A Fatal Feast (21 page)

“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 mayonnaise. 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.

“Why are you carrying around a picture of Hubie, and why are you asking about him?”

I wasn’t sure how much to reveal, but decided there was no reason to hold back. “It’s difficult to have to tell you this, but Mr. Billups is dead. He was murdered in front of my house,” I said.

My blunt statement caused O’Dell to flinch, as though I’d punched his arm.

“Hubie’s dead?” he said.

“I’m afraid so.”

“Murdered, you said?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, boy,” he muttered, and took a big gulp from his glass.

“I’m sorry to break that news, Mr. O’Dell.”

“Oh, no, it’s okay. Just a momentary shock, and I shouldn’t be shocked.”

“Why’s that?”

“I knew Hubie would have a bad end after what happened.”

George leaned in to me to better hear what O’Dell was saying.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “What
did
happen to him?”

He shook his head and continued eating. I glanced at George, who shrugged.

O’Dell asked me, “Are you writing a book about what happened to Hubie?”

“No. My only interest is to do what I can to help find his killer. He’d moved recently to Cabot Cove—that’s where I live in Maine—and he was a guest at my Thanksgiving Day dinner. He seemed to be a very lonely man and, well, a little strange.”

“How could he not be?”

My silence invited him to say more.

“Hubie got beat up pretty bad,” he said, “especially around the head. Folks didn’t think he’d pull through. He did, but he was never the same. His brain didn’t work so well after that. His speech was affected, and his eyesight. He kept forgetting things. Really sad. Then he just disappeared.”

“He was in an accident?” George asked.

“More a case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, with the wrong people.” He squinted at George. “Are you a writer, too?”

“No, sir. I’m with Scotland Yard in London.”

The bartender delivered our drinks and slid a bowl of clam chowder in front of O’Dell. Apparently, he’d overheard what George said and showed interest in where our conversation was now going.

“Scotland Yard, hey?” O’Dell said, impressed with George’s credentials. “Why would Scotland Yard be interested in Hubie?”

“They aren’t,” George said. “I’m just tagging along with Mrs. Fletcher.”

O’Dell’s gaze came back to me. “Enjoying your Bobbie Burns?” he asked.

“I haven’t even tasted it yet,” I said. I lifted my glass and took a sip. “It’s good, very good. As you say, it has a hint of honey.”

“Yes,” George agreed. “Very tasty.”

“Glad you approve,” O’Dell said, blotting his lips with a napkin. “That’s about all I can tell you about Hubie. I’m sorry to hear what happened to him. They haven’t caught the culprit yet?”

“It happened only two days ago,” I explained.

I reached into my purse and pulled out the old menu from Down-the-Hatch. “I found this in his room,” I said. “That’s why we came here. The picture of him was taken in front of this place, and with the menu we thought there might be a connection between him and the restaurant.”

O’Dell finished his drink and asked the bartender for another.

“Two today, Mr. O’Dell?” the bartender said with a smile.

“I’ve had bad news, Jimmy. Bad news calls for another balm to the soul,” O’Dell said.

I was hoping to get answers to my questions before Mr. O’Dell was no longer able to think clearly. I cleared my throat. “I was saying that—”

“I heard you,” O’Dell said. “You thought there might be a link between Hubie Billups and Down-the-Hatch.”

“That’s right.”

“Well, I’d say there certainly was.”

George and I looked blankly at him.

“Hubie used to own the joint.”

 

 

 

 

“S
ir,your bill!”

The hostess stopped us as we were leaving with Damon O’Dell.

“Sorry,” George said. “We were busy talking at the bar and forgot about our lunch.” He gave her his credit card and left a good tip.

We had paid for the drinks at the bar with O’Dell despite his protestations, and he invited us to continue our discussion at his apartment, which he said was just around the corner. Having had two Bobbie Burns cocktails hadn’t seemed to affect him. He walked steadily and with purpose as we went down Boylston Street, turned on to a treelined side street, and soon stood in front of an older apartment building nestled between two tall, recently built condo structures. O’Dell looked up at one. “A monstrosity,” he proclaimed.

His apartment was on the first floor of the older building. It was a one-bedroom, with a sizable living room that was more like a library. Floor-to-ceiling bookcases covered three walls, with a rolling ladder allowing access to the higher shelves. Books were also piled everywhere, on tables and chairs, and stacked on a window ledge that obscured the lower half of the windows themselves.