A Roux of Revenge

by Connie Archer

  Everyone around the table fell silent. Janie broke the silence when she arrived with her tray. “Are blueberry muffins and jam okay?” she asked.

  Nate looked up. “That’s great, Janie. Thanks.”

  Janie attempted to pass the dish across the table but hesitated. Her hand started to shake. She was looking out the window. Lucky grabbed the dish before it fell and smashed on the table. She followed Janie’s line of sight. He was back again. The same man stood across the street staring at the front window, looking straight at Janie.

  Nate turned his head to look. “Who’s that?”

  Joe peered out the window to have a look. He stared and then turned slowly and looked carefully at Janie.

  Lucky rose and walked toward the window. The man was in shadow. There was a startling resemblance between Janie and this man. The same coppery red hair, the same long face and high cheekbones, but the resemblance was more than just superficial. Lucky couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but she thought it was something about the body language, the tall lanky frame, the way Janie moved. Genes were amazing. Two people could walk and move in a similar fashion because of some shared chromosomes, even though they had never met. Lucky was concerned Joe might have grasped the significance of the man who watched the restaurant and Janie’s nervousness. She hoped Janie’s secrets would remain safe.

  “I think I’m gonna have a word with that guy.” Jack pushed back his chair and stood. He peered through the glass panes at the front door before finally stepping outside and heading across the street. Lucky watched the scene play out from the doorway. If Jack was in any trouble, she could reach him very quickly. Nate stood and joined her in the doorway. When the man realized Jack was heading his way, he turned suddenly and walked quickly down Broadway. Jack shook his head and returned to the restaurant.

  Janie was rooted to the spot; her face had flushed a deep red. She turned and ran back to the kitchen.

  “Who was that?” Joe asked of no one in particular.

  Nate shrugged. “Couldn’t get a good look at him. He took off too fast.”

  Lucky’s first instinct was to protect Janie. For some reason she couldn’t identify, she didn’t want Joe Conrad to get a better look at the man. If Joe realized the man who stood across the street was a twin to the man in Nate’s photo, Janie could discover her relations were suspected of or involved in a crime. She didn’t need to learn that, at least not now. What sort of embarrassment could that cause for her or Miriam? On the other hand, Lucky knew she should share this information with Nate.

  “It’s nothing,” Lucky replied, returning to her seat. She decided to change the subject. “Did you have a chance to talk to the rest of the people out at the festival, yesterday, Nate?”

  “No. That kid who tried to run away—that took up the rest of my afternoon. I plan to go back out there today and question those musicians.”

  Lucky was relieved. Nate would figure things out soon enough without her help. She took a last sip of coffee and gathered up the empty plates. She headed for the kitchen to unload the dishes. Janie was sitting on a stool, covering her face with her hands.

  “Janie . . . ?” Lucky placed a hand on her shoulder.

  The girl took a deep shaky breath. “I’ll be okay.” She looked up at Lucky. “He knows who I am. He knows. Why is he bothering me? Why won’t he leave me alone?”

  Sage was completely in the dark as to the cause of Janie’s distress. “I’ll just get a few things from the storeroom,” he said and diplomatically left the kitchen.

  “I don’t know. But I imagine he’d just like to meet you.” Lucky only hoped that was true, assuming this man really was Janie’s father. She was grateful Janie hadn’t seen the photo of the dead man that Nate had shared. The real question was which man was still alive? Eamon MacDougal, as Miriam thought? Or his twin? And if the man who walked the streets of Snowflake wasn’t Eamon MacDougal, then what business did he have stalking Janie?

  Janie shuddered. “Well, I don’t want to meet him. I just want him to leave me alone. Can you let me know when he’s gone?”

  Lucky sighed. “He is gone. Try not to let this upset you, Janie. It will get better.” Lucky hesitated, wanting to try to reach the girl, hoping that she’d listen, or at least listen to her mother. When no further response from Janie came, Lucky gave up and returned to the main room.

