A Broth of Betrayal

by Connie Archer

  “Look again.” Nate pointed to the dead man’s arm and shirtfront and waited patiently for light to dawn in Bradley’s eyes. “This wasn’t caused by the accident.” He slid the pen from his shirt pocket again and very carefully lifted the material of the shirt away from the dead man’s arm. “Now what do you see?”

  Bradley squinted. “A hole.” He turned to Nate, surprise on his face. “He was shot?”

  “There’s more. Listen and learn.” Nate pointed to the rear of the van and led the way. “See here?” He indicated a dent on the rear bumper. “And here?” He pointed to a second spot of damage. “There’s a lot of dings and rust spots, but there’s no rust on these. A little paint in there. Maybe they can match it.”

  “You’re saying somebody made sure he went off the road?”

  “Yup. Twice, it looks like. Here, I want you to get some good shots of our man inside, his shirt and these dings on the bumper. But don’t touch anything, all right?”

  Jerking his thumb to the top of the rise, he said, “I want to talk to those two up there before they decide to take off.”

  Nate straightened his back. Getting stiffer every day, he thought. Getting too damn old for this job. He heaved another sigh and made an effort to climb back up to the road. Taking two steps up and sliding back one, he clung to the thin plantings and branches to give himself purchase.

  The man at the car stood as Nate approached. The woman’s hands were held against her face as she leaned over her knees. “Can we go now?”

  “About what time did you first pull over?”

  “Maybe forty-five minutes ago, I think. We saw the top of the van down below. We stopped, thinking somebody might need help, but . . .” he trailed off.

  “It was too late.” Nate finished his sentence.

  The man gulped and nodded.

  “Where are you headed, by the way?”

  “Over to Bournmouth to visit my wife’s parents. We live in Lincoln Falls.”

  “Did you happen to see any other vehicles when you first noticed the van? Anybody pass by?”

  “No. Not a soul. There wasn’t any traffic. We came this way ’cause we wanted to take the scenic route.” The man shook his head ruefully. “We sure as hell didn’t bargain for this.”

  Nate nodded. “Sorry you had to be the ones. If you’ve given your names and home address to my deputy, you can be on your way.”

  Without a word the young woman stood. The couple turned away, a look of relief on their faces. They climbed into the sports car without a backward glance. The engine revved and the car pulled on to the road heading east.

  Nate turned as he heard the crunch of gravel behind him. He watched as another car pulled up behind the cruiser. Elias Scott, Snowflake’s town doctor and the local coroner, climbed out, a heavy black bag in his hand. Nate shook his head negatively to let Elias know there was no hurry.

  “You’re sure?” Elias asked as he approached.

  “Sorry to drag you out here. Not much you can do now.”

  “Well, since I’m here, why don’t I have a closer look.”

  “Be my guest.”

  Elias stepped carefully down the side of the ditch and slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Nate followed him. He looked into the open driver’s door and whistled softly.

  “What do you think?” Nate asked, following Elias.

  “Well, the accident caused this.” Elias pointed to a gash on the man’s head and facial cuts. “Might have caused a concussion too. But it doesn’t account for all this blood. Looks like it flowed from his left arm. See here.” He pointed a gloved finger and then carefully examined the material of the shirt.

  “Yeah, I caught that. A gunshot wound.”

  “He was alive when he went off the road. He could have been in shock from the wound, maybe that’s what caused the crash. Could have died from the trauma of the wound, the blood loss or even the head injury. Can’t be certain yet.”

  “Have a look back here.” Elias followed the path that Nate had taken, careful not to slip on the damp vegetation. Bradley was returning the camera to its bag.

  “There are two areas of damage. Here and here.” Nate indicated the spots on the crushed bumper. “And these are new—no rust. The accident didn’t cause this. Somebody rear-ended this guy—a couple of times, I’d guess.”

  “So you think he was shot first? Maybe whoever shot him managed to hit a vital artery.”

  “And maybe he was able to get away—tried to get help. But somebody didn’t want him to.” Nate shook his head. “Nothing’s simple, is it? I’m gonna have to get the body moved and this thing towed to Lincoln Falls where the techs can have a better look. Let’s go back up to the road. I want to get some shots of the tire tracks before everybody messes them up.”

