A Broth of Betrayal (17 page)

“Yes.” Lucky knew nothing in truth, but silence seemed the best way to draw Rod out.

“Well, I’d be willing to bet you don’t know the circumstances. The guy I confronted
at the courthouse got on the stand and flat-out lied about my client. I don’t know
why he did it. I lost my temper. It was completely stupid. I never should have spoken
to him, much less gotten into a shoving match with the creep. So now I have to go
before a disciplinary board. Isn’t that just great? I just hope to hell I’m not disbarred
because of it. Look, I lost it that day. I had worked so hard on that case and I just
lost my temper. I did a very wrong thing, and hopefully I’ll just get a slap on the
wrist. But I would never hurt Elizabeth. I like her very much, and even though she
has to make a statement because she was a witness to it, she’s been very supportive.
She’s told me she plans to speak up on my behalf at the hearing. Believe me, I want
her found just as much as you do.”

“Sorry I was suspicious.”

“It’s been a tough year for me, Lucky. I just don’t need any more accusations. Let’s
let bygones be bygones, all right?”

“Fine with me.” Lucky turned away and climbed to the top of the road. She trudged
back to her car and reversed down the drive. She checked both directions and backed
out onto the road. Before she could put her car in forward gear, Rod’s truck charged
out to the road and roared away. He didn’t give her a second look.

Lucky sat in the car for a few minutes more mulling over her options. She turned on
the engine and drove back up the dirt road all the way to the top of the rise. Once
there, she turned off the motor and climbed out. She walked slowly down into the clearing
toward the cabin. She was willing to bet there was a key to the cabin hidden under
the rock that Rod had moved. Fearful that he might return and catch her entering his
cabin, she hesitated. She weighed the guilty feeling against the possibility that
Rod might have something to hide in the cabin, and that any doubts about him would
eat away at her. She made her decision. She rolled over the rock near the front door
and grabbed the shiny key that lay in the dirt.

The door opened easily. She stepped inside, key in hand, and surveyed the tiny cabin.
It consisted of a small living room with a rock-encrusted fireplace, an opening to
a kitchen area and a bedroom on the left. There was a bare minimum of furniture—a
sofa, kitchen table, three chairs, a floor lamp and twin beds and a bureau in the
next room. The smell of recently cooked bacon hung in the air.

Lucky checked the bedroom closet, the bath, the bureau drawers, the kitchen cupboards
and the alcove that housed the water heater. She found a few mismatched dishes and
cups, a frying pan and a large pot. She locked the door behind her and replaced the
key under the rock. The cabin had no cellar but rested on a raised foundation. She
walked to the back of the building and, kneeling on the ground, peered under the structure.
She could see all the way to the front of the little house. She stood and brushed
her hands off, relieved there was nothing suspicious, but disappointed she still had
no idea where to search.

If Rod had anything to hide, it wasn’t here.

Chapter 26

E
LIZABETH FORCED HERSELF
to keep walking. It didn’t matter that she walked in a circle; it was simply important
to keep moving, otherwise her muscles would atrophy. Every day the stiffness increased.
She was terrified she’d be in too weakened a state if an opportunity to escape ever
did come. She touched the wall where she had started to mark each day as best she
could, judging by the light filtering into her small prison cell. Some days torpidness
overcame her. On those days, she slept. Had Maggie been drugging her food? No, that
couldn’t be. If so, she wouldn’t have moments when all she wanted to do was scream.
She must maintain control. Control and mental discipline would get her through this
experience. Maggie never opened the door now, never gave her a chance to talk, to
reason with her. The water was almost gone. She had to be careful. She had to conserve.
It was a blessing that it was so cool in the cellar. The heat of the day never reached
this place and caused thirst. But when the water ran out, would Maggie bring more?
A person could die much quicker of thirst than of hunger.

She stopped. And listened. Had she been talking to herself as she completed the circuit
of the room? No, there were voices. Voices above her head. Unmistakable. Someone had
come to Maggie’s house. A heavy footstep walked across the floor. It wasn’t Maggie.
It was a man’s footsteps, moving heavily back and forth, as if pacing. She waited,
her ear pressed to the pipes.

Was Maggie telling the truth? Was there someone here—the “he” that Maggie had referred
to—who would hurt her? She heard an enraged deep voice.
“You . . . stay away from . . . keep her . . .cellar . . .”
Then a higher pitched whimpering voice responded. Elizabeth, horrified, clasped a
hand over her mouth. She tried to recognize the speaker. Distorted by the metal pipes
and muffled by the floorboards, it was impossible to identify him. Someone was ordering
Maggie to keep her locked away. But why? A loud crash came from above followed by
a woman’s scream. After that only silence. Terrified, Elizabeth huddled on the sleeping
bag. She drew her legs up, wrapping her arms around her knees, fearful those heavy
footsteps would descend the cellar stairs.

