A Roux of Revenge (19 page)

“What day did you receive this flower in your mailbox?”

“Uh . . .” Miriam thought for a moment. “It was . . .” She calculated the days on her fingers. “Five days ago.”

“On Saturday?”

“Yes.”

“That’s the same
day Nate discovered the body on the road.”

Miriam gasped, her mind numb with the possibility that Eamon might be dead.

Chapter 27

J
ANIE DROVE AIMLESSLY
up and down the streets of Snowflake. She couldn’t bear another night of hanging around Lucky’s apartment or talking to Meg or Rosemary on the phone and not being able
to tell them what she was upset about. All they had to say was that she should go home and make amends with her mother. They didn’t understand. How could they? They knew who their parents were, where they came from, who went before them. Nobody was telling them they were the illegitimate children of gypsies. She checked her gas gauge, half full. At least she wouldn’t have to stop anywhere for fuel.
She realized she was driving in ever-widening circles.

She hated to admit it to herself, but she missed her house and her mother’s cooking and her room with all her favorite CDs and books. If this hadn’t happened, that’s exactly where she’d be. Or maybe she’d be with Meg, and they’d be at the festival . . . why did she have to see that man there yesterday? And could he really be her father?
She thought back to the times she had seen him outside the restaurant, in the market, walking across the street, paralleling her path, yesterday onstage playing a violin. He was a musician obviously, but he probably couldn’t even read music. Maybe he couldn’t even read period. And her mother. Had she come from the same background? She’d never know unless she talked to her mom. If her mom had been
a traveler, how did she ever become the middle class woman who worried about redecorating her house and gardening if she had never known a house or a garden as a young girl? But she had no desire to talk to her mother. She didn’t know if she’d hear the truth or just more lies. There was no way to be sure. She felt as if the ground had turned to quicksand beneath her feet and she was being sucked
down into a murky chasm, unable to breathe.

She continued along the road that led out of town. Without being conscious of driving there, she found herself at the entrance to the parking lot of the festival. She couldn’t admit it to herself, but she was curious, morbidly curious. She wanted to get a closer look at the strange man, at
him
. Perhaps by staring at him as he had stared at her, she’d
derive some answers—answers about her own origin.

The lot was full, but she was able to find a spot at the end of the parking area, squeezing in between a truck and a subcompact car. She parked and walked toward the entrance. Inside the grounds, a large crowd was gathered at the far end of the field where the band was still playing onstage. All of the farmers had packed up and gone. The only
booths still open were those selling handmade goods—jewelry, pottery, kitchenware. Many people milled around the small carousel and the pony corral; they were mostly parents with young children who tugged on their hands, begging for another ride or another run through the corn maze. She spotted Remy near the corral and hoped he didn’t see her. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

She pulled
the hood of her sweater over her hair and slouched against a tree. There were, she was sure, plenty of people here that she knew—neighbors, old school friends. She hoped to avoid them. She needed to remain invisible, anonymous.

He was onstage, playing a fiddle, but now he accompanied a banjo player and another violinist. The music was up-tempo, like a jig, moving faster and faster. A good-sized
audience had gathered to listen to the song. With a final crescendo the music ended abruptly, and a swell of applause filled the air. The band was very popular. They bowed to the audience and were greeted by another round of applause. Smiling, they took a second bow. The lights dimmed, and the musicians turned away, preparing to clear the stage. The crowd, excitedly talking and laughing, began
to disperse.

Janie watched as the musicians packed up their instruments and equipment. She heard snatches of conversation from the stage but wasn’t able to make out the words. At the edge of the outdoor lighting, she was invisible. As long as she stood in the shadow of a tree trunk, she couldn’t be seen. Softly, she moved closer to the next large tree. Her jeans were dark, her sweater a charcoal
gray and her hood covered her hair.

Several people still remained in front of the stage. They were busy folding up picnic blankets and preparing to leave. It was quieter now, and the conversations onstage were audible. She realized with a shock the musicians weren’t speaking English. But what? Confused, she wondered if they were not just travelers, but foreigners. Her mother would know, but
she couldn’t ask her now.

Janie watched the tall red-haired man carefully as he moved about the stage, winding cords and helping the others pack up. He stopped to talk to a woman in the upstage area who balanced a stand-up bass against her shoulder. They chatted for a few moments, and then he carried the bass off stage and into a waiting van at the side.

How could this man have a connection
to her? Granted they were both tall and slender. They both had auburn red hair, but was there any other resemblance? Was that enough for her to accept that this man really was her father? She thought about the mild-mannered, kind and silly father she had known. Doug Leonard’s hair was brown and later turned to salt-and-pepper and finally completely gray. He always wore glasses and was fond of
singing off-key to her. Janie had loved him with all her heart. He had been the perfect Dad. She felt a deep sense of guilt, of disloyalty at even accepting that he might not be her father. He had been only slightly taller than her mother, and Janie, at age fourteen, towered over both her parents. When she was a child, she wondered why her hair wasn’t deep brown, almost black, like her mother’s.
Why was it so red, she had asked. She had never liked her hair color. She wanted dark hair, like her mother, but she had been told her great-grandmother had red hair like hers. As a child, she had heard jokes about being stolen by the gypsies. In her case she had been stolen from the gypsies.

