A Broth of Betrayal (9 page)

Chapter 15

T
UCKING HER SKIRT
between her knees, Lucky knelt on the grass and pulled a gardening trowel from her
basket. It was early morning yet but the day promised to be another scorcher. The
morning had that stillness that comes when the air doesn’t move and even the birds
are silent. Lucky breathed in the aroma of cut grass. The clumps of dirt in her hands
felt warm and fragrant.

Using the sharp edge of her tool, she carved a neat trench at the base of the gravestone,
pulling up clods of grass and shaking off the loose dirt. When she was satisfied with
the space she had created, she added rich potting soil and carefully slipped the containers
of bright purple phlox out of their small plastic pots, padding them into the soft
earth. It was late in the season to plant these, but they were hardy perennials and
should last through the fall. With luck, they’d return in profusion in the spring.
She patted the earth gently around the blossoms and moistened the flower bed generously
with a watering can. Satisfied with her efforts, she wiped perspiration from her forehead
and washed her gardening tools off at a nearby spigot, dumping the grassy clods into
a green container. She stripped off her gloves and tucked them into the basket with
her trowel.

She stood up and admired her handiwork. The sun had moved and now shone directly on
her parents’ gravesite. She walked a few feet to the shade of a nearby maple tree
and sat on the ground, leaning against the rough trunk. The air dripped with humidity
and a distant rumbling heralded a possible thunderstorm. If only. A rainstorm would
bring cool air. She closed her eyes for a moment, mentally picturing her mother and
father. She whispered a silent prayer for them as she always did every time she came
here, and often at night in her room. They were beyond harm now, but she prayed for
them and for Jack.

Lucky made it a point to stop at the cemetery once a week. She held one-sided conversations
with both her parents, keeping them up to date about her life, about Jack and the
Spoonful, and the deepening relationship with Elias. She looked forward to these visits,
as she thought of them. She imagined her parents in her mind’s eye and the responses
they would have made to her mental chatter. It was good to get away from the bustle
of the restaurant, to be able to sit and think quietly. Her parents weren’t here,
of that she was sure. But she could still talk to them and pretend they were able
to listen. Perhaps the ancients were right to place coins on the closed eyes of the
dead. Coins that would pay the ferryman for the journey across the river. Were the
dead on the other side of an unseen river, always there, always waiting, just invisible
to those on earth? Wherever the spirits of the departed were, Lucky had never believed
they could be found at a gravesite, but she wanted to do her best to remember her
parents, to make sure their resting place was well tended and cared for. For herself,
she would choose cremation and have her ashes scattered at the top of the mountain
in the cleansing cold of winter.

A tingling at the base of her neck alerted her. She was sure she was being watched.
Instantly she was on guard. She slowly turned her head and scanned the area. No one.
Was she imagining things? Was someone hiding behind a headstone or bush watching her?
She stood, her reverie broken. Scanning the cemetery, she watched and waited. A movement
several yards away caught her eye. Who else would be in the cemetery so early in the
morning? Not even the caretakers came this early in the day. And why would they be
watching her? She held very still and waited. Finally she spotted a figure standing
in the shadow of another large tree several yards away. She squinted, adjusting her
eyes to the difference between shadow and bright sunlight. The small figure was wrapped
in a large coat. Maggie Harkins. The woman she had seen at the demonstration, the
woman she had seen last night, investigating garbage cans across the street from the
Spoonful. Lucky stepped out of the shadow of the maple tree and started walking toward
her. She called out, “Hello.”

The figure froze. The woman peered across the distance at Lucky. When Lucky had gone
a few yards, the woman scampered away toward the exit to the road. Lucky started to
follow, realizing she must have frightened the woman. “Don’t run away . . . please.
I didn’t mean to scare you.”

Maggie broke into a wobbling run, and Lucky halted, watching her until she disappeared
from sight.
Such a peculiar character
, she thought.
I must have scared her more than she scared me
. Lucky sighed and turned back, heading for the shelter of the tree and her gardening
tools. She glanced down at the marble slabs sunk in the grass near the pathway. A
name caught her eye.
HARKINS
. She stopped and stared. The name was carved on two slabs with first names
ROBERT
and
DANIEL
. Given their birth and death ages, they were of two different generations. Robert
had died at age forty-one. Maggie’s husband? Daniel Harkins was twenty when he died.
He was the son Maggie Harkins had lost—the son Jack had mentioned.