* * * 

T
HE CROWD GREW
steadily as everyone who could attend the Reenactment gathered at the edges of the
Village Green. A special seating section had been set up in front of the steps of
the white-steepled church for the town council members, the Mayor, Cordelia Cooper
Rank and several other women. These important personages had to be the visiting Daughters
of the American Revolution in Snowflake for the festivities. Elizabeth’s chair was
empty.

The noontime sun beat down upon the crowd and the noise level rose. One of the local
vendors sold cold drinks from a cart across the street. Lucky knew he’d make a small
fortune on a day like this. All the same, she and Jack were glad they had closed the
Spoonful for a few hours to allow everyone—Sage, Janie and Meg—to attend the festivities.
Lucky and Elias, along with Jack, had found a good viewpoint under a spreading elm
tree. Sophie and Sage were a short distance away, Sage’s arm thrown over Sophie’s
shoulder. Sage looked exhausted. He had worked late every night preparing food so
he could be out early in the morning with the search parties. Janie and Meg had covered
for him until he could arrive at work a little later in the day. The girls would be
joining another group this afternoon that Nate was leading, so only she, Jack and
Sage would be at the Spoonful the rest of the day. It seemed every streetlamp and
tree were papered with missing flyers. What more could they do? She had wasted precious
time that morning snooping in Rod’s cabin. If she hadn’t been so suspicious of his
actions, she could have covered a lot more territory. The news of Snowflake’s Mayor’s
disappearance had played on every TV and radio news station for the past two days.
A truck from WVMT with a satellite dish was parked farther up Water Street to film
the Reenactment. Undoubtedly their reporters would be covering Elizabeth’s disappearance
as well.

Lucky couldn’t help but stare at the empty chair on the dais. She couldn’t decide
which would be worse—to have Elizabeth’s chair there and vacant, or neglect to place
a chair for her? Elias followed her gaze and squeezed her shoulder protectively. She
leaned her head against his chest. There was no need for any words. He knew what she
was feeling and there wasn’t anything he could say to comfort her. He hoped this short
break from the Spoonful would raise her spirits.

Jack checked his watch. “It’s just gone one bell. Time for me to be at my station.
Gotta make sure everyone has their armaments. I’ll be back to the Spoonful in time
for reopening.”

“See you in a little bit, Jack.” A large tent had been set up on Water Street to house
the players, costumes and props. Lucky watched Jack as he maneuvered through the crowd.
The local men taking part in the Battle were milling about at the edge of the Green
waiting for their cue. Hank, scarecrow thin and taller than the rest of his group,
fussed with his loose pants and linen vest. Barry readjusted his long braided wig
and headband.

Lucky heard her name called and turned to see Horace in his Hessian outfit pushing
through the crowd to reach her. He wore his long skirted dark blue coat and carried
a knapsack and an enormous wooden sword. He was sweating profusely in the heat. “How
in heaven’s name did those soldiers of yore manage to do any fighting in these outfits?”
he asked rhetorically.

Lucky smiled. “I think you look quite dashing.”

Horace did his best to smile. “I was so looking forward to taking part in the Battle
until . . .” he trailed off.

“Until last night,” Lucky stated.

“Yes. I just don’t know what I’m going to do or how I’ll break this loss to the people
at the University. They trusted me and I let them down.”

“Horace, you didn’t let anybody down. You were robbed.”

Elias watched the exchange quietly, but Lucky could tell he was paying particular
attention. “What happened last night?”

“Oh, sorry, Elias. I haven’t had a chance to tell you.” Lucky gave him a summation
of the events of the previous evening.

Elias shook his head. “There’s only one person I can think of who had an interest
in that piece of lead, and she’s sitting right up there.” Elias nodded in the direction
of the roped-off special section where Cordelia Rank sat.

“I follow your logic,” Horace replied, “but somehow I can’t imagine Mrs. Rank hiding
in the woods in the middle of the night. I’d be more inclined to suspect a summer
visitor who collects Revolutionary weapons and artifacts.” Horace turned to Lucky,
a concerned look on his face. “You look rather worn-out. It’s all my fault, embroiling
you in my little drama last night.”

“It’s certainly not your fault, Horace, and it was no little drama. I’m just glad
I was there. If I look tired it’s just that Sophie and I were out early this morning
to search the roads for Elizabeth’s car.”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Horace responded. “What happened to me pales in comparison
to recent events.”

A bugle blew on the other side of the Green. “Oh, my cue! I must get back in place
or I’ll be fighting on the wrong side.” He wiped his dripping brow with a handkerchief.
“Wish me luck.”

“Break a leg, Horace, as they say in the theatre,” Elias called after him. Horace
hurried off and Lucky saw several other men scurrying away from family and friends
to be in place for the commencement of the Battle.