She watched as the first van pulled away, followed by a second older and rusty vehicle. The man and
all his companions were gone. Where were they staying while in Snowflake? The town had no hotels, except for the Resort at the top of the mountain. And there was only one bed-and-breakfast. But if they were travelers, would they have RVs, a campsite somewhere in the woods around the town? She’d probably never know anything more about this man than what she’d seen tonight.

She glanced around.
The field was empty. Not a soul remained. Silently she climbed the stairway to the stage. It held an earthy aroma of warm wood and sawdust. She stood on the spot where he had stood and looked out over the vacant grassy field. What would it be like to play an instrument? To stand on a stage in front of clapping, cheering people? Was it frightening or was it a heady feeling? Or were the musicians
so lost in the swell of notes they forgot the onlookers?

She shivered in her light sweater. The night had grown colder. Even the stalls that were still open when she arrived were closed. The corral was empty. The horses must have been led to a barn for the night. No one remained. No one she could see at least. She felt a shiver of fear. It was time to go home—home to her temporary digs at
Lucky’s apartment at least.

She descended the stairs of the stage and walked out through the gate to the parking lot. The lot was empty. Her car stood alone. She dug her car keys out of her jeans, anxious to climb in and turn on the heater. With shivering fingers, she slid her key into the door lock. She sensed movement behind her. She turned quickly. A strong arm grasped her neck, choking
her. A rough hood was pulled over her head. She tried to scream, but there was no one to hear.

Chapter 28

L
UCKY WAS ABOUT
to flip over the sign at the front door when she spotted a figure heading toward the Spoonful. She hesitated. It was Remy. She opened the door for him. “Hi, Remy. Are you
looking for Sage?”

“No, I just stopped by to talk to you and Jack for a minute, if you don’t mind.”

“Not at all.” There was something in his tone that told her this wasn’t just a social call. “Come on in. Would you like coffee or anything?”

“No. Thanks, I’m fine. I can’t stay long. I have to get back soon. I just . . . uh . . . wanted to talk to you both.”

“Have a seat.” Lucky
sat down and leaned on her elbows, giving her full attention to Remy. Jack joined them.

Remy took a deep breath. “Something happened today out at the festival that’s really been bothering me. It happened near the corral, that’s how come I saw the whole thing.” Remy looked at them to gauge their reaction. He had their full attention. “One of the women from the band got in Ernie’s face. She
was really upset. She’s a big woman, and she started pushing Ernie around, attacking him almost, yelling at him.”

“What was she saying?” Jack asked.

“Well, they had some words before it got really loud. I think it kinda freaked out some of the people who were near the horses. She started screaming at Ernie, saying, ‘What did you do to him, what did you do to him?’ She kept getting more
and more hysterical. Finally a couple of the guys from the band rushed over and dragged her away.”

“What did she mean?” Lucky asked. “What did Ernie do with
who
?”

Remy shook his head. “I don’t know who she was talking about. But when it got really loud, Rory walked over. He put his hand behind him, like he was reaching inside the waistband of his trousers, and I saw something there.” Remy
looked up, a frightened look in his eye. “Lucky, I think he was ready to pull out a gun.”

“Jeez,” Jack remarked. “Why would he need a gun to run a pony ride for kids?”

“That’s what I’m wondering,” Remy said. “I don’t know what to do, that’s why I wanted to talk to you and Jack.”

“Have you told Sage?”

Remy shook his head. “I didn’t want to. Sage would try to get involved, and I
don’t want him to feel he has to, especially if it’s dangerous. What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should call Nate first thing in the morning. Whoever this woman is, she obviously thinks Ernie’s done something to someone. She must know something Nate needs to hear. And as far as Rory carrying a gun, what’s that about? Nate needs to know this stuff, Remy.”

Remy nodded. “I think
you’re right. Nate’s not my favorite person in the world, not after he arrested Sage the way he did last year, but I’ll call him.” Remy took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you, I’m ready to call the owners and pull those horses out of there and bring ’em home. I don’t like what’s happening at the festival one bit.”

“I’m glad you told us, Remy. It sounds like it could escalate, and the last thing
you need is a gun being waved around, especially with little kids and animals nearby.”

Remy heaved a sigh. “Don’t say anything to Sage, will you? I’ll tell him myself eventually after I talk to Nate. I know he worries about me, and I don’t want him gettin’ involved.”

Lucky glanced at Jack. “We won’t say anything. But you should tell him anyway as soon as you talk to Nate.”

Remy rose
from his chair, a troubled look on his face. He stuck his hands in his pockets. “You’re right, I know. But I gotta go now. I don’t like leaving the horses alone.” He turned away and headed for the door. “Thanks, Lucky . . . Jack.”

Lucky locked the door behind him and flipped the sign over. She watched Remy till he was out of sight. “What do you think, Jack?”

“I think the more I hear stories
about Ernie White, the less I like him. And that’s sayin’ a lot.” He sat down on his stool behind the cash register. “I’ll finish counting up. I’ll be done in a few minutes, and then we can go home.”

Lucky went into the kitchen to make sure everything had been put away. There wasn’t much to do except start the dishwasher. Sage had left everything in perfect order. Jack called out to her, “We’ve
got another visitor, my girl.”