Ladle to the Grave (A Soup Lover's Mystery Book 4) (2 page)

L
U
CKY
J
AMIESON PUSHED
the button on the CD player behind the counter, and a quiet guitar instrumental filled the restaurant. She heard a tap on the glass of the front door. Elizabeth Dove stood outside and waved. Lucky hurried over to let her in.

“I guess I’m too early,” Elizabeth said.

“Not at all. Come on in. Just getting ready to open.” Elizabeth followed Lucky to the counter. “What can I get you?”

“Just a cup of coffee. I’ve already had breakfast.” Lucky was always happy to see Elizabeth, especially when they had a few moments to chat. Elizabeth had been a dear friend of her family. Since Lucky’s parents’ sudden death in a car accident, Elizabeth had been a surrogate mother to her—renting her an apartment and giving her a car to drive. Returning home to Snowflake and the By the Spoonful Soup Shop would have been so much harder without Elizabeth’s love and support. Retired now from teaching, Elizabeth had been elected Mayor of Snowflake, Vermont, and consequently had little time to herself.

“Hello, Sage.” Elizabeth called out to Sage, the Spoonful’s chef, already hard at work in the kitchen. Sage peeked through the hatch and smiled a greeting.

Lucky set a place mat, napkin and silverware on the counter for Elizabeth and poured a mug of coffee. “A little cream?”

“Yes, thank you, dear.” Elizabeth stirred the cream into her mug. “Where’s your grandfather?”

“Jack’s gone to Lincoln Falls to pick up some supplies. He’ll be back in an hour or so.”

“Oh.”

Lucky looked at her quizzically. “Is something wrong?”

“Well, I’m the bearer of some bad news, I’m afraid. You know that women’s group that Cordelia Rank formed?”

“Not really. I heard there were some meetings at the library—something like that.”

“Well, apparently Cordelia organized a May Day celebration in the woods last night. I gather it morphed into something that . . . Well, some people have dubbed it a coven, with Cordelia officiating. But last night . . . one of the women died suddenly.”

“Oh no! Who?”

“A woman named Agnes Warner. I didn’t really know her. She lived outside of town with her husband.”

Lucky thought for a moment. “I think I know who she is but I haven’t seen her in years. My parents might have known her.” She leaned over the counter on her elbows. “That’s terrible. How did it happen?”

“Well . . . that’s what I wanted to talk to you about. Nate Edgerton called me early this morning to let me know. The women brewed some wine with herbs that Jack had picked for them and they’re suspecting—mind you, just suspecting—that Agnes might have . . . Well, I guess they’re thinking she had a bad reaction to the herbs.”

“What are you saying? That Jack’s herbs had something to do with this?”

“No, not necessarily. I didn’t mean to alarm you. I just wanted to give you a heads-up about this. She could have had a reaction to medication, or a stroke or heart attack . . . anything . . .” Elizabeth continued. “But Nate will probably want to talk to Jack at some point.”

Lucky sighed. “Well, I can’t imagine that anything Jack gave them caused any harm, but I appreciate your telling me.”

Lucky heard a knock at the front door. “Oh, I forgot to unlock.” She hurried to the entrance, flipped over the
OPEN
sign and opened the door. A slight woman dressed in a long brown skirt and sweater entered. Her dark hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck. She wore thick eyeglasses and carried a small bundle of flyers.

Elizabeth swiveled on her stool. “Hello, Greta!” she called out.

Greta smiled nervously and approached the counter.

Elizabeth turned back. “Lucky, have you met Greta?”

Lucky shook her head.

“Greta Dorn . . . Lucky Jamieson.” Elizabeth turned to Lucky. “You and she are neighbors in your building now.”

“Oh, how nice.” Lucky’s apartment was just around the corner on Maple Street in a four-unit building that Elizabeth owned.

Lucky smiled. “Nice to meet you, Greta. Welcome to the building.” Lucky offered her hand across the counter. She realized upon looking closer that the woman was much younger than she had first appeared, perhaps late thirties or early forties. “Can I get you something? Coffee?”

Greta accepted the handshake, shifting the bundle of flyers to her other arm. “Oh, no. Thank you. I just stopped in to see if I could leave some of our flyers for the library drive with you.”

“Of course. I’ll put one in the window and we can offer them to people when they pay at the cash register. Are you volunteering at the library?”

“Uh, yes, just helping out with whatever I can.”

“That’s great. You’ll have to stop back whenever you have a minute.”

Greta nodded. “Thank you.” She hesitated as if unsure where to go. “I’ll be on my way now.” She turned and hurried out to the sidewalk.

Lucky turned to Elizabeth. “She’s a nervous little thing.”