  Jack was waiting for Lucky. “Everything all right?”

  Lucky nodded.

  “What was that all about, Jack?” Nate asked.

  “No idea.” Jack shrugged as he resumed his seat. “We’ve just seen this guy around once or twice. He watches the restaurant like he wants to come in, but then he just walks away.”

  Lucky was relieved Jack didn’t tell Nate the whole story. Nate could keep his mouth shut, but it certainly was none of Joe Conrad’s business.

  Nate took a last bite of his muffin. “Lucky—Jack—you let me know if anybody’s bothering you or if this guy comes back again. I’ll be a lot happier when the festival’s over and all these strangers are gone.” Nate’s phone started to ring. “Excuse me, folks.” He hit a button and stood, moving away from the table. Nate mumbled a few words into the phone. Then he shouted, “What? You are kidding me!”

  Everyone at the table looked up, surprised by Nate’s outburst.

  “What do you mean you didn’t get to him? You’re telling me you didn’t even start the autopsy?” He was fuming. “Don’t give me busy! I’ll tell you who’s busy. I’m busy.” Then a long silence as Nate listened to the voice at the other end of the call. “Damn,” he said. “I’ll be over there in half an hour.” Nate clicked off.

  “Something wrong, Nate?” Jack asked.

  Nate’s face darkened. He turned back to them. “Our body’s been stolen.”

  Chapter 25

  MIRIAM HAULED THE vacuum cleaner out of the hallway closet and set about methodically going over all the floors in each room, the living room, hallway and dining room. She hoped the noise and activity would calm her frayed nerves. She angrily pushed at furniture with the hose as she moved through each room. When she finished the downstairs, she lugged the electric beast up the stairway and continued on the second floor of the house.

  When the vacuuming was done, she pulled a dust cloth from her apron pocket and cleaned all the surfaces in each bedroom, the guest room, Janie’s room and finally her own bedroom. When she came to her bureau, she hesitated over the jewelry box that sat atop the dresser.

  Her heart began to race. She was exhausted. Her hands were shaking. Unable to sleep well the night before, she had woken every hour as the mantel clock chimed below her in the living room. She had mumbled prayers that Janie would return soon. Then she’d tossed and turned, burying her face in the pillow, trying not to cry. Every morning since the argument, she had woken and prayed again that Janie would return, that her daughter would give her the chance to explain, that Janie would forgive her for not telling the truth years before.

  What had kept her from doing so? Miriam sat heavily on the edge of the bed. She reached out and touched the bedspread, the side where Doug had rested for so many years. She imagined him asleep there now, imagined touching him, feeling his arms around her. She missed him terribly. If only he were here now, he would know what to do. He would have been able to talk to Janie. The girl would have listened to him.

  Doug had been Miriam’s strength, her rock for so many years. While she, weak and frightened, hadn’t been able to tell the simple truth to the person she loved most in the world. Was she terrified of being judged? Yet she had done nothing wrong. Her only error was in loving the wrong man with all her heart. And she had been so wrong about Eamon. The real question was, why now? Why was he here, and why was he telegraphing that he knew where she lived? Was that why was he watching Janie? Did he know she was his daughter?

  Part of her longed to see his face. The part of her she had buried years before in that wood. Another part of her wanted to strike out at him, to watch him
fall to his knees and suffer as she had suffered. How dare he think he could arrive on her doorstep and make any claim, least of all a claim on her daughter, the person she would die to protect? What were his intentions? Did he plan to steal Janie away? To kidnap her? To spirit Janie away as punishment because she herself had turned her back on the family? What did he want?

  Her hands were still shaking. She leaned over and curled up in a fetal position on the bed, imagining Doug’s arms around her. She had to stay in control. She had to somehow reach Janie, warn her to be careful, warn her daughter that her former family could be capable of anything.

