A Broth of Betrayal

by Connie Archer

  Lucky followed the corridor to the front room and turned off the lamps one by one. She approached the window to turn off the last lamp. A peripheral movement caught her eye—a shadowy figure across the street. She moved closer to the window and, shading her eyes, peered out. “Jack?”

  “Right here.” Jack had followed her to the front room.

  “Come over here,” she whispered. Jack moved toward the window and stood next to her in the dimly lit room. “Look across the street. Someone is skulking around and going through garbage cans. It’s the woman I saw at the construction site the other day. Who is she?”

  Jack turned off the last lamp and stared across at the opposite sidewalk. “I see her now. That’s Maggie Harkins.”

  “Oh, that’s right. Elizabeth mentioned her name the other day too. Does she not have any money or enough to eat?”

  “It’s not that. She’s got her house and her husband’s pension and all. I don’t think it has anything to do with money.”

  “Is she mentally disturbed?” Lucky continued to gaze as the disheveled woman investigated the next garbage can and tucked a rolled-up newspaper under her arm. Her lips were moving as though she carried on a dialogue with herself.

  “In a way, maybe. She was a widow for years and then she lost her only child—a boy—oh, maybe, let’s see, twenty-five years ago, I guess. Really pushed her over the edge. Sad . . . don’t think she ever got over it.”

  “You think she needs help?”

  “I doubt she’d take it. The thing is . . .” Jack continued to stare at the figure in the shadows. “She usually doesn’t come into town, not that I can recall. Always thought maybe a neighbor did errands for her. You say you saw her at the construction site?” He turned to Lucky with a puzzled frown.

  “She wasn’t part of the demonstration, but she was sort of hanging around by the chain-link fence afterward. Elizabeth knew who she was.”

  “Elizabeth knew her and her son years back. Danny was one of her pupils when she was still teaching.” Jack heaved a sigh. “Very sad. So lonely, that poor woman.”

  Lucky flicked off the blue and yellow neon sign in the front window. “It’s a beautiful night. Let’s go for a walk and get that ice cream.”

  “Two scoops, as promised.” Jack locked the front door behind them and Lucky slipped her arm through his as they headed down Broadway. Outside the air was moist and fragrant. Moths fluttered in the halos of light around the streetlamps. Lucky stole a glance over her shoulder as the figure in the shadows melted away.

  Chapter 15

  TUCKING HER SKIRT between her knees, Lucky knelt on the grass and pulled a gardening trowel from her basket. It was early morning yet but the day promised to be another scorcher. The morning had that stillness that comes when the air doesn’t move and even the birds are silent. Lucky breathed in the aroma of cut grass. The clumps of dirt in her hands felt warm and fragrant.

  Using the sharp edge of her tool, she carved a neat trench at the base of the gravestone, pulling up clods of grass and shaking off the loose dirt. When she was satisfied with the space she had created, she added rich potting soil and carefully slipped the containers of bright purple phlox out of their small plastic pots, padding them into the soft earth. It was late in the season to plant these, but they were hardy perennials and should last through the fall. With luck, they’d return in profusion in the spring. She patted the earth gently around the blossoms and moistened the flower bed generously with a watering can. Satisfied with her efforts, she wiped perspiration from her forehead and washed her gardening tools off at a nearby spigot, dumping the grassy clods into a green container. She stripped off her gloves and tucked them into the basket with her trowel.

  She stood up and admired her handiwork. The sun had moved and now shone directly on her parents’ gravesite. She walked a few feet to the shade of a nearby maple tree and sat on the ground, leaning against the rough trunk. The air dripped with humidity and a distant rumbling heralded a possible thunderstorm. If only. A rainstorm would bring cool air. She closed her eyes for a moment, mentally picturing her mother and father. She whispered a silent prayer for them as she always did every time she came here, and often at night in her room. They were beyond harm now, but she prayed for them and for Jack.

