A Fatal Feast (26 page)

I stepped back to allow her to enter. “I can’t imagine what could be so urgent. Is your telephone out?”

“No,” she said, shaking off the rain. A small smile appeared on her lips and I turned to see Victor looming in the doorway. He stepped over the threshold and forcefully closed the door.

I was suddenly stricken with fear.

“I really don’t think that—”

Victor pushed by me and went to the living room.

I said to Linda, “Can’t whatever brings you here on this dreadful night wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it can’t,” Victor barked from the other room.

I drew a deep breath and said to Linda, “Then go into the living room and wait with your husband. I need to change clothes.”

“You’re not going anywhere,” he said, checking the windows, then pulling the curtains into place.

“All right,” I said, tightening the belt of my robe. “Why are you here?”

They turned to face me.

“Smart lady like you, I think you can figure that out,” Victor said, his tone menacing.

“Yes, I think I do know,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady so as not to betray my nervousness. “Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss it?”

Linda looked to my couch, and I knew what she was thinking. “It doesn’t matter if you’re wet,” I said. “It’ll dry.”

She sat, and I joined her. Victor went into the kitchen, checked the back door and closed the blinds.

“Why did you have to do it?” Linda asked.

“Do what, Linda?”

“Go sticking your nose into our business.”

“That was never my purpose,” I said. “I found the body of a murdered man across from this house; that was the
business
I wanted to know more about.”

I glanced at Victor, who’d come back into the room and stood with his arms crossed over his sizable chest.

“You don’t understand,” Linda said. “You don’t understand what we’ve been through.”

“I’m sure I don’t,” I said, “but that doesn’t seem to be the point. A man was killed. There’s no possible excuse for that. I didn’t know Mr. Billups, but—”

“That didn’t stop you from inviting that . . . that bum to your Thanksgiving dinner,” Linda said.

“No, it didn’t. I enjoy including newcomers to Cabot Cove at my holiday table, which should be obvious. I didn’t know you and Victor when I invited you to join us.”

“I don’t care about Thanksgiving,” Victor said to his wife. “Get on with it.”

“Sheriff Metzger said you went to Boston. How did you know we were from Boston?”

“I went to Boston to look into Hubert Billups’s background,” I said, dismissing any initial disappointment at Mort having involved me. I suppose he didn’t have a choice. He had to explain to them why he’d called them in. “I guessed you were from Boston when I met you, Linda. You named your cat for a Boston College, and a Boston accent is hard to camouflage, especially from a fellow New Englander.”

“I told you,” Victor growled at her.

“And on the assumption we were from Boston, you poked your nose into our affairs.”

“I knew nothing of your affairs. All I knew was that you had all the physical signs of a liar and I wondered why you would lie about such unimportant things. However, once I was in Boston, I learned about Vincent Canto.” I shot a look at Victor, but his face was impassive. “I came back from Boston, Linda, with suspicions about your husband, suspicions you’re now confirming.”

She flared in anger. “Confirming what, Jessica? That Victor and I were sent here by the stinking feds, that they took our lives away and settled us in this hick town?”

I wasn’t about to debate the merits of Cabot Cove. Instead, I said, “It’s my understanding that you and Victor were sent here because your husband turned state’s evidence about a murder and beating that took place in Boston some ten years back.”

“Victor had nothing to do with that,” she said, chin raised, lips pressed together to put an exclamation point on her denial.

“That may be true,” I said, “but it isn’t the issue. Evidently, Mr. Billups thought otherwise. He must have believed that your husband was responsible for his beating and the death of his brother. Isn’t that right? That’s what you thought he believed too, and you assumed that he came to Cabot Cove to seek vengeance. It seems to me that the real question is whether your husband confronted Billups and—”

“And killed him?”

“Yes, and killed him.”

“Victor did not kill that man, Jessica,” she said. “He’s innocent.”

I looked to Victor for confirmation from him. He said or did nothing, just glared at me.

