A Fatal Feast

by Jessica Fletcher

  “Is that all you have, Jessica?” she said, her voice more sure.

  “Billups’s landlady knew you weren’t the type to rent one of her rooms. You went there pretending to be interested in renting a room, didn’t you, Linda? Did Victor know you’d done that?”

  Linda paled.

  “You’re lying,” Victor ground out.

  “Tell him, Linda. You went there looking for anything that might link your husband to Billups. And there was nothing. The landlady had already cleaned his room.”

  She answered with a barely discernible nod.

  “Stupid!” Victor spat out.

  “You see, you’re not a very good liar, Linda. All along you’ve exhibited the signs of someone who isn’t telling the truth. When they put you on the stand, they’ll see right away when you’re lying. Your gestures give you away. You’ll never be able to bluff your way through their questions. I knew right away when you didn’t answer mine truthfully.”

  “You and your questions,” she muttered.

  “And if you think that killing me will solve your problems, you’re not thinking clearly. I’ve never meant harm to either of you,” I said, “but you won’t get away with murder, mine or Hubert Billups’s.”

  “Put the gun down, Linda,” Victor said, surprising both of us.

  She spun around and leveled the weapon at him. “And what, Vinnie, ruin what little we have left? I can’t believe you didn’t have the courage to get rid of that old man.”

  “I didn’t need to. He didn’t have enough of a brain left to hurt us. He thought he knew me, but he wasn’t sure.”

  “He was stalking us. Everywhere I went, every time I turned around, he was there. He was driving me crazy. And you did nothing. You used to have guts, Vinnie. What happened to them?”

  “C’mon, Linda,” he said in a soothing voice I’d not heard from him before, “it’ll work out. Believe me, it’ll work out.”

  She guffawed. “Oh, sure, Vincent. ‘It’ll work out.’ How? I go to prison for the rest of my life and you find another town to live in, maybe with another woman? I’ve suffered enough.”

  During this exchange, I’d slid my left hand behind me until it reached the inside lock of the door, which I turned slowly to avoid making noise. My hand then found the doorknob. I twisted it until the door was free and would open easily. I yanked on it. My fingers flipped up the hook and eye on the screen door and I pushed through it, out into the rain and wind. I raced across the patio, aware that one of them, maybe both, was in pursuit. I stumbled off the patio’s edge and ran across the yard, my heart pounding, lungs gasping for air, the cold rain stinging my face, the wet lawn soaking through my slippers. The wind whipped the skirt of my robe, entangling my legs in the wet fabric. I lost my footing and stepped out of one slipper, my foot sinking into the icy mud. Was that a shot? I tried to run faster but tripped on a tree root and fell face-first, landing in a pile of leaves that had fallen from the trees. I rolled to the side as another shot rang out, pulled myself up to a sitting position, and braced for an attack. Instead, I heard the wail of sirens and saw flashing red lights from the road in front of the house, like a kaleidoscope through the curtain of drenching rain. I looked toward the open back door to see Linda and Victor Carson on the patio. There was no escape route as two of Mort’s uniformed deputies came around each side of the house, and I heard, “Get your hands up. You’re not going anywhere.”

  I rose slowly, sore, soaking wet and shivering from the cold but otherwise uninjured. I limped toward the house, snagging my sopping slipper along the way. I’d just reached the patio when Mort came from around the front.

  “You okay, Mrs. F?” he asked, taking note of my dishevelment.

  “Yes, I’m fine, Mort, now that you’re here.”

  “I figured something was wrong when you called me Mortimer.”

  “I was hoping you’d pick up on it, and I’m so glad that you did.”

  “What about these two?” he asked, indicating Victor and Linda, who were in custody of the deputies.

  “I suggest you take them both down to headquarters while I get out of these wet clothes and dry my hair. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Mortimer,” Mort said, shaking his head as he escorted me into the house. “I can’t believe you thought that was my name.”

