A Broth of Betrayal (2 page)

Chapter 2

“
H
OW 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 always 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?”

Sophie smiled impishly. “I thought the prospect of actual work might send her scurrying.”
Sophie shook her head. “She hasn’t changed a bit since we were in school. She was
a self-important little snob then and she’s worse now.”

“Come on. Let’s move this stuff inside. I have to get back to the Spoonful before
the lunch crowd hits.” They reached the church and navigated the pathway to the side
door that led to the meeting hall. Lucky pushed open the heavy wooden door and held
it while Sophie bumped her dolly over the threshold. The smell of polished floors
and chalk-covered erasers hovered in the air. Sophie held the door for Lucky in turn.
They wheeled their carts through the meeting hall and into the large kitchen.

“Where should we put this stuff?”

“Hang on. There are some long tables in the storage room we can set up.” With Sophie’s
help, she hauled out two long folding tables. Sophie lifted one end and together they
pulled the retractable legs open, setting both tables up by the entry to the kitchen.
Lucky searched the kitchen drawers and found long paper tablecloths in plastic wrappers.
Ripping them open, she shook out the paper cloths and spread them over the long tables,
placing stacks of napkins at each end. She opened the refrigerator. “Let’s cram as
many drinks as we can in here, and I’ll bring a couple of big plastic bins tomorrow
for the ice. Can you dig out the coffee urn?”

“Sure. I’ll find it,” Sophie replied, opening and closing cupboard doors in her search.

Lucky unloaded canned and bottled drinks from the carts until the refrigerator would
hold no more. “That should do it for now. I should let Pastor Wilson know the drinks
are here and the ice will be delivered early tomorrow.”

“I’ll rummage around and see what other supplies are on hand.”

“Be right back.” Lucky pushed through the door leading to the main part of the church.
She followed the corridor to the end hoping to find the Pastor in his office. As she
approached the door, she halted. She heard voices. Pastor Wilson wasn’t alone. She
listened, certain she had heard the unmistakable sound of sobbing. Then silence. Someone
was having a very emotional conversation with the Pastor. She tiptoed back a few steps,
but before she could retreat from the corridor, the office door opened. It was Harry
Hodges, the town’s auto mechanic and one of the major forces behind the demonstration.
Harry’s voice carried clearly through the partially open door. “I had to talk to someone.”

The Pastor’s voice was closer now. “You did the right thing. Be calm. We can talk
again . . . whenever you’re ready.”

It was too late to retreat. Harry stepped into the corridor. He started visibly when
he saw her standing nearby. His face darkened. Pastor Wilson peeked around the doorjamb.
“Lucky! Hello. I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t mean to interrupt. We just came over to unload drinks. I wanted to alert
you that an ice delivery would be coming tomorrow.”

“Oh, good, good. That’s wonderful. Harry and I . . . well, we were just discussing
the plans . . .” Lucky suspected the Pastor was making an effort to cover for Harry,
who seemed embarrassed she might have overheard his conversation.

Harry glanced at the Pastor. “I’ll call you very soon.” Without a backward glance,
he turned away and left by the door leading into the church.

Pastor Wilson cleared his throat and opened the office door wider. “I can’t thank
you enough. This is truly wonderful what the Spoonful is doing. It’ll really help
keep everyone’s spirits up tomorrow.”

“I am sorry if I interrupted anything.”

“That’s quite all right. Harry and I were just finishing our little chat. Anything
I can do for you?”

“No, thank you. I have a helper today. But you might want to lock that side door now
that the drinks are there.”

“Good idea. I’ll just get my keys.” Lucky stood in the doorway and watched the Pastor
as he scanned his desk, littered with papers, books, a Bible and remnants of a piece
of toast. Pastor Wilson was tall and thin with a prominent Adam’s apple. His face
was pale, his hair a shade between sand and gray. His movements were disjointed, as
though confused by the objects around him—as if the furniture of his life belonged
to someone else. She detected a faint whiff of naphthalene. She smiled to herself.
Sophie was right about the mothballs.

“Now what did I do with those keys?” Pastor Wilson brushed a few wisps of hair from
his forehead and replastered them over a bald spot on the top of his head.

Realizing this search could take quite a while, Lucky said, “I’ll be on my way then.”

“Oh yes, yes, my dear . . . you go on. I’ll find them eventually.”

Lucky headed back down the corridor to the meeting hall and pushed through the swinging
doors. Sophie was leaning against one of the dollies, waiting for her. “Ready?” Lucky
nodded, grabbed her dolly and followed Sophie out the door. She was silent as they
headed across the Village Green to Broadway.

“Something wrong?” Sophie watched her critically.

“Oh, no. Nothing.” Sophie waited, aware that something was on her friend’s mind.

