A Spoonful of Murder

by Connie Archer

  There were superficial similarities between Patricia Honeywell and Abigail Starkfield. Abigail must have been very pretty in her youth. The years had marked her, but Lucky could imagine her as a young woman, blonde curls framing her face, her figure slim. Patricia Honeywell, whatever one might think of her morality, had been very well liked by men. That could be especially tempting for a man who may have become bored with his wife of many years. Was Jon Starkfield a serial adulterer, or was his involvement—assuming he was the secret lover, Lucky reminded herself—an impulsive act, a mistake he later regretted? Perhaps once involved he couldn’t or wouldn’t extricate himself.

  The promised warming trend had arrived and layers of ice were melting. A large chunk fell from the roof of the building and flew by Lucky’s kitchen window, landing with a thunk in a snowdrift in the garden below. Lucky leaned forward in her chair to look out. She slid the window open a few inches and placed some nuts on the windowsill, sure the squirrels would find them in the morning.

  The garden behind her building shared a fence with the Victory Garden. In the center of that fence was a gate into the Garden, empty and covered with snow now that the town was in the depths of winter.

  She pushed her window open and leaned out, careful not to go too far in case another chunk of ice fell from the roof. She craned her neck to get a better view. The Snowflake Clinic next door boasted a small parking lot that could accommodate perhaps eight cars at most. A chain link gate in that fence opened into the Garden. On the Broadway side, she knew, a wooden gate led from the Garden to the alleyway that ran behind the Spoonful.

  What if Patricia Honeywell were carrying on a secret affair with Jon Starkfield? What if she hadn’t been killed at the Spoonful, but at the Clinic? Was she threatening to expose an affair and destroy his marriage? Was she pregnant with Starkfield’s child? If that were the case, that Honeywell threatened Jon Starkfield, could he have killed her? There were a lot of “ifs,” but the pregnancy and a secret lover implied a great deal of passion. Could that passion have led to murder?

  Lucky cast her mind back to the discovery of the body by the Dumpster. She closed her eyes and tried to recall every detail of that shocking moment as Sage stood next to her. She remembered the tuft of hair sticking out of the ice and the light catching a sparkling earring dangling from one ear—the right ear. She was sure Nate had been searching for that other earring and hoping to find enough blood to prove she had been killed there. If that earring wasn’t behind the Spoonful, then it could have been knocked off during a struggle. And if there had been a struggle, that earring would be at the place where Patricia Honeywell was killed.

  Lucky stared at the large square of snow in the center of her block—no one would be in the Victory Garden now. In spring, when the snow had melted, local residents, mostly retirees who were lucky enough to be allotted a small garden, would be clearing their plots of land, getting the earth ready for summer vegetables. No one would venture through the melting snow and mud now. It was possible those gates were never locked. If there had been an after-hours assignation and she had been killed at the Clinic or in the parking lot behind the Clinic, could Starkfield have dragged her body through the gate and across the Victory Garden to the alleyway behind the Spoonful?

  Lucky finished the last sip of tea and slipped on her boots and jacket. It was time to do some digging. She left her building and passed by the Clinic on her way around the corner to Broadway. She reached the entrance to the narrow alleyway that led to the back of the Spoonful and halted. She had the distinct feeling she was being watched. She turned quickly and scanned the street. Had she imagined a shadow in the doorway on the other side of Broadway? Her heart was pounding. She waited and continued to watch the shadows but nothing moved. Her nerves were playing tricks on her. She took a deep breath and headed down the alley. She unlocked the back door and flicked on the hallway light. Another small door in the corridor led to a narrow storage closet. She rummaged in the dark until she felt the wooden handle of a spade that Jack used to break up ice. Carrying it with her, she turned off the overhead light and relocked the door. Holding a small flashlight, she examined the wooden gate that led into the Garden. She pushed as hard as she could on the gate but it wouldn’t budge. It had to be locked or barred from the other side.

