Lucky hesitated, but finally couldn’t stop herself. “And Guy . . .”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you do . . . do not tell Rowena.” She stared at him intently.
“Oh!” Guy rattled that around for a moment. “Why?”
Lucky wondered how best to convey to Guy that Rowena was a selfish narcissist, but couldn’t seem to find the right words. Finally, she said, “Because she works for the Gazette and she’ll want to write about it so that everyone in town will know. If you’re smart, you’ll keep your mouth shut.”
Guy swiveled slightly on his stool and stared at Rowena, now leaning across the counter at the cash register. Lucky wondered if perhaps a bit of the veil might have been torn away. Guy looked back and nodded. “Okay. I won’t say a word.”
“Trust me—it’s the smartest thing to do.”
Rowena had been so intent on coercing Jack into an interview she hadn’t overheard Guy’s whispered conversation at the counter. Lucky hated to think Rowena might suddenly develop an interest in Guy for all the wrong reasons.
Rowena’s voice rose even higher, but Jack stood his ground. “That’s ridiculous. Nate can’t order you to do that.”
“’Fraid he can, Rowena. He’s the Chief of Police, and I don’t want any hassle from him.”
“Fine,” Rowena responded. “Have it your way.” Rowena huffed loudly and stomped toward the door just as Horace Winthorpe, outside, reached for the door handle. In spite of Horace’s bulk, he was almost knocked off balance as Rowena flounced out. She stormed away, a cranky expression on her face. Lucky started to laugh, but stopped, afraid Horace might think she was laughing at him. He stepped into the Spoonful, mopping his brow from the heat.
“Hello, everyone,” he called. Jack, Hank and Barry greeted him in unison as he approached the counter.
“What can I get you, Horace?”
“Something cool. I’ve been thinking about fresh lemonade over ice all the way here.”
“Not a problem,” Lucky replied. “Something to eat?”
“How about one of those little sandwiches with cream cheese and watercress on brown bread. That would be lovely.”
“Coming right up.”
Horace swung around on his stool and surveyed the group. “Did I arrive at a bad time?”
“No,” Hank replied, tilting his head back to view Horace through his pince-nez glasses. “We were just talking about Harry.”
Horace nodded sadly. “Of course. Does Nate have any leads?”
Barry shrugged his shoulders. “That I don’t know, but it must have happened the night before the demonstration, after he closed his shop.” Barry looked across the room at Guy, who was hunched over his drink at the other end of the counter. He called out to him. “Guy, you were probably the last person to see Harry—other than whoever killed him. Any ideas?”
Guy swallowed nervously, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. “No. No. Sorry.” Guy jumped from the stool and rushed out the door.
Barry looked around the restaurant. “What did I say? He’s as nervous as a cat.”
Lucky realized her advice was the best thing she could have said to Guy. No wonder he was nervous.
Horace moved to the table to sit with Hank and Barry. “I must apologize to you all.” He turned to include Lucky in his comment.
“About what, Horace?” Hank asked.
“It was very careless of me to openly imply . . . no, to state, in fact, that the young man in the grave could have been a traitor. I had no idea Cordelia Rank had an ancestor named Cooper and that I was opening a can of worms. It’s a fairly common name and I was just so excited by our find.”
“Aw, don’t worry about it. You couldn’t have known,” Barry replied. “Cordelia Cooper Rank—serves her right, that uppity cow. She’s always lording it over everyone in town that she’s a Daughter of the American Revolution. Such nonsense. As if half of the people in Snowflake can’t count an ancestor who was here two hundred years ago. Tiresome woman.”
Lucky took Horace’s order off the hatch and placed it on the counter as he returned to his stool.
“Lucky, if you have any interest in seeing the artifacts we found, I’d love to show them to you.”
“You still have them?”
He leaned across the counter and whispered, “Just for a few days. They’ve allowed me to borrow them so I can take some pictures for my research.”
“That’s fantastic.” Lucky smiled indulgently. Horace was like a very large boy with new toys.
“Why don’t you stop over and I can show you?”