Elizabeth’s words on the Village Green came back to her. She had said of Maggie, “
That poor soul.
” Poor soul indeed, a husband gone for many years and then the heartbreak of losing
a child who had grown to manhood. Lucky had been stricken by her parents’ sudden death,
but at least they had lived the greater part of their lives. Maggie Harkins had lost
a son who was barely out of his teenage years.

It was Elizabeth who had compassion for Maggie, while everyone else saw only a ragged
old lady. Elizabeth.
Why hadn’t she returned her calls?
She pushed away the thought that something might be wrong. Anyone could forget to
return a phone call. Lucky checked her watch. She had to hurry or she’d be late getting
to the Spoonful before opening. She grabbed her basket and started down the road toward
town. Maggie Harkins was nowhere in sight.

* * * 

E
LIZABETH LEANED AGAINST
the wall and stretched her legs out. Her ankles still chafed a bit, but at least
the soreness was gone. There was nothing for her to do all day but think. And think
she did, and then think some more. It took all her courage not to break down and cry.
Surely Maggie would release her, but what in heaven’s name had caused the woman to
hold her hostage in the cellar? It made no sense. All Maggie had said was “
He won’t hurt me then
.” Who was this mysterious “he,” or was this “he” a figment of Maggie’s imagination?
Had she had no social contact all these years? Had the woman lost her mind? Elizabeth
cringed when she thought how she had scoffed at Cordelia Rank, but obviously Cordelia
had been right. Perhaps Maggie should be institutionalized. She simply couldn’t be
in her right mind.

The pins and needles had abated once her ankles and wrists were freed. Feeling had
returned to her limbs. She was able to explore the small room that imprisoned her.
A short door made of sturdy pine boards opened into a washroom the size of a closet.
She ducked her head and stepped into the miniscule bath. The small amount of light
from the dusty cellar window couldn’t penetrate into this room. Elizabeth felt for
the top of the toilet tank and lifted it. Gingerly, she reached inside until her fingers
touched water. The tank was full. That was hopeful. The toilet was connected to a
water supply for the house. The tiny porcelain sink, what she could see of it, was
chipped and stained with rust and hard water spots. The faucets were caked with deposits
and so rusty they looked as if they would break if too much pressure were applied.
She reached for one and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t budge. If only she could splash
cold water on her face. She was sure the temperature outside was in the high nineties,
but the cellar room was damp and cool. Nonetheless, her skin felt hot and grimy. She
cringed at the thought of cooling her brow with water from the toilet tank. Who knew
when the toilet had last been cleaned. What she wouldn’t give for a shower. What she
wouldn’t give to escape from this room. She leaned into the faucet and struggled to
turn it. A slight movement of the metal indicated it might give. She retrieved a shoe
from the floor next to the sleeping bag—a low-heeled shoe with a sturdy heel. Using
it like a hammer, she banged on the side of the faucet, willing it to budge. A metallic
echo rang through the room. Touching the wall, she felt exposed pipes. They ran up
through a hole in the ceiling. She beat the faucet again with the heel of her shoe
and finally heard a screech as the faucet gave way. A trickle of rusty water ran into
the sink and air in the pipes made a moaning sound. Elizabeth turned the faucet on
as far as it would go. She pushed the pine door open all the way to catch the small
amount of light. She let the water run until she was able to see that it flowed in
a clear stream. After another minute, when she was sure it was fresh, she splashed
cool water on her face.

