A Spoonful of Murder

by Connie Archer

  She took a deep, shaky breath. Now the dishwasher had given up the ghost. Even if, by some miracle, Sage were released, would their business return to normal? Maybe there was a cloud over the Spoonful that nothing could dispel. Maybe it was her. Maybe she was the jinx. She made a notation in the ledger for the amount she would transfer and then deducted the rent, writing a check payable to Norman Rank who owned most of the commercial spaces in town, inherited from one of Snowflake’s original families. She thought if she ever achieved any financial success, she’d buy the building herself and never have to pay rent again.

  She returned to the kitchen to find Jack half lying on the floor and the dishwasher pulled out from the wall. The soup still simmered on the stove. He had spread newspapers on the floor and was busy removing the back covering of the machine. Remy knelt by the toolbox and searched for a screwdriver.

  “Is it fixable?”

  Jack peered up at her. “Possibly. Think it blew its transmission. But if I can’t figure it out, we’ll have to call someone. Any money left in the account?”

  “Sure.” Lucky decided she wouldn’t tell Jack just how low they were. He didn’t need to worry. “We’ll be okay. I’m heading over to Norman’s to pay the rent. I almost forgot today’s the first, and…” An idea had formed in her head. “I have another errand to run but I’ll be back later.”

  “You go ahead. Remy and I can hold the fort.”

  Chapter 28

  ONCE LUCKY HAD transferred the last of her funds into the restaurant account and driven to Norman Rank’s house to drop off the rent check, she returned to her apartment to change her clothes. She dressed in her black skirt and boots and long coat. She wanted to look her best if she had any hope of gaining access to the corporate offices of the Resort. She drove up the hill toward the Snowflake Resort. When she reached the top, she entered through the drive marked by stone pillars. She headed for the building that Tom Reed had entered just two days ago, passing by the spot where he had parked his car. There it was—a silver Saab. Nice looking, undoubtedly with all the bells and whistles. Was this the car Josh had seen at the house on Bear Path Lane? She hit the brakes and stared at the bumper. No blue and white sticker; not even a residue of glue where a sticker might have been. She scanned the parking area, but all the spaces were marked RESERVED. She’d have to park in the next lot and walk back.

  She wasn’t at all sure what she planned to do here. She couldn’t very well go to Nate and tell him she had searched his evidence box. She also couldn’t tell him she had rummaged through the house on Bear Path Lane where she had found Reed’s home address. Reed owed Honeywell or her corporation a great deal of money, and perhaps he was in a position to repay that money on the due date, but perhaps he was not. Perhaps, and she realized this was all speculation, he had borrowed from the corporation in order to invest in the limited partnership that owned and ran the Resort. If so, that investment earned him a share of the profits, and a very nice living for himself and his family. If he couldn’t repay the money on time, Honeywell could have brought a lawsuit against him, uncovering his shaky finances. Surely he had a hefty share of the profits here, but was it enough to pay back $5 million on demand? And then there were his political aspirations. It wouldn’t help his campaign to be sued for nonpayment of a promissory note while he was running for the state senate.

  She wasn’t sure what she was going to say to Reed, but she knew she wanted to meet him, no matter what wheels she might set in motion. She had been accused of opening her mouth and putting her foot in it often enough, and she knew it was a fair assessment, but the time had come to upset a few applecarts. Tom Reed wasn’t above suspicion. After all, she justified, she was doing what Nate should be doing. Reed might have an office at the top of the mountain, but he and his family still had to get along in Snowflake.

  She pushed through the door and entered a reception area. A slender young girl with very long red nails sat at the console. She was reading a fashion magazine and reluctantly pulled herself away from an ad for the latest colors in lip gloss.

  “Can I help you?” She looked up, eyes rather glassy, as though bored and waiting for her day to end.

  “I’d like to speak to Mr. Reed.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. I just had a minute and wanted to stop by. We’re old…we have a friend in common. I’m sure he’d like to speak with me.”

