“Yes. Maybe people will mistake us for customers and come in.”
Jack smiled. “Eat up. What did you learn from our boy? How’s he doing?”
“Not good.” Lucky looked across the table at Jack. His complexion was gray, and the long lines that scored his face were deeper. “He wouldn’t talk to me at all. Told me I shouldn’t have come. Oh, before I forget, we’re in charge of feeding him—at least until he’s arraigned—lunches and dinners.”
“Good. I’ll fix him a steak and a baked potato tonight and bring it over with a few containers of soup. I just hope you can cook something besides steak—that’s all I know how to do.”
Lucky smiled. “I’m no chef, but he won’t starve. I have some chicken recipes and I make wonderful mashed potatoes. We’ll figure it out. We can take turns. If you want to bring food today, I’ll do the honors tomorrow.”
Lucky broke off a chunk of cornbread and dropped it in her soup. “Maybe you’ll have better luck getting Sage to open up. You know, I noticed something the other day and I didn’t know what to make of it.” Lucky recounted Sage’s reaction when he spotted the blonde woman in the restaurant. “Jack, there had to be something between Sage and that woman.”
Jack, stirring his soup, looked up. “I didn’t notice that. But come to think of it, I don’t recall seeing him around at all when she came in. Maybe you’re right.”
“Wish you could have seen it. He just looked thunderstruck. Clammed up and dashed right back to the kitchen. It was very weird.”
“Like he knew her from somewhere else and didn’t expect to see her here?”
“Exactly like that. There’s something there—between him and that woman. But he’s not about to tell me, at least not right now. Hopefully, you’ll have better luck.”
“Hmmm.” Jack wiped his chin carefully with a napkin. “I’ll give it a shot. We’ll find out eventually, whatever it is.”
“I don’t want to wait for eventually. This couldn’t have happened at a worse time. Now the Spoonful is associated with murder in everyone’s mind. The more I think about it, the angrier I get. We don’t deserve this.”
“Deserve has nothing to do with it, my girl. We’ll get through. And if not, well, we’ll both figure out something else to do. After all, you’ve got a college degree. Must be lots of things you can do.”
Lucky chuckled. “Oh, sure—a degree in theatre arts. That’ll be very useful in Snowflake.”
Jack reached across the table and grasped her hand. “You never know. Give me a smile now.”
Lucky looked across the table at Jack and tears rushed to her eyes.
“What’s that?” Jack asked. “Tears? No tears, now. Nothing to cry about.”
“Just once, I want something in my life to go smoothly.”
He squeezed her hand. “It will. Never drag the past into your future. Remember that.”
She nodded disconsolately. “Any customers while I was gone?”
“Just Hank and Barry. They stopped in to see how we’re doing, but that’s all. I guess everyone’s afraid to come near us.” Jack turned to look out the window. “Don’t tell me…”
Lucky followed his gaze. A white van topped with an apparatus that looked like a satellite dish slowed to a stop in front of the Spoonful. Across its side in red and blue were large letters—WVMT. Two men jumped out of the rear of the van, followed by a tall woman with long dark hair wearing a red coat. She stood on the sidewalk, directly in front of the blue and yellow neon sign, while a man in a parka hoisted a camera onto his shoulder. Another woman climbed out of the rear of the van. She wore jeans and a jacket and carried a bag with many small pockets on the outside. She whipped out a large makeup brush and quickly touched up the face of the woman in the red coat.
Lucky gasped, dropping her spoon in the soup. “Jack, are they doing what I think they’re doing?”
The second man, standing next to the cameraman, held up three fingers, counting silently…three…two…one…The dark-haired woman held the microphone in front of her, and her lips moved while she gazed intently into the eye of the camera.
Jack jumped up from his chair. “We’ll see about this…” He stomped into the kitchen and returned with a broom in his hands. In a moment, he was out the door and onto the sidewalk, charging the cameraman with his broom. Lucky jumped up and rushed outside. The cameraman’s assistant was doing his best to run interference between Jack and his boss while the dark-haired woman had a terrified look in her eye. Lucky grabbed Jack’s arm just as he was about to smash the broom over the cameraman’s head.
