A Fatal Feast (14 page)

“Something else to give thanks for,” George said. He got to his feet and went to the window. He pulled aside the curtain, and stood quietly looking out. After a few minutes, he said, “Come here, Jessica.”

I joined him at the window. George put his arm around my shoulder and together we watched Hubert Billups walking up the road in the direction of the Carson house. After he’d passed from our view, George commented, “At least he isn’t standing there staring at your house. Come on, lass, time to get back to work. Thanksgiving will be here before we know it.”

 

 

 

 

T
he words to a Thanksgiving ditty by the country’s first children’s poet laureate, Jack Prelutsky, were part of a package of printed material that Tim Purdy handed out to those attending the previous evening’s pageant. As the event’s host, our town historian gave a fifteen-minute presentation that wove amusing stories in with some little-known facts, as well as myths, about Thanksgiving.

“Your Mr. Purdy is quite an entertaining chap,” George said as we worked together to get ready for the three o’clock arrival of our guests.

“He’s a delight,” I said. “I hadn’t realized that our annual tradition of having the president pardon a turkey may have begun with Abraham Lincoln, if the folklore is true.”

“That’s one lucky turkey,” said George. “What I found interesting was what Tim said about the National Day of Mourning.”

Tim had pointed out that while Thanksgiving was to celebrate the coming together of the Pilgrims and Wampanoag Indians in 1621, many Native Americans have used the occasion to commemorate what they call their “Day of Mourning” to point out how they’d been mistreated over centuries. According to Tim, Wampanoag leader Frank James had been invited by the Commonwealth of Massachusetts in 1970 to deliver a speech at the top of Coles Hill that overlooks Plymouth Rock. They expected a positive, uplifting speech from the Native American leader. But they discovered prior to the event that he intended to deliver an angry protest on behalf of his people, and they canceled his appearance. But on every Thanksgiving Day since, members of his tribe gather on Coles Hill to commemorate what they consider to be the holiday’s true history.

“A very different take on the holiday’s meaning,” George said as he dripped candle wax into a candleholder to keep one of the long, tapered orange candles from tilting.

“And unfortunately true,” I said from the kitchen, where George joined me. “I washed the long-stemmed white-wine glasses,” I told him. “Care to dry them?”

“Of course.”

By one, things were in pretty good shape. Of course, I would have been happier had Seth’s knife shown up. But it hadn’t, and I had to resign myself to the nasty fact that someone had taken it from the senior center. Naturally, before he’d had a chance to listen to my voice mail message, Seth had heard from Cabot Cove’s virtual “water cooler” that the knife had gone missing. He’d mentioned it to me at last night’s pageant.

 

“Oh, Seth, I am so sorry,” I’d said after the performance had ended and we’d gathered outside. “We looked everywhere. My only hope is that someone took it home inadvertently and will return it when they discover their error.”

“Not to worry, Jessica,” Seth said, a hand on my shoulder. “Such things happen, and you shouldn’t fret over it. After all, it’s just a knife.”

“Oh, no,” I’d said, “it was more than that, Seth. It was a special gift to you for having saved a man’s life.”

“Do you think his is the only life I’ve saved?” he replied, feigning having been insulted.

“Seth, I—”

“Not another word, madam. I assume your own carving knife will do nicely tomorrow.”

“I’m sure it will.”

“You’ll be doing the carving honors, Inspector?” he asked George.

“If called to duty.”

“A good soldier, huh? Well, keep in mind if your arm tires, there’s an experienced carver who can step in as backup. Remember, I’ve had training in surgery.”

 

At two, it seemed that everything was set. The table was laid, the pies, cakes, and breads on the sideboard with a space left for Linda Carson’s contribution. An empty space on the stove awaited Susan Shevlin’s clam chowder. The turkey was roasting in the oven, with an occasional basting by George. He’d set up a bar in the living room and was prepared to play bartender, along with being the designated carver.

“I’ll keep thinking of that ditty Mr. Purdy handed out while slicing up the bird,” he said through a smile.

“Just don’t slice a piece off your finger,” I admonished. “We don’t need a thumb on the platter.”