Elizabeth nodded. “She is. Greta’s a widow and rather lonely, I think—at loose ends. She was living with a relative for several years in a neighboring town but decided to move closer in. I think she’ll be a good neighbor.”

“She’s volunteering at the library, she said?” Lucky asked.

Elizabeth looked up quickly. “Oh. You mean she might have been with those women last night?”

Lucky nodded.

“Hmm. I have no idea but I’m sure we’ll be finding out all about it.” Elizabeth took a last sip of her coffee. “Oh, before I forget. The cleaning company for the building has misplaced some keys. It’s very worrying. You haven’t seen anything like that around, have you?”

“No, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

“Thanks, dear. It’s just not safe. If they don’t turn up, I’ll really have to have all the locks changed.” Elizabeth dropped her napkin on the place mat. “And now I must be going. I’ll see you later.” Elizabeth blew her a kiss and headed for the door.

Lucky cleared away the coffee mug and finished laying place mats and napkins along the counter. This was her favorite time of day at the Spoonful. Soup was bubbling on the stove, breads warming in the oven, gentle music playing, the pleasant clatter of Sage working in the kitchen and a few moments of peace and quiet before the busy day began.

“Hey, Lucky,” Sage called from the kitchen.

Lucky turned and peeked through the hatch. “Sophie says she’ll stop by this afternoon. She wants to show you something.”

Lucky smiled at him. Sage looked so relaxed and happy. He was about to become a newlywed. He and Sophie, her best friend from childhood, had decided to hold their wedding later in the month. Sophie’s favorite flower was lilac, and since Jack’s large garden was completely bordered by well-established lilac bushes soon to be in bloom this month, they had asked to hold their private ceremony there.

“What’s the surprise?” she asked. “Do you know?”

He smiled mysteriously. “I know, but I’m sworn to secrecy. You’ll just have to wait.”

A
COUPLE OF
hours later, the busiest part of the morning rush was over. Only a few customers remained. Lucky sighed as she cleared off the counter, wishing she could be outdoors. Sunlight was streaming through the yellow gingham curtains at the windows and reflecting off the wide pine floorboards. Several vases of forsythias, long branches covered with small, bright yellow flowers, filled the large front window. The first of May promised to be a perfect spring day but certainly not a quiet one.

“Heathens! That’s what they are,” Flo Sullivan announced loudly to the entire restaurant, her halo of orange frizz wiggling violently.

Lucky sighed. Flo had been holding court for the past hour. Not surprisingly, the news of Agnes Warner’s death had spread throughout the village of Snowflake. Lucky wondered whether others held the same opinion of Cordelia’s group.

Flo spun on her stool at the counter and surveyed the room. “This may be a terrible thing to say, but those women, messing around with occult forces, what did they expect? They got no better than they deserved.”

Barry Sanders and Hank Northcross, at their usual corner table, looked up and then away, studiously avoiding becoming embroiled in Flo’s harangue.

“I was raised in the Church,” Flo announced. Lucky remained silent and continued to clear dishes away. “And the Pope himself says he’s very upset about this rise in idolatry. It’s just not normal. And why someone like Cordelia Rank would dream up something like this, I just can’t imagine.”

Lucky, from the corner of her eye, saw the swinging door from the corridor open a crack. Lucky’s grandfather Jack peeked through the opening an instant before Flo swiveled back to the counter. Taking in the scene, he quickly ducked back before Flo spotted him. Lucky caught the movement and stifled a laugh. Flo had nursed an interest in Jack for a long time—to no avail—and Jack had become expert at avoiding Flo’s flirtations. Lucky could imagine him now, listening on the other side of the door and gnashing his teeth until the coast was clear.

Flo leaned across the counter. In a conspiratorial tone, she said, “I haven’t seen your grandfather yet, Lucky. Where is he hiding?”

Lucky cleared her throat and struggled to keep a straight face. “Well . . . uh . . . I think he was planning to pick up some supplies in Lincoln Falls this morning. He won’t be back for a while.”

“Ah. Well. In that case, I’ll be on my way.”

As Flo stood, a large shape blocked the sunlight at the front door. The bell jingled and Horace Winthorpe entered, followed by his dog, Cicero.

Flo sensed a fresh audience. “What do you think, Horace?” she hollered across the room.

“Eh?” Horace approached the counter, taking a stool one seat away from Flo. “Did I miss something?” he inquired.

“Well, surely you’ve heard, haven’t you? About Agnes Warner and that disgusting devil worship going on in the woods last night?”

Horace’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yes, of course. Everyone at the market was talking about it. I’m sure the whole town’s heard by now. But it’s hardly devil worship, you know.”