  The three men climbed back to the road, doing their best not to slip on the soft earth or wet autumn leaves. Nate reached out and took the camera from Bradley. Elias stepped away and watched as Nate shot several photos.

  “What can you tell from those?”

  “See these right here,” Nate said, pointing to wide tire tracks. Elias nodded. “These are the marks from the van. They start right here, off the road. No sign of an attempt to brake. This guy just flew off the road. Maybe he was already unconscious. But I still think somebody helped him along.”

  Elias followed in Nate’s wake. “And back here . . .” Nate pointed to another set of marks. “Somebody hit the brakes real hard. See these tracks? And then it looks like he drove right onto the soft shoulder.”

  He turned to his deputy. “Bradley, you stay here until everything’s handled and then bring the cruiser back to the station. And make sure you don’t touch anything and don’t let anybody stop to gawk. And especially right here,” Nate said, pointing to a set of tire tracks. “Get some markers out of the trunk and make sure they get an impression of that tire.”

  Bradley wasn’t happy to be relegated to a mop-up operation but there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  “I’ll hitch a ride back to town with you, Elias. Bradley can handle the rest.” He stood for a moment, silently surveying the scene. “Yup. I’d bet my last dollar. Somebody was after this guy. We’ve got a murder on our hands.”

  Chapter 2

  JANIE SHIFTED THE branches of brightly colored autumn leaves, rearranging them in a wooden cask, one of several placed around the restaurant. “What do you think, Lucky?”

  “I think it’s fabulous. Maybe you should consider a career in interior decoration, even though I’d hate to lose you.” Lucky’s compliments were sincere. The restaurant was filled with morning light filtering through the yellow gingham curtains and reflecting off the wide pine floors of the By the Spoonful Soup Shop.

  Janie laughed. “Don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon. I’ll be stuck in Snowflake for the rest of my life, more likely.” She pushed an unruly branch back into place. “But at least we’re all dressed up for Hallowe’en.”

  “I mean it, Janie. Look at this.” Lucky waved her arm to indicate the work that Janie had accomplished—wooden casks of autumn leaves, brilliant reds and oranges from the autumn chill, cornstalks and baskets of multicolored gourds in the front window. “It really looks terrific.”

  Lucky’s grandfather Jack had decided to hold a promotion for the Spoonful—free soup from three o’clock to five o’clock on the afternoon of Hallowe’en. Lucky agreed that would be a great idea. It would cover the time period when children were released from school and the sun went down at the witching hour. Jack had also decided to sponsor a jack-o’-lantern contest. Anyone could donate, each entry anonymous, and every customer would have one vote for their favorite by secret ballot. The prize would be three free all-you-can-eat meals for two at the Spoonful any day of the week.

  Janie and Meg, the Spoonful’s other waitresses, and Sage, their chef, had each contributed carved pumpkins to get the contest rolling. Janie’s jack-o’-lantern sported a smile, red lips, teeth of seeds and twig eyelashes. Meg
had carved one that looked like a tiny demon. Sage’s was a leering witch, with a parsnip nose. The jack-o’-lanterns were lined up on a long table against the wall. Tiny battery lights twinkled inside each of them.

  Lucky could hardly believe that ten months had elapsed since she had returned home to Snowflake to take over her parents’ business. Their sudden death on an icy road had changed her life forever. Two more months would mark a full year. Somehow she had managed to keep the restaurant afloat. At first she had been terrified of taking over the Spoonful, and doubtful about her decision to stay. But now, this path felt the most natural one in the world.

  “You can’t really see the lights inside the pumpkins during the day,” Janie said. “Maybe we should turn them off for now, and save the batteries ’til it’s dark.”

  “Good idea.” Lucky looked up from laying out place mats on the tables.

  Janie held a wooden bowl full of gourds in her arms and was staring intently out the front window. Something about her expression caught Lucky’s attention.

  “Janie? What is it?”

  “Nothing.” Janie continued to stare across the street to the opposite sidewalk on Broadway. “It’s just . . .”