She caught a partial glimpse of herself in a shard of broken mirror on the wall over
the sink. She looked dreadful. Dark circles outlined her eyes, her hair stuck up in
clumps. She brushed water over her hair and smoothed it down until it looked almost
normal. Maggie had taken her purse and watch. Now she wasn’t even able to brush her
hair or tell the time. Her clothing was streaked with grime, her white blouse that
she had ironed so carefully the morning she left her house was wrinkled and dirty.
At least Maggie had fed her more steamed vegetables and yesterday a tomato. The food
was plain, but it was fresh and healthy—for all that meant. What difference did it
make if the food was wholesome if Maggie had no intention of releasing her? Whatever
Maggie’s intent, it wasn’t to kill her by starvation or dying a slow death of thirst.
But why, oh why, had Maggie done this?

Chapter 16

O
NCE THE LAST
of the midday customers were gone, Lucky wiped off the counter and carried the basin
of dishes into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher. Sage sat on a stool
scribbling in his notebook. Lucky poured a tall glass of iced coffee and joined him
at the work table.

He looked up and grinned. “Just working something out. I had an idea for a soup—something
I came across a long time ago and I’m just trying to remember what went into it—based
on peanut butter.”

“Really?” Lucky raised her eyebrows. “Go for it. Anything you want to do is fine with
me.”

Sage looked across the work table. “You okay?” His face was serious.

“Sure. I’m fine.”

“You don’t exactly look fine. You look like you haven’t slept in a couple of days.”
Lucky didn’t answer. “You’re worried about something.” It was a statement, not a question.

Lucky nodded. “I’ve had a couple of bad dreams. Keep waking up and then can’t go back
to sleep very easily.”

“Tell me about the dreams.” He clipped his pen to the notebook and gave her his full
attention.

“Crazy dreams. I’m in my apartment and someone knocks on the door. I don’t know who
it is but I have a feeling of dread. Next, a man, I can’t see his face, is in my living
room and he tells me my mother is waiting for me. ‘Why haven’t you gone to see her?’
he asks me. ‘But my mother is dead,’ I say, and he says, ‘No, she’s not, she’s right
here.’ He opens a door in the wall that I never noticed before, that I didn’t know
was there, and I’m scared but I follow him through the door. My mother is sitting
in a chair. But in the dream I know it’s not really my mother. She looks exactly like
my mother but I don’t feel anything and so I know it’s not her. I ask him where my
father is, and the strange man says, ‘He’s on his way.’ I start screaming, ‘That’s
not my mother’ and I wake up.” Lucky paused and took a deep breath. “On the one hand
I know in the dream that I’m dreaming, but a part of me is afraid that I’m really
awake and have forgotten my parents.”

“I’m sorry, Lucky. Sorry you’re going through this—especially now when your life should
be settling down.” Sage was a handsome man. His looks had brought him a lot of unwanted
attention from people who couldn’t see past the façade to realize what a sensitive
individual he was, a man who had overcome abuse as a child and false accusations as
an adult. His relationship with Sophie, she knew, was a good thing. Sophie could be
a bit hard-boiled at times, but she had softened of late and Sage’s anxiety and fear
of persecution had almost completely disappeared.

“I’ve been worrying about Elizabeth too. I’m going to try her office again before
we get hit with another rush.” She slipped away and headed down the corridor, shutting
the office door behind her. She dialed the familiar number. Elizabeth’s assistant
Jessie answered on the first ring.

“Jessie, it’s Lucky Jamieson. I was just trying to reach Elizabeth if she has a moment.”

“Lucky?” Jessie squeaked. “I’m so glad you called.” Jessie’s voice had risen in pitch.
“She’s not here and she didn’t come in yesterday or the day before. I don’t know where
she is.”

“What?” Lucky felt a sickening dread in her gut. “You haven’t heard from her?”

“No. And it’s getting really embarrassing. I’ve been telling people she’s in a meeting,
and then today I decided to say she had to go out of town for a day or so. She’d call
them as soon as she could. I didn’t know what else to do. At first, I thought it was
my mistake, you know, that I’d forgotten she had told me something. That maybe she
was taking a day off or had to go away. I wracked my brain. Checked her calendar and
everything, but I’m not going crazy. I’d remember if she’d told me something like
that.”

“Jessie, I’ve been worried about her too. I’ve called her house twice, no three times
yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I left messages but she hasn’t called me back. And
I tried your number too, but no one answered. It’s just that I would have expected
to hear from her after what happened to Harry.”

