A Fatal Feast

by Jessica Fletcher

  Seth might have meant well in forewarning me, but all it accomplished was to set me on edge throughout dinner. I kept looking at George for a sign that he might actually be poised to propose, but he gave no indication of it.

  Following dinner, and after we’d helped clear the table and tidy up the kitchen, we returned to the living room for coffee and after-dinner drinks. If it were going to happen, I decided, it was now. My heart skipped a beat when George, a glass of Seth’s vintage brandy in his hand, asked for everyone’s attention. I closed my eyes and waited.

  “My visit here has been a wonderful one,” George said. “I haven’t had the pleasure of spending much time with Dr. and Mrs. Wilson, but I intend to rectify that the next time around. I’m especially grateful to Dr. Hazlitt, who opened his home for me and has been a splendid host.” George left the room, returning seconds later carrying the neatly wrapped books he’d purchased. He handed the package to Seth, whose expression indicated he was truly surprised.

  Seth tore off the paper and removed Edmund Wilson’s volumes one by one, admiring each as he did. “This was certainly unnecessary, George,” he said, “and I’m touched by your generosity, as well as your taste in literature.”

  George laughed. “I thought you’d enjoy having the complete set.”

  “That I do, and I intend to read every word,” Seth said. He got to his feet, reached behind his chair, and came up with another package, this one wrapped in silver paper. “Seems to me,” he said, “that this might be a good time to become a gift giver, too.” He crossed the room. “For you, Jessica,” he said.

  “What is this for?” I asked, turning the small but surprisingly heavy package in my hands.

  “Open it and find out,” Tobé said.

  All eyes were on me as I pulled on the red silk ribbon and the wrapping fell away to reveal a gleaming marble statue of a man holding a writing tablet and quill pen.

  “What’s it supposed to be?” Jack Wilson asked.

  I found the answer by reading what was inscribed on a brass plate at the base: “Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth Than those old nine which rhymers invocate.”

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE, SONNET 38

  “It’s lovely, Seth,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “I figured since you’ve been having trouble finishing your latest book, your regular muse might have skipped out on you, so I came up with this new one, compliments of Willie Shakespeare.”

  “Where did you have it done?” I asked.

  “Up in Portland. Remember Regina Gormley?”

  “Of course I do. She’s a wonderful sculptress. I was sorry to see her leave Cabot Cove after her husband died.”

  “She moved to Portland. We’ve kept in touch, so when I had this idea to get you a new muse, I called her. She came up with Shakespeare and that quote. Flew up with Jed Richardson to pick it up personally.”

  I kissed Seth’s cheek and said, “I have a feeling, Seth, that this new muse is exactly what I need. With him looking over me, I’ll have that book written in no time.”

  At ten thirty, with Seth nodding off, we called it a night. I was still waiting for George to do what Seth had indicated he might, but to my relief it didn’t happen. Although the Wilsons offered to drive me home, George insisted it was his pleasure. I had mixed emotions about that. On the one hand, I wanted to extend the evening with him. On the other, I was afraid that he would use our time alone to raise an issue that I wasn’t ready to face.

  “You were full of wonderful stories,” I told him as we drove.

  “I had a wonderful audience,” he said. “I felt very much as though I was with family.”

  “You’ve been adopted,” I said lightly.

  “Lucky me.”

  We pulled into my driveway. George shut off the engine and walked me to the door.

  “As much as I love your friends, Jessica, I admit I’m looking forward to our trip tomorrow, just the two of us.”

  “It will be a busy time,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind that I’ll be spending much of it trying to fit pieces into the Billups puzzle.”

  “Correction,” he said. “We’ll be looking for those missing puzzle pieces. Besides, what would a trip with Jessica Fletcher be without a hefty dose of intrigue?”

  I laughed. “What a reputation to have,” I said.

  “Just one of many things I—I love about you, lass. Go on, now, get yourself inside. Have you packed?”

  “No.”

  “Then get to it. What shall I do with the car?”

  “You can give it to Jed at the airport. People do that all the time.”

  “Very good. What time would you like me to collect you?”

  “Come by at seven thirty. We can have breakfast here before heading for the airport.”

  George wished me a good night’s sleep, waited until I locked the door behind me, and left.

  I dressed for bed and came back downstairs to place my newly acquired muse next to the computer. “I expect you to do your thing, William Shakespeare,” I said, patting his marble head.

  I dropped into my chair and thought of the evening, thought of everything that had happened recently: my unfinished book; the busy time leading up to Thanksgiving; the GLOTCOYB letters that sat on my desk, their origins as mysterious as the reason behind them; and, of course, my plans to get on a plane to Boston the next morning. Would the trip shed light on Billups’s death and on who might have killed him? Perhaps not, but that wouldn’t deter me from finding out all I could about his past, and how it might be connected with his murder.

  But all those thoughts took a backseat to George Sutherland.

  Seth had been wrong about George planning to propose that night. Had George decided not to inject that potentially awkward situation into his final night at Seth’s house? Would he consider our trip to Boston a more suitable time and milieu? Or had Seth simply been hazarding a guess based upon conversations they’d had?