  Lucky made it a point to stop at the cemetery once a week. She held one-sided conversations with both her parents, keeping them up to date about her life, about Jack and the Spoonful, and the deepening relationship with Elias. She looked forward to these visits, as she thought of them. She imagined her parents in her mind’s eye and the responses they would have made to her mental chatter. It was good to get away from the bustle of the restaurant, to be able to sit and think quietly. Her parents weren’t here, of that she was sure. But she could still talk to them and pretend they were able to listen. Perhaps the ancients were right to place coins on the closed eyes of the dead. Coins that would pay the ferryman for the journey across the river. Were the dead on the other side of an unseen river, always there, always waiting, just invisible to those on earth? Wherever the spirits of the departed were, Lucky had never believed they could be found at a gravesite, but she wanted to do her best to remember her parents, to make sure their resting place was well tended and cared for. For herself, she would choose cremation and have her ashes scattered at the top of the mountain in the cleansing cold of winter.

  A tingling at the base of her neck alerted her. She was sure she was being watched. Instantly she was on guard. She slowly turned her head and scanned the area. No one. Was she imagining things? Was someone hiding behind a headstone or bush watching her? She stood, her reverie broken. Scanning the cemetery, she watched and waited. A movement several yards away caught her eye. Who else would be in the cemetery so early in the morning? Not even the caretakers came this early in the day. And why would they be watching her? She held very still and waited. Finally she spotted a figure standing in the shadow of another large tree several yards away. She squinted, adjusting her eyes to the difference between shadow and bright sunlight. The small figure was wrapped in a large coat. Maggie Harkins. The woman she had seen at the demonstration, the woman she had seen last night, investigating garbage cans across the street from the Spoonful. Lucky stepped out of the shadow of the maple tree and started walking toward her. She called out, “Hello.”

  The figure froze. The woman peered across the distance at Lucky. When Lucky had gone a few yards, the woman scampered away toward the exit to the road. Lucky started to follow, realizing she must have frightened the woman. “Don’t run away . . . please. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Maggie broke into a wobbling run, and Lucky halted, watching her until she disappeared from sight. Such a peculiar character, she thought. I must have scared her more than she scared me. Lucky sighed and turned back, heading for the shelter of the tree and her gardening tools. She glanced down at the marble slabs sunk in the grass near the pathway. A name caught her eye. HARKINS. She stopped and stared. The name was carved on two slabs with first names ROBERT and DANIEL. Given their birth and death ages, they were of two different generations. Robert had died at age forty-one. Maggie’s husband? Daniel Harkins was twenty when he died. He was the son Maggie Harkins had lost—the son Jack had mentioned.

  Elizabeth’s words on the Village Green came back to her. She had said of Maggie, “That poor soul.” Poor soul indeed, a husband gone for many years and then the heartbreak of losing a child who had grown to manhood. Lucky had been stricken by her parents’ sudden death, but at least they had lived the greater part of their lives. Maggie Harkins had lost a son who was barely out of his teenage years.

  It was Elizabeth who had compassion for Maggie, while everyone else saw only a ragged old lady. Elizabeth. Why hadn’t she returned her calls? She pushed away the thought that something might be wrong. Anyone could forget to return a phone call. Lucky checked her watch. She had to hurry or she’d be late getting to the Spoonful before opening. She grabbed her basket and started down th
e road toward town. Maggie Harkins was nowhere in sight.

  * * *

  ELIZABETH LEANED AGAINST the wall and stretched her legs out. Her ankles still chafed a bit, but at least the soreness was gone. There was nothing for her to do all day but think. And think she did, and then think some more. It took all her courage not to break down and cry. Surely Maggie would release her, but what in heaven’s name had caused the woman to hold her hostage in the cellar? It made no sense. All Maggie had said was “He won’t hurt me then.” Who was this mysterious “he,” or was this “he” a figment of Maggie’s imagination? Had she had no social contact all these years? Had the woman lost her mind? Elizabeth cringed when she thought how she had scoffed at Cordelia Rank, but obviously Cordelia had been right. Perhaps Maggie should be institutionalized. She simply couldn’t be in her right mind.

