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

by Connie Archer

  “Uh, yes, just helping out with whatever I can.”

  “That’s great. You’ll have to stop back whenever you have a minute.”

  Greta nodded. “Thank you.” She hesitated as if unsure where to go. “I’ll be on my way now.” She turned and hurried out to the sidewalk.

  Lucky turned to Elizabeth. “She’s a nervous little thing.”

  Elizabeth nodded. “She is. Greta’s a widow and rather lonely, I think—at loose ends. She was living with a relative for several years in a neighboring town but decided to move closer in. I think she’ll be a good neighbor.”

  “She’s volunteering at the library, she said?” Lucky asked.

  Elizabeth looked up quickly. “Oh. You mean she might have been with those women last night?”

  Lucky nodded.

  “Hmm. I have no idea but I’m sure we’ll be finding out all about it.” Elizabeth took a last sip of her coffee. “Oh, before I forget. The cleaning company for the building has misplaced some keys. It’s very worrying. You haven’t seen anything like that around, have you?”

  “No, but I’ll keep my eyes open.”

  “Thanks, dear. It’s just not safe. If they don’t turn up, I’ll really have to have all the locks changed.” Elizabeth dropped her napkin on the place mat. “And now I must be going. I’ll see you later.” Elizabeth blew her a kiss and headed for the door.

  Lucky cleared away the coffee mug and finished laying place mats and napkins along the counter. This was her favorite time of day at the Spoonful. Soup was bubbling on the stove, breads warming in the oven, gentle music playing, the pleasant clatter of Sage working in the kitchen and a few moments of peace and quiet before the busy day began.

  “Hey, Lucky,” Sage called from the kitchen.

  Lucky turned and peeked through the hatch. “Sophie says she’ll stop by this afternoon. She wants to show you something.”

  Lucky smiled at him. Sage looked so relaxed and happy. He was about to become a newlywed. He and Sophie, her best friend from childhood, had decided to hold their wedding later in the month. Sophie’s favorite flower was lilac, and since Jack’s large garden was completely bordered by well-established lilac bushes soon to be in bloom this month, they had asked to hold their private ceremony there.

  “What’s the surprise?” she asked. “Do you know?”

  He smiled mysteriously. “I know, but I’m sworn to secrecy. You’ll just have to wait.”

  Chapter 3

  A COUPLE OF hours later, the busiest part of the morning rush was over. Only a few customers remained. Lucky sighed as she cleared off the counter, wishing she could be outdoors. Sunlight was streaming through the yellow gingham curtains at the windows and reflecting off the wide pine floorboards. Several vases of forsythias, long branches covered with small, bright yellow flowers, filled the large front window. The first of May promised to be a perfect spring day but certainly not a quiet one.

  “Heathens! That’s what they are,” Flo Sullivan announced loudly to the entire restaurant, her halo of orange frizz wiggling violently.

  Lucky sighed. Flo had been holding court for the past hour. Not surprisingly, the news of Agnes Warner’s death had spread throughout the village of Snowflake. Lucky wondered whether others held the same opinion of Cordelia’s group.

  Flo spun on her stool at the counter and surveyed the room. “This may be a terrible thing to say, but those women, messing around with occult forces, what did they expect? They got no better than they deserved.”

  Barry Sanders and Hank Northcross, at their usual corner table, looked up and then away, studiously avoiding becoming embroiled in Flo’s harangue.

  “I was raised in the Church,” Flo announced. Lucky remained silent and continued to clear dishes away. “And the Pope himself says he’s very upset about this rise in idolatry. It’s just not normal. And why someone like Cordelia Rank would dream up something like this, I just can’t imagine.”

  Lucky, from the corner of her eye, saw the swinging door from the corridor open a crack. Lucky’s grandfather Jack peeked through the opening an instant before Flo swiveled back to the counter. Taking in the scene, he quickly ducked back before Flo spotted him. Lucky caught the movement and stifled a laugh. Flo had nursed an interest in Jack for a long time—to no avail—and Jack had become expert at avoiding Flo’s flirtations. Lucky could imagine him now, listening on the other side of the door and gnashing his teeth until the coast was clear.

