A Fatal Feast

by Jessica Fletcher

“And all of it good,” I added.

  “I’m relieved,” George said with a wide smile. “I’m also looking forward to being a part of this worthwhile event.”

  “We all feel pretty good about serving up Thanksgiving meals to folks who are having trouble making ends meet,” Richard said. “It seems as Cabot Cove grows, there are more of them.”

  Richard was right. Like so many communities across the country, we’ve experienced growth that while representing forward progress, at least from a financial perspective, creates its own set of problems. Not that the actual town of Cabot Cove had changed that much. The downtown—its core—had remained relatively unaffected. No national chain stores, no garish neon lights or outsized signs. Businesses were locally owned and managed, and a spirit of community prevailed. The same held true for most of the residential areas bordering the downtown, including mine.

  But farther out, business had established a foothold and spawned industrial parks that had enticed many people to move to the area in search of new, well-paying jobs. When some of these start-up companies failed, their employees suffered the inevitable consequences, and many fell on hard times.

  Too, there were some families who’d been residents for many years and who just never managed to make a go of it, usually through unforeseen calamities of one sort or another—catastrophic illness, business downturns, or myriad other reasons for falling into their precarious financial situations.

  No matter what the reason for their misfortune, they were the people to whom the annual free Thanksgiving dinner was dedicated. Some would bring their families with them and enjoy their meal at the senior center. In other cases, meals would be packaged up and delivered to the homebound. Either way, the meaning and spirit of Thanksgiving would not be forgotten.

  “Ah, my favorite writer,” Archer Franklin said as he and Willie came to where we stood.

  “Good to see you again,” I said, sounding as though I meant it.

  “Hello, Inspector,” Franklin said. “Been solving any crimes while here in Cabot Cove?”

  “One or two,” George replied.

  “Really?” Willie asked with eyes wide.

  “No, not really,” George clarified.

  “The English sense of humor,” Franklin said, slapping George on the arm. “Subtle. I like that.”

  “Much like the Scots sense of humor,” George said, winking at me.

  “Well,” I said, “I think we should join the others and get ready for our dinner guests.” I nudged George, and we went to the sparkling new, fully equipped kitchen, compliments of Wilimena Copeland’s largesse.

  “Oh, Jessica, I’m so glad you’re here,” Susan Shevlin said from where she checked on turkeys roasting in the large oven. “We’re a little short on help. Fran Winstead is late. Wally forgot he was supposed to drop her off.” Beads of perspiration dotted her forehead and cheeks, and she wiped them away with a handkerchief that was already damp.

  “I’m here and ready to go,” I said.

  “I am, too,” George said, resting our basket on a huge granite-topped prep table in the center of the room.

  “It’s so sweet of you to pitch in,” Susan said to him.

  “Wouldn’t miss it,” said George, removing his tweed jacket and looking for a place to hang it.

  “I’ll take that,” Maureen Metzger said as she appeared from a back room, a large stainless-steel bowl of stuffing in her arms. She put the bowl down and took George’s jacket. “I’ll find a nice, safe place for it out of the line of fire.” She disappeared into the room from which she’d come and reemerged a few seconds later.

  “Much obliged,” George said.

  Josh and Beth Wappinger joined us in the kitchen. “Haven’t seen you in a while, Jessica,” Josh said, giving me a peck on the cheek. “How’s the book coming along? ”

  “It isn’t at the moment,” I said, and introduced George to them.

  “Nice to meet you,” Josh said. “Say, what do you have there?” he said, noticing Seth’s open knife case in our basket. He laughed. “Do you always travel with your own machete, Jessica?”

  “Oh, this,” I said, pulling the knife from its protective case. “It belongs to Seth Hazlitt. He insisted I use it to carve today’s turkeys.”

  “Wow!” Beth said. “That looks like something a prince or rajah would own.”

  “It is beautiful,” I said. “It was a gift to Seth from a Japanese businessman whose life Seth saved. I didn’t want to bring it, but he insisted. You know how stubborn Seth can be.”