  My final question on the topic, with Shakespeare watching over me, was whether Seth had inadvertently slipped into the role of John Alden, speaking for George but unwilling to approach the subject on his own behalf?

  Had the “muse” of Thanksgiving descended upon us all?

  Chapter Nineteen

  Jed was standing next to the Cessna when we arrived.

  “Drive their car over to the rental agency down by the dock,” he instructed his young helper. “They’ll give you a lift back.”

  We climbed into the aircraft, with me in the left-hand seat, so I could log some additional piloting time—I hadn’t flown this much in a very long time—and George wedged into one of two rear seats. A few minutes later I pushed the throttle to the wall and we picked up speed down the runway. There was a stiff crosswind, which necessitated some pressure on my part to hold the plane’s nosewheel on the white center stripe, but we soon lifted off and were headed for Boston.

  “What’s the drill?” Jed asked after we’d landed at Logan Airport. “When do I pick you up, Jess?”

  “Sunday afternoon,” I replied. “Is four okay with you? George’s flight to London leaves at three.”

  “Sure. Not a problem.” He shook George’s hand. “Travel safe, Inspector,” he said, “and come back soon.”

  “Oh, I intend to do that,” George said. “Many thanks for the smooth flights.”

  We got into a cab in front of the terminal. “The Lennox Hotel, please,” I told the driver, “on Boylston at Exeter.”

  I’d stayed in this charming Back Bay hotel on previous visits to Boston and enjoyed its European feel coupled with modern amenities. It had opened in 1900 but fell on hard times. Recent renovations had brought it up to four-star excellence. There was an added attraction to staying at the Lennox. Down-the-Hatch was also located on Boylston Street, not far from the hotel.

  I’d booked adjoining rooms, including a corner unit that featured a working fireplace. I assigned that room to George. After a bellhop had delivered our luggage, we agreed to
meet in the lobby in a half hour. George was sitting there when I stepped off the elevator.

  “What’s first on the agenda?” he asked.

  “A stop at Down-the-Hatch,” I said.

  “Ah, haven’t gone pub crawling since my early days with the metropolitan police.”

  “Just one pub, George. I have no idea what Billups had to do with Down-the-Hatch, but there was that photo of him posing in front of it, and the menu found in his room. There has to be some connection.”

  “A little early for a pub to be opening, isn’t it?”

  “It’s getting close to noon,” I said. “There must be people there setting up for lunch.”

  “Lead the way, lass.”

  Boylston Street was bustling with shoppers. Back Bay had changed considerably from its nineteenth-century origins, when it was created from landfill dredged from the Charles River and the sea. It was transformed from an odorous industrial area to the city’s most prestigious address, with stately Victorian homes along treelined streets. Those golden days were gone, however. Back Bay had morphed from Victorian elegance to twentieth-century modern, to a twenty-first-century home to office towers, condominiums, shops, and restaurants and bars, including Down-the-Hatch.

  We lingered outside the restaurant for a few minutes and peered through the window observing the activity inside. The staff scurried about setting tables and readying the long bar for the first customers of the day.

  “Nice-looking place,” George commented, “very welcoming. Reminds me a bit of home.”

  Down-the-Hatch appeared to be the quintessential bar and grill frequented by neighborhood residents and other regulars who knew one another and looked forward to whiling away a few hours over an ale.

  “Shall we?” George said.

  “Yes. Let’s.”

  “You take the lead, lass. You know better than I what it is you’re looking for.”

  When we opened the door, a young woman approached. “Afraid you’re a little early for lunch,” she said, a smile on her wide, freckled face, “but you can get something at the bar.” She looked to where a bartender was dumping plastic pails of ice into sinks. “I think he’s ready,” she said.

  We took stools at the bar; the bartender indicated with a wave that he’d be with us in a few minutes. “No rush,” I said.

  We took the opportunity to take in our surroundings. George was right. It was a nice, welcoming place. There was lots of wood, although the lengthy bar top was zinc. The tables were set with black-and-white checkered table-cloths, with silverware wrapped in napkins at each place setting. A small vase with a single rose sat in the middle of each table. An older waitress in one of six booths lining one wall wrote that day’s specials on a chalkboard. Low-level music from unseen speakers was of the modern variety, pop music or rock and roll I suppose was the proper description. I’m afraid I don’t keep up with such things, the proof of which is my trouble with crossword puzzles that include those references.

  George remarked on the ambience of the place, comparing it to British pubs, until the bartender came to where we sat and asked what he could get us. He was a young man with bushy black hair and an elongated face.

  “Just a glass of seltzer for me,” I said.

  George looked at his watch. “Make that two,” he said.

  The bartender, who’d not initially struck me as friendly—was it because we’d ordered only soft drinks?— seemed to warm up when he delivered our order. “Visiting Boston?” he asked George.

  “I am,” he replied.

  “It was the accent. Could tell you weren’t local.” He looked at me. “Where are you from?”

  “I’m from Maine. My friend here is from London.”

  “I was in London last year,” the barkeep said. “It’s a cool city.”

  “This is a nice bar,” I said. “Who owns it?”

  He mentioned two names. “Husband and wife,” he added. “They own a couple of spots around the city.”

