A Fatal Feast

by Jessica Fletcher

  “He’s a fine gentleman, Jessica. He’s certainly fond of you.”

  “And I of him.”

  “He seems quite concerned about you.”

  “Oh? What’s he concerned about?”

  “Me, I suspect.”

  It took a second for me to fathom what was behind the statement. “You mean he’s afraid that you and I might run off together?”

  “He never said that in so many words, but it’s obvious that it’s behind his concerns.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, sitting back and shaking my head. “Did you say anything to him on that subject?”

  He took a moment before saying, “I was tempted to but decided it was not my place to reassure him.”

  “If you had said something, what would it have been?” I asked.

  He paused again before saying, “A good question, Jessica. Had I been honest, I would have said that the vision of us running off and marrying is, indeed, a pleasant one to contemplate.” He smiled. “But you already knew what my answer would be.”

  I nodded.

  “Of course,” he added, “that doesn’t necessarily reflect what your answer would be—should you be asked, of course.”

  “The truth is, George, it’s a pleasant contemplation for me, too. But we’ve had this conversation before.”

  He held up a hand. “I’m not trying to raise it again, Jessica. But you asked.”

  “And you answered honestly.”

  “I’ve accepted the conclusion we’ve come to, that we are both busy, independent people, who while we obviously have feelings for each other have decided to leave things the way they are in our respective lives, at least for the near future.” A warm smile crossed his lips. “But—you did ask.”

  “I know.” I placed my hand on his on the table. “Maybe one day, George, I’ll see things differently, but for now I just want to enjoy your company in the time you have here.”

  “In other words, as your old adage sums it up, ‘If it isn’t broken, don’t change a thing.’ ”

  “Actually, the saying is: ‘If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.’ ”

  “I know, but Brits always like to correct American English.”

  We both laughed, and the subject changed.

  “Seth said you taught him a few tricks about how to tell when someone is lying,” I said after I’d set out sandwiches for our lunch. We’d decided not to schedule any activities for the afternoon to allow George’s system to catch up to Cabot Cove time.

  “Yes, it’s been quite an education delving into a liar’s psyche.”

  “Tell me one of the rules. Are we talking about body language, or the way someone says something?”

  “Bits of both, actually. I’ll give you an easy one. Be suspicious when someone prefaces what he is saying with an assurance that he’s about to tell the truth. People who lie often begin with statements like, ‘The truth is,’ or, ‘I’ll be honest with you.’ When you hear that, your antennae should go up. He’s either colored the truth already, or is preparing to. Or he may not answer your question directly; he changes the subject altogether.”

  “What else?”

  “Well, body language can be very revealing. One’s eyes may wander to the left when one is making up a story.”

  “Do you think that happens to me when I’m writing?”

  “It very well may.”

  “I’ll try to be aware of that when I work on my book. Tell me more.”

  “It all has to do with the discomfort most people feel telling an untruth. Liars may speak quickly, chatter as it were, touch their face, scratch behind an ear, cover their mouth when they’re not telling the truth. And they often hide their hands.”

  “It all sounds reasonable,” I said, “but that can’t be foolproof.”

  “No, of course not, but when combined with other signs, a faithful picture emerges. Of course, a professional criminal or a pathological liar, one aware of these indicators, can control his movements and defeat the system. For example—”

  The ringing phone ended my lesson. It was Seth reminding me that he’d made dinner reservations for us at a restaurant downtown. Joining us would be Mort and Maureen Metzger.

  I noticed that George had become sleepy, his circadian rhythms out of whack after his long flight from London. I put on the TV for him, where a soccer game was under way—“football” in England—and left him to relax while I took another stab at my novel. It went well, and I breathed a sigh of relief as a scene that had proved to be particularly nettlesome began to take shape. I peeked in on George a few times and saw that he’d dozed off in the recliner. I smiled. It was so good to have him there. I wanted it to be a special week for him, to show off Cabot Cove and our annual Thanksgiving holiday to their best advantage, and made a mental pledge to avoid further discussions of our relationship.

  He awoke long after the soccer match had ended and apologized for rudely falling asleep.

  “Not at all,” I said. “When you’re tired, you should sleep. Now you’ll have to excuse me for a little while. I have to get ready for dinner. I won’t be long.”

  “Take your time. I’ll be fine. I’m a dab hand at waiting.”

  When I returned from my bedroom, George was standing at the window. He turned and smiled. “You are very nicely togged up, if I may say so,” he said.

  “You may,” I said, joining him at the window and peering outside to see what he’d been looking at—Hubert Billups.

  “Has he been there long?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I just started watching him.”

  Perhaps he became aware that we were observing him, because Billups shrugged and walked away in the direction of town, looking over his shoulder once or twice.

  “I should go out and have a word with the chap,” George said.

  “Please don’t,” I said.

  “You may be taking him too lightly,” George said as Billups disappeared from view.

  “We can discuss that later,” I said. “You’re about to get another chance to drive on the right side of the road.”

  “I didn’t fare too badly this morning.”

  “Well, you didn’t run anyone down,” I said, straightening his collar.

  George’s hand settled over mine. “I like when you look after me, lass. Is the tie all right?”