  “Seth Hazlitt stubborn?” Susan Shevlin said, looking up from giving two of the birds a final basting. “I can’t imagine.”

  We all laughed.

  I turned to Josh. “I thought you were traveling,” I said.

  “I was. Got back late last night.”

  “My traveling salesman husband,” Beth said in a mocking tone. “I’d have killed him if he’d been away over Thanksgiving.”

  “How’re things at the shop?” I asked her as I emptied the contents of my basket and placed them on the granite countertop.

  “It’s always a little slow before Thanksgiving. Everyone is home cooking. But it was a good excuse for me to close early so I could be here and lend a hand. I expect a big rush on Friday. Oh, and Jessica, I just got in the most adorable line of blouses you should look at. They’re made for you.”

  “I’ll make it a point to swing by,” I said, “once we get through the holiday.” I smiled up at George, who’d loosened his tie and rolled up his sleeves. “Ready to go to work?” I asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he replied. “Ready, willing, and I hope able.”

  I’d brought two aprons from home, and handed one to George, wondering how he’d take to wearing it, but he quickly put it on. I own a collection of aprons given me by Seth over the years whenever a new book of mine was published, each carrying the name of my most recent novel. The one I wore this day read PANNING FOR MURDER. George’s was of a less recent vintage: DYING TO RETIRE.

  “How do I look, lass?” he asked, a bit of his brogue creeping into his speech.

  “Absolutely splendid,” I said, mimicking his accent.

  As we walked from the kitchen to take up positions by a huge carving board Maureen Metzger had brought for the occasion, Linda Carson entered the room. I was pleased that she’d decided to come. Behind her was her husband, Victor. That was equally as pleasing to me, albeit more surprising. He lingered just inside the door, but Linda came directly to me and said, “Well, we made it. What can we do to help?”

  “I’m delighted to see you both here,” I said.

  “I pleaded with Victor to come,” she said under her breath. “It wasn’t easy. He isn’t very social.”

  “See that lady over there?” I said. “Her name is Birgitta. Call her Gitta. She and her husband, Gus, are in charge. She can put you both to work.”

  Linda looked down at Seth’s ornate knife, which I’d placed on the carving board, and her eyes widened. “That’s some knife,” she said.

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “I’ll tell you later.”

  People started arriving over the next half hour, some alone, others with their families in tow. Knowing how difficult it must be for people attending the charity dinner to acknowledge that they’d come because of shaky finances, our committee had had discussions during meetings about how to take the onus off their situation. It was decided that all the committee members would take turns joining our guests at the tables and eating with them. This didn’t sit too well with a few at the meeting who complained about eating more turkey two days before Thanksgiving, but the rest of us eventually overcame the objections of the complainers.

  The turkeys coming from the kitchen were beautifully cooked, as were the side dishes, and I enthusiastically attacked my responsibility as one of two carvers, with George providing vocal encouragement. We’d decided to carve to order to allow each person to choose his or her favorite part of the bird, and George took what I�
��d carved and deftly placed it on plates. Seth’s knife was remarkable. It sliced easily through the meat just as Seth had predicted it would, and made me feel like a professional.

  “Well done, Jessica. You can get a job at any London carvery now,” George said after a half hour had passed. “Like me to take over for a bit, to give you a wee rest?”

  “That would be great,” I said. “I’m supposed to join some of the guests. I won’t be too long.”

  I placed some food on a plate and surveyed the room, which by now was three-quarters full. Everyone seemed to be having a good time. Families that shared some of the larger tables were engaged in spirited conversations. Maureen Metzger had joined one such table, Willie Copeland and her sister, Kathy, another. I looked for Willie’s new romantic interest, Archer Franklin, but he apparently had left. Linda Carson had elected to help in the kitchen. Her husband, Victor, had joined a group of men clearing tables and carrying empty dishes and used silverware to the kitchen, where a clean-up crew was busy trying to keep up with the flow.