“Well, actually, I think I overheard something I wasn’t supposed to hear.” Lucky repeated
the exchange between Harry Hodges and the Pastor as they walked.

Sophie shrugged. “Probably nothing at all. Maybe Harry wanted to confess he had dipped
into the collection box.”

Lucky didn’t respond to Sophie’s gibe. “It was more than that. There seemed to be
a . . .” She hesitated. “. . . an emotional charge to the words, I guess. I could
have sworn Harry was crying. More than that—Harry almost jumped out of his skin when
he saw me standing in the corridor.”

“Hard to imagine him being emotional. The most excited I’ve ever seen him was when
he was staring under the hood of my car.”

Lucky chewed her lip. Sophie was right, of course. Harry definitely took more interest
in the workings of internal combustion engines than in people. She pictured his shocked
look when he saw her in the corridor—as if afraid she might have overheard something.
Harry was a man of few words, not rude but taciturn, definitely not forthcoming. All
the same, Harry’s tone hinted at a very painful subject—something deeply buried.

Chapter 3

“
C
AN YOU TELL
Sage I’ll see him later? I’ve got to get up the hill. I have two classes and a private
this afternoon and I’m running late.”

“I will. Thanks again.” Lucky waved as Sophie hopped in her car and pulled out of
the small parking lot behind the restaurant. She dragged both dollies up to the door
and over the threshold, wheeling them into the storage closet. Then she headed down
the hall, grabbed a fresh apron from the closet and slipped it over her head. Her
mother had designed the Spoonful’s aprons—yellow, like the checked café curtains at
the front windows, with an outline in dark blue of a steaming bowl of soup. They echoed
the neon sign at the front window that her Dad had designed. It hardly seemed possible
that only eight months had passed since her parents had died on an icy road and she
had inherited their business. Last winter, when the Spoonful was on the verge of bankruptcy,
seemed a universe away, yet her parents’ deaths were still fresh in her heart. She
peeked into the kitchen. Sage was at the stove, stirring a simmering pot of one of
his daily specials.

“Sophie had to run. She’ll call you later.”

“Okay.” Sage didn’t turn his head, but held up a wooden spoon to acknowledge the news.
He was sprinkling flecks of fresh thyme into the broth.

Lucky pushed through the swinging door into the main room of the restaurant, cooler
here, thanks to ceiling fans and air-conditioning. Soft piano music filled the space.
Once her grandfather Jack had gotten used to the CD player, he went out of his way
to buy more music. Jack’s taste ran to forties’ sounds, which Lucky had come to love
as much as Jack did. He could name all the top hits and musicians of the day. A tinkling
piano solo was just the thing. R&B and rock were great for the winter when people
needed to move just to keep warm, but not on a steamy August day like today.

Her grandfather, Jack Jamieson, and three of the Spoonful’s regulars, Hank Northcross,
Barry Sanders and Horace Winthorpe, had taken over one of the corner tables. Normally,
Hank and Barry would have been engrossed in a game of Connect Four or chess, but now
their attention was focused on the demonstration against the car wash planned for
the following day.

In summer months, the By the Spoonful Soup Shop usually enjoyed a lull when winter
visitors to the ski slopes abandoned the town. Lucky had been toying with the idea
of taking a few days off to go camping and swimming, but was finally forced to postpone
her plans. Over the last month, the Spoonful had become a meeting place for angry
discussions about the proposed construction—no longer proposed, but actually commencing—on
the other side of the Village Green, just a block or two from the Spoonful itself.

Snowflake, Vermont, prided itself on preserving its heritage. The town was united
in its disapproval of the car wash. Even though most of the town’s tourist business
came from the ski resort, many people arrived in August to celebrate the Reenactment
of the Battle of Bennington, a battle crucial in the ultimate defeat of British forces
in the Revolutionary War. No one wanted an ugly industrial edifice that would mar
the quaint charm of their town.

“Something has to be done to stop this. We can’t have a
car wash
in the center of town. It’s downright blasphemous. What barbarian would even think
of erecting such an eyesore here?” Barry fumed.

“You know, he’s originally from Snowflake,” Hank volunteered, looking over his pince-nez
glasses at his friend.

“Who? That Philistine? What’s his name again?”

“Rowland, Richard Rowland,” Jack volunteered. “And yes, Hank’s right. He’s a Snowflake
boy. Born and raised here. Well, I should say, originally from here. His family moved
away when he was a young kid.”

“Hmph.” Barry snorted. “So wouldn’t you think he’d have a bit more taste, now that’s
he’s such a big-shot developer? But no, he plans to inflict a disgusting, noisy car
wash on us. Why not stick it up at the Resort in one of their huge parking lots?”

“It’s the Resort that’s been pushing the town council to put it down here. They’re
afraid it might ruin the ambience of their buildings,” Hank said.