  “I promise never to call you that again,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Victor and Linda Carson were remanded to jail under a variety of charges, including theft (Seth’s knife), assault with a deadly weapon, kidnapping (I was considered to have been a kidnap victim since I’d been held against my will), possession of a deadly weapon (a clear violation of Victor’s status under Witness Protection Program rules), and suspicion of murder in the Hubert Billups case. I spent a good part of that night and the following day giving a detailed report of what had occurred at my house, including Linda’s quasi-confession to having killed Billups. Mort called later that afternoon to announce that she’d formally admitted that she’d stabbed Billups to death, claiming his stalking had put her in a constant state of panic, which precipitated a nervous breakdown. Mort was convinced she was planning to enter a plea of temporary insanity.

  “I don’t know how she’s going to explain away the knife she took from the senior center,” he said. “Sure looks like a case of premeditation to me.”

  The incident had drained me, and when I returned home from police headquarters, I tried to catch up on some sleep. The phone rang incessantly, prompting me eventually to ignore my well-wishers and let the answering machine pick up. It was a full day later before I felt up to e-mailing George to tell him of the resolution of the case. I ended my message by apologizing for murder having tainted what was to be a tranquil, joyful introduction for him to our treasured national holiday.

  He e-mailed me back:I’m just sorry that murder once again injected itself into your life, Jessica, which seems to happen with startling regularity. I assure you of one thing. Should you decide to join me here in London over the Christmas holidays, I will labour intensely to issue a total ban on anything nefarious happening within a hundred miles of us. You have my word.

  I spent the next few days writing my novel. It felt good to be back into it, and the pages piled up as I headed for the climactic scenes that would end the book. The only distraction was the pile of mail I’d received containing the letters clipped from magazines that eventually spelled GLOTCOYB. I was relieved that the letters had stopped coming, but that didn’t satisfy my natural need to know why they’d been sent to me in the first place, and who had sent them. I intended to toss them out or burn them in my fireplace, but something kept me from doing that and I knew I would forever be haunted by those unanswered questions.

  My writing momentum was more tangibly derailed one morning when Mort called and asked me to meet him at his office. When I arrived, he introduced me to an FBI agent who’d come to Cabot Cove from Portland, and a representative from the Department of Justice in Washington, D.C.

  “I thought it only fair, Mrs. F, that you be alerted to a decision that’s been made by these gentlemen. Since it was Mrs. Carson who killed Hubert Billups, and because you say in your statement that it wasn’t Victor Carson who threatened you, he’s going to be moved to another location under the Witness Protection Program. He claims that he didn’t have any knowledge that his wife had a handgun, and has agreed to testify against her when she comes to trial.”

  “He has? Oh dear,” I said. “While her actions cannot be condoned, his wife was only trying to preserve what life they had left. Granted, she went far beyond what was reasonable, but for him to testify against her is—well, it’s insensitive at the least.”

  The two federal agents in the room said nothing, just stared at me with blank expressions.

  “What will happen to him after he testifies?” I asked. “He’ll simply go free, be given another pass?” I was bewildered by the decision.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the gentlem
an from DOJ said. “We’re really not interested in his wife and the fact that she killed a homeless guy here in Cabot Cove. That’s your sheriff ’s problem. But Vincent Canto—you know him as Victor Carson—has been a valuable witness for us in a number of mob-related matters, and will continue to be. We have more cases pending in which we need his testimony.”

  I shook my head in disgust. The FBI agent noticed my expression and changed the subject. “Sheriff Metzger here says that it was through your good investigation that the murder his wife committed has been solved. Nice work, Mrs. Fletcher. Looks like you know more about murder than just writing about it.”

  “I wish that weren’t true,” I said, “but I appreciate the compliment. It couldn’t have happened without Mort’s help. Our sheriff is a highly regarded professional with an astute sense of timing I’m particularly grateful for. I wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. F.”

  “You’re more than welcome, Mort.” I turned to the other men. “I appreciate being told about all this,” I said. “Where will Victor Carson, er, Vincent Canto go?”

