A Fatal Feast (10 page)

“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.”

“As a matter of fact,” George countered, “Mr. Fawkes had a point. There
was
anti-Catholic bias. Still is. To this day, under our laws a Catholic cannot be the monarch.”

“Yes, I knew that,” Franklin said. It was obvious to all that he hadn’t.

“Actually, we do share Halloween with you chaps here in the States,” George said as a parting comment. “It’s becoming quite a popular day back home, much to the delight of children. They gorge themselves on candy on October thirty-first
and
rake in money on November fifth. Now you must excuse us, Mr. Franklin. I believe they’re about to start.”

As we walked away, George said, “Opinionated chap, isn’t he?”

“I’m afraid we’re in for more of his opinions on Thursday. Wilimena asked if she could bring him to dinner, and I didn’t say no.”

“Of course you didn’t,” George said. “Might be fun, hearing more about Guy ‘Fukes’ from the gentleman.”

We both laughed and settled in folding chairs to watch the dress rehearsal.

That evening, we were dinner guests at Mayor and Susan Shevlin’s home. Seth Hazlitt, Tim and Ellen Purdy (Tim is Cabot Cove’s historian, and Ellen wins every statewide quilting competition), and Deputy Mayor Gus Westerholm and his wife, Birgitta, who was active in virtually every civic and charity organization in the town, were the other guests.

Gus brought up Archer Franklin during dessert. “Looks like you might have a serious challenge next year, Jim,” he said to our mayor. “This new fellow, Franklin, is going around town claiming he intends to run for your seat.”

“He’s entitled to do that,” Jim replied.

“He says he’s got plenty of money to fund a campaign,” Tim Purdy said.

“And he’s entitled to spend it any way he wishes,” Shevlin said.

This led to a spirited discussion about money in politics, and eventually to a comparison between the British and American political systems. By the time we’d exhausted that topic, it was almost midnight, a series of yawns around the table testifying to the hour.

George dropped me at the house.

“Can you find your way back to Seth’s house?” I asked.

“I think so. My sense of direction is pretty sound. Come, I’ll see you safely inside.”

I was about to protest the need to accompany me but thought better of it. Recent events had set me on edge, and I wasn’t especially keen on entering alone at that late hour. I hated to be fearful of walking into my own home at any hour of the day or night, but my pragmatic sense took over. Besides, it meant prolonging my time with George. I became acutely aware during dinner that his visit with me was fleeting.

All was quiet inside.

“A nightcap?” I asked

“Tempting,” he said, “but I think it’s time we both headed for bed.” The double-entendre meaning of the statement wasn’t lost on either of us, but we said nothing.

“A busy day tomorrow?” he asked.

“I’m afraid so. The main event is our annual Thanksgiving dinner served to our less fortunate citizens. It starts at four, although I have to be there a few hours early to help with preparations.”

“Can you use an extra hand? Sounds like something I’d like to be involved with.”

“Would you? I wouldn’t expect that—”

He shook his head. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do than help provide a fitting Thanksgiving dinner for some poor persons, working side by side with a very special lady.”

“You’re pretty special yourself,” I said

“Not only that. I can carve a decent turkey,” he said. “I paid my way through school working at a carvery—that’s a restaurant that specializes in meats.”

“And you’d be wonderful, no doubt, but that’s my job this year. In fact, Seth has loaned me his special carving knife for the occasion.”

“Then I’ll be content to do whatever is asked of me.”

I walked him to the door, where we kissed good night. I watched him get into the car and start the engine. He looked back at me, and for a moment I thought he was about to get out and accept my offer of a nightcap. He didn’t. He blew me a kiss and drove off.

I closed the door, leaned against it, and smiled. Despite all the recent stresses and strains, I felt truly happy.

 

 

 

 

G
LOTCOY.

“What can it possibly mean?” I asked George the next morning.

“I have no idea, Jessica. I wish I did.”

We’d spent an exasperating hour coming up with every possible message that the letters contained in that day’s mail might represent. None of them made sense.

“It has a Boston postmark,” I said.

“Chances are,” he said, “these letters have been created by someone right here in Cabot Cove. This warped individual sends them to friends in other cities for mailing in order to throw you off the track.”

“All right,” I said, “but who would go to such elaborate means of hiding their true origins—and why?”

“Unfortunately, those are questions to which neither of us has an answer.”

“Sheriff Metzger hasn’t been able to help, either,” I said, folding my arms and hunching forward to relieve the tension in my back.

Mort had called bright and early to report that the state crime lab had come up a cropper with fingerprints. They’d managed to detect a tiny fragment on two of the envelopes, but not enough from which to lift a traceable print.

George rose and came around behind my chair. He placed his hands on my shoulders and pressed his thumbs into the tight muscles of my back. Then he leaned down and whispered in my ear, “Do you know what I’d like to do?” he said.

“What’s that?”

“I’d like to go motoring.”

“You would? To where?”