“Jack, please, don’t,” she begged. “This’ll just make things worse.”
Jack looked at her, his face flushed. “These vultures are gonna make things worse. We don’t want this kind of publicity.”
The dark-haired woman spotted her opening. She moved quickly and stood next to Lucky, who was struggling to extricate the broom from Jack’s hands. The camera followed the movements of the newswoman as she turned to the camera again.
“I’m here with the owners of the By the Spoonful Soup Shop, a thriving Snowflake business—thriving, that is, until the discovery of the body of Boston socialite Patricia Honeywell who was brutally murdered at this very restaurant.”
The dark-haired woman stuck the microphone in front of Lucky’s face. “Do you have anything you’d like to add, Miss Johnson? I understand your chef has been arrested for this murder.”
Lucky was shivering from cold, but nevertheless, the words came. “No one—absolutely no one—was murdered at our restaurant. We’re shocked by all this, but we firmly believe our chef is innocent. This had nothing to do with By the Spoonful.” Her anger building now, she added, “And by the way, it’s Jamieson—J-A-M-I-E-S-O-N—not Johnson.”
The dark-haired woman ignored her last statement. Smiling, she turned to the camera. “Well, there you have it, folks. The owners of the By the Spoonful Soup Shop are standing behind the accused murderer. Let’s hope their faith is not misplaced.”
The cameraman yelled, “Cut,” and the woman in the red coat turned her back on Lucky and threw the microphone at her assistant. She grabbed the door handle of the van, climbed into the front seat and locked the door. The cameraman and the makeup woman hurried into the back of the van. As soon as all the doors slammed shut, the assistant revved the engine and the van pulled quickly away.
Lucky and Jack stood rooted to the sidewalk watching as the van took off down Broadway heading for the highway out of town. Jack, muttering to himself, turned and headed back to the warmth of the restaurant, broom still in hand. Lucky followed.
Jack threw the broom in the corner. “I’m sorry I lost my temper like that. But the way they’re making it look, Sage is guilty and we’re running some kind of a murder factory.” His cheeks were still flushed with anger. He swayed as though about to lose his balance. He leaned against a chair and clapped a hand to his chest.
Lucky was instantly alarmed. She rushed to his side. “Jack, what is it?”
He took a very deep breath. “Nothing, my girl. I’m fine.” He smiled weakly at her.
Lucky took him by the arm and led him back to his chair. When he was seated, she asked, “Are you having chest pains?”
“Oh no,” he answered. “Just sometimes…sometimes it feels like…a little pitter-patter.”
“Like palpitations?”
Jack shrugged. Lucky squeezed his hand. “Let’s finish our lunch before it’s completely cold.”
Chapter 13
“WELL, THAT’S IT then,” Eleanor announced as she slid the last document across the desk toward Lucky. “Sign right there, dear, and your listing will be official. Now, you know, you don’t have to accept any offer you don’t like, but once you accept, you’re committed, even though the buyer can still back out.”
Lucky nodded. “I understand.” She pulled the pages closer and signed and initialed in all the spots Eleanor had marked.
“And if you change your mind, I won’t b
e the least bit upset. I’d frankly like to see you hang on to your house.”
“I don’t think I could change my mind, even if I wanted. Especially now, with business going so badly.”
Eleanor laughed mirthlessly. “Tell me about it.” She waved a hand toward the large bulletin board on the wall covered with flyers of properties for sale or for rent. “I’ve had three cancellations so far this morning. I doubt the Resort has been affected, but since this horrible murder, no one wants to be anywhere near town.”
Lucky looked at Eleanor thoughtfully. “Tell me something. Did you rent that cabin on Bear Path Lane to Patricia Honeywell?”
“Yes, I did.”
“What can you tell me about her?”
“Not much, really. She rented that same cabin this year and last winter. Both times after the holidays, for maybe two or three months, depending.”
“How come she didn’t stay up at the Lodge?”
“I asked her that. She said she wanted to be away from the crowds and she liked her privacy.”