“It’s horrible about Harry. It really scares me. You must have called when I was at
lunch. I’m sorry I missed you. I just don’t know what I should do.” Jessie sounded
on the verge of panic.

“Call Nate Edgerton right away. This isn’t like Elizabeth at all. Maybe there’s been
a car accident.” Lucky shivered. The vision of her parents dead by the side of an
icy road, their car crushed, flashed in front of her eyes. “I’ll go over to her house
right now. Maybe she’s there and hurt and can’t get to a phone.” Lucky took a deep
breath and tried to quiet the panic she was feeling. Elizabeth lived alone. She was
in her late fifties, and very strong and healthy, but all the same, anyone could have
an accident. She whipped off her apron and, grabbing her purse, ducked into the kitchen.

Sage looked up. “What’s wrong?” Obviously her panic showed on her face.

“It’s Elizabeth. Her assistant just told me she hasn’t been in the office for a couple
of days. I’m going over to her house—I’m worried she might have had an accident and
can’t get to a phone.”

“That doesn’t sound good. Want me to come with you? There’s nothing on the stove now
and Janie and Meg can handle everything.”

“Thanks, it’s all right. Her house is close and I’ll be fine. But can you let Jack
know?”

“Will do.” Sage followed her to the kitchen door and watched as she hurried down the
corridor and out the back exit. “But call us and let us know what you find out,” he
called after her.

Lucky raised her hand in response and hurried to her car. Elizabeth’s house was at
the north end of town. She could have walked just as easily, but driving would be
quicker. She kicked herself for not checking on Elizabeth yesterday. She should have
trusted her instincts to begin with.

* * * 

A
FEW MINUTES
later Lucky pulled up in front of the small gingerbread Victorian and turned off
the engine. Elizabeth’s house was white with black trim and shutters. It had always
reminded Lucky of a doll’s house. A wide porch ran across the front. The yard, enclosed
by a wrought iron fence, bloomed with hydrangeas and pink roses. A climbing vine of
wild roses twined around the banisters of the porch and up a column. Lucky pushed
the gate open and approached the front door. A swinging bench hung on chains attached
to the ceiling of the porch. On the flowered cushions were two magazines and a flyer,
too large to fit in the mail slot. She rang the doorbell and heard it echoing inside.
The house felt empty. She rang a second time and called Elizabeth’s name. No one answered.
She knelt and pushed open the brass mail slot. Cool air greeted her. On the floor
she could see two envelopes that the mailman had pushed through the slot on his route.
If Elizabeth were home, she’d never leave her mail on the floor or on the porch swing.

She scanned the little she could see of the front hall. Everything seemed to be in
place. A whiff of something reminiscent of oranges filtered out. It was the fragrant
smell of orange oil. Had Elizabeth recently polished her furniture? Mixed with the
aroma of oranges was the smell of yeasty dough. Houses have their own unique atmospheres
created by their owners—cooking smells, cleaning products, old books, baby powder,
dog kibble. Lucky had always thought one could tell a lot about the inhabitants of
a house if one simply inhaled. She called once more, although now she was certain
the house was empty.

She descended the porch stairs and followed the paving stones to the driveway. Elizabeth’s
car was gone. In the summer, she always left her car outside on the drive. Wherever
she had gone, she had driven. Only in the coldest days of winter would she use her
garage. Lucky walked the length of the driveway and peeked in the side window of the
garage. Empty. No car.

She heard a small mewing sound from the kitchen door. She walked up the back steps
to the kitchen door. It was Charlie. His kitty door was closed. He was locked inside
and probably hadn’t been fed. How long had it been since anyone had seen Elizabeth?
Three days?