  Frustrated, she hurried out to Broadway, hoping she’d not be noticed carrying a shovel. She slowed down as she passed the doorway on the opposite side of the street. It was empty. Her eyes must be playing tricks on her. She continued on her way and met no one. She turned the corner on Maple and walked down the narrow drive that led to the parking lot of the Snowflake Clinic. A small night-light glowed from the lab in the rear of the building, but the lot was empty of cars. The gate into the Garden here was secured with only a simple hasp—no lock. Quickly, she flipped it open. It made a loud squeak on its hinges. She pushed the gate with difficulty, hampered by the heavy, wet snow. She squeezed through the gate and, walking at an angle across the Garden, reached the wooden gate behind the Spoonful. This one was barred by a wooden slat. She lifted the slat and struggled to pull the gate inward. Using her shovel, she scooped snow out of the way until the gate moved freely. Before the storm hit there had been very little snow on the ground. It would have been much easier then. She pulled the gate completely open and stared across the alleyway to the exact spot where Patricia Honeywell’s body had been found.

  She didn’t need her flashlight here. Moonlight reflecting off the softening snow lit up the entire Garden. Lucky saw the holes her footprints had left, a clear track from the Clinic to the gate behind the Spoonful. On the night of the murder three feet of snow would have fallen on top of any prints left behind. There might have even been a trail of blood, impossible to find now.

  Someone could have easily—or not so easily—but someone with a certain amount of strength could have dragged a body from the back of the Clinic through the Garden to the rear of the Spoonful in an effort to draw attention away from the Clinic. How much could a body weigh? Perhaps the slim woman had weighed anywhere from 110 to 130 pounds. Lucky was sure she herself would have been able to drag such a weight that distance. Even easier if the body had been placed on a blanket or tarp. The dangerous part would have been the risk of being seen, but that night everyone was hunkered down, drawing their drapes and awaiting the storm. Dressed in dark clothing on a deeply overcast night, no one glancing out a window would have noticed anything at all. The storm started around nine o’clock and lasted for several hours. It would have been possible to easily move the body within the first two hours. After that, snow and wind might have made things more difficult for the murderer. Any footprints or blood trail would have been covered quickly. If the victim had only been unconscious, had she been left to die in the cold? Lucky shivered. Who could have done such a thing?

  Lucky closed the gate and did her best to return to the Clinic gate by stepping in the same prints she had left moments ago. If there was evidence buried under the melting snow, could it be retrieved? Or would most of it melt away? Most importantly, she would have to go to Nate with her thoughts—if only he would listen to her.

  She closed the chain link gate behind her and flipped the hasp over the pole, hoping no one would notice her footprints the following day. If Starkfield were the murderer, he might wonder who had trudged through the area behind the Clinic and left telltale prints.

  Lucky stood by the gate, shovel in hand, staring at the back door of the Clinic. If the murder occurred here, what was Honeywell doing? Waiting for Jon Starkfield? Would he have asked her to meet him here after hours? Did he kill her inside the Clinic? Or did he meet her here in the parking lot? Was she taken by surprise?

  How would a man kill a lover he wanted to get rid of? Especially if that man were a doctor? Would he strangle her? Would he inject her with poison? Did she die from her head wound? Lucky shivered, suddenly frightened to be standing alone in a dark parking lot.

  The Clinic had closed early because of t
he snowstorm. If she had been waiting here for Starkfield and he didn’t arrive, would she drive away? Unless she were sure he was inside the Clinic. If he hadn’t joined her within a few minutes, would she have gone to the back door of the Clinic and knocked—sure that the staff was safely out of the way? Whoever struck her could have been hiding behind a car or the small Dumpster. Two piles of frozen snow were heaped next to the doorway. Lucky thought back to the day of the discovery of the body—in her mind’s eye she saw the blood on the left side of the head, an earring dangling from the right ear; the missing one would have been on her left ear. If she had been standing at the back door to be let in, and was struck on the left side of her head, the impact could have sent her reeling to the right. Did she hit the wall of the entryway?