  The FBI agent and DOJ representative looked at each other. The agent said, “We can’t reveal that for obvious reasons, Mrs. Fletcher.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I shouldn’t even have asked. I do have another question, however. With all the secrecy surrounding the Witness Protection Program, how did Billups learn that Carson, or Canto, was here in Cabot Cove?”

  The man from DOJ smiled. “Nothing’s perfect, Mrs. Fletcher. We’ve had to move Canto and his wife a few times after someone with a grudge tracked him down.”

  The FBI agent turned to Sheriff Metzger. “Speaking of tracking people down, Sheriff, we’re looking for another recent Cabot Cove citizen. He’s wanted on suspicion of fraud in Florida and other states.”

  “Who’s that?” Mort asked.

  “Are you talking about Archer Franklin?” I said.

  The FBI agent’s eyebrows went up. “You know about him, Mrs. Fletcher?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  I mentioned that he’d been staying with the Copeland sisters, after having lived on a houseboat.

  “We’ve checked all that out,” the agent said. “He’s skipped, something he’s good at. But we’ll find him. Looks like you’re really on top of things, ma’am. Anytime you’d like to join the Bureau, we’d be honored to have you.”

  “Thank you, but I think one career is enough for now.”

  “Good luck, gentlemen,” Mort said, escorting them out.

  I returned home to find a message from Seth inviting me out for dinner. I hadn’t seen him since the fracas at my house, and was finally ready to talk about it. “Let’s make it early,” he suggested when I called back.

  It was good being together, and with the benefit of a few days’ rest, I filled him in on every detail of my quest for Hubert Billups’s murderer, and that Archer Franklin was a wanted man.

  “Ayuh, I know all about that,” Seth said. “Willie Copeland was in early this afternoon. She’s got herself a spanking new cane.”

  “Oh?”

  Seth laughed. “Seems she found out about Mr. Franklin’s checkered past and broke her old one over his noggin. He tried to steal money from her before he left. I imagine he’s got a nasty headache wherever he is.”

  The image of Wilimena going after Franklin with her cane made me wince—and smile.

  “When will you get your knife back?” I asked.

  “I won’t,” he replied. “I told Mort he can keep it as a memento. Somehow, using it to slice a ham or carve a turkey after it’d been used to kill a man wasn’t appealing to me.”

  “I don’t blame you,” I said.

  “Mort said he’d have a display case made and hang it in his office.” He sat back and smiled. “Looks like my good friend Jessica Fletcher managed to solve another mystery in her life. Not that I’m surprised. You’ve been racking up a pretty impressive track record.”

  “George said the same thing to me in an e-mail. It’s hardly the sort of reputation I aspire to.”

  “Doesn’t matter what we aspire to, Jessica. It’s what becomes our reality that counts.”

  “I still have another mystery to resolve,” I said as the waiter poured coffee for us. I’d resisted a slice of key lime pie, but not Seth.

  “What might that be?” he asked, taking a bite of the tart custard.

  “Those strange letters that I received over a period of days. I still don’t know who mailed them, or why.”

  “If I were you, I’d let it go,” Seth suggested. “Not worth worrying about. You haven’t received any more of them, have you?”

  “No, I haven’t, but I can’t stand not knowing who and why.”

  “Probably just some prank.”

  “Prank!” I said. “I certainly hope not. I had Mort send the early letters to a crime lab to see if they could trace fingerprints. That would’ve been a terrible waste of public money if this was just someone’s idea of a joke. No. I think this is something more serious and I plan to get to the bottom of it.”

  He grunted. “You must’ve been born with a terminal case of curiosity. Remember, madam, curiosity killed the cat.”

  “But, as I recall, sir, it was also said that satisfaction brought the cat back. I need to satisfy my curiosity.”

  “Well, wouldn’t surprise me if you figure it out eventually. Good luck.” Seth sighed deeply and finished his pie.

  “That’s the second time today I’ve heard that expression,” I mused as we walked to his car.

  “What expression is that?”

  “Good luck.”

  “Not so unusual, is it?”

  “No, but for some reason it’s rattling around in my head.”