  Flo leaned across the counter. In a conspiratorial tone, she said, “I haven’t seen your grandfather yet, Lucky. Where is he hiding?”

  Lucky cleared her throat and struggled to keep a straight face. “Well . . . uh . . . I think he was planning to pick up some supplies in Lincoln Falls this morning. He won’t be back for a while.”

  “Ah. Well. In that case, I’ll be on my way.”

  As Flo stood, a large shape blocked the sunlight at the front door. The bell jingled and Horace Winthorpe entered, followed by his dog, Cicero.

  Flo sensed a fresh audience. “What do you think, Horace?” she hollered across the room.

  “Eh?” Horace approached the counter, taking a stool one seat away from Flo. “Did I miss something?” he inquired.

  “Well, surely you’ve heard, haven’t you? About Agnes Warner and that disgusting devil worship going on in the woods last night?”

  Horace’s eyebrows rose. “Oh, yes, of course. Everyone at the market was talking about it. I’m sure the whole town’s heard by now. But it’s hardly devil worship, you know.”

  “Hmph.” Flo sniffed. “I don’t know what else to call it.”

  “From what I’ve heard”—he smiled and nodded as Lucky poured a mug of coffee and placed it before him—“they were merely celebrating the rites of spring. Beltane. The first of May. Nothing sinister at all about that. In fact . . .” Lucky could see that Horace was warming to his subject. A retired history professor, Horace was erudite on many subjects. “Many European and Scandinavian cultures to this day celebrate that date. Of course, everyone now conveniently chooses to overlook its pagan roots.”

  Flo sniffed again. “Is that so?” She stared critically at Horace.

  “Why, yes. In some countries, it’s known as Walpurgisnacht—Walpurgis Night—particularly in cold northern countries, like Latvia or Sweden or Finland, but others as well. It was, and still is, an important festival because it represented the driving out of winter and the inception of warm weather.”

  “And just who was this Walpurga man?” Flo replied suspiciously.

  “She,” Horace replied, “was a missionary of the sixth century. Saint Walpurga. The fact that the festival is named after a woman rather betrays its pagan roots, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know about that. I’ve never heard of a Saint Walpurga, but it still just doesn’t seem right to me, holding that kind of thing in the woods!”

  Horace shrugged. “I’m rather sorry I wasn’t invited. I would have enjoyed it—to see how Cordelia and the other women interpreted the festivities. Of course, I’m sure it didn’t involve bonfires and orgies, but interesting nonetheless.”

  “I should hope not.” Flo sniffed and hopped off her stool. “Well, Horace, I’m sure you know a lot more about all that than me, but I still don’t approve of those shenanigans.” She turned back to Lucky and smiled. “You’ll let Jack know I stopped by, dear, won’t you?”

  Lucky nodded. “I sure will. He’ll be sorry he missed you.” Lucky cringed inwardly, hoping Jack hadn’t overheard this last remark.

  Flo leaned forward and whispered, “I know how busy the lovebirds must be by now”—she nodded her head in the direction of the kitchen—“but maybe you could give them a little nudge?”

  Lucky stared blankly at Flo. “Lovebirds?”

  “Yes,” she said. “I know they’re busy, but they need to get a move on. I chec
k my mailbox every day but I haven’t seen my invitation yet.”

  Lucky’s eyes widened. “Ah . . .” was all she could think to reply. “I . . . uh . . . I’ll pass that on.” Flo was expecting an invitation to Sophie’s wedding? Lucky shook her head. Whatever had given her that idea? Or was it a ploy to get closer to Jack?

  “You’ll take care of that, won’t you?” Flo remarked as she headed for the front door and slammed it behind her.

  A few moments later, Jack poked his head through the swinging door. He glared at Lucky. “I’ll be sorry?”

