Ladle to the Grave (A Soup Lover's Mystery Book 4) (9 page)

L
UCKY PULLED INTO
a parking space reserved for employees of the Snowflake Resort. Sophie’s employee sticker would cover them. She had been quiet on the drive, and Lucky was sure Sophie suspected what she had in mind.

“You’re thinking there’s some mistake, aren’t you? That they might have given that room to someone else if Rick hadn’t shown up to keep his reservation?” Sophie asked.

“That’s exactly what I’m thinking. I’m sure it happens. I mean, they’re not going to hold a room if someone doesn’t show. Maybe the clerk let a friend stay there, for all we know. And maybe they don’t want to admit that to Nate. You still have that picture with you?”

Sophie rummaged in her purse and retrieved a high school photo of her brother. She smiled and passed it to Lucky. “Will you look at the hair? Those school pictures are so awful, aren’t they? The photographers even used to colorize them.”

Lucky agreed. “It does look like something from another era. But it’ll do. When you go in, I want you to check with the supervisor and see which maids were assigned to that area. We can show the picture around and see if anyone recognizes it. Nate’s probably already done that, but these people know you. They might be a little more open.”

“I agree.”

They clambered out of the car and headed for the lobby entrance to the Resort. The clerk at the desk looked up as Sophie walked past and raised a hand in greeting. Sophie ignored him and, pushing through a door near the reception desk, descended a flight of stairs. They had entered another world. The aromas of steam and laundry detergent wafted up the stairwell. The uncarpeted stairs were concrete with safety strips at the edges. The walls and ceiling of the hallway and rooms below were painted glossy white. Sophie turned a corner and came to a closed door. She knocked once and entered quickly. A middle-aged woman with dark straight hair cut short looked up. A gray sweater was draped over her shoulders, partially covering a white uniform.

“Hi, Mary. Sorry to barge in like this. This is my friend Lucky.”

Mary smiled. “Hello. Nice to meet you. Grab a seat, you two.” She leaned across the desk. “Sophie. I heard. Nate Edgerton was here. I’m real sorry.”

“Well, that’s why we’re here. We’re not really convinced Nate’s right.”

Mary raised her eyebrows slightly, not sure what to say in response. Lucky could almost read the thought bubble over her head. She too was wondering whether Sophie was in a state of denial, but she said nothing.

“Can you tell me who had cleaning duty for the room this guy was in?”

“Oh. You want to talk to the maid?”

“Yes. We just want to show her the picture I have of Rick and see if she recognizes it.”

“You might have more luck talking to whoever was on the front desk last week. They might remember or have gotten a good look, at least.”

“That’s true. Do you have that schedule? It would have been . . . Let’s see”—Sophie glanced at Lucky—“maybe five or six days ago.”

“Hang on.” Mary opened a desk drawer and pulled out a manila folder. “They copy us with the schedules.” She leafed through several sheets of paper. “It was Rosalie Baum on the morning shift and Davey Snyder afternoons and into the evening. But I’m pretty sure Rosalie’s on vacation this week and I think Davey’s out today.”

“I’ll catch up with them later, then.”

Mary sat back in her desk chair. “Nate’s already talked to everyone and shown that picture around, Sophie. Didn’t he tell you?”

Sophie took a deep breath. “I’m sure he has, but did anyone recognize the man in the room from that picture?”

“Well, I didn’t see the picture Nate showed them, and I don’t really know firsthand what the maid told him.” Mary’s first instinct appeared to be to deny Sophie the information. Then her shoulders relaxed. “Okay, Brenda was also on duty in that section for the days your brother—I mean, whoever he was—had booked in. Let me see . . .” Mary checked her watch quickly. “You can probably catch her somewhere on the second floor right about now if you hurry. You’ll see her cart.”

“Okay. Thanks, Mary. Maybe I’m grasping at straws. I don’t know. But I just need to know one way or the other if it was Rick. It’s really starting to eat away at me.”

“I can imagine.” Mary’s tone softened. “Listen, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all, you’ll let me know?” she asked.

Sophie nodded. “Thanks. I will.”

They left Mary’s office and waited at the service elevator at the end of the corridor. They passed a room where two workers were loading laundry into huge openmouthed dryers, and three others stood at a long table folding clean items. They exited the elevator on the second floor. Sophie walked purposefully down the hall, and as they turned the corner, they spotted a maid’s cart loaded with cleaning supplies outside an open doorway.