A festive feeling was in the air. The temperature was soaring and the Village Green
was awash in color—banners, balloons and masses of yellow and gold marigolds swarming
with bees were everywhere, in flower beds and planters and around the perimeter of
the Green. Other vendors had set up barbeque grills at the corner of Broadway and
Spruce, blocked off for the event. They were roasting beef, chicken, hot dogs and
hamburgers for a crowd that would be very hungry soon. The sizzling aroma wafted their
way on the breeze. Lucky took a deep breath to savor the smells of grilled food and
freshly cut grass—the smells of summer.

Elias shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone who’d wish Harry or Horace or Elizabeth
any harm. They’re the last people in the world you’d figure had any enemies. Hey,
before all the commotion starts, and before I forget, are you free for dinner tonight?”

Lucky nodded affirmatively and graced him with a huge smile. “I’d love that, but I
warn you, I may fall asleep over my dinner plate.”

“I’ll forgive you.” He squeezed her shoulder tighter. “See you at eight?”

Lucky nodded. “Anything I can bring?”

“Nope, just yourself.” He leaned down and kissed her lightly on the lips.

A bugle blew again. The British—that is, townsmen playing British soldiers in the
Reenactment—were waiting up the hill on the other side of the Green for their cue
to begin their march on Snowflake. With them were a large group of actors dressed
as loyalist colonials, Canadians, Hessians and Native Americans. A muted and steady
drumbeat caused the onlookers to become still as the “militiamen” in small groups
converged on the Green from all directions. They carried their weapons, most of which
were made of wood. A few men, collectors of artifacts, carried the genuine article—unloaded
per the town rules. A sound system nearby had been set up to mimic gunfire at the
time of the attack. Its operator waited patiently for his cue. The militiamen carried
thick branches and crouched on the Green, holding their foliage in front of them to
represent the forest that would conceal them from the approaching British troops.

Lucky was very familiar with the details of the Battle thanks to a former teacher
who was a history buff. The actual battle, she knew, took place not in Vermont, but
in New York State approximately ten miles northwest of Bennington. British General
John Burgoyne had ordered a detachment of troops consisting of Hessians, French, Loyalists,
Canadians and Native Americans under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Friedrich Baum,
a Hessian, to move south, ahead of Burgoyne’s main army. Burgoyne was in desperate
need of food for his army, and Baum was ordered to take what was needed from the colonists.
Baum’s ultimate mission was to reach the supply depot at Bennington and confiscate
the guns and ammunition the colonists had managed to accumulate. Burgoyne held a very
low opinion of the colonial militia, and since the stores at Bennington were guarded
by a small contingent, he was sure Baum would be successful in his mission.

Vermont’s Council of Safety, well aware of Baum’s approach, sent to New Hampshire
for aid. The local rebels were joined by General John Stark, commanding fifteen hundred
militiamen. It was Stark who made the decision to attack Baum’s troops before they
could reach Bennington. When the attack began on the afternoon of August 16, 1777,
Baum’s less disciplined allies fled, abandoning him. The Hessians fought bravely but
were outnumbered. Baum was mortally wounded and soon his troops surrendered. As the
battle finished, and the militia celebrated, Lieutenant Colonel Heinrich von Breymann,
another Hessian, arrived with a second unit of Burgoyne’s army. The battle began again.
The militiamen were exhausted from their earlier struggle and might have been vanquished
if it were not for Seth Warner and his Green Mountain Boys, who arrived in the nick
of time and joined the fighting. The scales were tipped once again in the colonists’
favor.

The decision to intercept and attack Baum’s raiding party was a brilliant maneuver.
Not only did Burgoyne lose almost a thousand men, he was abandoned by the Indian tribes
who had previously supported him. The colonists’ victory helped to galvanize support
for the independence movement. Denied his needed supplies and food, Burgoyne surrendered
in New York a mere two months later, on October 17, 1777.

The British contingent began a ragged march down the hill and onto the Green. The
drumbeat continued, louder now and more insistent. When the British line was completely
in view, the drumbeats became more rapid. The militiamen shouted, dropping their branches,
and began to fire. The Hessians and loyalists struggled to load their muskets and
fire back. Many of the British troops fell “dead” on the Green. Over the soundtrack
of muskets and rifles, the militiamen shouted war cries and attacked the enemy from
all sides while the Hessians regrouped and moved to another corner of the Green, hunkering
down in a defensive position. The crowd began to cheer and clap in unison with the
rhythm of the drums.

Next, the militiamen fired upon the Hessians in their leafy redoubt, and slowly, one
by one, they fell and died. The effect was nearly deafening—the loud cracks of the
gunshots, the wailing cries of the wounded and the battle cries of the colonists,
sensing victory. An enormous roar erupted from the crowd. One young boy beat out a
victory rhythm on his drum. The soundtrack began to fade as the cheering subsided
and was replaced by another young boy playing a victory march on his flute. The battle
had been won.