  Chapter 26

  “HOW DO YOU know for sure, Miriam? How do you know it was Janie’s father who left that flower in your mailbox?” Lucky had gone straight to Miriam’s house as soon as she was able to take a break from the Spoonful. She hadn’t yet said a word to Jack that the man in Nate’s photo was a twin of the man she had seen on stage. Each time he stood across the street from the Spoonful, it had been impossible to get a good look at his face. At first it hadn’t been obvious he was watching Janie, but it had soon become clear. Even so, he had managed to stay far enough away that neither Lucky nor Jack had been able to get a good look at his face. If she and Sophie hadn’t taken Janie to the Harvest Festival and seen the man onstage, Lucky probably wouldn’t have noticed his resemblance to the photo of the dead man.

  Miriam stood in the center of her kitchen, obsessively wiping her hands on a dish towel. “Of course it’s him. It has to be. I know Eamon has a twin brother—identical—but no one else could ever know about the forget-me-nots, certainly not his brother. That was our signal to each other. We used to pick them in the meadows. Only Eamon would know that.”

  “Forgive me, Miriam, but how do you know he didn’t tell someone else about that? Confide in his brother in a weak moment? Even though it was your secret,” Lucky persisted. “They’re twins, or at least they were. They must have been close.”

  Miriam shook her head vehemently. “They weren’t. They were as different as night and day, even though they looked exactly the same. No one could tell them apart except for me. I could. I could always look at Eamon’s face and know it was him. His heart shone out of his eyes.” Miriam sighed. “At least that’s what I used to think. Before . . .” She didn’t continue the thought.

  Lucky knew what she was thinking. Before he abandoned me. “How were they different?”

  Miriam shrugged and sat heavily in the kitchen chair. At least she had stopped wiping her hands on the dish towel. “Taran was a bad apple. Always getting into trouble. Always causing trouble. Sneaking around. No one ever knew what he was up to.”

  “Was Taran a musician as well?” Lucky asked.

  Miriam looked up quickly. “Yes. That’s what they did. The whole family could play several instruments.”

  Lucky reached across the table and grasped Miriam’s hand. “I don’t mean to alarm you, but what if the man in the van was Eamon, and the man who’s been watching Janie is his brother Taran?”

  Miriam gasped. “It couldn’t be. I told you—the forget-me-not.” Her face fell. “You mean the dead man could be Eamon?”

  Lucky didn’t respond but waited for Miriam to process this possibility. “What concerns me is which one of them is watching Janie. We have to find out. You have to see him yourself to be sure. Talk to him. I don’t think the brother . . . Taran . . . could keep up the pretense if he isn’t Eamon.”

  “I can’t, Lucky. I can’t see any of those people. You don’t understand,” Miriam cried. “I’ve spent my whole life hiding from the clan. I’ve spent my whole life recovering from my life with them. I can’t just waltz up to them and say, ‘How are you doing?’”

  “What day did you receive this flower in your mailbox?”

  “Uh . . .” Miriam thought for a moment. “It was . . .” She calculated the days on her fingers. “Five days ago.”

  “On Saturday?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s the same day Nate discovered the body on the road.”

  Miriam gasped, her mind numb with the possibility that Eamon might be dead.

  Chapter 27

  JANIE DROVE AIMLESSLY up and down the streets of Snowflake. She couldn’t bear another night of hanging around Lucky’s apartment or talking to Meg or Rosemary on the phone and not being able to tell them what she was upset about. All they had to say was that she should go home and make amends with her mother. They didn’t understand. How could they? They knew who their parents were, where they came from, who went before them. Nobody was telling them they were the illegitimate children of gypsies. She checked her gas gauge, half full. At least she wouldn’t have to stop anywhere for fuel. She realized she was driving in ever-widening circles.