We took a brief break and sat with our feet up until two thirty when I announced, “Battle stations!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Seth was first to arrive, which was no surprise. He’s a stickler for being on time, which benefits his patients, who seldom are kept waiting. Following close on his heels were Wilimena and Kathy Copeland, accompanied by Willie’s new boyfriend.

“A pleasure meeting you, Dr. Hazlitt,” Franklin said after I’d introduced him to Seth. “I hear that you’re the best sawbones in town.”

Seth winced but shook Franklin’s hand and said, “I’ve been at it awhile.”

After a few minutes of aimless chitchat, Franklin said, “I assume you keep up with newer advances in medicine.”

“Actually,” said Seth, “I still use leeches for bloodletting. They’re coming back in style. Excuse me while I see what’s going on in the kitchen.”

George, who wore another of my aprons bearing the name of one of my novels,
Margaritas & Murder
, greeted Seth as he came into the kitchen and asked if he wanted a beverage.

“Ayuh,” Seth said, “but nothing alcoholic. I ended up spending the morning at the hospital. One of my patients thought her oven was off and took a peek inside, using a match to see better. Her hair and eyebrows should grow back in a few months. I promised I’d check back later today.”

George went to the living room to serve drinks, mostly wine and a punch I’d whipped up from a recipe that had been in the family for generations.

“Do you think I’m getting too old to keep up with new discoveries in medicine, Jessica?” Seth asked.

I looked up from the succotash casserole I’d taken from the oven. “Why would you ask that, for heaven’s sake?”

“Just curious,” he said.

“I’ve never heard anything so ridiculous in my life,” I said, returning to my chore.

The doorbell heralded the arrival of more guests, this time Mayor Jim Shevlin and his wife. Susan had brought her famous clam chowder, a particular favorite of mine and Seth’s.

“I brought a little corn bread to serve with it,” she said, heaving the pot onto the burner. “And some crumbled bacon and parsley. Those go in at the last minute.”

“So what’s new at the mayor’s office?” Franklin asked Shevlin after they’d been introduced.

“Nothing much, Mr. Franklin. I’ve heard a lot about you. Welcome to Cabot Cove.”

“Thanks. I think I’m going to enjoy it here, especially after meeting this ravishing creature.” He smiled at Wilimena, who hung on his arm.

“Willie’s a treasured newcomer to the town,” Shevlin said. “Of course, we’ve had the pleasure of her sister, Kathy, for many years.”

“The dynamic duo,” Franklin said. “You know, Mr. Mayor, I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you for quite a while. I’d like to find some time to sit down and give you my thoughts on solving some of the town’s more pressing issues. I’m afraid I’m a little tied up right now, but I’ll try to find an hour or two over the next few weeks.”

“That’s good of you,” Shevlin said, being nice enough not to add that Franklin wasn’t the only one pressed for time. “We have a monthly ‘Ask the Mayor’ breakfast. You’ll have to join us for one of those occasions.”

Everyone had settled in the living room with their drinks when the Metzgers came through the door, Maureen carrying her sweet potato casserole. I divided my time between my guests and the kitchen, where Maureen had stationed herself. She’d donned one of my aprons—
A Question of Murder
—and looked very much at home. “You go mingle,” she told me. “I’ve got everything under control.” She had taken ownership of the kitchen, which made me smile.

I was about to suggest that we all take seats at the table when the doorbell rang. It was Linda and Victor Carson, my new neighbors. I greeted them warmly, my senses attuned to Victor’s response. Although he didn’t smile, he thanked me for inviting them and followed us inside the house. Linda was dressed smartly in a blue pantsuit and white blouse, and carried a foil-covered pumpkin pie. Maureen appeared briefly by my side to relieve Linda of her package. “Everyone loves pumpkin pie,” she whispered to Linda and was gone.

Victor wore a slightly wrinkled pair of khaki slacks, white shirt, and maroon cardigan sweater. I was again aware of what a big man he was, with wide shoulders, a bulging chest, and arms that were defined even beneath the fabric of his shirt and sweater. He towered over everyone in the room, although George came close to his height. I couldn’t help but notice his reaction when shaking hands with Mort. I had the feeling—and that’s all it was, a feeling—that they already knew each other. Silly notion, I told myself as I headed back to the kitchen to see how Maureen was doing.