  Lucky walked over to Janie and followed her gaze. “What do you see?”

  “That man. I’ve seen him before.” Janie nodded her head, indicating a tall muscular man with a full head of thick auburn hair, streaked with gray. He stood on the other side of the street, in the shade of an awning as though waiting for someone.

  “Maybe he’s someone in town working for the Harvest Festival,” Lucky said. Snowflake, Vermont, had been chosen as this year’s location for a fall event, hosting a local farmers’ market, pony rides and a corn maze for children. Ernie White, a very successful businessman from Lincoln Falls, a much larger town, was the moving force behind the Festival.

  “You’re probably right.” Janie shrugged and flipped over the sign on the front door to read OPEN. “I just feel like I’ve seen him around a lot.” She shrugged her shoulders. Janie turned and headed for the kitchen to help Sage prepare for the morning rush.

  The bell over the door jingled just as Lucky finished laying out the last of the napkins and silverware. Hank Northcross and Barry Sanders, two of the Spoonful’s most loyal regulars came in every morning. Retired gentlemen, they were often together and were usually the first customers of the day. Hank was tall and thin. His hair, completely gray, was cropped close to his head and he wore pince-nez glasses that constantly slid down his long nose. Barry, much shorter and very plump, was fond of brightly colored shirts that barely buttoned over his midsection. Today he was dressed in an orange and black plaid in deference to the season.

  “’Morning, Lucky . . . Janie. You too Meg,” Barry called out. “Jack around?”

  “He’ll be here shortly. He’s picking up some supplies in Lincoln Falls.”

  “You still let the old man drive?” Hank asked in jest, but there was an undercurrent of worry to his question.

  Lucky’s grandfather had suffered from wartime flashbacks most of his life. When she returned home months before, she realized that Jack had other, more serious health problems. Fortunately these had since been alleviated by medical treatment, but she still worried about him.

  “Couldn’t stop him if I tried,” she answered. Jack was the only family she had now. He needed to feel useful and she needed his support. There was no doubt in her mind that he was essential to the smooth running of the Spoonful. Lucky approached the corner table where Hank and Barry always sat. “Coffee?”

  “Yes. Perfect,” Barry answered.

  Lucky retrieved cups and saucers from behind the counter and poured two cups for the men. She placed them on a tray with a pitcher of cream and a sugar bowl and carried them to the corner table where Hank and Barry were already setting up a game of chess. “Don’t forget Jack’s pumpkin carving contest. He’ll be disappointed if you don’t both contribute.”

  “We haven’t forgotten,” Hank spoke. “Wait’ll you see mine. I’m quite sure I’ll win.”

  “Not so fast, you old coot. I’m gonna beat the pants off you.” Barry looked up. “What do you have for specials today, Lucky?”

  “We have three new soups—Sage has a pumpkin rice with Persian spices, he tells me. I haven’t tried it yet myself, but it smells delicious. And a zucchini leek with potatoes and a beet mushroom and barley soup. I’ve tried that one, I really love it.”

  “Hmm. I’ll have to sample every one of those this week,” Barry said. “We’re gonna walk down to the Harvest Festival later. I want to pick up some vegetables from the farmers’ market but I’ll be sure to come back for lunch. Make sure you save me some of that pumpkin soup.”

  “I will, and Jack should be back by then.” Lucky turned back to the counter and saw Janie standing at the window again. She walked over and stood behind her. The same man was across the street. He had disappeared for a short while and was now back.

  “You’re right. He does seem to be around a lot,” Lucky whispered.

  Janie had lost her father quite suddenly more than a year before, just as she was about to graduate from high school. Lucky tried to keep a good eye on her. Doug Leonard had been a kindly man who adored his only child. When he died of a massive coronary, Janie was inconsolable. Lucky felt a deep empathy now that her own parents had been taken from her in an equally sudden fashion. How much more difficult for Janie, given her youth, the loss must have been.

  “I wonder who he is,” Lucky said.

  Janie, a troubled look on her face, didn’t answer. She turned away from the window and hurried into the kitchen.

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  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Connie Archer

  A SPOONFUL OF MURDER

  A BROTH OF BETRAYAL