“I’d love to. I would like to see the powder horn up close.”
“It’s amazing—that carving was done just like the scrimshaw that sailors have done for centuries. But the lead ball is far more interesting.”
“I gather that’s what set Cordelia off. I didn’t hear the whole thing. I was busy cleaning up and running around.”
“Well, you see, we know it was a projectile shot from a rifle. Now, that’s not to say this poor young man was definitely shot by another colonist. The gun could have come into the possession of someone other than a British soldier, but it couldn’t possibly have been fired from a British gun. The colonials used rifles and they can take the credit for developing a gun with grooves in the barrel—the kind of gun that would have scored the lead ball the way it did. Well, that’s not quite accurate. I think originally the rifle was invented by the Germans to allow for better aim, but it was refined in the Colonies and used widely. It was a much better gun for a straighter shot, especially for longer distances in hunting.”
“I didn’t know that.” Lucky leaned on an elbow and listened, fascinated. “No wonder Cordelia was so upset.”
“I’m afraid she’ll never forgive me.”
“Horace, don’t worry your head about it. She is rather insufferable most of the time.”
“Her status as a Daughter of the American Revolution seems to be terribly important to her.”
Lucky shook her head and refilled Horace’s lemonade. “If it wasn’t the DAR, it would be something else, I’m sure—the Junior League, the size of her bank account, whatever. Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer and come by for a visit this evening.”
Horace smiled. “I would be delighted. See you then.”
Chapter 23
THE SMALL AMOUNT of light filtering through the cellar window was fading. Elizabeth felt she was losing all sense of time and day. It was afternoon, but why wasn’t it brighter outside? Was a summer storm on the way? How many days had elapsed since she’d been locked in? She should have been doing her best to mark the days. Anything that would offer a sense of order was important. She thought she had been locked in this room for five days, and now it seemed this fifth day was ending. If she didn’t have someone to talk to, she’d lose her mind. With the chair in pieces, reaching the window was impossible. Unless she was strong enough to tear the toilet from its mounting, there was absolutely nothing to stand on to reach that one window. The only possibility of escape was to get Maggie to open the door and force her way out.
She lay on the sleeping bag willing herself not to scream in frustration. Perhaps if she left the food untouched for a day or so, Maggie would become concerned, open the door and enter the room. She had once not returned a dirty plate to the opening at the bottom of the door to see if Maggie might unlock it. Maggie had only slipped a fresh plate of vegetables under the door later that day. But what if she could hold out and lie on the floor as if unconscious or dead. Would Maggie be fooled into coming closer? It was a thought. If only she could last without any food. It was the one plan she could think of. If it worked she’d be able to overpower Maggie and escape.
She heard a heavy footstep above her. It couldn’t be Maggie. Maggie was quiet and light on her feet, afraid to disturb anything around her. Elizabeth lay quite still in the fading light. Had the dark enhanced her hearing? Someone else must be in the house. Someone was with Maggie. A voice that
was low but deeper. She couldn’t hear a response from Maggie, but it sounded as if a two-way conversation were taking place on the floor above her. She didn’t care if there really was someone Maggie feared. She had to escape. She had to get help.
Elizabeth struggled to her feet. She was stiff from lack of activity. She grabbed a shoe and rushed to the washroom. With all her strength, she began to bang on the pipes that ran up the wall to the ceiling. The clanging sound echoed through the walls. She shouted for help. If someone else was there, they would hear and come down to the cellar to investigate. She screamed and banged for what felt like an hour and finally, exhausted, stopped to catch her breath.
It was completely quiet above her. Had it been only her imagination? Was Maggie alone? Was it merely a voice on the radio? She dropped the shoe and sank to her knees, sobbing.