“There she is,” Sophie turned to say. She approached the open door and knocked. A very short woman peeked out from the bathroom. Her curly red hair was covered by a scarf knotted at the base of her neck. She had a cross expression on her face. Perhaps she assumed the inhabitant of the room had returned and would interfere with her schedule. When she saw Sophie, her face lit up.

“Sophie! Hi. What are you doing here?” As though just remembering her interview with the police, her smile faded. “Oh. Oh, Sophie, I’m so sorry.” She walked toward them, wiping her hands on a towel. “I told the police everything I knew, which wasn’t much.”

Sophie retrieved Rick’s high school picture from her purse. “I just wanted you to have a look at this and tell
me
if you think this was the man who was staying here.”

Brenda’s eyes traveled from Sophie’s face to the photo. “That’s the same one the police showed me.” She shook her head. “I’ll tell you the same thing I told them. I only saw him once. He was leaving the room and his back was toward me. I was coming down the hall with my cart. He looked at me quick and then walked away in the other direction. He had dark hair. Maybe in his forties somewhere. But I really didn’t get a good look at him. It was just an impression.”

“So you can’t say one way or the other?”

Brenda shook her head. A stray curl fell over her ear. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“What about his suitcase and the stuff in his room? What happened to that?” Lucky asked.

“Oh, the cops took everything. I don’t think it helped them very much. No tag on the luggage and just a bunch of clothes; that’s all. Oh, one thing . . .”

Sophie looked hopeful. “What’s that?”

“I saw a thick notebook, like the spiral kind you’d use in a class or something. It was on the desk. Other than the few toiletries in the bath, I didn’t notice anything else at all.” Brenda shrugged. “Sorry I can’t be more help.”

“That’s okay. We’ll find out one way or the other eventually. I was just hoping to speed up the process.”

Sophie started to turn away.

“Hey, I meant to ask,” Brenda said. “When’s the happy day?”

Sophie smiled. “It’s gonna be May twentieth.”

“Great. I’ll see you then.” Brenda smiled widely.

Sophie’s smile was pasted on her face. “Okay,” she replied, casting a meaningful glance at Lucky.

Brenda glanced over Sophie’s shoulder. Her expression changed; her smile disappeared. Sophie turned to look in the direction of Brenda’s gaze. A large man with a heavy, barrel-chested build stood at the end of the corridor. He wore jeans and a Windbreaker. His arms were crossed in front of him, and he stared menacingly at the three of them.

“Who’s that?” Lucky asked.

Sophie squinted briefly. “Ignore him. That’s Lurch.”

“Did you say Lurch?” Lucky hoped the man didn’t have super hearing.

“That’s what we call him,” Sophie said quietly. “’Cause he’s big and he lurks around a lot. His real name’s Pete Manko, but we all call him Lurch.” She smiled conspiratorially at Brenda, but Brenda wasn’t smiling. If Lucky could have put a word to it, she would have said Brenda looked frightened.

“Are you all right?” Lucky was instantly aware.

“Fine,” she muttered. “I gotta go.”

“What’s going on?” Sophie asked.

Brenda turned away and reentered the suite. When she was inside the room, she whispered, “I’ll call you.” Then she shut the door behind her. They heard the lock turn from the inside.

Puzzled, Sophie glanced at Lucky. “What’s going on?”

“I have no idea. Come on, let’s go.” When they turned to leave, the man had disappeared.

“What was that all about?” Lucky asked in the elevator on the way down to the lobby.

“He’s the company spy. Supposedly he’s head of security but he spends a lot of time lurking around and watching the employees at the Lodge and all over the Resort.” Sophie shrugged.

“Brenda looked frightened of him.”

“I know. I didn’t mean to put her in a bad spot. I hope she doesn’t get reported for talking to us. He scares a lot of people around here, believe me.”

“He ever bother you?”

Sophie laughed outright. “He better not. Wouldn’t do him any good, anyway. He can’t ski. He’d never catch up with me.”

L
UCKY PULLED INTO
the gravel drive of her parents’ house, the house that Horace Winthorpe now rented from her. The crunching of her tires must have alerted Horace. She saw his face surrounded by a halo of white hair at the kitchen window. She waved to him and climbed out of the car.

“Oh, my dear. How nice of you to visit,” Horace said, opening the back door of the kitchen to allow her to enter.

“I hope I’m not interrupting Horace, but I wanted to pick up those boxes in the attic.”