  I spotted a table at which a family of four had settled after going through the serving line. As I headed in their direction, Fran Winstead, who’d recently arrived, slipped into a seat joining them.

  As I turned to see if another table needed me, Sheriff Metzger and Seth Hazlitt came through the door.

  “How are things, Jessica?” Seth asked.

  “Great,” I replied.

  “No problems?” Mort asked.

  “Problems? No, why would there be?”

  Mort nodded in the direction of the door, where Hubert Billups had entered and taken a seat at an empty table. He was dressed as usual, red-and-black mackinaw, scarf, and black wool cap. The only discernible change was his red beard, which looked as though it had grown a little longer

  “Oh, I see,” I said. “No, no problems, Mort. Excuse me.”

  I went to Billups and asked, “Mind if I join you?”

  He looked up at me through deadened, watery, unblinking eyes.

  I sat.

  “I’ve been wanting to meet you for quite a while now,” I said, smiling. “I’m Jessica Fletcher. I know you’re new to Cabot Cove and—well, I wanted to welcome you to our town.”

  He spoke without making eye contact with me. “I, ah—that’s okay of you,” he said, eyes fixed on the tabletop.

  “I have to admit,” I said, “that seeing you so often on the road across from my house had me wondering whether you—whether you had some sort of interest in me.”

  He silently shook his head.

  I realized that he hadn’t gotten any food. “I don’t want to keep you from enjoying some turkey,” I said. “Go ahead and get a plate.”

  He left the table and took his place at the end of the serving line.

  I looked at Seth and Mort, who’d been watching, and smiled. Seth shook his head. Mort looked puzzled. As they headed in the direction of the buffet table, Victor Carson, in a great rush, passed my table and disappeared through the door. How odd, I thought, he wasn’t here that long. But I didn’t have time to dwell upon it because my eye caught Billups holding a tray with his dinner and a cup of iced tea. It looked as if he was debating whether to return to the table at which I sat, but when he saw me watching him, he shrugged, took the seat he’d previously occupied, and immediately began to eat.

  “I’m so glad you could come today,” I said. “As I was saying before, I’ve noticed you on my road, Mr. Billups, and I—”

  “Don’t mean no harm—to you,” he said. He spoke slowly, taking care to enunciate each word.

  “Oh,” I said, “I didn’t mean to imply that you did.” I stopped talking for a minute to allow him to enjoy his dinner. “Is there any way that I can be of help in getting you settled here in Cabot Cove?” I asked. “I know how a new place can be daunting and thought maybe I could make the transition easier for you.”

  I watched him as he processed what I’d said. When he had, he finished what was in his mouth, dabbed at it with his napkin, used his fist to cover a small burp, and said, again in his careful, deliberate way of speaking, “There’s not much you could do for me, missus.”

  “Jessica Fletcher. Please call me Jessica.”

  “I figure I have to work things out for myself.”

  “And I’m sure you’re capable of doing just that, Mr. Billups. Do you have any family near here?”

  Another slow shaking of his head. He finished the small portion of turkey and stuffing on his plate.

  “What are you doing on Thanksgiving?” I asked. The minute it was out of my mouth, I knew what I would end up saying next.

  He shrugged. “Excuse me,” he said, getting ready to leave.

  “Mr. Billups,” I said, reaching and touching the sleeve of his mackinaw, “if you don’t have any place to go on Thursday—for Thanksgiving dinner—you’re welcome to come to my house. I have room at the table and—”

  He stood and looked down at me. “Thanks,” he said. “That’s okay of you.”

  “Come at three?” I said. “You obviously know where I live.”

  “Thanks,” he repeated, and gave what amounted to a small bow. “Thanks.”

  He was gone.

  I sat there stunned at what I’d just done, my thoughts jumbled. Joining him had been, at best, an impetuous act, although it struck me as the perfect time to engage him face-to-face. It occurred to me immediately after sitting at the table that I might be breaking bread with a man who held some perverted sort of grudge against me. But that was pure conjecture on my part, and any concern I might have had quickly dissipated. After all, I was in a room with dozens of friends, including Cabot Cove’s sheriff.