  The pins and needles had abated once her ankles and wrists were freed. Feeling had returned to her limbs. She was able to explore the small room that imprisoned her. A short door made of sturdy pine boards opened into a washroom the size of a closet. She ducked her head and stepped into the miniscule bath. The small amount of light from the dusty cellar window couldn’t penetrate into this room. Elizabeth felt for the top of the toilet tank and lifted it. Gingerly, she reached inside until her fingers touched water. The tank was full. That was hopeful. The toilet was connected to a water supply for the house. The tiny porcelain sink, what she could see of it, was chipped and stained with rust and hard water spots. The faucets were caked with deposits and so rusty they looked as if they would break if too much pressure were applied. She reached for one and tried to turn it. It wouldn’t budge. If only she could splash cold water on her face. She was sure the temperature outside was in the high nineties, but the cellar room was damp and cool. Nonetheless, her skin felt hot and grimy. She cringed at the thought of cooling her brow with water from the toilet tank. Who knew when the toilet had last been cleaned. What she wouldn’t give for a shower. What she wouldn’t give to escape from this room. She leaned into the faucet and struggled to turn it. A slight movement of the metal indicated it might give. She retrieved a shoe from the floor next to the sleeping bag—a low-heeled shoe with a sturdy heel. Using it like a hammer, she banged on the side of the faucet, willing it to budge. A metallic echo rang through the room. Touching the wall, she felt exposed pipes. They ran up through a hole in the ceiling. She beat the faucet again with the heel of her shoe and finally heard a screech as the faucet gave way. A trickle of rusty water ran into the sink and air in the pipes made a moaning sound. Elizabeth turned the faucet on as far as it would go. She pushed the pine door open all the way to catch the small amount of light. She let the water run until she was able to see that it flowed in a clear stream. After another minute, when she was sure it was fresh, she splashed cool water on her face.

  She caught a partial glimpse of herself in a shard of broken mirror on the wall over the sink. She looked dreadful. Dark circles outlined her eyes, her hair stuck up in clumps. She brushed water over her hair and smoothed it down until it looked almost normal. Maggie had taken her purse and watch. Now she wasn’t even able to brush her hair or tell the time. Her clothing was streaked with grime, her white blouse that she had ironed so carefully the morning she left her house was wrinkled and dirty. At least Maggie had fed her more steamed vegetables and yesterday a tomato. The food was plain, but it was fresh and healthy—for all that meant. What difference did it make if the food was wholesome if Maggie had no intention of releasing her? Whatever Maggie’s intent, it wasn’t to kill her by starvation or dying a slow death of thirst. But why, oh why, had Maggie done this?

  Chapter 16

  ONCE THE LAST of the midday customers were gone, Lucky wiped off the counter and carried the basin of dishes into the kitchen, loading them into the dishwasher. Sage sat on a stool scribbling in his notebook. Lucky poured a tall glass of iced coffee and joined him at the work table.

  He looked up and grinned. “Just working something out. I had an idea for a soup—something I came across a long time ago and I’m just trying to remember what went into it—based on peanut butter.”

  “Really?” Lucky raised her eyebrows. “Go for it. Anything you want to do is fine with me.”

  Sage looked across the work table. “You okay?” His face was serious.

  “Sure. I’m fine.”

  “You don’t exactly look fine. You look like you haven’t slept in a couple of days.” Lucky didn’t answer. “You’re worried about something.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Lucky nodded. “I’ve had a couple of bad dreams. Keep waking up and then can’t go back to sleep very easily.”

  “Tell me about the dreams.” He clipped his pen to the notebook and gave her his full attention.

  “Crazy dreams. I’m in my apartment and someone knocks on the door. I don’t know who it is but I have a feeling of dread. Next, a man, I can’t see his face, is in my living room and he tells me my mother is waiting for me. ‘Why haven’t you gone to see her?’ he asks me. ‘But my mother is dead,’ I say, and he says, ‘No, she’s not, she’s right here.’ He opens a door in the wall that I never noticed before, that I didn’t know was there, and I’m scared but I follow him through the door. My mother is sitting in a chair. But in the dream I know it’s not really my mother. She looks exactly like my mother but I don’t feel anything and so I know it’s not her. I ask him where my father is, and the strange man says, ‘He’s on his way.’ I start screaming, ‘That’s not my mother’ and I wake up.” Lucky paused and took a deep breath. “On the one hand I know in the dream that I’m dreaming, but a part of me is afraid that I’m really awake and have forgotten my parents.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucky. Sorry you’re going through this—especially now when your life should be settling down.” Sage was a handsome man. His looks had brought him a lot of unwanted attention from people who couldn’t see past the façade to realize what a sensitive individual he was, a man who had overcome abuse as a child and false accusations as an adult. His relationship with Sophie, she knew, was a good thing. Sophie could be a bit hard-boiled at times, but she had softened of late and Sage’s anxiety and fear of persecution had almost completely disappeared.

