“Are you Connie?” I asked, coming up to her. At her nod, I said, “I’m Jessica Fletcher. This is George Sutherland.”
She took us in with heavily made-up, wary eyes. “Hello,” she said.
It was difficult to guess her age; her face was unwrinkled, her skin glowing, and her hair was a shade of copper that didn’t exist in nature.
“Would never have recognized the place, you know, if it weren’t for the sign over the door.”
“Has it changed that much?” I asked, taking the seat opposite hers. George dragged a chair over from an adjacent table.
“A bar gets a lot of wear and tear, especially the floor,” Connie said, eyeing the Mexican tile beneath her feet. “Ours was wood.” Her gaze roved over the room, taking in all the details. She looked up at the pressed-tin ceiling. “And of course every owner has a vision of how they want it to be. At least they kept the name. That’s nice.”
A waiter with a long, drooping black mustache came to the table. “You having dinner, folks?”
I looked at Connie and she shook her head. “No, thank you,” I said to the waiter, “but you can bring us something to drink.”
With glasses in front of us, Connie took charge of the conversation, condemning the demise of family-owned bar-restaurants in Boston, complaining about the overflow of students in the city, expressing her political philosophy, and bemoaning the long, bleak winter ahead. George and I listened attentively, waiting for an opportunity to change subjects.
“Would you excuse me a moment?” Connie said.
I hadn’t realized how tiny she was until she stood up and walked quickly toward the hall to the kitchen and the restrooms. She returned a few moments later. “Just wanted to see if my name was still carved in the wood back there,” she said, smiling softly.
“And is it?” George asked.
“It is. I guess you always want to leave a permanent mark on a place you’ve owned. Hubie and I picked out the lintel over the kitchen door, figuring it would last a long time, and it has.”
She had given us the conversational opening.
“It was good of you to find time for us,” I said. “I know this must be distressing for you, but—”
“It’s okay,” she said, and I thought of how her late husband often used the word “okay.”
“You say Hubie’s dead. How did he die?”
George answered. “He was murdered,” he said.
Her eyes widened. “Hmmm,” she said. “Murdered? How?”
“Well,” I started to say.
“Someone stabbed him to death,” George said.
“Oh. Who did it?”
“We don’t know,” I replied. “That’s why we’re trying to come up with an answer.”
“Are you cops?”
“No,” I replied.
“Well, if you’re not, what are you here for?” she asked. “What are the police doing?”
“They’re doing all they can,” I said, “but—”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a writer, and George is with Scotland Yard.”
“Scotland Yard? Did Hubie do something really wrong?”
George grinned. “No. I’m just along as Jessica’s friend.”
Her narrowed eyes said she thought we were more than that.
I started to ask a question when she summoned the waiter and ordered another drink. “You’re paying, right?”
I nodded.
“Okay, what do you want to know about Hubie?”
An hour and a half later, George and I stepped out of a taxi in front of our hotel.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Maybe a little. What I’d really like is a quiet place to talk.”
We had two choices in the Lennox: an Irish pub, Sólás, or the less crowded City-Bar. We opted for the latter.
“. . . and according to her, Mr. Billups just disappeared from Boston and from her life,” George said, nibbling at our shared Maine lobster salad.
“I had the feeling that she wasn’t particularly unhappy to see him go.”
“I had that feeling, too. Of course, he wasn’t the same man she’d married, not once those thugs scrambled his brain.”
The former Mrs. Billups had also told us that the little money she’d received from the sale of Down-the-Hatch hadn’t gone very far. Hubie, unable to work, had taken off. She was left almost destitute and had made ends meet by working as a waitress in restaurants around Boston. She’d attempted during the first few years of his absence to find out where he was, but eventually gave up and resigned herself to never seeing him again. She filed for divorce based upon abandonment and it was easily granted.
“She certainly is no fan of law enforcement,” George said.
“I suppose you can’t blame her, George. The two thugs who killed her brother-in-law, and who beat her husband nearly to death, ended up in prison, but the man behind it beat the rap.”
I pulled a slim reporter’s notepad from my purse on which I’d made notes during our conversation with Connie. “That would be . . . Here it is: Vincent Canto, nicknamed ‘the bear’ because he was so big. She claims he cut a deal with the authorities, turned state’s evidence against Hubie’s assailants, and got a free pass.”
“Chances are he’s in your Witness Protection Program, never to be seen or heard from again.”
“Do you have that program in England?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, patterned after your own. Yours was extremely well thought out, and works quite efficiently, including all its subtleties, the way identities are kept secret, funding families that are entered into the program, rules concerning the role of local law enforcement and its responsibilities, down to such things as choosing new names for informants who go into witness protection. We always recommend that they choose a name with the same first and last initials as their real name, or at least retain their first name.”
“You do?”
“Oh, yes. Every detail is thought out.”
“I suppose it has to be to assure their safety.”
“Do you know what I think, Jessica? While all this is interesting from a human drama perspective, I’m beginning to doubt it has anything to do with Mr. Billups’s demise.”