  But if deciding to join Billups represented an impulsive gesture on my part, inviting him to my home for Thanksgiving dinner was a rash, irrational act, at best. I don’t know what possessed me—I certainly hadn’t planned it—and I suppose it stemmed from a combination of sincerely wanting to provide Thanksgiving dinner for a lonely man, coupled with an ongoing obsession to know more about him. No matter what my motives, I was now faced with the reality of his possibly showing up. Had I created a scenario in which my other guests would be made uncomfortable at having Billups share their holiday table? A man who seemed to own only one outfit, and that one none too clean? Had I put Billups in an awkward position?

  I’m not terribly proud of the fact that the moment he left the senior center I assured myself that he probably wouldn’t show up on Thursday because he wouldn’t want to be made more uncomfortable than he already was. It was a rationalization, but it was my out.

  I carried our plates, his and mine, to Linda Carson, who took them from me and set them on the counter behind her.

  “I saw your husband leave,” I said. “Was there a problem?”

  “He just remembered an appointment,” she said, brushing her lips with her hand. “I really have to go, too. I wish I could stay but—” She untied her apron.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said, sensing that she was upset. “You run along. Thanks for all your help. See you on Thursday.”

  I watched her gather her purse and jacket and head for the door. What was going on with them? I wondered. It must have beeen a troubled marriage. I felt sorry for her, as I would for any couple facing difficulties, but I also experienced a more self-serving feeling, and that had to do with Thursday’s holiday dinner. Would their problems carry over to the gathering? Would he, or they, even show up? Would they bring their troubles and resentments to the table?

  I certainly had made a muddle of my guest list, inviting complete strangers to my house without any thought to how they would get along. I had wanted George to experience a “traditional” Thanksgiving at my home, but the dinner was becoming less traditional by the moment. Food was the easy part, but my mix of guests promised either very lively conversation, or a miserable atmosphere. My musings were interrupted by Gus Westerholm.

  “Jessica, we have a problem,” he said.

  “Oh? Wha
t’s the matter?”

  “Two of our people who were supposed to deliver meals can’t do it. Wally dropped off Fran, so she doesn’t have a vehicle. And Rena is having car problems. Do you think that you could take over—?”

  “Gus, you know I don’t drive.”

  “I know, but your friend has a rental car. I thought maybe the two of you could do the deliveries, him driving and you showing the way. I’d offer to do it myself, but I really can’t leave here yet. There are only nine deliveries to make. The birds have all been carved.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ll ask George.”

  “You trust me to drive on the other side of the road all over Cabot Cove?” he responded when I broached the subject.

  “You did very well earlier today. I’ll be right by your side.”

  “Whatever you say, my dear,” he said. “I have to retrieve my jacket. It won’t take a jiffy.”

  I managed to say goodbye to a few people, but our departure was hurried and hectic as we relayed dinners heavily wrapped in foil to George’s rental car.

  “You go on and run,” Birgitta said. “Those meals get cold fast. And enjoy the rest of the evening together.” She gave me a sly wink. “He’s very handsome, Jessica, and so charming.”

  It took us more time than we’d anticipated to drop off the dinners. We couldn’t just hurry away when those who were homebound wanted a little socializing. George was especially popular with the elderly ladies who lived alone. In some cases we had to help reheat the dinners. After the last platter had been delivered, George asked, “What’s next?”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “What’s next,” I said, “is going home, giving my aching feet a rest, and relaxing with you. You are an absolute trouper, George Sutherland. I don’t know anyone else who would have thrown himself into our annual charity event as you did.”

  “It was fun. And I’ll do anything to stay close to you, Jessica. I want to share as much of your life as possible.”

  At home, snifters of brandy in our hands, we toasted the success of the event.

  “I noticed you chose to sit with that Billy-no-mates who’s been loitering outside,” he said.