“Don’t you see what your snooping has done, Jessica?” she asked, her voice hard. “We’ve been living like Gypsies for years, first one town, then another. We’re never allowed to return home to see family and friends, always living a lie with phony names, trying to keep to ourselves so the truth doesn’t come out, attempting to fit into every new community without giving away too much. It’s been hell, pure hell. I tried to make a normal life for us no matter where we lived, a rinky-dink town in the Midwest, some dreadful place in Texas. Always someplace remote because we were afraid that Victor’s whereabouts had been leaked. Do you know what it’s like to get up every morning, look out the window, and expect to see someone standing outside with a gun waiting to kill your husband?” Her eyes glistened with anger. “Always having to make nice with people you could care less about so that they’ll think you’re just a normal couple, stay on their good side, don’t risk having them raise questions about you.” A small, sardonic smile crossed her lips. “Always hoping you won’t run into a self-righteous busybody like you who insists on satisfying her curiosity no matter who it hurts. I despise people like you!”

I listened to her rant. At the same time my mind went in different directions.

I didn’t doubt that being in the Witness Protection Program was a difficult life. On the other hand, those who enter the program are often criminals who avoided jail time by cooperating with authorities. Being relocated to a new town with a set of restrictions attached seemed to me to be eminently preferable to a life behind bars. If what I’d learned about Carson, aka Canto, was correct, he’d ordered the beatings of Harry and Hubert Billups, resulting in the death of one and the permanent injury of the other. Who knew how many other innocent people he’d ordered be killed or maimed to achieve his dishonest goals.

While it was true that the spouses of such people were forced to suffer along with them, the decision to link their lives with criminals was their own. Didn’t she know what he did for a living when she married him? Maybe, maybe not. Nevertheless, all her whining about their life in the Witness Protection Program didn’t change the fact that Hubert Billups had been murdered, and that whoever killed him deserved to be punished.

I decided to be more direct. I stood, approached Victor, and asked, “Did you kill Hubert Billups?”

He hesitated a long time. “No,” he said finally, his dark eyes meeting mine. “Do you really think I’d tell you if I did?”

I turned to Linda. “Do you have any idea who killed him, Linda?”

She looked down and squeezed the bridge of her nose. “No,” she said in a soft voice.

I was tempted to accuse her of lying but said instead, “Are you sure about that, Linda?”

She glanced at me, then looked away again.

As silence engulfed the room, the initial fear I felt upon their arrival began to build again. Here I was directly confronting them about a capital crime, alone with them in my house, the wind howling outside, rain beating against the windows, and the curtains shut tight to prevent anyone from seeing in. What was their purpose? Were they here to threaten me, to force me to recant the questions I’d raised? I’d already given Mort my hypothesis regarding the case. Did they want to inflict punishment, and leave me with a daily reminder that my investigations could end in pain? If so, no one would be able to hear my cries for help.

I now knew who Victor Carson was. He was in reality Vincent Canto, a mobster from Boston for whom inflicting human suffering was not a foreign concept, a man who’d murdered before and would undoubtedly do so again if it served his purpose.

“I realize this is awkward for you, and I’m not looking to make your lives more difficult,” I said. “You’ve already spoken with Sheriff Metzger, and I suggest we all sit down with him again tomorrow. If indeed you had nothing to do with Billups’s death, you have my apologies.” I stood and took a few steps toward the door to indicate that I wanted them to leave. For a moment, I thought Victor was about to follow me. But Linda remained on the couch, her eyes fixed on the floor, fingers of one hand drumming against the others. She looked up at Victor and said sharply, “We’re not going anywhere.”

The bluntness of her statement froze me.

The phone rang.

“Don’t answer that, Jessica,” Linda ordered, but I’d already reached the phone and lifted the receiver.

“Mrs. F, it’s Mort.”

“Mort!”

I tried not to let them see the expression on my face, but my relief faded away when I turned to see Linda standing in the kitchen doorway. She held a small handgun and lifted her arm.

“I just wanted you to know, Mrs. F, that I had the Carsons come in for an interview. Frankly, I don’t think he had anything to do with Billups’s murder. I really pressed and—”

“Thank you, Mort.”

“Mrs. F, are you okay?”

The weapon Linda held was now pointed directly at me. I shuddered when I heard her release the safety and pull back on the hammer.

“Yes, I’m fine, Mortimer. I’m afraid I can’t talk to you right now.”

“Mortimer?” He laughed. “You’ve never called me that before. That’s not my name.”

“I appreciate the call Mortimer. I have to go. Thank you for calling.”

I replaced the phone in its cradle and faced Linda Carson. “Set the gun down, Linda,” I said gently. “You’ll only make things worse.”

