“I think Sage is over the moon, and no, I don’t think he will.”
“I’m still having a hard time getting my head around it—of all people. She was a real nice lady.”
Lucky felt a wave of sadness wash over her, remembering Abigail’s song at the concert, the notes echoing from the rafters.
Nate shot her a look. “Starkfield’s completely fallen apart. He’s told me everything. How he pushed you down the stairs at the house…”
“Oh.” Lucky blushed. “I was hoping you never found out I was there.”
Nate’s lips tightened. “He was in a panic that something in the house would point to his involvement with Honeywell. He was desperate not to have it known he was seeing her. He’s admitted to taking Elias’s car to go up to the house. He was afraid to use his own car—afraid someone might recognize it. I really don’t think he had any suspicion about Abigail at first—just afraid he’d be a suspect in a murder investigation.”
“I’m sure that’s true. My guess is Abigail used Jon’s phone to text Honeywell to meet at the Clinic. Honeywell thought she was meeting Starkfield, but Abigail was waiting for her.”
“That’s what Starkfield’s told me,” Nate replied. “It was only later that he saw there was a text sent the night of the murder. That’s when he started to put it together.”
“You think Abigail planned to kill her?” Jack asked.
“No. Not at all. I’m sure Abigail only wanted to tell her to stay away from her husband. She told me…that day in the belfry…” Lucky closed her eyes for a moment to shut out the memory. “She said Honeywell laughed at her and told her she was pregnant with Jon’s child. It must have been devastating for Abigail. When Honeywell’s body was discovered the next day, I’m sure Starkfield never suspected Abigail. Once he figured it out, he was only concerned with protecting her.”
“You could press charges against him—for assault—if you wanted.”
Lucky shook her head. “To tell you the truth, I’d rather never see the man again, if that’s possible.”
“And then again, I could charge him with obstructing my investigation. But he might have to kiss his license to practice medicine good-bye.” Nate raised his eyebrows and watched Lucky. “What do you think?”
“It’s up to you, but I think we should let the whole thing go. He’ll have to live with the consequences. I can’t imagine anything worse.”
“Yeah, I agree.” Nate shook his head. “We just don’t know how she did it. And Starkfield swears he doesn’t either. He never confronted his wife about what he knew. We searched the house, both cars, even the Clinic—we still don’t have the murder weapon.”
Lucky had a clear image of Abigail in the church preparing for a baptism. She sighed. “You need to have a good look at the candelabra on the altar. I think you’ll find your murder weapon.”
Chapter 39
IT WAS AFTER midnight by the time the last guest had gone. Jack had stretched out his legs and was sipping his beer at one of the tables. “I’ll swab the deck in the morning, my girl, if that’s all right with you.”
“That’s fine, Jack. We should all go home and get to bed. It’s looking like we’ll be busy tomorrow.”
With Janie, Meg and Remy helping, they loaded all the trash and napkins into garbage bags, started the dishwasher and put away their leftover food. Jack finished his beer and slipped on his jacket. Lucky gave him a hug and walked him to the front door.
“Go home and get some rest. I know you’re feeling better, but don’t push it.”
“I will, my girl. It’s just past eight bells. Midnight’s not late when you’re young at heart.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the forehead. “You’ll be okay on your own?”
“Sure will. No worries.”
“You’ve gotta learn to take your own advice.” He smiled and walked out to the sidewalk. Lucky locked the door after him.
“We’re done here, Lucky. Okay if we take off?” Janie called.
“Go ahead. I’ll be fine. Just leave the trash bags by the back door. I’ll dump them.”
Remy and the girls called good night from the corridor. Lucky heard the door to the alleyway slam behind them.
