A Fatal Feast (7 page)

Angry now, I strode to the base of the stairs, grabbed an umbrella from the coat tree, and stomped up the stairs, making as much noise as my shoes would allow. I gave the second floor a thorough search, whipping the shower curtain back—shades of a scene from the Hitchcock movie
Psycho
—kneeling to inspect under the beds, poking the umbrella into the recesses of my closets. What did my search yield? Nothing! Except perhaps a determination to get out the vacuum cleaner at the nearest opportunity.

The keening wail of the teakettle brought me back to my senses, and I returned to the kitchen, grateful no one else had been at home with me to witness my mad hunt for a nonexistent intruder. Thinking about my reaction to a sound I’d heard frequently over the years—old houses often creak—I felt my cheeks color with embarrassment.
What could I have been thinking?

I carried the tea into my study, sat in front of the computer, and contemplated the recent events of my life. Why would the presence of a harmless, maybe even pathetic drifter set off alarm bells? Why was I giving credence to some crank getting a kick out of sending me silly, nonsensical letters? So what if Maureen came up with a strange and possibly unpalatable dish for the holiday? So what if my guests were not all compatible? I would still make my book deadline if I had to stay up twenty-four hours a day to do it, I promised myself.

So what was causing all this consternation?

If I looked into my heart, I could see the truth. And the truth was that of all the events conspiring to create pressure in my life, the one I was most apprehensive about was the one I most eagerly looked forward to—George’s visit.

 

 

 

 

I
was glad that Jed and I wouldn’t be departing to pick up George until eleven the following day. I wanted to see what that morning’s mail brought before leaving, whether there would be another delivery with a new pasted-on letter.

There was.

I opened it carefully and extracted the single sheet of white paper. Sure enough, a fifth letter had been added to the previous four—an orange
C
. The other letters on the page,
G
,
L
,
O
, and
T
were tiny compared to the
C
. Did that have special meaning? Was there a pointed message in highlighting it?

Like the third piece of mail, the one containing the letter
O
, this one had also been mailed from Cabot Cove.

Try as I might not to, my thoughts went straight to Hubert Billups. I know that wasn’t fair. After all, I had no evidence that he had anything to do with the letters. And despite my paranoia of the previous day, he probably had nothing to do with my unlocked front door either. But the confluence of his strange behavior, and the arrival of the letters, made for a reasonable question as to whether they might be linked. Or so I told myself.

Jed was standing by the Cessna Skyhawk SP when my cabdriver, Nick, dropped me off at Cabot Cove Airport. It wasn’t much of an airport compared to those in larger cities, but it had grown along with the town. There was talk of one of the airlines starting regular service there, but it hadn’t happened yet.

I knew that if a commercial airline did begin offering flights, it would hurt Jed’s business. He’s always been philosophical about that possibility and laughs it off, but he had to be concerned about it at some level. He’d recently purchased the plane that we were flying that day, and although he’d bought it used, I knew that it stretched his finances. It’s a lovely four-seat single-engine airplane, and Jed had added state-of-the-art electronic gear and avionics to bring it up-to-date. Of course, what was most important was his piloting skill honed by thousands of hours in large commercial jet aircraft, preceded by five years as a military pilot. He’s a capable, meticulous professional, and I’ve never had a moment’s apprehension flying with him.

“All gassed up and ready to go?” I asked as Nick drove away.

“Yes, ma’am,” Jed replied.

If a film director were to contact Central Casting for the quintessential pilot, Jed would fit the bill. His face is square, his jaw strong. He’s stocky and keeps himself fit. The multitude of lines around his eyes and on his forehead testifies to all his hours in a cockpit squinting into the sun. He hadn’t lost a single strand of his salt-and-pepper hair despite being in his midfifties. He wore what he usually did when ferrying people in one of his aircraft: jeans, a blue button-down shirt, and a tan vest of the type worn by photographers, which as he proudly pointed out had twenty-six pockets: “My answer to a woman’s purse. I can live for a week on what I carry in these pockets.”

