Ladle to the Grave (A Soup Lover's Mystery Book 4) (10 page)

L
UCKY SAT AT
her kitchen table under a bright lamp she had carried from the living room. She cut tiny circles of satin fabric and patiently positioned each one on the rounded metal top of a covered button. When she was sure the fabric was in the right spot, she quickly snapped the base of the button into place. So far she had made four covered buttons for the sleeves of Sophie’s dress. She only needed two more, three on each bracelet sleeve. It was a tricky business and she wasn’t an expert at it. The unsuccessful attempts were in a pottery bowl on the table. She was happy she had retrieved the sewing supplies from Horace’s attic. She didn’t anticipate working on any more wedding dresses, but the supplies she had recovered would last her a long time and save her many trips to the store, not to mention money. Once these buttons were sewn on, adding some pearls would be the final addition to the dress. After that, the only thing left to do was secure the veiling material to the circlet of pearls. She smiled, thinking how absolutely gorgeous Sophie would look in this outfit on her big day. Just a little more than two weeks now.

She snapped the last button base in place and put the successful buttons in a separate bowl. “There,” she said to herself. “Done.” She heaved a sigh of relief and debated trying to disconnect the buttons that hadn’t worked, the ones where the fabric hadn’t caught properly. She finally decided to throw them away. If she tried to pry them open with a small screwdriver, it would only bend the metal base and they’d be unusable no matter what.

Tomorrow night she’d sew the buttons on the sleeves and finish the headdress. Her own dress hung in the closet ready to go. It was the color of pale lilac. Sophie was as crazy as she was about lilacs and decided that since she’d be married surrounded by her favorite flower, Lucky, as her bridesmaid, should reflect that color. Fortunately, it was a color that was flattering to Lucky’s fair complexion. Like Sophie’s dress, it was a simple, long, flowing gown with an empire waist, accessorized by a ribbon in the same color. She had discovered it on a sales rack at a department store in Lincoln Falls the month before, and just knew it would be perfect for the occasion. Her shoes had even been dyed to match.

Hopefully the weather would cooperate—not too warm and no rain. Spring weather could be so changeable. If it did rain and the wedding party was small, everyone could move inside the house. If Sophie and Sage decided to allow more guests, it might become a little crowded but not out of the question. Lucky wondered if perhaps they should rent a tent for the outdoor gathering, or at least a canopy for the back porch, but that could get very expensive. No matter what, she really wanted to pay for whatever was involved in hosting their wedding. It isn’t every day a best friend gets married. Jack and Elias had offered to share the expenses with her, and Sophie and Sage were handling all the food and drinks. The least she could do would be to make sure all the rest was covered. It would be her wedding present to Sophie and Sage. If it became necessary to rent canopies, she’d just go ahead and handle it and not say a word to them.

She went into the living room and kicked off her shoes. She lifted the boxes with the photos onto the coffee table. The table wobbled and tilted, and the leg she had glued in place fell off. Photos spilled across the floor. She groaned. Not again. She gathered up the photos that had fallen and laid them on the sofa cushion. She went back to the kitchen and grabbed the tube of glue and a few paper towels. Returning to the living room, she flipped the table over and squirted generous amounts of glue into the opening where the table leg would connect. Then she carefully slid the wooden leg into the opening, pressing hard, and wiped off the excess glue. She moved the table away from the sofa to give herself more room. If this didn’t work, she was ready to drill screws into it, or take it to the dump if it refused to behave.

Lucky reached into the box and pulled out the rest of the photos. Leafing through the stack, she smiled at the pictures taken at the Spoonful. The wide pine floors and wainscoting hadn’t changed since her parents had started the business. The old yellow gingham curtains, replaced now with new ones, cast a soft light over the room. The older photos were black-and-white, but the more recent ones were in color. Her mother, Martha, was behind the counter, smiling at the camera. Undoubtedly a picture taken by her dad. She gently touched the face in the photo, imagining the feel of her mother’s cheek and the scent of her soap. Another showed Jack—a younger Jack—at the corner table with Hank and Barry. She gasped when she came across a photo of herself and Sophie, sitting on the back steps of the Spoonful. It was summertime. They were dressed in shorts and sleeveless cotton blouses, with sandals on their feet. Sophie held a melting ice cream in her hand. How old were they then? Ten? Eleven? She decided she’d make a copy for herself and have this one framed as a gift. She knew Sophie would love it.

Lucky stacked several of the most special photos on the sofa cushion, ones she knew she’d never part with. She turned back and continued to dig through the box. A large brown envelope secured with a clasp was at the bottom. She felt the thickness inside of it, undid the clasp and tilted it upside down. Another stack of enlarged photos fell out. These were in color. They were all photos of the Warner family. The skin on her arms prickled as she leafed through them. There were more loose ones in the box. Methodically she went through its contents. She culled several more photos in which the camera was aimed at the Warners and placed them in a separate pile.