She was relieved the night was over. It had been a lot of fun, but she was very, very tired. She walked around the room, turning out the lamps and finally the neon sign in the front window. She thought she heard the laughter of her parents, but when she turned around there were only shadows. She sighed and slipped on her jacket. Opening the back door, she lugged four large trash bags down the stairs to the Dumpster. She tossed them all in and dropped the lid. She shivered, suddenly realizing she was standing on the very spot where Patricia Honeywell had been found. She shook the feeling off and locked the back door, shoving the keys in her pocket. She followed the narrow alley out to Broadway and looked up and down the street. Not a soul in sight. The night was so cold the air crackled. A wolf cried in the distance.
A week before, she wouldn’t have thought a night like tonight possible, but now Jack was in good health and spirits, Sage was back to his job and their customers and neighbors would no longer be afraid. She didn’t notice the shadow on the steps of her apartment building. She jumped when she realized someone was sitting on the top step.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” He stood.
“Elias!” She was still for a moment, not sure what to say. He had been invited tonight. She had looked out for him all evening but knew he hadn’t been there in the crush of people.
“I was waiting for you. I just wanted to say I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. I handled everything badly. I was just so frightened…” she trailed off.
Elias loped down the stairs to envelop her in a hug. “I was wrong. I was pigheaded and stubborn and I should have listened to you the first time. Can you forgive me?”
Lucky’s heart leaped. “Of course.” Elias leaned down and, holding her chin, kissed her long and passionately. There was no doubt of his intentions any longer.
“There’s just one thing I want to know.”
Lucky waited. “What’s that?”
“What does Lucky stand for?” She couldn’t see his smile in the dark but she was sure it was there.
“You’re very persistent.”
“It’s my middle name.”
“It’s short for Letitia,” she mumbled.
“That’s a beautiful name.” Elias pulled away and studied her face. “But why not Lettie?”
“I told you, Jack named me. Someday maybe I’ll tell you why—if you’re lucky.”
Recipes
POTATO-YAM SOUP
(Serves 4)
1 red pepper
4 carrots
2 large potatoes
1 yam
4 cups chicken stock or chicken bouillon
½ teaspoon white pepper
½ cup cream
Dash of paprika
Remove seeds from red pepper and chop into cubes. Place pepper cubes in soup pot, cover with water and simmer for 10 minutes. Slice carrots and add to pot. Peel potatoes and yam, cut into cubes and add to pot. Add 4 cups of chicken stock to cover vegetables. Bring to a boil and reduce heat. Let simmer for 20 minutes. Add white pepper and stir. Potatoes should be quite soft. Continue stirring until potatoes have softened completely and soup is thickened. Add cream and stir again. Serve with a dash of paprika in each bowl.
WILD MUSHROOM SOUP
(Serves 4)
2 cups dried porcini mushrooms
1 cup warm water
2 tablespoons olive oil
2 leeks, finely sliced
2 shallots, chopped
1 garlic clove, chopped
8 ounces fresh wild mushrooms
5 cups vegetable stock
½ teaspoon dried sage
Salt and ground black pepper
½ cup light cream
Fresh thyme to garnish
Add dried porcini to bowl of warm water and soak for half an ho
ur.
Remove from the liquid and finely chop, reserving the liquid for later.
Heat oil in large pot. Add leeks, shallots and garlic, cooking slowly for 5 minutes, stirring until softened. Chop fresh mushrooms and add to pan. Stir mixture over medium heat for 5 more minutes. Add vegetable stock and bring to boil.
Add the porcini mushrooms, sage and reserved liquid. Season with salt and pepper to taste.
Simmer gently for 20 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Puree soup in food processor or with a wand. Stir in cream and reheat gently. Garnish with a sprig of thyme.
TOMATO SPINACH SOUP
(Serves 4)
2 cups of jumbo pasta shells
1 tablespoon olive oil
½ medium onion, coarsely chopped
1 clove garlic, chopped
1½ pounds of tomatoes (or substitute a 16-ounce can of crushed tomatoes)
6 carrots, peeled and chopped
3 cups frozen or fresh spinach
2 tablespoons of dried oregano
2 tablespoons of dried basil (fresh basil leaves are even tastier)
6 cups of vegetable broth
Salt and pepper to taste
½ cup grated Parmesan cheese
Bring salted water to boil in a large pot. Add 2 cups of jumbo pasta shells to the boiling water with a few drops of olive oil. Stir and lower heat slightly. When pasta is only slightly al dente, drain and set aside.