“Of course, of course. Come in. Glad of the company anytime.” Horace was dressed in loose denim trousers with deep pockets on the legs and a dress shirt that had seen better days. He caught her looking at his outfit. “Pardon my appearance, but I’m planning to wear my old city clothes until they fall off of me—like this shirt.”

“Very handsome shirt,” Lucky responded.

“It was—once. Oh, that reminds me. I need your advice.” Horace rushed down the hall to the main bedroom and returned with a hanging garment bag. He unzipped it and pulled out a dark suit. “What do you think?” he asked.

Lucky looked at him quizzically.

“It’s too formal, isn’t it?”

“For . . . ?”

“For the wedding, of course. Perhaps I should find something a little more casual.”

“Hmm.”
Things have gone too far
, she thought. She’d absolutely have to keep a guest list. “I think whatever you’d feel comfortable in, Horace. You could certainly wear that—it’s very attractive—but it’s just Jack’s garden. You might want to dress down a bit.”

“Exactly what I thought. I appreciate your opinion. I really do.” He zipped up the garment bag and hung it over the door. “But come sit and join me for coffee. I just brewed an espresso in my little pot, but I’ll make one for you. Just take a minute.”

“Just what I need. While you’re doing that, I’ll go upstairs and drag those boxes down. I’m glad I remembered they were here.”

“Need some help?”

“No, I should be fine. Be right back.” Lucky slung her purse over the knob on the oak chair and headed for the front entryway of her parents’ home. She loved coming here, especially to visit Horace, but hadn’t once regretted that she had rented the house to him rather than sell it after her parents’ death. When she had first returned to Snowflake, she hadn’t been in a position to pay the mortgage on her own, and for Horace, retiring from the city, it had been a godsend.

She opened the small door in the front hallway that led to the attic. The house had been converted from a barn, the center portion revealing its origins, while the two small wings on either side had been added later. The dark red color of the exterior gave a hint of its past. The attic was in fact the original hayloft. Her father had finished and insulated it years before, but even when her parents were alive, it had been used only for storage space. Now only a few boxes remained, but she was sure one of them held the things her mother had squirreled away. Surely she’d find everything she needed to finish Sophie’s wedding dress.

She ascended the curving narrow stairway to the second level and pushed through the hatch at the top. She climbed out into the attic. Dust motes floated in the air. A large square window gave a view of the front yard and the road. Three boxes stood in a corner, stacked one upon another. She lifted them one by one and carried them to the open hatch. They were surprisingly light. Holding on to the banister, she maneuvered each one down the narrow stairwell to the main floor. Then she returned to the second level, closed and locked the hatch, and shut the door to the stairway. She carried two of the boxes into the kitchen where the aroma of espresso filled the room.

“Smells divine, Horace.”

“This gets me going in the morning. One cup of this, and I’m good to write for several hours. “So,” he said, referring to the boxes, “did you find what you need?”

“I think so. I haven’t looked through them yet. They’re just too dusty. One of them should have sewing supplies but, to be honest, I’m not really sure what’s there after all this time.” She added some cream to her espresso and took a sip. “How’s the book coming?”

Horace, a retired history professor, was finally doing the things he had never had time to do when employed full-time. His great interest was the Revolutionary War years in New England and, in particular, some of the lesser-known events and battles of the strife in Vermont.

“It’s coming . . . slowly. Still have a long way to go, but it’s taking shape nicely, I think.” Horace chuckled.

“What’s so funny?”

“Oh, I was just thinking about the famous Ethan Allen story. You’ve heard it, I’m sure. The one about his stay in England and the portrait of George Washington in the—what was it called then?—the necessary.”

Lucky shook her head.

“Apparently Ethan Allen was supposed to have endured great teasing as an uncouth colonial when he was in England. He was asked what he thought about Washington’s portrait hanging in the ‘outhouse.’ Allen is said to have remarked that nothing will make an Englishman—uh, you must insert a four-letter verb here—so quick as the sight of General Washington staring down at him.”

Lucky laughed. “He had a very quick wit, I guess.”

“Well, I’m not so sure it’s true. Funny, yes, but accurate? I don’t know. Abraham Lincoln was fond of telling the story a century later, but there’s no record of Allen ever visiting England. He was imprisoned by the British, but that was in New York and he was later released. My hat’s off to the man if he did say that, but I tend to doubt it. Might have been a fictional story that became an urban legend.”

“Or a colonial legend.” Lucky took a sip of her espresso. “I have one more box, Horace.” Lucky walked down the hallway and retrieved the last cardboard box. She carried it to the kitchen and balanced it on top of the other two. “This one’s heavier than the others. Do you mind if I take a peek and check what’s in here?”