  Lucky had all she could do not to burst out laughing at Jack’s distress. He shook his head, muttering to himself, and joined Horace at the counter. Jack held a paper napkin in his hand. Cicero made almost human sounds as he anticipated a treat. Jack unfolded the napkin and held out a generous hunk of chicken. Cicero wolfed it down instantly. Horace had inherited Cicero after the dog’s original owner had died under terrible circumstances. Cicero had come by his name because of his efforts to talk, albeit in a language humans couldn’t possibly understand. Nonetheless, Cicero gave it his best effort and managed to get most of his desires fulfilled, particularly his love for restaurant treats.

  “Horace!” Barry Sanders called out from his corner table.

  Horace turned on his stool. Hank raised his coffee mug to Horace in greeting. “Why didn’t ya chatter on some more about whatever pagan thing she was going on about. I thought she’d never leave!”

  “Oh, I apologize if I extended the torture.” Horace smiled shyly. “I just thought she needed a dose of reality, not to get so worked up about a spring festival. That’s all.”

  Barry smiled back. “S’all right, Horace. Just pullin’ your leg.”

  The bell over the door jingled once again. Nate Edgerton, Snowflake’s Chief of Police, stood in the doorway and surveyed the restaurant. Lucky’s heart skipped a beat, remembering her conversation with Elizabeth. Nate spotted Jack at the counter and walked over to him.

  “Jack, how are you?” He remained standing.

  “Good, Nate. Have a seat.”

  “Uh.” Nate cleared his throat. “Could we have a quick word . . . in private?”

  Jack, surprised, looked at Nate. “Why, sure. What’s going on?”

  Lucky noticed the dark circles under Nate’s eyes. He had probably been up all night dealing with the death in the woods. “You can use the office if you like, Nate,” she said.

  Nate nodded and pushed through the swinging door to the corridor. Jack rose and followed him. A shudder of anxiety ran up Lucky’s spine.

  “Horace, I’ll be back in a minute.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel and headed down the corridor, entering the restaurant’s tiny office. She caught the last of Nate’s remark.

  “. . . we think she might have been poisoned.”

  Chapter 4

  LUCKY SAW THE stunned look on Jack’s face. She glanced at Nate, a question on the tip of her tongue.

  “Poisoned?” Jack asked.

  “Well, we don’t know for sure. It’s possible she had some sort of allergic reaction to whatever was in that drink they brewed,” Nate replied.

  “What are you saying, Nate?” Lucky grasped Jack’s hand, a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach.

  “Apparently, these ladies brewed their own wine. ‘May wine’ they called it. According to Cordelia Rank.” Nate sighed heavily. Lucky was sure Nate hadn’t had an easy time dealing with the prickly Cordelia. The woman was undoubtedly making his job more difficult than it already was.

  “According to Cordelia, they mulled it with herbs that Jack had given them. That’s why I need to know exactly what was in that mix.” He turned back to Jack. “Do you remember what you gave them?”

  Jack’s jaw dropped open. “Nate, I . . .” He shook his head. “Just what I grow in my back garden and some herbs I gathered near the woods. They asked me for woodruff and strawberry leaves and I made up a basket for them.”

  “That’s all? Woodruff and strawberries?”

  “That’s it. Both harmless. I had Sage double-check the recipe for me. Woodruff’s only harmful if you take it in huge amounts; then it might make somebody sick, but definitely not kill them. It’s just used for flavoring. And the strawberries that I grow, I eat myself. Nothing wrong with them.”

  “What about the leaves of the plant? Are they edible?”

  “Pretty sure they are. Of course, I don’t eat the leaves myself, but some people brew teas from them. I don’t think they’d harm anyone, certainly not cause anybody to die.” Jack rubbed his forehead distractedly. “You don’t think . . .” Jack trailed off.

  “Is it possible you maybe made a mistake?” Nate questioned gently, but Jack had no response. “Maybe you thought you picked woodruff, but you picked something else?”

  Jack shook his head. “I was real careful, Nate. I’m sure I was.” Lucky saw a fleeting moment of doubt cross Jack’s face.

  She felt the need to step into the exchange. “I’m sure he’s right, Nate. Jack is very careful in his garden, and he certainly knows his plants. I doubt he’d make a mistake like that. Besides, could a poisonous plant cause someone to die so quickly?”