She seemed momentarily unsure of herself, and I thought she might put the gun away. But her face mirrored a newfound resolve. She said, “If you think for one minute, Jessica, that I’m going to let someone like you make our lives even worse than they’ve already been, you’re crazy.” She stepped closer to me, the gun pointed at my chest.

“That was Mort, calling to say he didn’t think Victor killed Hubert Billups.”

“Too late now,” she said.

“He’s right,” I said. “Victor wasn’t the murderer.”

“I already told you that.”

Victor came up behind his wife, his cold eyes taking in the scene, revealing nothing. “Hurry up,” he said. “I don’t want to wait here all night.”

I backed away until reaching the kitchen counter, next to the door leading to my patio. I leaned against the counter, drew a deep breath, and said to Linda, “It was you who killed Billups, wasn’t it?”

“You’re guessing. You have no proof whatsoever, against either of us.”

“That’s not true. One thing that always bothered me about the case was the angle of the knife, the way it had been jabbed into Billups’s chest. Your husband is such a big man, and Billups was so small. The knife went straight in, parallel to the ground. Someone your husband’s size would have brought a knife down from above or maybe up from below. Isn’t that how you would have done it, Victor?”

“Don’t listen to her,” he said.

“But when you put your arm out,” I continued, “it’s at exactly the height of the fatal wound.”

“Is that all you have, Jessica?” she said, her voice more sure.

“Billups’s landlady knew you weren’t the type to rent one of her rooms. You went there pretending to be interested in renting a room, didn’t you, Linda? Did Victor know you’d done that?”

Linda paled.

“You’re lying,” Victor ground out.

“Tell him, Linda. You went there looking for anything that might link your husband to Billups. And there was nothing. The landlady had already cleaned his room.”

She answered with a barely discernible nod.

“Stupid!” Victor spat out.

“You see, you’re not a very good liar, Linda. All along you’ve exhibited the signs of someone who isn’t telling the truth. When they put you on the stand, they’ll see right away when you’re lying. Your gestures give you away. You’ll never be able to bluff your way through their questions. I knew right away when you didn’t answer mine truthfully.”

“You and your questions,” she muttered.

“And if you think that killing me will solve your problems, you’re not thinking clearly. I’ve never meant harm to either of you,” I said, “but you won’t get away with murder, mine or Hubert Billups’s.”

“Put the gun down, Linda,” Victor said, surprising both of us.

She spun around and leveled the weapon at him. “And what, Vinnie, ruin what little we have left? I can’t believe you didn’t have the courage to get rid of that old man.”

“I didn’t need to. He didn’t have enough of a brain left to hurt us. He thought he knew me, but he wasn’t sure.”

“He was stalking us. Everywhere I went, every time I turned around, he was there. He was driving me crazy. And you did nothing. You used to have guts, Vinnie. What happened to them?”

“C’mon, Linda,” he said in a soothing voice I’d not heard from him before, “it’ll work out. Believe me, it’ll work out.”

She guffawed. “Oh, sure, Vincent. ‘It’ll work out.’ How? I go to prison for the rest of my life and you find another town to live in, maybe with another woman? I’ve suffered enough.”

During this exchange, I’d slid my left hand behind me until it reached the inside lock of the door, which I turned slowly to avoid making noise. My hand then found the doorknob. I twisted it until the door was free and would open easily. I yanked on it. My fingers flipped up the hook and eye on the screen door and I pushed through it, out into the rain and wind. I raced across the patio, aware that one of them, maybe both, was in pursuit. I stumbled off the patio’s edge and ran across the yard, my heart pounding, lungs gasping for air, the cold rain stinging my face, the wet lawn soaking through my slippers. The wind whipped the skirt of my robe, entangling my legs in the wet fabric. I lost my footing and stepped out of one slipper, my foot sinking into the icy mud. Was that a shot? I tried to run faster but tripped on a tree root and fell face-first, landing in a pile of leaves that had fallen from the trees. I rolled to the side as another shot rang out, pulled myself up to a sitting position, and braced for an attack. Instead, I heard the wail of sirens and saw flashing red lights from the road in front of the house, like a kaleidoscope through the curtain of drenching rain. I looked toward the open back door to see Linda and Victor Carson on the patio. There was no escape route as two of Mort’s uniformed deputies came around each side of the house, and I heard, “Get your hands up. You’re not going anywhere.”