* * *
LUCKY PULLED UP in front of Elizabeth’s house, wishing by some miracle that Elizabeth’s car would be parked in the drive. The sky was a wash of pink and purple as evening approached. The lamp in the parlor was already on, the one that was on a timer, but nothing else had changed. The driveway was empty and she knew there would be no car in the garage. Charlie had been alone all day. She felt slightly guilty that she hadn’t done more for him today, but tonight she’d spend some time brushing and petting him before she headed down the road to Horace’s. A curtain moved at a side window of the house next door. A woman peered out at her suspiciously. Lucky held up a hand in greeting, not wanting to alarm Elizabeth’s neighbor. The woman waved in return and lifted her window. Inside, Lucky saw an antique hutch and a colonial style brass chandelier in a room very similar to Elizabeth’s dining room. The neighbor leaned out.
“Hello. Any news about Elizabeth? You’re Lucky, aren’t you? Elizabeth often mentions you.”
Lucky walked across the drive, closer to the neighbor’s window. “Yes, I am. Sorry, but there’s no news. I’m just here to keep Charlie company for a little while. You’re Enid, right?”
“Yes, that’s me.”
“Elizabeth has spoken of you too. Nice to meet you.”
“Same here, just wish it were under different circumstances. The police were here yesterday and today, and a woman who said she was a friend of yours knocked on my door—pretty girl, dark hair. They were all asking me if I had seen Elizabeth or seen anything unusual.”
“That was Sophie. And did you? See anything?”
Enid shook her head. “No. I almost wish I had because then they might have something to go on. I did see her back out of her driveway. That was the morning of the eleventh, I told the police. She was all alone in the car. I have a clear view from my kitchen and dining room windows, but other than that, just looked like a normal day. I wish there were something more I could do.”
Lucky nodded. “We all feel that way.”
“It’s just terrifying, I’ll tell you. First, poor Harry Hodges. And now this. Elizabeth, of all people! That’s all anyone on our street can talk about.”
“If there’s anything you think of, anything at all, you call Nate Edgerton, or call me at the Spoonful.”
“I will, dear. My feet aren’t what they used to be, but I’m volunteering to go with a search party, starting tomorrow. I’ll walk until I can’t walk anymore, and then maybe I can man the phones or do something useful until we find her.”
“That would be great. We have to do everything we can.”
Enid waved good-bye and shut her dining room window. Lucky walked slowly down the drive and opened the garage door, just as she had earlier that day. Removing the key from its hook in the cabinet, she let herself in through the kitchen door. A small night-light over the kitchen sink lit her way, and she reached out to turn on the overhead light.
Charlie meowed and came running to greet her, his bell tinkling. The cat made deep purring sounds and pushed his face against her legs. She dropped her purse and reached down to pick him up, crooning soft words to him and rubbing his belly. When he tried to wriggle away, she put him down gently on the floor. “I know you’re lonely. I’m sorry, Charlie. Let me get you some food.” She dished out a generous helping of cat food in a fresh dish, added some dry pellets to his other bowl and refreshed his water.
After cleaning his litter box, she opened and closed kitchen drawers until she found his brush. She sat on a kitchen chair and pulled Charlie up on her lap. As she brushed his coat, he purred, exposing one side and the other until he had had enough. He jumped off her lap and lay on his back on the kitchen floor, exposing his white fur belly. But when Lucky tried to brush his stomach, he grabbed the brush with both paws and wouldn’t let go.
She laughed. “Charlie. If you do that, I can’t brush you.”
The radio still played soothing music. She considered opening the kitty door but decided against it. She felt guilty about leaving him inside alone, but she didn’t want to let him out of the house when there was no one here to keep an eye out for him. Charlie was middle-aged now, almost a house cat. He’d be safer inside.