  “Perfect.” I smiled up at him. “Let’s go. We don’t want to be late for dinner.”

  We caught sight of Billups on the road, and as we drove past him George turned to look back through the rear window.

  “Please,” I said, “let’s ignore him. I don’t want to let him spoil a wonderful evening.”

  I meant what I’d said, although I have to admit that Billups remained on my mind throughout dinner. Maybe George was right. Maybe I was taking Billups too lightly, although I was determined not to frighten myself silly worrying about him.

  Still, later that night, after George followed Seth’s car home, I found myself taking safety measures that were foreign to me. I’ve always considered Cabot Cove a safe place to live, and while I took reasonable precautions, I’d seldom taken pains to ensure that all my windows and doors were securely fastened, or deliberately left lights on in selected rooms.

  But I did this night, and begrudged the need to do so.

  Chapter Eight

  George drove to my house early the next morning, Monday, and we had breakfast in the kitchen. “Sleep well?” I asked.

  “Yes, I did, after the good doctor and I sat up rather late solving the world’s problems.”

  “The world owes you a debt of gratitude.”

  “Unfortunately, we didn’t come up with any good answers. Seth is a fine man, Jessica. He has a full slate of patients today. I thought it best to absent myself. Does he ever talk of retiring?”

  “All the time, but thank goodness he never gets around to it. His patients will be terribly disappointed when, and if, he does.”

  George insisted that I go about my usual morning routine and l
et him fend for himself. The day’s newspapers had arrived—the Cabot Cove Gazette, New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and Portland Press Herald—and he settled in the living room with them, commenting as he did, “You’re obviously well read, Jessica.”

  “Some of my friends think I overdo it with all the papers I receive, but I’m afraid I’m addicted to them.”

  “A healthy addiction in any case,” he said.

  “It’s a shame more young people don’t read a newspaper every day,” I said. “News reports on television or the Internet only pick up the highlights. Newspapers cover such a wide range. I’ve generated some wonderful story ideas for my novels from the papers.”

  I spent the morning going over Thursday’s menu, making a grocery list of what remained to be purchased, and cleaning out the refrigerator to make room for the turkey, which was to be delivered the next day. I called Maureen Metzger and we agreed that she would make a sweet potato dish, but I left the form and the specific ingredients to her. My desire to have George experience an authentic New England Thanksgiving dinner notwithstanding, I felt I shouldn’t discourage Maureen’s creativity in the kitchen. She was eager to make a contribution, and despite my doubts about her culinary skills—honed I might add by several remarkable, if not entirely edible, dinners at her house—I was grateful for her willingness to help. If her concoction was not to everyone’s taste, well then there would be plenty of other dishes for my guests to sample. Her friendship was more important than perfection in the kitchen.

  Maureen was not the only guest contributing to the meal. Linda was bringing a pumpkin pie, and Susan Shevlin, the mayor’s wife, had volunteered to make clam chowder. The Copeland sisters, Kathy and Willie, were renowned for their cranberry relish, an old family recipe, two jars of which were already in my refrigerator, delivered by Kathy more than a week ago.

  I had been baking for almost a month, which had taken its toll on the progress of my book. But my freezer already held pumpkin and cranberry breads, Parker House rolls, the makings of succotash, and both pecan and apple pies. I planned to set the table on Wednesday and would rope George into helping. For now, he was welcome to relax, at least this morning.

  I managed to fit in an hour at the computer, getting up from the desk only when I heard the arrival of Newt, the mailman. I greeted him and accepted the pile of mail he handed me. On top was another letter-sized envelope with my name and address neatly printed.

  George joined me at the door, and I introduced the men.

  “I never met a real live Scotland Yard inspector,” Newt said.

  “And I’ve never met a real live Cabot Cove postie,” George replied. “It’s an honor, sir.”

  Once inside, George asked whether yet another strange letter had arrived.

  “I’m afraid so,” I said, handing him the envelope.

  We went to the living room, where George carefully examined it. “Do you have a magnifying glass?”

  “I do.” I ran to get the lens and had to smile when I returned. There was George, frowning down at the suspect envelope, his unlit pipe clenched in his teeth. He reminded me of classic depictions of Sherlock Holmes.

  “Shall I?” he asked.

  “Go ahead,” I said.

  He slid his thumb under the flap and opened the letter; inside was the ubiquitous single sheet of paper. Pasted on it in various sizes and colors were the letters G, L, O, T, C, and O.

  “The O is larger than the others,” I commented, “the way the C was in the previous one.”

  “So I see,” he said. He picked up the envelope again and examined the postmark with the magnifier. “Pennsylvania,” he muttered through clenched teeth. “Anyone you know in that state capable of such a thing?”

  “I don’t know anyone anywhere who would engage in this sort of nonsense.”

  “Whoever it is obviously intends to continue until—”

  “Until when?”

  “Until he runs out of letters to use, or becomes tired of the game.”

  “It can’t come soon enough.”

  “Your Sheriff Metzger seems sufficiently concerned about these,” George said. “Frankly, I don’t think his lab chaps will turn up usable fingerprints, but even if they do, whoever is sending the letters might not have his or her prints on file. In the meantime, my fearless Jessica, I suggest you begin to take some precautions.”