“She stayed there all alone?”
Eleanor let out a peal of laughter. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. I’m sure she had lots of company from what I’ve heard.”
“Anybody special?”
Eleanor shrugged. “Not that I know of, nor did I want to know. She was a good tenant, paid her bills ahead of time. No damage to the house. Not a spot of trouble in that regard.”
“You don’t suppose I could have a look around, do you?”
“What for? Are you interested in renting it?”
“No. I’m just wondering if she left anything behind that might give us an idea who killed her.”
“Us? Who do you mean?” Eleanor asked sharply.
Lucky stammered. “I guess I mean all of us. This has hit the Spoonful hard. And if people are afraid to come into town, other businesses will suffer too. We haven’t had one customer since the body was found—not one. Well, Hank and Barry, but they’re there so much it almost doesn’t count. And now with Sage in jail, I don’t know how I’ll keep the place going anyway.”
“I sympathize. But it’s nothing you should be meddling with. That’s Nate’s job, and I know he’s searched that cabin.”
“Are her things still there?”
“Right now they are. Nate finished up but I’ll have to arrange to have her things packed up.”
“Did she have any family?”
Eleanor shook her head. “Just a brother and he lives out West somewhere. So I guess whatever was hers in Snowflake will get shipped to him.”
“So there’s no harm done if I have a look around, is there?”
“Lucky, I can’t let you do that. Bad enough the owners have lost all that rent, and I had to tell them we couldn’t list it yet because of the investigation—plus they’ll probably lose out on the rest of the season.”
“Who owns that cabin?”
“A retired couple from New York. Nice people. They used to ski a lot but don’t get up here very often now, so they rent it out.”
“Can you let me have a key?”
Eleanor groaned. “Lucky, if you want my honest opinion, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be involved in this.”
Lucky stared at Eleanor and said nothing. Eleanor blinked first. “Oh, all right. Fine. I will loan you the key just for today. And whatever you do, don’t move anything around or take anything away. I can’t even imagine what Nate would say if he knew I did this.”
“I swear. I won’t say a word. No one will ever know I was there.”
“You have to get this key back to me by the end of the day. If I’m gone, just slip it in the mail slot, but don’t you dare tell anyone I gave you this.”
“I won’t tell a soul. Cross my heart.” Lucky made a quick cross over her heart with her finger. For a moment, she almost laughed, remembering schoolgirl promises made with solemn vows. “And maybe I’ll find something that will point me in the right direction. Somebody killed her, but I don’t for a minute believe it was Sage.”
Eleanor shrugged. “I hope you’re right. For your sake, at least.”
THE DRIVEWAY HAD been cleared of snow with a shoveled path that led to the front door. Lucky pulled up to the garage and turned the engine off. She wondered if Nate had located the murdered woman’s rental car—a red Jeep from what Janie and Meg had told her. The house was positioned near the top of the hill, within a short walking distance to other homes, but no house was close enough to observe the front door or driveway. Patricia Honeywell had wanted to guard her privacy well.
Lucky climbed out of her car and walked slowly up to the front door. The original house had been a cabin constructed of logs, but modified and remodeled over time. She turned the key in the lock and stepped inside, resisting the urge to call out—after all, no one could answer now. From the street, the house appeared a modest size, but inside, it was spacious with wide floor-to-ceiling windows at the rear offering a view of the mountains. A stairway led down to a lower level. Eleanor had mentioned there were two more bedrooms, a bath and a laundry room downstairs. This was a lot of house for one woman. A deeply cushioned sofa faced the stone fireplace, and an antique clock ticked softly on the mantel.