“Of course not. Take your time.”

The top box held folders and files. Lucky leafed through the contents and realized they were old records from the Spoonful. The second box was full of fabric and sewing supplies. “Yay. Just what I was looking for,” she remarked to Horace. She stacked both boxes to the side, then knelt and opened the third box. It was half full of old photos and enlargements. “Oh, look at this.” She pulled a few out and passed them to Horace.

Horace pulled a pair of glasses out of his pocket and put them on. “This looks like the inside of the Spoonful.”

“It is,” Lucky replied. “My mother loved to take pictures. She took most of the ones hanging at the Spoonful. You’ve seen them I’m sure. It was her way to thank her best customers.” Lucky rummaged in the box and pulled out a few more. “Oh, look. Here’s my dad.” She passed the large black-and-white photo across to Horace. “I forgot about some of these.”

“This was your father?” he asked.

Lucky looked over his shoulder. “Yes. He’s at the cash register, chatting with someone. And there’s Jack in the background. Look how young Jack looks.” Lucky was silent for a moment. “You just never think . . .” she said quietly.

“That one day they won’t be here,” Horace finished her thought.

She sighed. “The things we take for granted. Now it’s like peeking into another world.” Lucky leafed through a few other photos. Something caught her eye. “Look at this one. It’s . . .Isn’t this Agnes Warner? With her family? This must have been taken quite a while ago.”

“Let me see,” Horace said. “I don’t think I ever met either of them.”

“No. You wouldn’t have. They haven’t been at the Spoonful for several years. Actually, I had a rather unpleasant encounter with Leonard Warner earlier at the police station.”

“Really? What happened?”

Lucky took a last sip of her drink. “Well . . . Leonard was very strange. He virtually accused Jack of killing his wife.”

“Any special reason Agnes’s husband was there?”

Lucky shook her head. “I guess to talk to Nate.”

Horace asked. “Was he upset? Emotional?”

“He . . .” Lucky sighed. “It was very weird. He seemed perfectly rational, but he took me aside and pressured me. I don’t know any other way to say it.”

“Pressured you about what?”

“About Jack. He straight out said that Jack should take responsibility for what he had done and . . . That’s all I can really remember because I almost lost it. I was so taken aback and I could feel my face turning red, and I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of his ideas. I told him I better not hear that he’s spreading any rumors about Jack around town. “

“Good for you. What a horrible thing to do to you.”

“I guess I threatened him too. Now that I think about it, I wonder if he was there to pressure Nate to press charges against Jack.”

“I can’t really see Nate doing that. Not without proof of some wrongdoing. Warner’s just angry, looking for someone to blame.”

“My mother mentioned once that Agnes and Leonard used to come to the restaurant a lot when their grandson was a little kid. Well, he’s still young, but grown a bit.”

Horace stared at a photo. “I don’t see the little boy here.”

“Let me see.” Lucky took the photographs back. “That is strange. They’re not smiling at the camera or anything. Mom would always ask people to give her a big smile. She was good at capturing a moment with her camera. You’ve seen some of the ones that are framed all over the walls. Leonard Warner has his back to the camera in this one and you can’t see the little boy. Odd.”

Lucky gathered up the loose photographs and returned them to the open box. “I better get going, Horace. Thanks for the great coffee.”

“Anytime, my dear. Let me help you with those,” Horace offered. He hoisted two of the boxes. Lucky slung her purse over her shoulder and grabbed the last one. Together they loaded them into the trunk of her car.

“That’s a great little car you have there. They run forever. If you ever decide to sell it, let me know first.”

“Oh, it’s not mine to sell. This one belongs to Sophie. Mine’s in the shop right now. Well, actually, that’s Elizabeth’s car, the one in the shop. She gave it to me for as long as I needed it when I first came back to Snowflake. That and half the furniture in my apartment. When I first came home, I was too upset and confused to focus on anything. You know, after my parents . . .” She slammed the trunk closed. “But I’m doing fine now. I’ve been saving, so hopefully I’ll be able to get my own car soon.” Lucky walked to the driver’s door. “Thanks again, Horace. I’ll let Sophie know you’re interested in case she wants to sell.”

“Thanks.” Horace smiled. “I will see you later. I plan to pop by the Spoonful when I take a break this afternoon.”

“See you then.” Lucky started the engine and backed out onto the road, waving good-bye to Horace.