“I’m sorry, Charlie. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon and maybe she’ll be home by then. Please God,” she prayed. She mentally reviewed the possibilities in her mind. If Elizabeth had had an accident on the road, someone would have reported it. The car would have been seen, either with Elizabeth in it, or abandoned. She was sure Nate and the police had alerted all hospitals in the state, in case Elizabeth had been in an accident and couldn’t talk. She tried to picture Elizabeth stopping for a hitchhiker, but quickly dismissed that possibility. If she had been heading to her office, she’d be within the town. No one would be hitchhiking within a small community. If some errand had taken her to a road outside of town, someone looking for a ride might be a possibility. But Elizabeth was always sensible and cautious. She would never have picked up a stranger on the road. She might stop for someone she knew very well, but never a stranger. Had she driven out of town and broken down somewhere? Had someone accosted her on the road and harmed her, and driven away in her car? The possibilities were endless. She had to stay centered or she’d lose her mind. The longer this went on, the more her panicky feelings threatened to overwhelm her. She felt a desperately anxious need to do something—anything—but what more could she do, other than search the roads in the early morning or join a search party when she could get time away from the Spoonful?
She moved slowly through the first floor, checking everything. Nothing had changed. The windows were all locked. She peered at the thermostat. The air-conditioning was on low. The house was cool and comfortable. Charlie had curled into a ball on top of his cushion in the living room. The latest post sat on the floor by the front door. She picked it up and sorted through it—a bill from the power company, a long white envelope with the State Bar insignia in the corner and an advertising flyer. Nothing to indicate where Elizabeth might be. She dropped it on the hallway table and noticed a very light smattering of dust on the surface. How long since Elizabeth had been at home? She cast her mind back. Five days. It had been five days since Enid her neighbor had seen her. Well, that was something she could do. She returned to the kitchen closet and found a duster. Moving through the living room, dining room and hallway, she wiped off every surface. When Elizabeth came home it would look as if she hadn’t been gone more than an hour. She found a dust mop and repeated her actions, picking up really nothing more than Charlie’s hairs deposited in various spots.
She tucked the mail under her arm and climbed the stairs with her housecleaning tools. Methodically, she dusted the desk and file cabinets in the office and finally the bedroom furniture. A photo in a silver frame stood on the bureau. It was one of her mother and Elizabeth. There were other framed snapshots of friends and even one of Lucky herself. Lucky looked closer at the photo of the two women. They wore shorts and sat on a pier at the lake dangling their legs in the water. Elizabeth squinted in the sun while Martha Jamieson, wearing sunglasses, smiled widely. Perhaps her father had taken this very picture. A moment captured in t
ime. Two friends enjoying a sun-filled day before one was gone and the other went missing. Lucky held the photo to her cheek and closed her eyes. If only she could bring them both back. She sighed and replaced the picture on top of the bureau.
She returned to the office and plopped down in the desk chair. No new messages on the answering machine. Charlie had followed her up the stairs and jumped into her lap as she sat at the desk. He curled into a ball. She reached down and gently pulled on his ears, a thing she knew he loved. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t know where she is. I wish I did.”
She dropped the new mail on the desk, glancing at it. The State Bar Association. Why would the State Bar be writing to Elizabeth? She picked up the envelope and looked closer. A series of six numbers followed by letters, 572639THIBEA, was typed in the upper left-hand corner of the envelope, under the logo. THIBEA? Was it a legal case designation of some sort? Elizabeth wasn’t an attorney. Why would she receive correspondence like this? THIBEA. The beginning of a name? Curiosity took over. If she had to, she’d explain herself later, but a question started to form in her mind. She neatly sliced the envelope open with Elizabeth’s letter opener. Unfolding the letter, she read it through twice. Rod Thibeault was under investigation for improper conduct. A hearing was scheduled for later in the month. Elizabeth Dove’s testimony was required and she was to appear at the disciplinary hearing on August 25. Rod? Why was he being called before a disciplinary board? This sounded quite serious. And why was Elizabeth called as a witness at this hearing? The letter raised more questions than it answered.
She picked up the phone and dialed the police station. It was after hours, but Nate answered the phone on the second ring.
“Nate, it’s me. Lucky. I’m at Elizabeth’s. Any news?”
She heard Nate’s sigh at the other end of the line. “Nothing, Lucky. Sorry. We haven’t found her or her car. A few calls came in, and the State Police are checking them, but they’re probably nothing. The good news is there haven’t been any hospital admissions or accident reports that match her car or her description.”
A Broth of Betrayal Page 14