Why were there so many photos of the Warners? And why had they been kept separately in the envelope? She sat on the floor and leaned back against the sofa, spreading the pictures across the carpet. They were similar to the other photos, but they were all poor attempts to capture the same three individuals. Only one photo caught Agnes Warner’s face. She was glaring at the camera. Leonard was standing next to his young grandson and reaching across the table. His arm blocked the boy’s face. There were ten photos total, and in all of them, their grandson wasn’t visible. In some of them, Leonard stood in front of the boy with his own back to the camera. Agnes was turned away in one, and in another, her head was down as though rummaging in her purse for something. Were these just rejects? Then why would her mother have kept them?

Lucky let out a sigh. She hadn’t realized she had been holding her breath as she stared at the photos. What was her mother thinking of, to take these unusable photos and keep them all these years? On an impulse, she turned them over. A few were dated on the back in pencil, all the dates within the same month. One date was followed by an exclamation mark. What did it mean?

As far as she knew, her mother had never bothered to put dates on photos. And Martha Jamieson was thrifty. She never would have bothered developing or enlarging photos she didn’t intend to use. She took them only to memorialize their restaurant and their customers. But these customers didn’t seem to be cooperating. The date was in autumn—October 10 five years earlier. For some reason this date was significant. But why?
Mom
, she thought,
what were you doing? What was on your mind?

A chill ran up her spine. Had her mother known something about Agnes Warner? Or suspected something about the whole family? But what was it? And why was this date significant? Maybe Jack knew something about this. She’d have to have a talk with him.

W
HEN
L
UCKY ARRIVED
at the Spoonful the following morning, she heard a clatter of pans in the kitchen and two voices. Sophie was there. She hurried down the hall, tying on her apron, and entered the kitchen. Sophie was seated on a stool, watching Sage as he chopped vegetables for his Asian tofu soup. A big-band CD heavy on the horn section was playing.

“You’re here early,” Lucky remarked to Sophie.

Sophie turned on the stool and smiled. “I came in with Sage. Woke up so early. Maybe it’s wedding nerves; I don’t know.”

Lucky smiled in sympathy. “But exciting, right?” She caught Sage’s eye.

He nodded to acknowledge her statement, but said, “I don’t know about exciting. Maybe for women, but for guys it’s a fearful thing. We worry about money and getting ahead in life.”

Sophie sat up straighter. “We worry about that stuff too. It’s not all a male domain.”

“I didn’t mean it like that.” Sage looked up quickly. His hand swept a pile of green onions into a pot.

“Yes, you did,” Sophie replied with an edge to her voice.

Sage was silent, staring at Sophie. “Hey . . . what’s wrong?” he asked.

Sophie sighed. “I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to bite your head off. My nerves are on edge, I guess.”

“Look, enough, you two lovebirds. We’ve got a restaurant to open.” Lucky peeked through the hatch. “You haven’t seen Jack, have you?”

Sophie was immediately serious. She shook her head. “No, not yet. I’m sure he’ll be in soon. He’s taking all this very hard, isn’t he?”

“He is. I can’t fault him for that, but I just think everybody’s wrong.” Lucky sighed and pushed through the door. She grabbed a pile of place mats and started setting up the counter. She heard a sharp rap on the front door and looked up. A solidly built man stood on the threshold. The sun was behind him, making it impossible to see his face. She hesitated, then walked to the front door. Pointing to the
CLOSED
sign, she indicated ten minutes by holding up two hands. The man shook his head and held a large envelope close to the glass. Puzzled, Lucky unlocked the door and opened it. When she was able to see the man’s face, she realized this was the same man she had seen in the corridor of the lodge. Up close, his complexion was beefy and pockmarked. His sandy hair was cut so short, he at first appeared bald. Muscles bulged under the sleeves of his jacket.

“Is Sophie Colgan here?”

Sophie had watched the exchange through the kitchen hatch. She entered the front room and approached the door. “I’m here.”

“Delivery for you,” the man replied and handed the envelope to Sophie. He immediately turned away, heading south on Broadway.

Sophie raised her eyebrows. “Personal delivery? It must be from the Resort. How would Lurch know where to find me?”

“Open it.”

Sophie ripped open the envelope. Inside was a letter on thick bond paper engraved with several names. She scanned it quickly and looked up. “It’s a letter from the same lawyers—the lawyers for the Resort. They’re requesting a meeting to discuss purchasing my mother’s property.”

“When?” Lucky asked.

“Tomorrow at one o’clock at Tom Reed’s office.”

“Reed . . . I remember him. I don’t think he likes me very much after the time I suspected him of being involved with that winter tourist.”

“I could care less what he likes. I’m to call to confirm. What should I do, Lucky?”

Lucky shrugged. “Give them a call and see what they have to say. You can always say no to whatever they offer.”

“I don’t want to go alone.” In spite of Sophie’s occasional brashness, Lucky knew she could be easily intimidated at times by those she perceived in authority. “Will you drive me up there?”