  She hated to admit it to herself, but she missed her house and her mother’s cooking and her room with all her favorite CDs and books. If this hadn’t happened, that’s exactly where she’d be. Or maybe she’d be with Meg, and they’d be at the festival . . . why did she have to see that man there yesterday? And could he really be her father? She thought back to the times she had seen him outside the restaurant, in the market, walking across the street, paralleling her path, yesterday onstage playing a violin. He was a musician obviously, but he probably couldn’t even read music. Maybe he couldn’t even read period. And her mother. Had she come from the same background? She’d never know unless she talked to her mom. If her mom had been a traveler, how did she ever become the middle class woman who worried about redecorating her house and gardening if she had never known a house or a garden as a young girl? But she had no desire to talk to her mother. She didn’t know if she’d hear the truth or just more lies. There was no way to be sure. She felt as if the ground had turned to quicksand beneath her feet and she was being sucked down into a murky chasm, unable to breathe.

  She continued along the road that led out of town. Without being conscious of driving there, she found herself at the entrance to the parking lot of the festival. She couldn’t admit it to herself, but she was curious, morbidly curious. She wanted to get a closer look at the strange man, at him. Perhaps by staring at him as he had stared at her, she’d derive some answers—answers about her own origin.

  The lot was full, but she was able to find a spot at the end of the parking area, squeezing in between a truck and a subcompact car. She parked and walked toward the entrance. Inside the grounds, a large crowd was gathered at the far end of the field where the band was still playing onstage. All of the farmers had packed up and gone. The only booths still open were those selling handmade goods—jewelry, pottery, kitchenware. Many people milled around the small carousel and the pony corral; they were mostly parents with young children who tugged on their hands, begging for another ride or another run through the corn maze. She spotted Remy near the corral and hoped he didn’t see her. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

  She pulled the hood of her sweater over her hair and slouched against a tree. There were, she was sure, plenty of people here that she knew—neighbors, old school friends. She hoped to avoid them. She needed to remain invisible, anonymous.

  He was onstage, playing a fiddle, but now he accompanied a banjo player and another violinist. The music was up-tempo, like a jig, moving faster and faster. A good-sized audience had gathered to listen to the song. With a final crescendo the music ended abruptly, and a swell of applause filled the air. The band was very popular. They bowed to the audience and were greeted by another round of applause. Smiling, they took a second bow. The lights dimmed, and the musicians turned away, preparing to clear the stage. The crowd, excitedly talking and laughing, began to disperse.

  Janie watched as the musicians packed up their instruments and equipment. She heard snatches of conversation from the stage but wasn’t able to make out the words. At the edge of the outdoor lighting, she was invisible. As long as she stood in the shadow of a tree trunk, she couldn’t be seen. Softly, she moved closer to the next large tree. Her jeans were
dark, her sweater a charcoal gray and her hood covered her hair.

  Several people still remained in front of the stage. They were busy folding up picnic blankets and preparing to leave. It was quieter now, and the conversations onstage were audible. She realized with a shock the musicians weren’t speaking English. But what? Confused, she wondered if they were not just travelers, but foreigners. Her mother would know, but she couldn’t ask her now.

  Janie watched the tall red-haired man carefully as he moved about the stage, winding cords and helping the others pack up. He stopped to talk to a woman in the upstage area who balanced a stand-up bass against her shoulder. They chatted for a few moments, and then he carried the bass off stage and into a waiting van at the side.

  How could this man have a connection to her? Granted they were both tall and slender. They both had auburn red hair, but was there any other resemblance? Was that enough for her to accept that this man really was her father? She thought about the mild-mannered, kind and silly father she had known. Doug Leonard’s hair was brown and later turned to salt-and-pepper and finally completely gray. He always wore glasses and was fond of singing off-key to her. Janie had loved him with all her heart. He had been the perfect Dad. She felt a deep sense of guilt, of disloyalty at even accepting that he might not be her father. He had been only slightly taller than her mother, and Janie, at age fourteen, towered over both her parents. When she was a child, she wondered why her hair wasn’t deep brown, almost black, like her mother’s. Why was it so red, she had asked. She had never liked her hair color. She wanted dark hair, like her mother, but she had been told her great-grandmother had red hair like hers. As a child, she had heard jokes about being stolen by the gypsies. In her case she had been stolen from the gypsies.