Sauté the onion and garlic with olive oil in the pot for 5 minutes, then add the tomatoes, carrots, spinach, oregano and basil. Add vegetable broth to the mixture. Bring to a boil, lower heat and simmer for 20 minutes. Ladle soup over the pasta shells and serve with grated Parmesan cheese for garnish.
GOAT CHEESE AND PANCETTA SANDWICH
2 slices of crusty bread
1 tablespoon of olive oil
1 tablespoon of balsamic vinegar
⅓ cup goat cheese
3 slices of pancetta
3 figs, chopped
Brush olive oil and balsamic vinegar on two slices of crusty bakery bread.
Spread goat cheese, then a layer of pancetta and a layer of chopped figs.
FRENCH TOAST SANDWICH
1 egg
⅓ cup milk
2 slices of white or whole wheat bread
Sliced mushrooms
1 slice Swiss cheese
Worcestershire sauce
Whisk one egg in a shallow dish, adding milk to the egg mixture. Dip each slice of bread in the mixture, coating both sides. Using cooking spray or a small amount of butter, place bread slices in a pan, cooking until both sides of the bread slices are browned.
Layer mushrooms on one slice, add a layer of cheese, cover with other slice of bread and, flipping over, heat both sides until the cheese has melted. Drizzle Worcestershire sauce over the top.
Turn the page for Connie Archer’s next book
in the Soup Lover’s Mysteries…
A Broth of Betrayal
Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!
Chapter 1
Neigeville 1777
NATHANAEL COOPER CREPT slowly, staying as close as possible to the trunks of the larger trees. He moved silently, fearful of giving his presence away. His heart beat so heavily he thought his chest would burst. Fragrant pine needles and dead leaves, dry and crumbled from the summer heat, carpeted the forest floor. A small twig crackled beneath his feet. He uttered a curse under his breath and froze, terrified the sharp sound would give him away. There were watchers now—watchers everywhere—on both sides. The town of Neigeville had formed a committee of volunteers to monitor the roads and report all movement, particularly British, immediately. At the slightest alarm, the church bells would be rung to wake the countryside.
He had lain awake that night until he was certain everyone in the house was asleep—his mother, father and sisters. He hoped they’d sleep deeply and not wake to find him gone. He did not want to explain to anyone what he was about. Once certain it was safe, he crept softly down the stairs and out into the fragrant humid night. No one must know. He would never be forgiven. He would be killed, no doubt about that, and most likely his entire family as well. At the very least, their home and all their goods would be confiscated by the militia.
His feet were encased in gray homespun socks and soft leather boots that made little noise but even so, a chorus of cricket song quieted at each step he took. A small animal scurried away through the underbrush. It was the dark of the moon, just a day or two to the new moon. Hard to see anything at all, much less among the trees. He edged closer to the clearing where only thin saplings would offer him protection, careful not to step out of the shelter of the dark. A single lantern burned in the window of the tavern below where the British officer had approached him that very afternoon. Somehow the man knew about his brother, knew that Jonathan was missing. Nathanael had last seen his brother driving away in the family’s horse drawn cart to deliver ale to a neighboring town. The family had asked everyone in town if they had seen Jonathan or heard any news of him. They had searched for him but had learned nothing. His mother was consumed with worry, sure her missing son had been shot by the British. At best, his brother had been taken prisoner. At the very worst, he was dead.
