A Body in the Auto Body Shop . . .
She clambered over the windowsill and jumped a foot to the concrete floor. She called out again. No answer. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the high dusty windows. She could just see her way across the garage without tripping on any of the hoses lying about on the floor. The large empty space was completely still. She moved toward the front of the shop and pushed open the door of the office where Harry worked. A terrible odor assailed her nostrils. Her foot touched something soft. She looked down and gasped. Harry lay on his side, his eyes staring sightlessly at the legs of a chair. Part of his skull was caved in and a pool of now-congealed blood surrounded his head.
Lucky covered her mouth, trying not to scream, but a low gurgle came from her throat. Jack was right. Harry was gone . . .
Berkley Prime Crime titles by Connie Archer
A SPOONFUL OF MURDER
A BROTH OF BETRAYAL
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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A BROTH OF BETRAYAL
A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Excerpt from A Roux of Revenge by Connie Archer copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
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ISBN: 978-1-101-61980-3
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2013
Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron.
Cover design by Diana Kolsky.
Interior design by Kristin del Rosario.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.
In loving memory of Gale Hyatt.
You will live in our hearts always.
Acknowledgments
With thanks and appreciation to Paige Wheeler of Folio Literary Management for her hard work, good advice and expertise and to Emily Beth Rapoport, Faith Black, and Kayleigh Clark of Berkley Prime Crime for their enthusiasm and support for the Soup Lover’s Mysteries. Thank you to Marianne Grace for her copyediting skill in making this book the best it could be; and to everyone at Berkley Prime Crime who had a hand in bringing this series to life.
Many thanks as well to the writers’ group—Cheryl Brughelli, Don Fedosiuk, Paula Freedman, R. B. Lodge, and Marguerite Summers—for their criticism and encouragement, and last, but certainly not least, special thanks to my family and my wonderful husband for their tolerance in living with a woman who is always thinking about ways to kill people.
CONNIE ARCHER
WWW.CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES.COM
WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES
TWITTER: @SNOWFLAKEVT
Contents
A Body in the Auto Body Shop
Also by by Connie Archer
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Recipes
A Special Excerpt from A Roux of Revenge
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. 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, Nathanael’s brother had been taken prisoner. At the very worst, he was dead.
His family was terrifie
d 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 with information about Jonathan 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 in the town the gunpowder and arms were hidden. Even more, he wanted details about the stores at Bennington, and how many rebels would march to defend the armory.
The Committee of Safety formed in Neigeville was 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 taken to feed the soldiers on their march. A fierce battle was coming, if not here in Neigeville, 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. But did he know enough?
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 moved out of the shadow of the trees. He recognized the linen shirt and brown vest, the wide-brimmed hat, but when the figure 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 rabble-rousing.”
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.”
“Nobody loves that smell. You must be kidding.”
“I do. Really. Always makes me think of summertime . . . you know, when everyone puts away their wool clothes and stuffs mothballs into drawers and closets.”
Sophie guffawed. “Maybe you do. I sure never did. Just the same, you charmed him.”
Lucky smiled, shrugged her shoulders and grasped the handle of the dolly more firmly. She was thrilled that her friendship with Sophie Colgan had been renewed. Several years before when she had left their small Vermont hometown to attend college, Sophie had taken it very badly, reacting with coldness and cutting remarks. A serious rift had formed between them. Now, all that was past and Lucky couldn’t have been happier. Months before, Sage DuBois, the chef at Lucky’s restaurant, and the love of Sophie’s life, had been arrested for the murder of a winter tourist. Lucky had uncovered the real murderer and Sage was freed. She and Sophie had mended their fences and Lucky could count her a close friend once again.
“Pastor Wilson’s just providing a space at the church for the demonstrators to take breaks. We’ll bring over half sandwiches tomorrow and part of the profits will go to the church. But that’s not why he agreed. He believes in the demonstration—no one wants to see a car wash built in the middle of town.”
Sophie shook her head. “I’d like to see all those town council people recalled. How they ever . . . why they ever voted for that disgusting thing, I’ll never understand. It’d make much more sense to build it up at the Resort.”
In winter months Sophie was a top ski instructor at the Snowflake Resort perched halfway up the mountain from the town. During the summer, her schedule was much lighter—giving occasional swimming lessons to summer tourists. That left plenty of time for Sophie to visit the Spoonful, help Sage with his chores and spend more time with Lucky. Right now she was wheeling a dolly of her own, identical to Lucky’s, loaded with drinks for the start of the demonstration the next day.
“I really appreciate your help with this.” Lucky paused to wipe her brow with the back of her hand. Temperatures had soared on the first day of August and the heat had shown no signs of abating. The morning had the stillness that comes when summer heat is at its peak, no crickets, no birds, the heat rising off the asphalt in waves. “Can you believe this weather? And it’s still early in the day too.” She checked her bare arms quickly. She’d have to remember her sunblock when she was out running errands.
They had managed to maneuver their carts to the edge of the Village Green and now, single file, navigated the path to the Congregational Church, a white-steepled building erected in 1749 that sat at the head of the Green. Lucky took a deep breath, relishing the smell of freshly mown grass. “That’s my other favorite summer smell.”
“What’s that?” Sophie didn’t look up. She was focused on making sure none of her crates slid to the ground.
“Grass—the way it smells when it’s just been cut.”
“Hmmm. Okay. I’ll buy that. I like that smell. So . . . cut grass and mothballs . . . anything else remind you of summer?”
“Remember that white cream we used to put all over us when we were kids whenever we got sunburned?”
Sophie laughed. “Oh, I remember. We’d alwa
ys peel after we had worked so hard to get a tan. Don’t tell me you liked the way that stuff smelled? It stunk. We used it ’cause it was all we could find in our parents’ medicine cabinets.” Sophie stopped and looked toward the other end of the path. “And speaking of stinky . . .”
Lucky spotted a woman with bright strawberry blonde hair leaving the church. Rowena Nash—her hair was unmistakable.
“What’s she doing here?” Sophie whispered. “I can’t stand her.”
“Shush . . . she’ll hear you.” Rowena looked in their direction and waved energetically. Changing course, she walked straight toward them. “We’re about to find out.”
Lucky and Sophie had both attended school with Rowena, who now worked for the Snowflake Gazette. Rowena’s zeal in chasing down a story made it clear her sights were set far beyond the Gazette.
“Hey, Lucky. Hi, Sophie. You setting up for tomorrow?” Rowena bestowed a large smile on Lucky while her gaze slid over Sophie.
“What are you doing here?” Sophie asked.
“Oh, I just came over to talk to Pastor Wilson but he’s busy right now. I saw Harry Hodges go into his office. I was thinking of writing something about the demonstration and hopefully getting an interview with Richard Rowland too—you know, the developer of the car wash—kind of airing both sides of the dispute.”
“That sounds interesting,” Lucky offered, sure that no one in town had one ounce of interest in hearing Richard Rowland’s point of view.
“Since you’re here, Rowena, you want to give us a hand with this stuff?” Sophie smiled sweetly.
“Oh, sorry. Love to. But I can’t right now. I have a meeting with my editor. I’ll catch you later.” Rowena flounced off with a last beaming smile and continued across the Village Green.
Lucky turned to Sophie. “You’re incorrigible, you know that, don’t you?”
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