“You only have to listen to what they say, but I’m happy to go with you if it makes you feel better.”

“Thanks!” Sophie reached over and squeezed Lucky’s arm. “Sage would come too, but if he sees me get upset, he’ll get upset. Besides, it’s easier for you to get away on a break.”

“I hope so. Hopefully Jack will be here to cover for me.”

L
UCKY SPREAD THE
photos across Jack’s kitchen table. She had walked over after closing time, partly to talk to him about the photos she had found in the box but mostly to check in, hoping he was on an even keel. In a way, she was relieved that Jack’s being at home had given her an excuse. For some reason she couldn’t quite put her finger on, some instinct, she wanted to keep the photos private. She didn’t want anyone at the Spoonful to see them yet or ask her what they meant. A good thing, because she herself had no idea what they might represent.

Jack rubbed his chin. “Don’t have a clue,” he said. “Your mother just liked to take pictures—pictures of the family, of you when you were little and growing up. She wasn’t any expert at it, but she had this knack, I guess you’d say. She could capture a moment. I sure could never do it. I’d hit that button too late and it was gone. But your mother—she had a real gift for that.”

“So you have no idea why she would have taken all these photos of the Warners and kept them?”

“Nope, none at all, my girl.” Jack poured his beer into a chilled glass. “They were regulars for a while so a photo or two would make sense, but I guess she never got one good enough to hang up. Now they never come in anymore. Musta been something, but it was so many years ago. Seems like your mom was on about something, but I’ll be damned if I can remember.”

“I do recall seeing the Warners on occasion when they used to come to the Spoonful,” Lucky said. “But since then they’ve dropped off the radar, haven’t they? I haven’t seen them once since I’ve been back in town. Did anything happen at the restaurant to upset them?” She remembered her conversation with Leonard Warner at the police station, but she had no intention of repeating that to Jack.

Jack shook his head. “I don’t think they argued, not that I remember. They just didn’t show up anymore. I don’t remember them much after that time when your mom was taking all those pictures.

“Look, Jack. She even put a date on the back of some of these. Somehow this time period was significant.” Lucky turned the photos over. “You’re sure she never said anything about these?”

“To me? No. But she woulda talked to your dad. I remember one time your dad was”—Jack hesitated—“like he thought she was snooping where she shouldn’t be snooping.”

“I think maybe I inherited that trait from her because this is really bugging me, Jack.”

“What’s bothering you about it?”

Lucky paused to marshal her thoughts. “Nate’s asking questions about the herbs you gave the women, as if somehow you made a mistake and that caused Agnes’s death. Or she had an allergic reaction to something and maybe that caused it. But what if it wasn’t an accident or an allergic reaction? What if there was something about her that made her a victim? Something about her life that made someone want to harm her?”

“I hope you’re right about me not making a mistake with those plants. I’m not so sure I convinced Nate and that professor.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Turns out, where I picked the woodruff leaves, there’s some water hemlock growing. The Professor spotted it, and I’ll bet she’s thinking I made a mistake.” Jack shook his head. “But I can’t imagine doing that. I know water hemlock. Looks completely different. But I could tell from the expression on her face, she wasn’t so sure.” Jack took a sip of his beer. “But what you’re saying is somebody might have changed something or added something else to that drink that shouldn’t have been there.” He shook his head. “That may be pretty far-fetched. Assuming some kinda poisonous plant caused her reaction and maybe that caused something more serious, like a heart attack, wouldn’t somebody have had to know she was allergic or that she would be the first to drink that concoction?”

Lucky sighed. “That’s true. That’s a lot of what-ifs. We don’t have any results as to what was in that drink yet. The wine could have been perfectly fine and she just had a heart attack. And now that she’s dead, we have no way of knowing if there was something Agnes was violently allergic to. Well, unless Nate can find out from her doctor or her husband.”

“Well, if they turn up something bad in the autopsy, how could anyone have fooled around with that basket I gave Cecily? You don’t think Cecily . . . ?” Jack left his statement unfinished.

“No. I don’t. Not Cecily. She’s the dearest person on earth and she’d have no reason to want to hurt anyone. And Cordelia . . . Well, she’s not my favorite person, but why would she want to harm Agnes? I can’t imagine. And Emily Rathbone? I can’t see that either. But there were two other women there that night. What if one of them . . . ?”

“Who were the others?” Jack asked.

“I don’t know all their names. I can ask Cecily. She might remember, if I can talk to her without Marjorie overhearing, or maybe Emily or even Cordelia if I have to.”

“I guess I’ve done nothing but cause you a lot of trouble.”

“Don’t say that, Jack. I’m sure you haven’t done anything wrong or made any mistakes. And you haven’t caused me any trouble. We’re family. We look out for each other.”

“You be careful what you go poking your nose into, my girl.”

“That sounds like something my dad would have said.”

“Yes. And I’m giving you the same good advice. If there’s somebody in town evil enough to poison another human being, they’re not to be trifled with.”