His family was terrified by the events unfolding around them, as were many others. Angry at the arrogance of the British regulars, the townspeople wanted to drive them out. Yet many believed that as British citizens they still owed allegiance to the king. Feelings had reached a boiling point and now there was no more time to debate. Everyone must choose a side. Nathanael’s father was eager to fight, held in check only by his mother’s fears. It was his father’s hesitation that had caused the town to turn a suspicious eye in their direction. Against his mother’s wishes Nathanael himself had joined the militia, more in an effort to protect his family than for any other reason. He had no desire to fight, to kill other men, even if they were British. Like his brother, he had little interest in politics and wished only to live the quiet life of a farmer. He hoped he’d never be forced to kill anyone, British or Yankee.
The strange man had worn the clothing of a local, short trousers and a coat of homespun cloth, in shades of brown, but there was no mistaking him for a colonial. His manner was high-handed and arrogant, used to giving orders. He hadn’t fooled anyone in the tavern, not even the young boy who swept the floor. Another man followed in his footsteps and took orders from him—a servant. Only a British officer would keep a servant. Perhaps the pastor was correct—if the town did not take up arms, if the rebellion were quashed, they’d be slaves to the crown forever. Nathanael was torn—stay loyal to the king and hope for peace, or join the rebels in their hatred of the king’s authority? An iron fist was closing over all their land. The loyalists were called traitors and the rebels were at risk of their lives. To be hesitant to take a side might mean death at the hands of a neighbor.
The man had accosted him that afternoon outside the tavern. He had news. His brother Jonathan had been taken prisoner on the road to Bournmouth, his cart, ale and horses confiscated. The officer swore to Nathanael that Jonathan was still alive and promised to reveal where his brother was being held. In exchange, he wanted information. Young as he was, Nathanael was no fool. He knew there’d be a price to pay, but gasped when he learned what the man wanted. He demanded to know where the gunpowder and arms were hidden in the town, and how many might march toward Bennington. Even more, he wanted details of the stores at Bennington.
The Committee of Safety formed in Neigeville were certain the British, approaching from the north, planned to confiscate all the guns and ammunition that had been so carefully stockpiled, and ultimately gain control of the armory at Bennington. At meetings, townspeople had learned that the ranks of Burgoyne, the hated British general, were swelled with Hessians, loyalist Canadians, Indians and French. They knew their horses and cattle would be confiscated to feed the soldiers on their march. A fierce battle was coming, if not here in Ne
igeville, then closer to Bennington.
Nathanael knew that, with the blessing of their minister, guns and powder were hidden under the pulpit of the white steepled church on the Village Green, but he was not privy to any information about the armory at Bennington. Nathanael would happily give the lobsterback all the details he wanted, if only he could free his brother and bring him home. He shivered in spite of the warm night. Where was the man? He was terrified of the officer, but far more terrified of discovery by his fellow townsmen. He hated to think what would happen to him if it were known he had provided information to the enemy. A branch crackled and Nathanael jumped in terror. The man had come through the woods behind him and now had stepped out into the clearing. Nathanael watched and waited. His heart finally slowed its rhythm. He took a deep breath and stepped out of the trees. He recognized the linen shirt and brown vest, the wide-brimmed hat, but when the shadow turned toward him, his blood ran cold. This was a different man, shorter and stockier, not the officer he had promised to meet. The man raised his gun. A shot rang out. Nathanael reeled back, falling against a tree. More surprised than in pain, he looked down at his chest to see his life’s blood flowing from a wound. The last word he heard was “Traitor.”
Chapter 2
“HOW DID YOU ever manage it?”
Lucky stopped in her tracks, almost losing control of the dolly loaded with bottled and canned drinks. “Manage what?”
Sophie smiled. “Getting Pastor Wilson to host the demonstration. Unbelievable.”
“Well, I don’t know about hosting, but he’s volunteered the meeting hall.”
Sophie shook her head. “Amazing. I mean he’s so stuck in another century, and you’ve virtually talked him into rabblerousing.”
Lucky smiled. “He’s not a bad sort at all. I really like him.”
Sophie wrinkled her nose. “He smells of mothballs.”
Lucky laughed. “Maybe that’s why I like him. I love the smell of mothballs.”
A Spoonful of Murder Page 26
