving pageant to re-create the holiday’s earliest celebrations in America. I’d written much of this year’s script, and had devoted far too much time to collaborating with my pageant cowriters, not to mention attending rehearsals and watching our joint effort blossom into a full-fledged production. In addition, I was also doing what I did every year at this time, helping out at the local senior center, where we serve a Thanksgiving spread for the town’s less fortunate.
No wonder I was blocked. I’ve often been accused of biting off more than I can chew, no pun intended, and this year gave validity to that charge.
I went to my front window and parted the curtains. Mr. Billups was still there, his pose never changing. When he spotted me, he turned his head, gazing off in the distance down the road. I had the same unsettled feeling I’d suffered for the past week, ever since he’d begun loitering there, not every day but often enough to make it obvious that it wasn’t by chance that he’d chosen that spot. I’d waved to him a few times when leaving the house but received nothing in return, just a hard stare.
My guess was that he suffered from some form of dementia rather than drinking, as Newt had suggested—I’d never seen him stumble—but I assumed he was harmless enough, and was glad that he was at least able to afford a room. My heart goes out to those who’ve fallen out of life’s mainstream, often through no fault of their own. Of course, some end up in that situation through their use of drugs or alcohol, and Cabot Cove has a few individuals like that, the natural consequence of the town’s growth. Fortunately, our mayor, Jim Shevlin, and the town council have instituted programs to help them abandon the street as a place to live.
I took a final glance at the computer screen and decided to open mail instead of continuing my struggle with the novel. One envelope, a classic number-ten size, caught my eye. My address had been meticulously hand printed. There was no indication of the sender’s identity. Strange, I thought as I opened it. Inside was a single sheet of eight-and-a-half-by-eleven white paper folded in thirds. I unfolded it. A large red letter G that had obviously been cut from a magazine was pasted in the center of the page. I stared at it for a long time. What could it possibly mean? Who’d sent it? Why had someone sent it?
I pulled a magnifying glass from my desk drawer and closely examined the paper and envelope. There was nothing I could see to provide a clue to the person behind this strange piece of mail. There was, however, the canceled stamp, which was smudged and almost impossible to read. I squinted through the glass in an attempt to decipher the post office of origin. The best I could make out was that it had been mailed from Ohio.
Ohio?
The doorbell rang. I laid the envelope and paper on the pile of other mail and went to the door, where a driver from the local cab company I use regularly stood. “I beeped a few times, Mrs. Fletcher,” he said.
“Oh goodness, Nick,” I said. “I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry. Just give me a minute.”
“That’s what I figured. Take your time. No rush.”
I’d forgotten that I’d called for a taxi to take me to a meeting of the Thanksgiving pageant committee. I grabbed my purse and a folder containing the script, cast a final, fleeting glance at my mysterious piece of mail, and joined the driver outside. Before climbing into his car, I looked across the street. Hubert Billups was gone.
“Everything good with you, Mrs. Fletcher?” Nick asked as he pulled out of my driveway.
“Yes, everything is fine. Thank you for asking.”
Had I been honest, I would have said, “I’m not sure.”
Chapter Two
Following the meeting, I strolled over to Mara’s dockside luncheonette for a cup of tea and to catch up on the latest gossip. Obviously, I’d been the subject of some of it, and I thought I might learn something about my writing struggles that even I didn’t know.
Although the busy tourist season was over, there was still a crowd filling the seats. I craned my neck trying to spot an empty table, or at least one where the occupants looked as if they were waiting for a check. I’d resigned myself to a seat at the counter when Beth Wappinger waved at me. “Come sit here, Jessica,” she said, indicating the second chair at her table.
“Love to.”
“I have to get back to work in a minute,” she said, “but this way you don’t have to wait for a table to open up.”
I’d met Beth three years ago when she and her husband, Josh, moved to Cabot Cove from Portland, Maine. Soon after arriving, she opened a successful clothing shop in the middle of town that featured designer clothing at discount prices. She often kidded that without the shop, she’d go mad from boredom. Josh, a manufacturer’s representative, was on the road for most of every month, traveling the country in search of customers for the various firms he represented.
“All set for Thanksgiving?” she asked after a recently hired young waitress took my order.
“I wish,” I said, blowing a stream of air to emphasize my frustration. “It all comes on so fast, and with everything else going on, there aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“You must really be feeling the pressure,” Beth said, “with your book deadline and all.”
I laughed. “It seems the whole town knows about that,” I said.
“The price of fame, Jessica. You’re Cabot Cove’s first citizen.”
I started to deny that characterization, but Beth excused herself. “Have to run. I don’t like leaving my new teenage clerk alone for too long. Finish that book. Can’t wait to read it.”
As she left
, Seth Hazlitt came through the door. I looked beyond him and saw Hubert Billups on the dock, leaning against a railing, arms crossed over his chest.
“Mind company, Jessica?” Cabot Cove’s beloved physician and my dear friend asked, sitting without waiting for an answer.
“You look chipper this morning,” I said.
“Feeling tip-top. Just came from the hospital, where I checked in on Mrs. Watson. She came through the surgery just fine. Lucky thing I had my suspicions about what was ailing her and sent her to the specialists.”
“You’ve always been a superb diagnostician, Seth.”
“I try.” He motioned for the waitress and ordered a short stack of Mara’s signature blueberry pancakes, with a side of bacon. Seth may be a wonderful diagnostician, but he sometimes comes up short as a nutritionist, particularly when it involves his own diet.
We talked about a variety of things, including my plans for Thanksgiving dinner. Eventually, he brought up George Sutherland joining us this year. “So I hear Scotland Yard will be making an appearance at your groaning board. You’ve been after him to come here for Thanksgiving for years now.”
“I know, and I’m so pleased he’s decided to do it. Thanksgiving is my favorite American holiday, warm and welcoming to everyone, a reminder of everything good about our country.”
“No running yourself crazy buying gifts, you mean.”
“That, too. Just sitting down together for a good meal and giving thanks for all we have. I’m happy to show him another side of our country than he gets from the media.”
“Where’s he staying?” Seth asked.
“I don’t know. His decision to come was so last-minute. I meant to call around this morning to find him a hotel or motel, but time got away from me. I’ll do it when I get home.”
“Make any progress on your novel?”
I sighed. “No, I haven’t.”
I sat back as the waitress set Seth’s plate in front of him.
“Not like you to get behind in your work, Jessica,” he said, concentrating on pouring syrup over the pancakes. He’d first cut them into pieces. “Makes for nice edges to catch the syrup,” he explains when someone questions his practice.