  “Well, while you’re cogitating on that, mind if I stop at the pharmacy before I drive you home? I need to check on a prescription.”

  “No, of course not. I’ll wait in the car.”

  Seth pulled up in front of the drugstore and I watched him enter the shop. “Good luck,” I whispered. “Good luck,” I said aloud. “Oh my goodness! Those are the first two letters of GLOTCOYB. GL. Good luck!” Was Seth right? Have I been looking for something nefarious when all along the message was not a threatening one? Good luck! Good luck on what? Oh, the O. Good Luck On. What could the rest of it be?

  “Seth! I think I’m getting it,” I said, when he’d climbed back in the car.

  “Getting what?”

  “GLOTCOYB!”

  “That again? Really, Jessica. You’re worrying this thing like a worm on a hook. You’re going to give yourself a headache.”

  “Maybe so, but solving it will bring immediate relief. Listen. The first three letters of GLOTCOYB are GLO. They could stand for ‘Good luck on’ . . .”

  “Good luck on what?”

  “That’s what I haven’t figured out yet.”

  “Well, let me know when you do.”

  As Seth drove me home, I noticed that he kept checking his watch as he proceeded slowly toward my house.

  “Do you know something I don’t?” I asked.

  “Ayuh! I know a lot of things you don’t,” he said. “That’s why you’re always asking me questions.”

  “I do not!”

  “Did you or did you not just ask me a question?”

  “Something funny is going on here,” I said, eyeing my old friend.

  As we turned onto my road, I looked ahead and saw what appeared to be a flashing light in front of my house. At first I wondered why the police were there again, but as we got closer, the source of the light became more obvious. It was a rotating red signal, the kind people place on the roadway to alert oncoming cars of a vehicle broken down in the lane ahead.

  Seth pulled to the side of the road opposite the house and turned off the ignition. There was a group of people gathered on my front lawn. I spotted Lee from the post office, the town’s favorite baker, Charle
ne Sassi, the mayor’s wife, Susan Shevlin, Kathy Copeland, the Kosers, Mort and Maureen Metzger, and a dozen other familiar faces. But what really captured my attention was a huge yellow sign strung between two trees. Printed on it in large red letters was GOOD LUCK ON THE COMPLETION OF YOUR BOOK.

  I turned to Seth. “What is this all about?” I asked.

  “I suggest you go see,” he said, a wry smile on his broad face.

  A cheer went up as I stepped out of the car and approached. Standing in front of the pack were Josh and Beth Wappinger.

  “Hello, Jessica!” Josh shouted. The group broke into song: “For she’s a jolly good writer, for she’s a jolly good writer, for she’s a jolly good writer that nobody can deny.”

  “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  “Come on in,” Beth said, grabbing my arm and pulling me toward the house. “There’s plenty of dessert, and the coffee’s made.”

  “No, wait a minute,” I said, resisting her tug on my arm. “That sign. GLOTCOYB. That’s what the letters mean, ‘good luck on the completion of your book’? My book, the one I’ve been struggling with?”

  “Sure,” she replied happily. “We knew you were having writer’s block and—”

  Seth came to my side and placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “I almost had it, didn’t I?” I said to him.

  “Almost.”

  I frowned at Beth. “Do you know what those letters did to me?”

  “I know you’re surprised, Jessica,” she said, “even shocked. We wanted you to be. Come on. The party’s starting.”

  I followed her inside, where a variety of sweets from Sassi’s Bakery were laid out on my dining room table, along with carafes of coffee and open bottles of wine. A half-dozen smaller signs reading GLOTCOYB had been taped to the walls.

  “But why. . . ?” I said.

  “We thought we’d help get your artistic juices flowing,” Josh said. “We all love having a bestselling writer living in our midst, especially this one. And we knew you needed inspiration.”

  I didn’t intend for my expression to be glum, even annoyed, but it reflected what I was feeling. I’d spent so much time worrying about those letters, wasting time trying to decipher them. I turned to Josh. “You were in Ohio on your last business trip, weren’t you? You sent those letters while you were traveling.”