  Lucky scanned the doorway with her flashlight. Much of the snow had been shoveled away and some had melted. If Honeywell had been struck here, and, she admitted to herself, it was a long shot, perhaps there were bloodstains still visible. Lucky scanned the windows of her apartment building next door and the backs of the houses on Elm Street. When she was sure no curious neighbor had spotted her, she started chipping away at the snow and ice piled on the side of the doorway. If she found bloodstains or the missing earring, she was sure it would be enough to go to Nate and convince him to continue his investigation.

  Holding the small flashlight in her mouth as she worked, she whittled away at the frozen pile at the side of the doorway, scooping it down the stairs. It was slow going, and in the dark she wondered if her eyes were playing tricks on her. She couldn’t be sure of seeing anything with such a small light, but perhaps she’d find the missing earring. After three quarters of an hour, she had managed to clear the ice and snow from the entryway. She was sweating profusely under her sweater and jacket but still terrified of making noise that would attract attention. If anyone looked out a back window on Elm Street and spotted her, they’d think she was trying to break into the Clinic.

  When all the snow and ice had been cleared away, she scanned the wall and doorstep carefully with her small flashlight. Nothing. No bloodstains, no missing earring, nothing. She sat down heavily on the cold concrete step and mopped her brow. Nothing to prove that Patricia Honeywell was murdered here. Any evidence had most likely been taken away by the plow that had cleared the lot.

  A footstep crunched in the snow. She leaped to her feet and grabbed the shovel. Adrenaline coursed through her veins. “Who’s there?” she called out. She scanned the lot quickly. Empty. There was only one way out and that was the narrow driveway that led out to Maple. Someone was in that drive. She was sure of it.

  She had to get out to the street. She’d be trapped here. She shoved the flashlight in her pocket and gripped the shovel with both hands, holding it at waist level pointed away from her. She quickly stepped around the corner of the building. A dark figure stood at the end of the drive pressed up against the building.

  “Hey,” she yelled at the top of her lungs. She started running toward the dark figure, and as she came closer, he turned and ran. There was something familiar about the figure, but she didn’t stop to think about it. She ran to the sidewalk, still holding on to her shovel, ready to use it as a weapon if need be. By the time she reached the street, the dark figure had turned the corner on Spruce and disappeared. She halted at the entrance to her building to catch her breath. He was moving too fast. She couldn’t possibly catch up. But she had a good idea who had been stalking her. She’d bet her last dollar it was Remy. Had he been watching her the whole time she had been digging through the snow? She shivered and climbed the stairs to her building.

  Chapter 30

  LUCKY DRESSED HURRIEDLY the following morning, her arms stiff from chopping ice outside the Clinic the night before. She had a little time to herself since she and Jack wouldn’t open the Spoonful until eleven o’clock. She wasn’t at all sure why they were bothering to open at all. They might just as well hang a quarantine sign on their door to warn people away.

  She hurried out of her building and went next door to the Clinic, hoping Elias was on duty. She needed to talk to someone, preferably him, about her suspicions. Inside, several people were awaiting their appointments. One woman was doing her best to hang on to a squirming boy while rocking a carriage with a crying infant. Rosemary was manning the front reception desk.

  “Hi, Rosemary, I wonder if I could speak to Dr. Scott. I’m sure he’s busy, but I can wait if he has a few minutes for me.”

  “Oh, he’s not on today. He’s doing rounds over at Lincoln Falls. Dr. Starkfield is here, if he can help you. Is it about your grandfather?”

  Lucky hesitated. “Uh, yes and no,” she said, unwilling to admit that her visit to Elias had nothing to do with Jack. “I’m on my way to the Spoonful and…I think I lost an earring. I was just wondering if someone had found it.”

  “I haven’t. But I’ll check with the other receptionist. She might know if anyone’s turned anything in. Did you want Dr. Scott to give you a call anyway?”

  “No need. It can wait. I’ll call him tomorrow. Just had a quick question about something.”

  Rosemary looked dubiously at her. Lucky was sure her excuse sounded flat. Then Rosemary smiled, realizing Lucky’s motive was probably romantic. Lucky felt even more uncomfortable. “Should I let him know you were asking for him?” she asked with a knowing smile.