“Oh my,” Barry replied sarcastically. “We wouldn’t want that. Heaven forbid it wouldn’t
look like an overgrown collection of Swiss chalets! It’s a much better idea to put
an ugly, square, hissing, concrete-block monstrosity right in the center of our little
town.” Barry’s plaid cotton shirt threatened to burst. One very strained buttonhole
was keeping it together. “We wouldn’t want to ruin the
ambience
of the Resort, now, would we?” Barry slammed his coffee cup down on the table, causing
some of the liquid to splash over the edge of his cup.

Horace Winthorpe sat quietly, offering no comment. He took off his glasses and wiped
them carefully with a tissue. A retired professor now living in Snowflake, and renting
Lucky’s parents’ home, Horace had become one of the Spoonful’s regulars. Lucky and
Jack had welcomed him to town and had grown very fond of him. When Lucky took over
the restaurant, she was struggling with grief. She couldn’t bring herself to live
in her childhood home, nor was she able to afford to do so with the restaurant doing
poorly. When their local Realtor found Horace, Lucky was delighted and relieved he
wanted to rent the house on a long-term basis. Horace had taught history all his life
and was now working on a book about his particular field of interest—the Revolutionary
War years in New England. He, like many others before him, had fallen in love with
Snowflake and had settled happily into Lucky’s family home to enjoy his retirement
and begin work on his long-desired project.

“Horace, you haven’t said very much all morning,” Hank said.

Horace slipped on his wire rim glasses. The sun streaming in through the gingham curtains
lit up his mane of white hair. He was a big man, slightly portly, who had been enjoying
most of his meals at the Spoonful and had put on several pounds since living in Snowflake.
“I, like you, am terribly saddened to see this happening. I haven’t said very much—after
all, I don’t have a long history here—but I so appreciate this town and the efforts
everyone has made to keep the old buildings and restore so many of them.”

“Are you willing to join us, then?” Barry asked.

“Well, yes, if you’ll have me. I would be honored.” He smiled sweetly. “Nothing like
a good demonstration to remind ourselves we were all rebels once. Besides, the Reenactment
of the Battle is only a few days away and I for one would prefer to have something
more dignified than a car wash as a backdrop for our town celebration. After all,
I’ve been asked to play a Hessian and I’d much rather like to do so without bulldozers
growling in the background—really interferes with the willing suspension of disbelief.”

“Well, that’s it then,” Barry said. “We’re starting tomorrow at nine o’clock. I’ll
give your name to Harry Hodges to add to the list.”

“Harry from the Auto Shop?” Horace asked. “I know him. He put in a new alternator
for me a few months ago.”

“Good then. We’re agreed. The plan is to do whatever we can to halt or delay construction.
Demonstrating with signs and all that is fine, but it’s gonna take more than that.
If our own town council can be swayed into voting for this, the hell with ’em.”

Hank grimaced. “Swayed! That’s a nice way to put it. Bought off, more likely. Every
single one of them, except Edward Embry, the only honorable man on the council in
my opinion. Maybe we should be working on a recall vote of the rest of those corrupt
twits.”

“I agree. But first we have to do whatever it takes to stop this project. Even if
it means we block the big equipment from getting in or out with our cars, or we lie
down in the dirt. They won’t be able to carry us all away. And there isn’t enough
room in the two cells at the police station to hold all of us anyway.” Barry’s face
had grown flushed and angry.

“Jack. You with us?” Hank turned to Jack.

“You bet I am.”

Lucky glanced at her grandfather and exchanged a look with Sage through the kitchen
hatch. Jack’s health had steadily improved over the last few months, but she wanted
to keep a close eye on him. When she had first returned to Snowflake, her grandfather
was suffering from a constellation of health problems—heart palpitations, fatigue,
memory lapses and actual episodes of dementia. It was Dr. Elias Scott at the Snowflake
Medical Clinic who had diagnosed Jack’s problems as a severe vitamin B deficiency.
Now, after six months of treatment, Jack was strong and healthy. He occasionally suffered
from his wartime memories, but even these seemed to be lessened with his medical treatments.
He was getting older, there was no denying that, and Lucky worried about him. Jack
was the only family she had now, and at his age, she was thankful he wanted to run
the Spoonful with her. She didn’t like the thought that he could be involved in physical
confrontations at the demonstration. She had seen Richard Rowland, the developer,
around town and took an instant dislike to him. He was a man as nasty and sleek as
a shark, determined to push his agenda through.

Sage shrugged his shoulders in response to Lucky’s quick look, as if to say,
What can you do? He’s a grown man.
Lucky accepted the truth of it. Most of Jack’s life had been spent in the Navy. He
had always been tough and fearless. She had to bite her tongue. Getting old was tough
enough. The last thing she wanted to do was cause him to feel less than powerful now
that he was aging.