“Hang on, Charlie,” she whispered at the door. She hurried to the garage and pulled
open one of the wooden doors. Even the garage was as neat as a pin. Gardening implements
hung in the cabinet and small household tools were displayed above a corner workbench.
Lucky opened the cabinet and felt in back on the left side for the house key she knew
Elizabeth kept hidden there. She returned to the kitchen door and unlocked it. Charlie
rushed at her legs. She dropped her purse and kneeled down to hug the cat. He climbed
onto her lap, meowing and purring, thrilled that someone had come home. “Oh, poor
Charlie. You poor thing. You must be starving.” Elizabeth’s cat was a sweet-tempered
gray-striped tiger cat with huge paws. Elizabeth babied him to death.

“It’s all right now, Charlie,” she murmured to the cat as she opened the refrigerator
and pulled out a can that was almost full. She scooped a large chunk of wet food into
a clean dish. Fortunately, Charlie still had a good-sized bowl of dry food, but Lucky
added more pellets just in case and gave him fresh water with an ice cube in it to
keep the water cool.

The house had high ceilings and eaves that kept the temperature moderate even on the
hottest days, so Charlie hadn’t been suffering from the weather. Elizabeth usually
kept him inside during the day while she was at the office, and let him come and go
at will when she was home. At night, she closed the kitty door to keep Charlie safe
from raccoons. Lucky knew Elizabeth worried about him when she was at work. She would
never have left Charlie on his own. She would have asked someone—Lucky, a neighbor,
someone—to keep an eye on Charlie and feed him.

Charlie hunkered down and made loud slurping sounds in his bowl. Lucky picked her
purse up off the floor and dropped it in a kitchen chair. Maybe there was something
here that could tell her where Elizabeth had gone. She walked out to the front hall
and opened the door. She scooped up the magazines and flyer and the two bills that
lay inside on the floor and placed them on the library table in the hallway. She walked
through the small parlor and dining room, checked the hall closet and then climbed
the stairs to the second story. Elizabeth’s house was warm and charming, nothing out
of place. No dust had accumulated. The bed was covered with a crocheted spread that
Elizabeth had made herself. A sprinkling of gray Charlie hairs at the foot of the
bed indicated his favorite place to nap.

Elizabeth used the second bedroom as a combination office and guest room. Everything
looked completely normal and undisturbed. The daybed was neat, its cushions perfectly
placed. Lucky checked the calendar above the desk. No appointments had been marked
for today, yesterday or the day before. The light on the answering machine was blinking.
Lucky hit the button and listened to messages from Jessie, sounding more and more
worried, her own voice messages and finally one from Marjorie at the Off Broadway
ladies’ clothing store, reminding Elizabeth that her order had arrived.

Lucky slumped into the desk chair and looked around. Nothing terrible had happened
to Elizabeth here. Everything was in order, as if she had just prepared for work,
made her bed and washed her breakfast dishes before she left for the office. She had
just never arrived.

Where could she be?

Lucky dialed Nate’s number at the station. It rang twice before Bradley picked up.

“Snowflake Police. Deputy Moffitt.”

“Bradley, it’s Lucky Jamieson. I have to speak to Nate right away. It’s important.”

She heard a slight poof of air through the telephone, as if Bradley considered her
call an annoyance.

“It’s
very
important.”

“Just a minute,” he replied in an officious tone. Lucky bit her tongue. One of these
days she would march to the police station and personally throttle Bradley. Nate could
arrest her but it would be justifiable homicide and she could prove it. She amused
herself with the vision of Bradley gasping for air on the floor of the Snowflake Police
Station until she heard Nate’s voice.

“Chief Edgerton.”

Lucky snapped out of her homicidal fantasy. “Nate, it’s me. Lucky. I’m at Elizabeth
Dove’s house. Something’s really wrong.” Lucky tried to keep the panic out of her
voice. Nate never responded well to an excess of emotion.

“Just got a call from Jessie at her office. Did you tell her to call me?”

“Yes. I’m terribly worried.”

“Now what makes you think she’s missing, and not just out somewhere?”

“I haven’t seen her for the last three days. She hasn’t been to her office and her
assistant has no idea where she is. Her car’s gone and she left her cat with no one
to feed him.”

Nate took a deep breath. “She could have just gone out of town for a day or two.”

“Without telling her secretary? Without someone taking care of her cat? That’s not
like her Nate and you know it. What if she’s had an accident on the road?”