A Fatal Feast (11 page)

I nodded, then shivered as another thought crossed my mind. During my brief moment of reverie I had forgotten what might be in the next day’s postal delivery. Usually, I look forward to opening my mailbox, even though its contents increasingly seem to consist of what’s commonly called “junk mail,” the noncomputer equivalent of “spam.” But I wasn’t looking forward to opening tomorrow’s envelopes, not with the likelihood of another message formed from letters clipped from magazines.

“Glotcoy,” I said into the wind.

George laughed. “Yes, the mysterious Glotcoy.”

“No such word in the dictionary,” I said.

“Perhaps we’ll never know what it means, unless of course the sender wishes to expose himself.”

“Or herself,” I said.

“Right you are. It could be a woman. In fact, Jessica, it may even be more likely that a woman is behind those letters.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It’s such—it’s such a passive-aggressive action. Nevertheless, if it is a woman, it doesn’t render this campaign any less threatening.”

“I can’t imagine that someone would go to so much trouble and not eventually reveal the motivation behind it.”

“The perpetrator may already have achieved her objective—to unsettle you. In that case, there is no need to reveal herself. She has accomplished her mission. Staying anonymous perpetuates that goal.”

“I
will
be very upset if I can’t get to the bottom of this,” I said.

George glanced at his watch. “Time to head back, Jessica, if you’re going to be on time to serve up turkey with all the trimmings to Cabot Cove’s needy.”

I had only a few minutes in the house to gather up aprons and utensils before we were to head downtown, where the free turkey dinner was being served at the senior center, recently renovated through the generosity of Wilimena Copeland.

“Need this?” George asked as he picked up the box containing the carving knife Seth had loaned to me. He slowly drew it from its custom case.

“I’m reluctant to take it,” I said. “It was a special gift to Seth.”

“I’ve never seen anything quite like it,” said George, holding up the ten-inch knife to better catch the light from a ceiling fixture.

“It was a gift to Seth from a wealthy Japanese businessman who’d been touring the United States with his family,” I said. “They were spending a few days at the end of their trip in Cabot Cove—their son had been an exchange student here—and were having dinner at a popular Italian restaurant in town when the father suddenly clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor. Seth and I were at the next table. He immediately started cardiopulmonary resuscitation and saved the Japanese gentleman’s life. The man spent time in the hospital, but thanks to Seth’s quick action he recovered.”

“He was fortunate to have a physician sitting at the next table.”

“Yes, he was. Anyway, six months after the patient returned home to Japan, his son, the one who’d been a student here, came back to Cabot Cove bearing a gift for the doctor who’d ‘given his father the gift of life.’” The knife was a handmade, carbon steel, Kounosuke carving knife that had been made in Sakai, which the son pointed out had been the home of samurai swords since the 1300s, I told George. “The case is made of paulownia wood. The son said the knife brings good luck to those who use it.”

“It’s magnificent.”

“The handle is ivory. See those tiny pearls inlaid around the edges? That character on each side spells Seth’s name. The son told him they’re made from black diamonds.”

“Black diamonds,” George repeated. “They were formed in the heavens millions of years ago, as I understand.”

“You’re right,” I said. “Black diamonds come from meteorites, not like the diamonds we’re more accustomed to that are formed beneath the earth. I did some reading about it after Seth showed me the knife.”

“It’s obviously worth a lot of money,” George said.

“I agree, but Seth never bothered to find out how much. I urged him to put it away in some safe place.”

“Did he?”

“No. He dismissed my suggestion. Instead, he invited me to dinner and used the knife to slice a ham he’d baked for us that evening. I remember him saying: ‘It might have a fancy handle and all, but a knife is made for cutting things.’ He keeps it in a drawer along with his other kitchen knives.” I laughed as George replaced the knife in its box. It didn’t surprise me that Seth wouldn’t give the gift special treatment. He’s the quintessential function-over-form person. No matter how beautiful an object may be, if it doesn’t perform a useful function, it isn’t worth much to him.

I’d balked when Seth said that I should use his gift to carve the turkeys at this year’s charity Thanksgiving dinner, but he’d insisted.

“I’d be devastated if something were to happen to it,” I’d told him.

“Nothing’ll happen to it, Jessica. Besides, it’ll bring good luck to the folks who show up. They need it.”

I added the case containing the knife to the basket I was taking to the senior center, and George carried it out to the car. We would see if the knife lived up to its reputation, and, indeed, if it proved to be good luck to its user. I could use some good luck, I thought, as I closed the door and locked it—and checked again that I had.

 

 

 

 

T
he senior center was abuzz with activity when George and I arrived. A long, heated buffet table donated for the occasion by the town’s leading caterer had been delivered earlier in the day, and two of its young employees were busy erecting it. Birgitta Westerholm and her husband, Gus, our deputy mayor, supervised the more than a dozen volunteers who’d already shown up. Although she wasn’t old enough to be considered a “senior,” Birgitta, or Gitta as she was more commonly known, was a familiar face at the center, one of numerous civic undertakings into which she immersed herself.

“Hello, Jessica,” Richard Koser said, taking a break from hauling folding chairs and tables from a storage room. “Ready to do some fancy carving?”

“Ready to do my best,” I said, “with George’s help. You haven’t met yet.” I introduced them.

“Welcome to Cabot Cove,” Richard said. “I’ve heard lots about you.”

“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.