Lucky walked slowly down the hall, all her senses on alert, hoping to absorb the atmosphere of the house, hoping to gain some understanding of who Patricia Honeywell was and why someone wanted her dead. A faint wisp of perfume hovered in the hallway. There was only one bedroom on the main floor. The scent of perfume was stronger here. This had definitely been the room she used. A pale green silk robe was tossed over the end of the bed. The bedcovers were rumpled, half on the floor. More than one person had slept there last. Several ski outfits, two pairs of wool slacks, a black pantsuit and two cocktail dresses hung in the walk-in closet. Heavy boots and slender black leather ones, along with three pairs of high heels, were lined up on the floor of the closet. On the upper shelf were sweaters in varying shades of blues and greens, folded neatly. A heavy red cable-knit sweater took up the rest of the shelf. Lucky reached up to feel the material. A few of the sweaters were definitely cashmere. She closed her eyes for a moment, trying to visualize Honeywell’s clothing the day her body had been found. She had been wearing a black outfit, slacks, sweater and a black fur jacket.
Had Nate found a cell phone on her body? Lucky couldn’t remember seeing a purse, but she couldn’t be sure. Possibly it was buried with her under the snow. And where was her rental car? Maybe Nate would discover she had been killed in her car and her body dumped behind the restaurant. That might go a long way toward dusting off the Spoonful’s reputation. She immediately felt a pang of guilt for the thought. A woman had been killed and here she was worrying about the Spoonful’s reputation—not to mention the fact that a murderer was probably still on the loose.
Lucky spotted a thin laptop case on top of the desk. It was empty inside. Nate must have taken the laptop to examine the contents. Hopefully the police—Nate or others—would check her e-mails. Those could lead them to someone who had a motive to kill her. A black leather datebook was tucked into the side pocket of the laptop case. Lucky pulled it out, riffling through its pages. She spotted a notation for the starting date of the lease in January, and the address of this house. Eleanor Jensen’s address and office numbers were jotted in the margin next to that in a bold scrawling hand. Inside a pocket of the datebook were several receipts. Lucky pulled them out and laid them on the desk. All local receipts—for clothing and restaurants at the Snowflake Resort.
She checked the calendar from the end pages at the back where a section was empty for notes. On the last page at the back was another Snowflake address, with no name. Lucky recognized it as one of the streets in the Lexington Heights area. She grabbed a notepad from the drawer of the desk and jotted the address down—201 Brewster. The address of a friend or some other connection she might have had in town?
Lucky quickly scanned the pages covering the next few months where Patricia Honeywel
l had made entries for dinner dates, a ballet and a party she would never be attending. Turning back to the page for the day of the murder, she worked back in time. Other than a notation for the start of the lease, the pages were blank.
She shivered suddenly, aware of the emptiness of the house. She couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was hovering. I’m imagining ghosts, she thought.
Lucky carefully opened each of the drawers. They were filled with skimpy lingerie, gloves, hats and scarves. Nothing like looking in someone’s underwear drawer to glean information about them, she thought. The top drawer held jewelry, gold earrings, a bracelet dotted with diamonds, a gold watch and several necklaces. All these things spoke of a careless elegance, a woman who never worried where the next expensive outfit or dinner was coming from.
In the desk drawers, she found lift ticket stubs, brochures from the Lodge and a business card from the Snowflake Clinic. Had she been a patient there? Gone for a flu shot? That would be something she could ask Elias. A large, soft leather purse with multiple side pockets was thrown carelessly in a corner on the floor. Inside was the slim wallet Lucky had seen at the Spoonful on the day she picked up her order. Lucky opened it—no photos, several credit cards in the slots but no driver’s license. Was her license with her the night she was murdered? A small tapestry pouch with a zippered top held a comb and lipstick. Had she gone out that night with only her driver’s license, keys and a cell phone in a pocket of that beautiful fur jacket? Had Nate found those items on her body? Or were they somewhere in her missing car?
In the bathroom, bottles and jars of lotions, creams, nail polish, lipsticks and rouge containers littered the counter. Lucky recognized several expensive brands. The wastebasket held a few tissues and clumps of blonde hair cleaned from a brush. If Marjorie and Cecily were correct, Honeywell had a secret lover and perhaps had carried on more than one affair. Would there be DNA evidence in the house linking her to other men? Would Nate be able to conduct such a high-tech search? Or with Sage in jail, would he even consider it? If there was something here that pointed to another person with a motive, maybe Nate would listen and rethink his decision to arrest Sage.
A Spoonful of Murder Page 7