  “Have they owned it long?” George asked.

  “Five years, maybe six.”

  “I suppose you don’t remember a fellow named Billups,” I said. “Hubert Billups.”

  His blank expression said that he didn’t.

  “Probably before your time,” I said. “Anyone been around here long enough to remember back to, say, ten or twelve years ago?”

  He laughed. “Damon goes back that far, even longer.”

  “Damon? He works here?”

  “Nah. He’s a customer, been coming in for as long as I’ve worked here, and that’s only a year. But he’s one of the regulars from way back. You’re sitting in his place.”

  “I am?” George said.

  “Sure, read that little plaque on the edge of the bar.”

  George and I leaned over to read the tiny inscription: RESERVED FOR DAMON O’DELL.

  “He must have been a very good customer,” I said, “to warrant his own barstool.”

  “Never misses a day unless he’s sick. He’s a nice old guy, lives alone a few blocks from here. A real gentleman.” He smiled. “And a good tipper.”

  “Do you think he’ll be in today?”

  “I’d bet my life on it. Two o’clock sharp. Bowl of chowder with extra crackers, sliced tomatoes with mayonnaise, and a Rob Roy.”

  “I like his choice of drink,” George said.

  “He’s got taste,” the bartender said. “Always dresses nice and neat. Like I said, a real gentleman. Excuse me.” He moved down the bar to serve a couple who’d just arrived.

  “This Mr. O’Dell might be able to tell us something,” I said to George.

  “It sounds as though he goes back far enough,” he said. “Shall we stay for lunch?”

  “I’d like to. Maybe we should vacate his reserved spot. We wouldn’t want to upset him when he walks in.”

  George and I took a booth and ordered one of the day’s specials, Reuben sandwiches with salads on the side. The place had begun to fill up, and by a few minutes before two there wasn’t a table or booth to be had. Although the bar was busy, too, no one had opted to sit in O’Dell’s spot.

  At a few minutes past two, the door opened and a dapper gentleman, whom I judged to be well into his seven-ties, came through it. He wore a camel-hair sport coat with leather-covered buttons under which was a brown vest over a yellow windowpane-check button-down shirt and maroon tie. Tan slacks and brown loafers completed his fashionable attire. His hair was gray and close-cropped, his complexion ruddy. He went directly to the O’Dell stool and slid onto it.

  “That must be him,” I said.

  “How do you plan to approach him?” George asked.

  “Look, the person next to him is leaving.”

  We left the booth and approached the bar, where I took the now-vacant stool. O’Dell glanced at me, smiled, and returned his attention to the Rob Roy the bartender had prepared moments before his customer’s arrival. George stood behind me.

  “Drink?” I was asked.

  “Oh, yes, please. That’s an interesting-looking drink,” I said, indicating O’Dell’s Rob Roy. “I think I’ll try one of those.”

  “You, sir?” the bartender asked George.

  “I believe I’ll join in as well,” George said.

  “What’s it called?” I asked O’Dell.

  “A Rob Roy,” the bartender said.

  “Oh, Jimmy, you know better than that,” O’Dell said.

  “He’s right,” the bartender said. “It’s actually a Bobbie Burns.”

  “Is that after the Scottish poet?” I asked. “What makes it that?”

  O’Dell turned to me. “Quite simple,” he said. “You take the classic Rob Roy, which was named for the Scots folk hero Robert Roy MacGregor, but add a dash of Benedictine. Gives it a nice honey flavor.”

  “Make it that way, please,” I told the bartender.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  O’Dell returned his attention to his drink, and to the plate of tomatoes slathered with mayon
naise. Judging from his complexion and vitality, his arteries hadn’t suffered too much.

  “By the way,” I said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher, and this is my friend George Sutherland, visiting from England.”

  O’Dell’s eyes opened wide, and he smiled. “The Jessica Fletcher?”

  “I’m the only person I know with that name,” I replied.

  “The writer,” he said. “I’ve read most of your books. I like mysteries.”

  “I’m flattered.” I was also pleased that a rapport had been so easily forged.

  He cut a tomato slice into small pieces, ate it, and sipped his drink. “What brings you to Boston?” he asked. “Promoting a new book?”

  “Actually, no,” I said. “George and I are looking into the background of someone.”

  His eyebrows went up. “Sounds intriguing,” he said. “Anyone I know?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, “but here. Take a look.”

  I handed him a copy of one of the three photos I’d taken from Billups’s room. I’d used my computer to make scanned copies, returning the original photos to their frames ready to be delivered to Mort on Monday morning. I pointed to Billups in the picture of the two men posing in front of Down-the-Hatch.

  “It’s Hubie!” he said.

  “Then you know him.”

  “Of course I do, or did. Haven’t seen him in a dog’s age.”

  I looked up at George and smiled.

  “May I ask how and where you knew him?” I said.

  He took another stab at his tomatoes, and sipped his Rob Roy.

  “Did you have a close relationship with him?” I asked.

  He slowly turned to face me. “It seems as though I should be asking you the questions,” he said firmly but without an edge.

  The person to the other side of me left and George took his place.

  “Please do,” I said to O’Dell.