He straightened but kept kneading my sore shoulders. “Anywhere. Just a pleasant drive, the two of us.”

“Oh, George, I’d love to, but there’s so much to do before the holiday. And we have—”

He shifted one hand from my shoulder to my neck, using his fingers to rub away the stiffness. “Show me a bit of the lovely countryside surrounding Cabot Cove, or let’s stop at that lake for which you serve on a—was it a committee?”

“A commission,” I said, enjoying the massage.

“It will do wonders for your psyche. And besides, I need a little practice driving on the opposite side of the road.”

“The wrong side, you mean?”

“If you say so.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Inspector.”

George’s hands stilled. He leaned over and dropped a kiss on the top of my head.

I looked up at him over my shoulder, already missing the soothing motion of his hands. “As long as we’re back by two,” I said, “so we can get things moving at the Thanksgiving buffet.”

“I am at your service.”

The ride was exactly what I’d needed. While I hadn’t truly expressed to George, or to anyone, how upsetting the letters had been, they were never far from my thoughts, and had delivered a blow to my usually upbeat spirits. In my mind’s eye, I saw thick fingers—they were always a man’s fingers—cutting out the letters from a lurid magazine. I imagined my tormentor sniggering as he pasted them on a sheet of paper. It must be someone I had offended, someone who bore a grudge against me, but who? The face that accompanied these disturbing thoughts was always that of Hubert Billups. But I knew that was unreasonable. How could he have mailed those letters from distant cities? And why would he resent me to begin with? I didn’t know the man.

We drove along the coast—is there any more beautiful place on earth than the Maine coast?—and I felt the tension subside. In town, autumn had stripped the trees of their leaves, but along the rocky shore, stately pines rose into the air like green arrows piercing the gray sky. The salt air was chilly and whipped my hair when we stopped at an unimposing seafood roadside shack for lobster rolls—luscious chunks of lobster on a toasted hot dog bun. Our timing was perfect. A sign indicated that they would close for the season the following day.

Our conversation drifted from one topic to another, nothing very weighty, but provocative discussion at times. George is one of the most balanced men I’ve ever known, someone who has strong beliefs but is always willing to listen to a different viewpoint and to embrace divergent philosophies. Although he’d spent his professional career in law enforcement, he’d never lost what can only be described as his gentle nature. He also had, of course, a steely side, necessary when confronting the criminal element. I’d seen that side the first time we met.

 

It was in London, where I’d traveled to attend a convention of mystery writers, and to visit an old friend, Marjorie Ainsworth. At that time, Marjorie, who was the reigning queen of mystery writers, lived in an imposing manor house outside London. She’d invited me to spend a few days there with her, an invitation I readily accepted.

Unfortunately, while I was there, my aged friend was found stabbed to death in her bed, and I became but one on a list of suspects. Enter Scotland Yard inspector George Sutherland, who was assigned the case because of Marjorie’s notoriety. He questioned me along with the others, unfailingly polite but demonstrating an unwavering determination, and an unwillingness to accept answers he considered self-serving or evasive. As it turned out, we ended up working together to solve the murder. Our collaboration created a strong bond of mutual respect, and a developing personal interest in each other that remained to this day.

 

We ended our mini tour of Cabot Cove’s countryside on a bluff overlooking the ocean. The water churned blue and green, with white froth riding waves that crashed against rocks below.

“It reminds me of Wick,” I said as we stood side by side and soaked up nature’s power and beauty.

“Aye, that it does,” he said.

George was born in Wick, and his home in that northernmost tip of Scotland had remained in his family for generations. I’d visited there with a contingent of friends from Cabot Cove and was swept away by its spectacular visual splendor and the warmth of its people. Unfortunately, as with our initial meeting in London, murder would bring us together again, this time in George’s ancestral home. I sighed as I thought back to that situation. Too often, murder seems to follow me when I travel, or even when I stay put in Cabot Cove. Given a choice, I’d much prefer to write about murder than experience it in my personal life, but I haven’t always had the benefit of that choice.

“What are you thinking?” I asked as spray from a particularly large wave bounced off the rocks below, showering us with tiny droplets of frigid water and causing us to narrow our eyes against the briny mist.

George put his arm around my shoulders and briefly hugged me to him. “I was thinking about Thanksgiving, your special holiday. How wonderful to have a day set aside each year to give thanks for our blessings.”

“It is a nice tradition, isn’t it?”

“When you view the world with open eyes, you realize how much we have to be grateful for,” he said.

I didn’t respond, although I certainly agreed with him. My mind had wandered elsewhere—to my unfinished novel, Hubert Billups, the Thanksgiving pageant, the afternoon’s event, the upcoming holiday dinner at my house, the dishes I had yet to cook, and, of course, my relationship with the handsome man standing next to me.

“Where are you, Jessica?” George asked.

“What? Oh, I’m sorry. I got lost in my thoughts.”

“It’s good to do that from time to time,” he said. “Nice to escape the here and now.”