  “Your name?” she asked.

  “Lucky Jamieson.” Lucky smiled back at her with what she hoped was a confident smile.

  The girl’s lips twitched ever so slightly as if to say, I doubt it, but she reached for her telephone and hit an intercom button, repeating Lucky’s message.

  The girl nodded and finally put down the phone. “Step through that archway and turn to the right. Mr. Reed’s office is the third on the left.”

  “Thank you.” Lucky turned and headed farther into the building. As she rounded the corner, she spotted the man she had followed standing in the corridor looking out for her. He smiled smoothly as she approached. The kind of smile a used car salesman first gives you when you walk on the lot, as if to say, I’m your best friend and you’re going to be so happy with the deal I’m about to offer you.

  He held out his hand as she neared him. “Ms. Jamieson, is it? Please step inside.”

  “Thank you.”

  He held the door open and followed her into a large modern office.

  “Please—have a seat. Now, how can I help you?” His eyes gave her a quick perusal, wondering if she were selling something, or if there were something he could sell to her. “We might have a friend in common, did you say?” Never one to pass up a business opportunity.

  “Friend might not be the best way to put it.”

  “Oh?” he replied, rearranging the pens on top of his desk.

  “But I believe we both have a connection of sorts with Patricia Honeywell.” Was it her imagination or did his facial muscles tighten slightly?

  He hesitated a moment too long. Lucky could see the wheels spinning behind his eyes—eyes that had grown rather hard in the last few seconds.

  “Patricia Honeywell, did you say? Hmm.” His breath drew out as if trying to remember who that might be. “And what would your connection to Ms. Honeywell be?”

  “It’s because of her that my business is in a bit of trouble, to put it mildly. Her body was found behind our restaurant and our chef has been arrested for murder.”

  “Oh,” he said, surprised. “Oh,” he repeated. “Well, that’s too bad. I’m just not…I’m not sure what this could have to do with me. I don’t quite remember her, that is if I ever knew her.”

  She crossed her fingers and dove in. “I doubt you could have forgotten the large sum you owed her—or still owe her estate.”

  There was no doubt about it now; his complexion paled. “How did you…Who are you?” he demanded.

  “Exactly who I’ve told you. I just wanted to meet you in person and talk to you.”

  “Why? What do you want?” The eyes had turned a steely gray and his jaw was clenched.

  “I don’t wish you any harm. I only want the guilty party punished.”

  “And you think?” he blustered. “Are you implying that I had something to do with a murder? How dare you!” he exclaimed. “Didn’t you just say your…what was it…cook was arrested for her murder? Why are you here—in my office?”

  “Chef. ‘Chef’ was the word I used. He may have been arrested, but I doubt he did it. I think somebody else—somebody with a very strong motive—killed her. I just wanted to talk to you about the money you owed her.”

  “Well, fine. You’ve done just that. And for your information, if, and that’s if, I owed her any money, then I would still owe that money to whoever represents her estate. And I think, young lady,” his voice became a harsh whisper, “you need to get the hell out of my office and this building right now.”

  Lucky slipped out of the chair and put her hand on the doorknob.
She turned back, trying her best not to let her voice tremble. “I just have one more question.”

  “What?” Reed snarled.

  “Was there more to your relationship than just business?” she asked quietly.

  He placed his hand on the phone. “I’m calling security right now.”

  “No need. I’m leaving.” She slipped through the door and hurried down the corridor, past the girl still reading the fashion magazine. Once out in the cold air of the parking lot, she took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Tom Reed could very well have been the person who tore up the house on Bear Path Lane and shoved her down the stairs. He was guilty of something. She just wasn’t sure if it was murder.