“You may be right,” I said sadly.
We fell into an easy, comfortable conversation from that point forward about a variety of distinctly less weighty things. It was after George had assigned the bill to his room, and we were about to head for the elevators that I gasped and grabbed his arm.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I don’t think this was a wasted trip after all.”
Chapter Twenty-one
On Sunday afternoon, George and I sat in Terminal E at Logan Airport trying to squeeze in a few more minutes together before his flight to London. We didn’t have much to say at this juncture. I was terribly sorry to see him go, and he’d expressed his unhappiness at leaving. Now it was just a matter of watching a large wall clock tick off the minutes before he would walk through security, board the 747, and be gone.
Last night, after leaving the hotel’s City-Bar, we’d gone to his room, where we started a fire in the fireplace and continued our conversation. Boston’s lights twinkled outside the large window, and the moon looked as though it was perched atop a distant high-rise.
George had, of course, wanted to know why I’d said that the trip to Boston hadn’t been a wasted one. I’d explained to him the scenario I’d conjured, which prompted him to question every aspect of it.
“What will you do?” he asked.
“I’ll call Mort Metzger and tell him what I think might have happened.”
“Do you think he’ll listen to you?”
“Oh, Mort will listen, but he might not agree with me.”
“You really have little concrete to offer, Jessica.”
“Except a strong hunch. My hunches haven’t always been right, but they haven’t always been wrong either.”
“If the conclusion you’ve
come to is correct,” he said, “you’ll be stepping on some pretty big toes.”
“Which isn’t nearly as important as getting to the truth about Billups’s murder. Funny how my view of Billups has changed over the past few days. I started out being wary of him, even fearful. Now it’s as though I knew him, a friend who’s been killed in a brutal way, someone who deserves to see his killer brought to justice.”
“I admire your tenacity,” he said.
“Some, like Seth, consider it a character flaw.”
George laughed. “I suspect, Jessica, that the good Dr. Hazlitt has great respect for that so-called character flaw.”
We talked until midnight when I announced that I was sleepy and was going to retire. “What time would you like to meet?” I asked as I walked to the door.
“As early as possible,” he said. “Let’s squeeze every last minute out of the time we have left.”
George’s flight announcement came through the PA.
“The time went so quickly,” I said, walking with him to the row of people waiting to get through security.
He took my elbow and led me away from the line to a quiet area off to the side. “I hate to leave, lass,” he said, drawing me into his arms. “It will be too long till I see you again. I know this may not be the best time, but I’ve been meaning to ask you a question.”
“You have?”
“Yes. I’ve given it a great deal of thought and there’s something I wish to propose.”
Propose? In an airport terminal as he’s ready to wing away?
“George, I—”
“I know, I know, your head is filled with thoughts of murdered men, ruthless gangsters, and abandoned women. But I feel the pressure of time.”
I said nothing. I didn’t know what to say.
“I was going to propose that—” He looked away, his face creased as though reconsidering.
I waited.
“Would you consider coming to London for Christmas this year?”
“Christmas?”
“I know, it’s a very special time of year for you here in the States, wanting to spend it with family and friends, but we do quite a nice job of celebrating it in Britain.”
The large smile that broke out across my face was purely involuntary.
“Will you at least consider it?”
“Yes, I will consider it very seriously,” I said, aware that I suffered from a clash of emotions at the moment—relief and disappointment.
“That’s all I can ask,” he said.
We hugged, parted, hugged again, and I watched him walk through security and disappear with a wave down the hall leading to the departure lounge.
I stood at the huge windows overlooking the airport until his plane was pushed from the gate and taxied out of sight. I wiped away a tear that had formed, walked away, and went outside to call Signature Flight Support for a car to take me to the side of the airport where Jed Richardson would be arriving. As I waited, I called Mort Metzger’s home number, which was stored in my cell phone.
“Mrs. F,” he said. “Where are you?”
“In Boston, but I’ll be home early this evening.”
“What are you doing down there in Beantown? Oh, that’s right. Seeing the inspector off ?”
“Yes, but that wasn’t the only reason for my being here. Mort, I think I might have information that will lead to Hubert Billups’s murderer.”
“You do?”
“Can I drop by the house tonight?”
“You’re always welcome, Mrs. F, but I have to tell you, you’re a day late and a dollar short.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I’ve already solved the case.”
“You have?”
“That’s right. I arrested Wally Winstead yesterday for the murder of Hubert Billups.”
Chapter Twenty-two
Although the arrest of Wally Winstead had taken place only a day earlier, news of it had spread quickly. Jed Richardson mentioned it the moment we were airborne and en route to Cabot Cove.
“Wally’s always been a hothead,” he said, “an accident waiting to happen.”
“Do you know what evidence Mort has against him?” I asked.
“I heard that he lied about his whereabouts the night the old guy was killed. Mara said she heard someone say Wally’s wife was screaming at him when Mort came to take him in. Said that was the last time she’d lie for him. Said it served him right, that jail was too good for him. She hoped they’d put him away forever. She was that mad.”