“Ready to go,” she announced. “I checked the bird. He’s done to perfection. And I added a few things to the giblet gravy.”

“What things?” I asked.

“My secret ingredient.”

“Great,” I said, hoping the gravy tasted like the giblet gravy to which I was accustomed. “Let’s get everyone seated and serve the clam chowder and salads.”

Because I was aware of seating certain people apart from each other, I’d done what I’d never done before at Thanksgiving, set out handwritten place cards with everyone’s names at their seats. While the table was set for fourteen people, I’d left two place settings at the end without cards. I had, however, made up one that read “Hubert Billups” in the event he decided to show. I was now confident that he wouldn’t.

Despite my concerns about pairing certain people, the mood at the table was appropriately festive and friendly. Conversation flowed easily as Maureen and I ladled the chowder into bowls, sprinkled on the garnishes, delivered salads, and joined the others.

“You’ll say grace,” Mort said to Seth.

“Ayuh,”
Seth said. “I usually do.”

Seth delivered what had become his standard prayer, with appropriate religious references combined with more secular expressions of thanks for the gathering of good friends, newcomers who would become good friends, and of course, for the bounty we were about to enjoy.

When he finished and people picked up their soup spoons, George asked if he could speak.

“Please do,” I said.

He stood and cast a wide smile across the table. “It is a rare privilege to have been invited to join you for this most American of celebrations, and so I wish to propose a toast. It’s said in Britain that it takes three people to properly offer a toast—one to hand the glass to the toaster, the toaster to drink from it, and the third to defend the drinker whilst he’s otherwise distracted.”

There were laughs; Archer Franklin’s was the loudest and most prolonged. Victor Carson’s was brief and forced. It took Mort a few seconds to get the humor. Once he did, he joined in.

“But since I’m the only Brit here—a Scotsman, actually—I’ll have to fend for myself. You’ve welcomed me to Cabot Cove with open arms, and the warmth I’ve experienced will stay with me for a very long time.” He raised his wineglass. “To my friends in Cabot Cove, Maine, good health, good fortune, and may we dine together again soon.”

Other glasses were raised and a few said, “Hear! Hear!”

“Maybe we can get together for Guy Fukes Day in England,” Franklin suggested.

“A splendid idea,” George said, sitting, tossing me a sly smile and sipping his wine.

As we enjoyed our chowder and salads, Linda Carson commented on the two unoccupied place settings.

“I like to leave a place in case a last-minute guest arrives,” I said.

“What a nice gesture,” she said.

She was seated next to Mayor Shevlin, who engaged her and her husband in dialogue about their lives prior to settling in Cabot Cove. I eavesdropped on their conversation with one ear while listening to Maureen Metzger and Kathy Copeland compare their approaches to making turkey stuffing. While Kathy wasn’t as obsessed with cooking as Maureen was, she had a skilled hand in the kitchen, and an even better one when it came to gardening. Maureen was impressed that Kathy was building an elaborate stone wall on her property.

“You’re doing it all by yourself ?” Maureen asked.

“Sure,” said Kathy.

“Mort started one a few years ago,” Maureen said, “but gave it up.”

“Too much work,” our sheriff said. “Besides, every time I’d put in a few rocks I’d get called down to headquarters.”

“Being sheriff is a full-time job,” Jim Shevlin offered.

“What do you do, Victor?” Franklin asked.

“I’m in the process of looking for a job.”

“What sort of work?” I asked.

“I’m, ah—I used to be in the restaurant business. A manager. Casinos, too. I figure I’ll find something in a restaurant around here.”

That led to a flurry of suggestions as to where he might look, with others at the table coming up with names of people to approach.

“Is everyone done with their chowder and salads?” Susan asked, getting up to help me clear.

It appeared that they were. I’d just picked up the first empty bowl when the doorbell sounded. I handed the bowl to Susan and went to the door, wondering as I did who would be stopping in unannounced on Thanksgiving.

The answer came to me as I reached for the knob. I opened the door and my realization was confirmed.