  Lucky trudged back to her car. She noted that all the lots at the Resort had been plowed and swept clean—better even than the streets of the town. Reed had a very good reason to want Honeywell dead. Five million was a lot to come up with if he was hurting financially. His house, as nice as it was, couldn’t possibly generate that kind of a loan. Had he needed that cash to buy into the partnership and assure his position? With Honeywell dead, there’d be no need for him to meet the demand date of the promissory note. As he said, he would still owe the cash to her estate, but her death would buy him time. Honeywell must have had an attorney in Boston, and that attorney would have the information to track down Tom Reed. She would have been able to sue Reed personally, but would she have been able to cause financial difficulties for him at the Resort? Had Tom Reed torn up the bedroom on Bear Path Lane searching for the promissory note? It could take weeks, perhaps months, for an attorney to sort out her affairs and for someone to come knocking, asking for repayment. Was her attorney, whoever he or she might be, alerted to the fact, and ready to pounce? Or had she contacted a local attorney, licensed to practice law in this state?

  Lucky reached her car and shoved the key in the lock. She needed to get back to the Spoonful. After her promise to Jack, she felt a bit guilty not giving him a heads-up about her plan to confront Reed, but she knew he’d never approve.

  A footstep crunched in the snow behind her. She whirled to find Chance, smiling, and standing a bit too close for comfort. She felt a shiver of fear. She was some distance from the office building and it was growing dark. No one knew she was here.

  “Hey there!” Chance smiled a slow, suggestive smile. “We meet again.”

  Lucky gulped, trying to recover from her initial scare. She backed up against the door of her car to move away from him. She finally managed a smile. “Just visiting.”

  “Really? Here?” Chance looked around, obviously aware that the only near building housed the administration offices.

  “I could ask you the same question.”

  Chance smiled even more lazily. “Well, since you ask, I have a date with that cute little receptionist in there,” he said, pointing to the main entrance. “Very handy to have friends in administration—especially ones that keep you posted on the gossip.” He shoved his hands in his pockets. “Have you had any luck unearthing more dirt on our Ms. Honeywell?”

  “Not really,” Lucky replied.

  “Oh. I thought maybe that’s why you were visiting the offices of the big guns—Tom Reed to be more specific.” He raised one eyebrow and leaned lazily against the door of her car. Lucky didn’t respond to the taunt. “What was the name of your restaurant again? I’ll have to make sure I stop in next time I’m down in the town.”

  “By the Spoonful. We run a soup shop—soup and other things.”

  “Where is it? On Broadway?”

  Lucky nodded. His nearness was making her uncomfortable. And after all, she thought with a chill, he had been involved with Honeywell too. For all she knew, Chance had lied through his teeth and had a very good motive to kill, maybe even better than Tom Reed. She turned her key in the lock and said, “Excuse me,” forcing Chance to move away and allow her to open her car door. She climbed in, but before she could close it, Chance laid his hand on the door-jamb and leaned closer. There was a glint in his eye that Lucky thought could turn nasty in a split second.

  “I’ll definitely stop by real soon.” He smiled, watching carefully for her response. She felt like a small mammal transfixed by a snake.

  “That would be great,” she replied neutrally, reaching out to pull the door shut against his advances. Did this work on most women, she wondered?

  Chance lifted his hand, but before she could shut her car door, he said, “Oh, actually I almost forgot. There was something I meant to tell you.”

  “And what was that?” His casual attitude was irritating her no end.

  “Well, one time Patsy twisted her leg—skiing. I saw her that night and it seemed it was bothering her. I offered to get her an appointment up here with one of the ortho docs, but she just laughed and said not to bother. Said she got all her medical treatments for free. Just struck me as strange—thought you might be interested, that’s all.”

  “What did she mean by that?”

  “Who knows? Maybe she had somethin’ going with one of the docs up here. The Resort offers everything. There are three on staff, two orthopedic guys and one trauma doc.”

  Lucky remembered the card from the Snowflake Clinic she had found in Honeywell’s datebook and the brochure she had picked up from the Snowflake Clinic. She turned and rummaged in her purse. She handed the folded brochure to Chance.