After a preflight walk around, we climbed into the plane. Jed had me take the left-hand seat because I’d be doing the actual flying, at least until we entered the crowded sky around Boston. That’s when things get busy and complicated with all the necessary communications with air-traffic control. But on a recent flight to Boston, Jed had insisted that I pilot the plane all the way, with him handling the radio chatter: “Might as well get used to it,” he explained. At the time, I’d been as nervous as a cat up a tree when we entered the city’s airspace, but managed to land with only one or two hops, and Jed had flashed me the okay sign when we drew to a stop in the airport’s designated area for small craft. Today, if Jed gave me the same freedom, I hoped to pull off a no-hop landing.

We took off. I looked down as my beloved Cabot Cove slipped away, becoming smaller and smaller the higher we climbed. Jed dialed in the receiver for the global-positioning satellite; we’d fly on autopilot right up until approaching Boston’s Logan Airport. It was a lovely day to fly, crisp and cool, the sky a cobalt blue with only a rare wispy white cloud far above us. Once we reached our desired cruising altitude, we sat back and allowed the autopilot to guide us to our destination.

“Understand you’re havin’ a desperate time with that book of yours,” he commented. “Can’t make any headway, the way I hear it.”

“And where did you pick up that piece of news, Jed?”

“Somewhere in town.”

“Well,” I said, “the rumor is true, but I’ll figure out a way to finish it. It’s too important not to.”

“You’re probably just excited about seeing your Scottish beau.”

I laughed. “I am excited to see him, but I wouldn’t call George ‘my beau.’ We’re close friends, that’s all.”

He nodded that he agreed, although the wry smile on his rugged face said something else.

“He staying with you?” he asked.

I shook my head. “No. Seth Hazlitt has agreed to put him up.”

“How’d you wrangle that?”

“George coming for Thanksgiving was a last-minute decision. All the hotels and B-and-Bs were booked. I asked Seth, and he said yes.”

“Doc’s a good man, but you already know that. He give you that package he picked up yet?”

“What package is that?”

“Aw, now, mebbe I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“But you already have,” I said.

“Well, I flew Doc up to Portland last week. I was going up there anyway to pick up some parts and he hitched a ride with me. He said flying with me would save on having it shipped.” Jed chuckled. “You know Doc. He’s a frugal sort of man. The way he put it, I thought you asked him to do it.”

“No, I didn’t ask him to get anything for me.”

“Well, now I think of it, mebbe he said ‘pick
out
something for you.’ Hope I didn’t spoil the surprise.”

“What sort of package are we talking about?”

“Don’t know really. It was pretty big and wrapped real neat in brown paper. He didn’t hold me up much, just an hour. Of course, he had to grab a taxi, which must have cost more than any shipping charges. He was back to the airport lickety-split and I flew him home to Cabot Cove.”

“Did he go to a store?”

“Haven’t the foggiest, Jessica. I’m just the pilot. He didn’t say anything to you?”

“No. He usually tells me if he’s going to Portland for something, but he never said a word. I wonder why.”

“It was sort of last-minute. I was in seeing him for a backache—it’s been acting up lately—and mentioned I was heading for Portland that afternoon. Just sort of happened that he came with me. I was happy to do it. Doc’s done me plenty of favors over the years.”

Jed shook his head and busied himself adjusting our trim tabs to keep the plane in perfect balance. I didn’t bring the subject up again even though it floated in and out of my mind for the duration of the flight. Had Seth bought me a gift? If so, why? It wasn’t near my birthday, and besides, we didn’t exchange birthday gifts. It was a little early for Christmas. I hadn’t even starting thinking about
that
holiday. Please, let me get Thanksgiving under my belt before hearing jingle bells ring. Of course, that plea falls on deaf ears these days with merchants launching their holiday advertising right after back-to-school sales.

The clear skies over Cabot Cove had been replaced by a lower ceiling over Boston, gray clouds moving in from the southwest. I piloted the Cessna on approach to the airport, and listened on my headphones. Jed maintained communication with the various FAA controllers, and I followed their instructions. I admit that my palms became damp as I aligned the plane with the active runway at Logan and guided it down—to a picture-perfect landing. We taxied to an area of the field where private planes were directed and parked near the operations building.