  “I’ve been worrying about Elizabeth too. I’m going to try her office again before we get hit with another rush.” She slipped away and headed down the corridor, shutting the office door behind her. She dialed the familiar number. Elizabeth’s assistant Jessie answered on the first ring.

  “Jessie, it’s Lucky Jamieson. I was just trying to reach Elizabeth if she has a moment.”

  “Lucky?” Jessie squeaked. “I’m so glad you called.” Jessie’s voice had risen in pitch. “She’s not here and she didn’t come in yesterday or the day before. I don’t know where she is.”

  “What?” Lucky felt a sickening dread in her gut. “You haven’t heard from her?”

  “No. And it’s getting really embarrassing. I’ve been telling people she’s in a meeting, and then today I decided to say she had to go out of town for a day or so. She’d call them as soon as she could. I didn’t know what else to do. At first, I thought it was my mistake, you know, that I’d forgotten she had told me something. That maybe she was taking a day off or had to go away. I wracked my brain. Checked her calendar and everything, but I’m not going crazy. I’d remember if she’d told me something like that.”

  “Jessie, I’ve been worried about her too. I’ve called her house twice, no three times yesterday, but she didn’t answer. I left messages but she hasn’t called me back. And I tried your number too, but no one answered. It’s just that I would have expected to hear from her after what happened to Harry.”

  “It’s horrible about Harry. It really scares me. You must have called when I was at lunch. I’m sorry I missed you. I just don’t know what I should do.” Jessie sounded on the verge of panic.

  “Call Nate Edgerton right away. This isn’t like Elizabeth at all. Maybe there’s been a car accide
nt.” Lucky shivered. The vision of her parents dead by the side of an icy road, their car crushed, flashed in front of her eyes. “I’ll go over to her house right now. Maybe she’s there and hurt and can’t get to a phone.” Lucky took a deep breath and tried to quiet the panic she was feeling. Elizabeth lived alone. She was in her late fifties, and very strong and healthy, but all the same, anyone could have an accident. She whipped off her apron and, grabbing her purse, ducked into the kitchen.

  Sage looked up. “What’s wrong?” Obviously her panic showed on her face.

  “It’s Elizabeth. Her assistant just told me she hasn’t been in the office for a couple of days. I’m going over to her house—I’m worried she might have had an accident and can’t get to a phone.”

  “That doesn’t sound good. Want me to come with you? There’s nothing on the stove now and Janie and Meg can handle everything.”

  “Thanks, it’s all right. Her house is close and I’ll be fine. But can you let Jack know?”

  “Will do.” Sage followed her to the kitchen door and watched as she hurried down the corridor and out the back exit. “But call us and let us know what you find out,” he called after her.

  Lucky raised her hand in response and hurried to her car. Elizabeth’s house was at the north end of town. She could have walked just as easily, but driving would be quicker. She kicked herself for not checking on Elizabeth yesterday. She should have trusted her instincts to begin with.

  * * *

  A FEW MINUTES later Lucky pulled up in front of the small gingerbread Victorian and turned off the engine. Elizabeth’s house was white with black trim and shutters. It had always reminded Lucky of a doll’s house. A wide porch ran across the front. The yard, enclosed by a wrought iron fence, bloomed with hydrangeas and pink roses. A climbing vine of wild roses twined around the banisters of the porch and up a column. Lucky pushed the gate open and approached the front door. A swinging bench hung on chains attached to the ceiling of the porch. On the flowered cushions were two magazines and a flyer, too large to fit in the mail slot. She rang the doorbell and heard it echoing inside. The house felt empty. She rang a second time and called Elizabeth’s name. No one answered. She knelt and pushed open the brass mail slot. Cool air greeted her. On the floor she could see two envelopes that the mailman had pushed through the slot on his route. If Elizabeth were home, she’d never leave her mail on the floor or on the porch swing.