  “Did you ever see her with any of these people?” The cover showed a smiling group shot of the entire Clinic staff: Elias and Jon Starkfield, their assistant and nurse, the records clerk and Rosemary and Melissa, the two receptionists.

  Chance took it from her outstretched hand and studied it briefly. He shook his head. “Nope. Never seen any of these people, much less any of them with Patsy.” He handed it back to Lucky. “Like I said, I didn’t see her that often. Only when she called.” He smiled again. “Sorry—not much help, I know.”

  “Thanks anyway.”

  Chance backed away and Lucky pulled her car door shut. She drove slowly toward the gate and saw Chance in the rearview mirror watching her. He turned finally and headed for the administration building just as she reached the access road. Would Chance have passed on his information if he hadn’t accidentally run into her? Was their meeting an accident? She shivered. Had he somehow been keeping tabs on her? Ridiculous! She pushed the thought away.

  As she drove, she replayed her conversation with Tom Reed. He had had an extreme reaction. Of course, in all fairness to him she had alternately accused him of infidelity and possibly murder. Maybe he was perfectly justified in his reaction, but there was something not quite right there, nonetheless.

  And what exactly had Chance said? Said she got all her medical treatments for free. Was she seeing a doctor? Someone at the Resort where three doctors were on staff? Someone at the hospital in Lincoln Falls where many more doctors must have parking permits? Perhaps that’s what Josh saw the night he slipped on the ice, or was it someone closer to home? Someone in Snowflake? Chance thought Honeywell had a reason to be here—to be close to someone in Snowflake. A married man? Otherwise why would a woman who thought nothing of carrying on multiple affairs be secretive? There were only two doctors in Snowflake, and one was married. She thought of Elias but quickly pushed the thought away. It just couldn’t be possible.

  Could Jon Starkfield not be the down-to-earth, likable man and devoted husband he appeared to be? Was that an act? His wife seemed a very charming woman, but that didn’t stop a lot of men from straying. Why would someone like him—a respected man in his fifties—carry on, especially with a woman like Patricia Honeywell, a socialite with money who knew no boundaries? There was only one person she should talk to and that was Elias—surely he would know Starkfield well enough to know if his partner were capable of such a thing.

  When she reached Broadway, she drove past the restaurant. It was closed. Jack must have decided to close up and go home. Hopefully one or two customers might have strayed in during the afternoon. There had to be
someone within a ten-mile radius who hadn’t heard of the murder and didn’t suspect the Spoonful of harboring a murderer. It was frightening how quickly years of good reputation could be washed away by one dreadful act.

  Chapter 29

  LUCKY HEATED WATER in the kettle to brew a cup of tea. She turned a kitchen chair toward the window and sat, staring out into the dark—a darkness carpeted by white snow. The old Victory Garden took up most of the square block area behind her apartment building. Its entrance was on Spruce Street to her left. A tall wooden fence separated the Garden from its neighbors and marked its entire perimeter. Maple, Elm and Spruce and the alleyway parallel to Broadway were the streets that formed the square block enclosing the Garden. To her right was the parking lot behind the Clinic with access only to Maple Street. From her perch she could see the top of the Spoonful, but the back fence of the Victory Garden blocked her view of the alleyway behind it.

  She mulled over Chance’s remark once again. Jon Starkfield could fit the bill—local and married. She sipped her tea and thought about him and his wife. Jon and Abigail Starkfield—two opposite personalities—Jon, charming and distinguished and warm, and Abigail, pleasant but buttoned-up and conservative. Perhaps marriage was like that—people balancing each other out. She thought about her parents, her Dad only slightly stricter than her Mom, but both of them open and friendly people, always ready to extend a helping hand to anyone who needed it. They were, in that respect, two peas in a pod, but perhaps some marriages weren’t like that at all. People married the people they needed to be with, a spendthrift and a frugal person, an outgoing spouse and an introverted one.