  “I have been,” I said. “Last night, I double-checked every door and window, and left lights on around the house.”

  “Because of the letters?”

  “No. Actually. I came home a few days ago and found my front door ajar.”

  “Don’t you usually lock it before leaving?”

  “I do, and I was certain I had, but it’s possible I didn’t. Under normal circumstances, it wouldn’t have been terribly important. But I’d seen Mr. Billups across the street and—”

  “You thought he might have broken in.”

  “It crossed my mind, but I have no evidence of it. Chances are I simply forgot to lock the door in my haste, or thought I had locked it but neglected to check.”

  George cocked his head and narrowed his eyes. “Here you are receiving a strange series of letters. There’s some numpty across the road, possibly deranged, observing you day after day. And now the fastidious Jessica Fletcher returns home to find her door open. I’d say you have every reason to be concerned, very concerned.”

  “George, I—”

  “Please, Jessica, listen to me. From this moment forward I want you to be on your guard, alert to everything and everyone around you. I know I can’t demand this of you, but were I you, I would not ride my bicycle into town until all this is resolved. Doors must be firmly locked at all times, and—”

  “You sound like Seth,” I said with what passed for a laugh, uncomfortable with what he was saying although I knew he was making sense. “I didn’t realize you’d spoken with Mort about the letters.”

  “Briefly, when you and his wife left us at the table for a few minutes. I must say that Dr. Hazlitt was surprised at hearing about them. He raised the topic again last night at his house.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, “you’ll have all the back-fence gossips talking about it and worrying about me. We have an extremely active rumor mill here in Cabot Cove.”

  “Good,” George said. “The more who know, the better—plenty of people to look out for you.”

  I didn’t agree, but knew his intentions were good.

  I settled in next to him on the couch and we shared the newspapers until it was time to head downtown to attend a dress rehearsal of the Thanksgiving pageant, which would be performed on Wednesday, Thanksgiving Eve. George drove, quite skillfully I should add, and we pulled up in front of the town hall, where the performance would take place. I noticed as I was getting out of the rental car that Willie Copeland and Archer Franklin were on their way inside. I debated warning George that Mr. Franklin might prove to be overbearing, but decided not to prejudice his opinion of the man. Maybe my initial introduction to Archer was an aberration, although Mara’s comments about him rendered that possibility unlikely. I also realized that I was attempting to shield George from less-than-pleasant conversations during his abbreviated stay. He certainly didn’t need such protection from me.

  Once we stepped into the building, we were surrounded by a bevy of my friends, all wanting an introduction to George. Was it because he was a highly decorated Scotland Yard inspector, or because he was rumored to be my romantic interest? In any case, he was his usual charming, self-effacing self, and the look on some of my women friends’ faces was pure adoration.

  As the cast walked in and out in preparation for the show, Willie Copeland and Archer Franklin approached.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Inspector,” Franklin said.

  I didn’t know how that might have come about; he hadn’t heard anything from me.

  “A pleasure,” George said after they’d shaken hands.

  “I consider myself a bit of an
Anglophile,” Franklin said. He laughed. “Actually, more than a bit.”

  “Is that so?” George said. “How flattering.”

  “Yes,” Franklin continued. “I suppose you could also say I’m a history buff.”

  “I’m fond of history, myself,” George replied.

  “So,” Franklin said, “you’ve come to see how we celebrate Thanksgiving, hey?”

  “Yes. I’ve heard so much about it and its—and its history. I’m delighted to share this special day with Jessica and her friends.”

  “Shame you don’t have a similar holiday in England,” Franklin said smugly.

  “Well,” George said, “we didn’t have Pilgrims arriving in the U.K. with Indians to welcome them. Of course, we do have our own November holiday, but it’s a bit different from your Thanksgiving, although it does have traditional foods.”

  “What holiday is that?” Franklin asked.

  “Bonfire Night, or Guy Fawkes Night. It’s like a combination of your Halloween and Independence Day. We set off fireworks, and leading up to it children play tricks and make stuffed figures of Guy Fawkes to throw on the bonfires.”

  The puzzled expression on Franklin’s face testified to his lack of familiarity with George’s reference. Then his face brightened. “Oh, right, Guy Fukes. He was that British terrorist who wanted to take over the country.”

  “Not quite,” George corrected. “Actually, Mr. Fawkes was a Catholic chap who led a group that tried to blow up all of Parliament and King James the First because they were angry at what they perceived as bigotry against Catholics.”

  “I was there once on Guy Fawkes day,” I said. “Children approached me, saying, ‘Penny for the Guy?’ Of course, they were looking for more than a penny with which to buy fireworks to celebrate the event.”

  “So those bonfires celebrate that Fukes was burned at the stake, huh?” Franklin asked, repeating his mispronunciation of the name.

  “Not precisely,” George said casually. “He was imprisoned, tortured on the rack, and hanged.”

  “Sounds like it was too good for him,” said Franklin. “We’re all too soft on people like that, giving them all sorts of rights and such. String ’em all up is what I say.”