I climbed over the clouds, with Jed’s permission, and set the dials for automatic pilot. My first reaction to Mort’s announcement that he was charging Winstead with Billups’s murder was surprise and disbelief. Did the fact that the arrest dashed the theory I’d come up with play a role in my response? Undoubtedly. Although Mort and I had butted heads on occasion, he was a good lawman who wasn’t known to go off the deep end and charge people without having enough evidence to back it up. Still, I was confident that the conclusion to which I’d come had merit, and I was anxious to share it with Mort.
I walked into my house, flipped on lights, and laid Saturday’s mail on the kitchen table. There were no more mystery envelopes containing cutout letters pasted on a page. Thankfully, the B had been the last one. GLOTCOYB. I wondered if George was right, if I might never find out what it meant. I tossed two advertising circulars into the recycle bin and took the remaining correspondence into my study. Even though George hadn’t stayed at my house, it seemed oddly quiet, as if something—or someone—important wasn’t there. I felt out of sorts now that the man who had contributed so much to my holiday happiness had gone home. But had I made him happy, too, with my frantic preparations for Thanksgiving, dragging him thither and yon, and then pushing him to Boston to satisfy my need to get to the bottom of a case? Talk about a busman’s holiday! The man works at Scotland Yard, and I use his days off to involve him in a murder investigation. It was a wonder he wanted to see me again so soon.
Christmas! I had to laugh at Seth, so broadly hinting that George was going to propose to me. He did indeed make a proposal, but not one that either Seth or I was expecting. Did I want to spend Christmas with George? That decision would have to wait until I finished my book. I looked at the computer, then at my watch. It was too late to start writing now. It would be better to attack the manuscript on Monday morning—doesn’t every project start on Monday morning? But what now? My hand hovered over the telephone, and finally I picked it up and dialed Mort’s number.
“Hi, Mrs. F. Back safe and sound?”
“Yes, thank goodness. Mort, you said I could stop by. Does the invitation still hold?”
“Sure does, Mrs. F. Maureen whipped up a new dish. It was pretty good. We have some left over, if you’re hungry.”
“Sounds nice,” I said, my growling stomach testifying to not having had dinner. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”
I hung up and sat back, trying to collect my thoughts so that I could present a concise, compelling case to Mort. As I was about to leave the study, my eyes rested on the pile of GLOTCOYB letters on my desk. I pulled out a new file folder, put the letters in it, and dropped the folder into a file drawer. I pushed thoughts of them from my mind as I called for a taxi.
Mort and Maureen had just finished cleaning up after dinner, but offered me a bowl of an experimental fish stew Maureen had made, along with a salad and French bread. They joined me at the dining room table.
“Now,” Mort said, “what’s this you say about having come up with something to do with the Billups case?”
“I’m eager to run it by you,” I said, “but first tell me about Wally Winstead. You’re sure he’s the killer?”
Mort nodded gravely. “You bet I am,” he said. Then he grinned. “I hate to admit it, but I had a little help from Scotland Yard.”
“Really? How so?”
“Well, you remember when you and the inspector were in my office while I questioned
Wally?”
“Yes.”
“I kept thinking about what George said, that Wally was lying about where he’d been the night Billups got it. Remember? He said his eyes opened wide and his pupils got dilated, and that his voice got higher.”
“George has been studying signs of when a person isn’t telling the truth,” I explained to Maureen, finishing the last of her stew, which, I had to admit, was very good.
“I might study up some more on that subject myself,” Mort said. “Anyway, I decided to do some serious asking around about Wally’s whereabouts that night. He said he was with his wife, who confirmed it when I asked her. I didn’t believe her either. Her eyes got wide and her pupils dilated, and her voice got all high and squeaky.”
“Go on.”
“So I stopped in places I know Wally likes to go, that bar down on Shad Street, and the billiards parlor next to the movie theater. Bingo! It took some hard questioning, but I finally got the truth out of a couple of regulars in those places. Seems that Wally showed up at the bar about nine o’clock on Thanksgiving evening after getting into a row with his wife, had a lot to drink, and started talking about her, about how she was no good anyway, let other men make eyes at her. Then he starts up about Billups, about how he was following her around, and how no bum was going to flirt with his wife, the usual crazy stuff from Wally. According to the ones I questioned, the more Wally drank, the madder he got, railing about bums like Billups. He left the bar mad as the devil, still squawking about Billups and how he’d teach him a lesson.”
He sat back, arms crossed over his chest, a satisfied smile on his face.
“That’s it?” I said.
He came forward. “No, Mrs. F, that’s not it,” he replied, clearly irritated. “I brought him in and gave him a chance to deny he’d done it. He never did deny it. Claims he can’t remember where he was that night, but still says how Billups got what he deserved, nutty things like that. Winstead lied about where he was. He doesn’t have an alibi for the time the murder took place. He made threats against the victim. And, Mrs. F, he sure had the motive.”
A Fatal Feast Page 18