“Hmph.” Flo sniffed. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

“From what I’ve heard”—he smiled and nodded as Lucky poured a mug of coffee and placed it before him—“they were merely celebrating the rites of spring. Beltane. The first of May. Nothing sinister at all about that. In fact . . .” Lucky could see that Horace was warming to his subject. A retired history professor, Horace was erudite on many subjects. “Many European and Scandinavian cultures to this day celebrate that date. Of course, everyone now conveniently chooses to overlook its pagan roots.”

Flo sniffed again. “Is that so?” She stared critically at Horace.

“Why, yes. In some countries, it’s known as
Walpurgisnacht
—Walpurgis Night—particularly in cold northern countries, like Latvia or Sweden or Finland, but others as well. It was, and still is, an important festival because it represented the driving out of winter and the inception of warm weather.”

“And just who was this Walpurga man?” Flo replied suspiciously.

“
She
,” Horace replied, “was a missionary of the sixth century. Saint Walpurga. The fact that the festival is named after a woman rather betrays its pagan roots, don’t you think?”

“I don’t know about that. I’ve never heard of a Saint Walpurga, but it still just doesn’t seem right to me, holding that kind of thing in the woods!”

Horace shrugged. “I’m rather sorry I wasn’t invited. I would have enjoyed it—to see how Cordelia and the other women interpreted the festivities. Of course, I’m sure it didn’t involve bonfires and orgies, but interesting nonetheless.”

“I should hope not.” Flo sniffed and hopped off her stool. “Well, Horace, I’m sure you know a lot more about all that than me, but I still don’t approve of those shenanigans.” She turned back to Lucky and smiled. “You’ll let Jack know I stopped by, dear, won’t you?”

Lucky nodded. “I sure will. He’ll be sorry he missed you.” Lucky cringed inwardly, hoping Jack hadn’t overheard this last remark.

Flo leaned forward and whispered, “I know how busy the lovebirds must be by now”—she nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen—“but maybe you could give them a little nudge?”

Lucky stared blankly at Flo. “Lovebirds?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know they’re busy, but they need to get a move on. I check my mailbox every day but I haven’t seen my invitation yet.”

Lucky’s eyes widened. “Ah . . .” was all she could think to reply. “I . . . uh . . . I’ll pass that on.” Flo was expecting an invitation to Sophie’s wedding? Lucky shook her head. Whatever had given her that idea? Or was it a ploy to get closer to Jack?

“You’ll take care of that, won’t you?” Flo remarked as she headed for the front door and slammed it behind her.

A few moments later, Jack poked his head through the swinging door. He glared at Lucky. “I’ll be
sorry
?”

Lucky had all she could do not to burst out laughing at Jack’s distress. He shook his head, muttering to himself, and joined Horace at the counter. Jack held a paper napkin in his hand. Cicero made almost human sounds as he anticipated a treat. Jack unfolded the napkin and held out a generous hunk of chicken. Cicero wolfed it down instantly. Horace had inherited Cicero after the dog’s original owner had died under terrible circumstances. Cicero had come by his name because of his efforts to talk, albeit in a language humans couldn’t possibly understand. Nonetheless, Cicero gave it his best effort and managed to get most of his desires fulfilled, particularly his love for restaurant treats.

“Horace!” Barry Sanders called out from his corner table.

Horace turned on his stool. Hank raised his coffee mug to Horace in greeting. “Why didn’t ya chatter on some more about whatever pagan thing she was going on about. I thought she’d never leave!”

“Oh, I apologize if I extended the torture.” Horace smiled shyly. “I just thought she needed a dose of reality, not to get so worked up about a spring festival. That’s all.”

Barry smiled back. “S’all right, Horace. Just pullin’ your leg.”

The bell over the door jingled once again. Nate Edgerton, Snowflake’s Chief of Police, stood in the doorway and surveyed the restaurant. Lucky’s heart skipped a beat, remembering her conversation with Elizabeth. Nate spotted Jack at the counter and walked over to him.

“Jack, how are you?” He remained standing.

“Good, Nate. Have a seat.”

“Uh.” Nate cleared his throat. “Could we have a quick word . . . in private?”

Jack, surprised, looked at Nate. “Why, sure. What’s going on?”

Lucky noticed the dark circles under Nate’s eyes. He had probably been up all night dealing with the death in the woods. “You can use the office if you like, Nate,” she said.

Nate nodded and pushed through the swinging door to the corridor. Jack rose and followed him. A shudder of anxiety ran up Lucky’s spine.

“Horace, I’ll be back in a minute.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed down the corridor, entering the restaurant’s tiny office. She caught the last of Nate’s remark.

“. . . we think she might have been poisoned.”