  “It’s all right. I was just passing by and thought I might catch him for a second.”

  Rosemary continued to smile broadly. “He’s at the hospital in Lincoln Falls today, but he’ll be back to town tomorrow.”

  The door to the inner rooms opened, and Abigail Starkfield stepped into the reception area behind Rosemary. She smiled at Lucky and said, “Oh, hello. We meet again. Can I help you?”

  “Thanks, no. I was just asking Rosemary if Dr. Scott was on duty today.”

  “He’s not available today, but I’m sure we can squeeze you in.”

  “There’s no need. I just wanted a word with him. He examined my grandfather the other day.” Lucky noticed Rosemary’s slight smile.

  “Elias mentioned you’ll be attending our concert tomorrow night.” Abigail smiled broadly. “I hope you like our little presentation. We have some wonderful singers.”

  “I’m looking forward to it.”

  “I’ll tell Elias you were here, and I’ll see you at St. Genesius.”

  With a last glance at Rosemary, Lucky beat a hasty retreat. Rosemary undoubtedly thought she was suffering from lovesickness. She wished it were that simple. She turned and headed around the corner to the Spoonful. She wanted very badly to talk to Elias about her theory. A body could have easily been dragged through the Victory Garden and left behind the Spoonful. Her theory, of course, was based on the assumption that Starkfield was Abigail’s lover and killer. She admitted to herself it was a wild leap, considering it was based on a claim by a man she didn’t know in the slightest. For all she knew, Chance could have fabricated the entire story, although it did have a ring of truth. Seeing Abigail at the Clinic was a sobering moment. She was confronted with the reality of what her theory could mean. If she were correct, that Starkfield was Honeywell’s lover, it would be devastating to a woman like Abigail. How much more devastating would it be if Starkfield were a killer. Maybe it was best Elias wasn’t available. It would give her the day to mull over her suspicions. Time enough to talk to him tomorrow evening.

  LUCKY TRUDGED AROUND the corner to the Spoonful and entered by the front door. Sophie had arrived early and was seated at a table with Jack, sipping coffee. Lucky slipped off her coat and joined them. The restaurant was otherwise empty. Hank and Barry had yet to arrive, and it was too early for Marjorie and Cecily. Lucky heard the sound of running water in the kitchen.

  She looked over at Jack. “Remy’s here early,” she remarked.

  Jack nodded. “It’s good for him to have something to do. His nerves are on edge.”

  “Mine too,” Sophie joined in. “It’s like we�
��re all waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Sophie heaved a sigh. “I spoke to Nate this morning. He thinks he’ll be taking Sage to Bournmouth either tomorrow or Saturday.”

  Lucky reached across the table and squeezed Sophie’s hand. Jack shook his head. “I wish this had gone another way.”

  “Me too.” Sophie blinked back tears.

  Lucky had no response. A sense of gloom had settled over their table. “More coffee anyone? I know I need a cup.”

  “Nah,” Jack replied. “I’m fine.”

  “Sophie?”

  Sophie shook her head negatively and stared blankly out the window. Lucky rose and slipped into the kitchen. Remy was bent over the dishwasher and jumped when he felt her presence.

  “Remy, why were you following me last night?” she asked, resisting the urge to be accusatory.

  “Me?” His face drained of color. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Oh, come on, Remy. I saw you. I chased you. Don’t lie to me.”

  Remy’s shoulders slumped. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I was coming out of the Pub and I saw you walking down the street with the shovel. I was curious. And then I was worried about you. You shouldn’t have been back there all alone.”

  Lucky stared at him for a long minute. His explanation sounded reasonable enough. “Then why did you run away?”

  “Embarrassed, I guess. I couldn’t figure out what you were doing, but I didn’t want you to think I was spying on you.” He shrugged his shoulders. “What were you doing back there anyway?”

  Lucky was tempted to explain, but caught herself. “It’s a long story, but it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll tell you someday.”

  She hoped that Remy was as innocent as he claimed to be and he had no ulterior motive in following her.