“He’s coming in on Virgin Atlantic?” Jed asked as he shut down the engine.

“Right.” I checked my watch. George’s plane wasn’t due in for another forty-five minutes. Of course, a scheduled arrival time depended upon the sort of headwinds the flight encountered on its way across the Atlantic. Westbound flights were sometimes delayed because of prevailing winds that generally blew from west to east; eastbound flights often arrived early because they have that same wind at their backs. Because of that, virtually every speed record is set by aircraft flying from west to east.

Signature Flight Support at the general aviation facility on the north end of the airport provided us with a shuttle to Terminal E from which Virgin Atlantic operates. A glance at the arrivals board indicated that George’s flight was right on schedule, which still gave us enough time to grab a quick lunch and coffee at Bruegger’s. I paid the check and we strolled down to the arrivals area outside security.

The secrecy surrounding Seth’s shopping expedition lingered in my mind during lunch, but faded from my consciousness as I anxiously scanned the incoming passengers in search of George. Eventually he emerged, looking as handsome and debonair as ever in his classic heather tweed jacket with leather patches on the elbows, pressed gray slacks, tan button-down shirt and maroon paisley tie, and ankle-high leather boots shined to a dazzling glow. He spotted me, waved, and picked up his pace.

“My goodness, what a sight for these sore eyes,” he said, placing his hands on my arms and looking into my eyes. He pulled me to him, gave me a quick buss on the cheek, then turned to Jed. “Aha,” he said, “the man who delivered Jessica safely, and will do the same for us on the way home.”

“Inspector,” Jed said, shaking hands. “Good to see you again.”

“Good flight?” I asked.

“Splendid, as usual. Mr. Branson certainly knows how to run a top-notch airline.”

“Let’s head back,” Jed said. “There’s some nasty weather in the forecast.”

The flight back to Cabot Cove was as smooth as it had been to Boston. I would have preferred that George sit up front with Jed, but Jed insisted that I take advantage of the trip to build up more piloting time. George sat in one of two rear seats and peppered Jed with questions about flying and the dials in the cockpit. George had flown once before with me at the controls, a leisurely sightseeing flight that showed him Cabot Cove and its environs from the air. I made another smooth landing, which elicited applause from the rear seat. Jed instructed a young man, who helped him out in return for free flying lessons, to call a cab for us, and a half hour later we walked through the door of my house. George dropped his suitcase in the foyer and followed me into the kitchen.

“I feel very much at home here,” he said.

“I want you to feel that way. Cold drink? Lemonade? Coke? Something stronger?”

“I wouldn’t mind a wee dram of whiskey, if you have it.”

“Coming right up.”

We settled in my den with his drink—I opted for lemonade—and caught up on our respective lives. I’ve always been fascinated at his tales of the crimes and criminals he’s encountered, and even more so now that he was a ranking member of Scotland Yard’s elite antiterrorism unit. We talked for an hour, easy conversation that testified to the comfortable relationship we’d developed. I had been waiting for an opportunity to mention the series of strange letters I’d been receiving, and when he inquired about what was new in my life, I showed him the latest one, which had arrived that morning. He studied it carefully. The gravity with which he addressed it, and his concern over the fact that there were others, was written all over his face. I recounted what the previous ones had contained. I told him that I’d given the others to Mort Metzger, which George thought was a prudent decision.

He handed the letter back to me and said, “I know it’s easy to dismiss these as nothing more than some silly prank, Jessica, but I believe they deserve serious consideration.”

“You really think so?”

“I think you know me well enough to realize that I wouldn’t say such a thing if I didn’t mean it. I don’t know what these pasted letters represent, but someone is sending you a message, and that in itself should be heeded.”

“Maybe the crime lab will come up with someone’s prints.”

“A possibility,” George said. He repeated aloud the letters that had arrived to date—“
G
,
L
, an
O
, a
T
, and now a
C
. Do you think, Jessica, that this is the end of the letters?”