  “Generally, no. Although I imagine some toxins could cause a fast reaction.” Nate turned to Jack. “You wouldn’t mind if I stopped by, maybe tomorrow or the next day, and had a look? And maybe you could show me where you found the woodruff?”

  “No. Of course not. Happy to.”

  Nate nodded. “Like I said, it’s possible Agnes had an allergic reaction to something. It’s also possible she had a heart attack or a stroke. We just don’t know at this point. I’ve got a call in to a plant specialist—and if there’s anything left over, I’ll have them check any leaves that weren’t used up. The morgue can examine her stomach contents and what we have of the wine and any substances in the containers or the bowls. Whatever caused her death acted pretty quick. I suppose it’s a good thing nobody else was hurt.”

  Jack nodded but remained silent, his forehead furrowed in worry.

  “What about Cordelia? Perhaps she added something she shouldn’t have. Have you questioned her carefully?”

  “Yes, I have. I’m certain she didn’t get creative with her recipe. Her husband confirmed her story.” Nate stood. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He stopped at the door. “Jack, I’m sure you’re right. Whatever killed this lady coulda been anything. Who knows? I just had to ask. I don’t want you worrying yourself about it.”

  Lucky turned in her chair. “Has Elias had a chance to examine her yet?” Elias Scott, the love of Lucky’s life, was the only doctor in Snowflake and also served as the town’s coroner. “Did he have anything to say?”

  Nate scratched his head. “He couldn’t be definite, but he was leaning toward some form of poisoning or allergic reaction, given the vomiting. But he didn’t want to hazard an opinion until the pathologist completes an autopsy.”

  “I see.” Lucky glanced at her grandfather. Jack still hadn’t said a word. “Thanks, Nate.”

  “See you later.” Nate shut the door behind him.

  Jack was staring at the floor.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing, Jack. I’m sure it had nothing to do with the herbs you gave them.”

  His face was pale. “What if I made a mistake?”

  “Jack, you’ve been doing this for years. You didn’t. I’m sure you didn’t.” She squeezed his hand in encouragement.

  “My eyesight isn’t so good these days.”

  “That may be, but I doubt you’d have anything poisonous growing in your backyard. And whatever you gathered near the woods was fine too.”

  “Lots of everyday plants and flowers are poisonous, you know, very dangerous.” He took a deep breath. Jack still didn’t seem convinced. “You better get back out front, my girl. You’ll have more customers by now. It’s
just gone four bells.”

  “I will, but I plan to talk to Cordelia myself as soon as possible.” She squeezed his hand one last time. Even in times of stress, Jack still told time by the bells. It was second nature for him. And she was one of the very few people who could interpret his references. Most of Jack’s life had been spent in the Navy and, for him, the walls were still the bulkhead and the floors, the deck. His health had improved a great deal over the past year when his symptoms had been diagnosed as a vitamin deficiency. But from his days in the Pacific in World War II, he suffered from a post-traumatic stress disorder generally set off by stress or, particularly, the sight of blood. The last thing she wanted was for any suspicions to linger about him or for him to worry he had played a part in anyone’s death.

  Lucky returned to the counter. Janie and Meg, the Spoonful’s two young waitresses, were busy. Meg had covered the counter in Lucky’s absence, and Janie was taking orders from a few new arrivals. Horace had already gone on his way, and Barry and Hank were settling in for a game of chess at their table. She quelled an unsettled feeling in her chest. Jack couldn’t possibly have made a fatal mistake. She was sure of it.

  Chapter 5

  LUCKY PUSHED HER way through the untrimmed bushes that threatened to block the drive. Sophie had rushed on ahead.

  “Come on, slowpoke. Hurry up!” Sophie called gaily from the top of the hill.

  A small twig struck Lucky’s face. She brushed it away, huffing the rest of the way to the clearing at the top of the dirt drive where Sophie’s childhood home stood.

  When Lucky caught up with her, Sophie spun in a circle, her arms held straight out. “Here it is! Remember?”

  Lucky laughed. “Of course I do. How could I forget? I always loved to come to your house.”

  “Well, it’s pretty basic but it was home when we were all kids.”