A Broth of Betrayal (11 page)

Chapter 19

T
HE OLD CONGREGATIONAL
Church had never hosted such an excited crowd. The air was electric with anticipation.
The demonstration against the car wash that Harry had been instrumental in organizing
had brought the town together. Now, with Harry’s death, fear had brought people together
again, to share gossip and information.

Lucky and Jack had once again agreed to provide drinks and half sandwiches for the
crowd at their regular price, with a percentage going to the church. Pastor Wilson
couldn’t have been happier. Locals always frequented the Spoonful whenever they could,
but a small sandwich board announcing the name of the By the Spoonful Soup Shop wouldn’t
hurt as an advertisement, particularly for summer visitors. Refreshments would be
sold during the break, which would be followed by a question and answer session. Horace
planned to chair tonight’s presentation, since he was now as knowledgeable about the
case as was anyone at the University. Lucky surveyed the crowd, attempting to count
heads. She hoped their sandwiches wouldn’t sell out too quickly.

Pastor Wilson raised his hand to gather everyone’s attention. Horace introduced Professor
Arnold, who had driven over from the University and now joined them on the small stage
at the head of the room. Professor Arnold took the microphone, tapped it gently, and
spoke. “Thank you, everyone, for inviting me.” Several people murmured, “Thank you,”
in return. He took a breath and began to speak.

“As you know, a skeleton, a very old one, was found near the center of your town.
We believe he—and we now know this individual was male—was buried in a relatively
shallow grave, certainly not six feet deep. It also appears that this man was buried
without religious ritual or casket. We can’t be exactly certain, because the earth
was disturbed by construction equipment before he was found, but we discovered no
wooden remnants of a coffin to indicate otherwise. He was a young man, we believe
under the age of twenty-five judging by the long bones. Based on the artifacts on
his person at the time of his death, it is possible he died during a local battle
of the Revolutionary War. If that’s the case, it was not that uncommon for colonials
or militiamen to be buried in such a manner. Many people died in battle and had to
be hastily buried. Moreover, the British were known to treat rebels’ bodies in a very
undignified fashion.”

“Are you saying the skeleton is as old as that?” asked a resident of Snowflake.

“Given the artifacts we’ve found and the condition of the bones, that is our working
hypothesis. We plan to run several tests—a chemical analysis will tell us how much
nitrogen is contained in the bony tissue. As bones deteriorate, nitrogen levels decrease.
Also, different amino acids disappear from bones at different rates. Testing for those
is another method of determining the age of bones.”

“Was he a militiaman? An American?”

“It’s a possibility. Assuming we’re correct, and the skeleton dates from the same
time period as the artifacts, he would not have worn a uniform. Most militiamen wore
their everyday clothing—homespun, I might add. This type of fiber would break down
and disappear very quickly. Fortunately, we were able to retrieve two very tiny fragments
that we plan to test.”

“Sounds like you don’t know very much,” one woman called out.

Professor Arnold smiled, not taking offense. “We will know a lot more in the near
future. So I hope you will all be patient. We will keep you updated.”

Another woman spoke. “I think it’s very exciting. For all we know, he could be one
of our ancestors!”

Cordelia Rank sat ramrod straight in the front pew, watching the proceedings avidly.
She stood. “Sir, my name is Cordelia Rank and . . .”

Lucky spotted Hank and Barry, a few seats closer to the dais. Barry nudged Hank, and
Hank shot him a look, shushing him from further remarks.

A voice from the rear said, “We know who you are.” A few titters were heard throughout
the room. Cordelia held her chin higher, ignoring the remark. “. . . and I am a Daughter
of the American Revolution . . .”

Someone was heard to groan loudly. Lucky, standing next to Jack, stifled a laugh.

Cordelia continued, “I believe the Daughters of the American Revolution would be very
interested in your findings. In fact, many of my sisters will be here soon to attend
the Reenactment of the Battle of Bennington. I would like to suggest that the bones
be donated to their museum.”

Professor Arnold raised his eyebrows. “Well, uh . . .” He looked inquiringly at Horace.
“I agree they should be preserved in a museum setting, but I imagine that will be
up to the town of Snowflake and the Vermont Division for Historic Preservation. It’s
certainly not for me to say. In any case, we at the University would need a lot more
time to continue our studies. A find like this is quite exciting.”

“Sit down,” an older man muttered in Cordelia’s direction.

Cordelia turned, silencing him with a withering glance. She rearranged her skirts
and sat down heavily in her chair.

When the Professor was finished, Horace took the microphone. “Why don’t we have a
little break for refreshments? Fifteen minutes. And then we can open the discussion
to any other questions you might have.”

Lucky slipped out of her seat and walked to the side of the hall, opening the doors
to the adjoining room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted into the large meeting
room. Janie had volunteered her services this evening, and she and Jack had arranged
four different types of half sandwiches, wrapped in plastic, on trays. Cold drinks
and water were on ice in a large cooler. Lucky took over the coffee urn, filling cups
and keeping the pitcher of cream and sugar bowl full.

She overheard two men she recognized from the demonstration. They were standing next
to the long table while she poured coffee. One said, “What’d I tell you. Rowland’s
not here.”

“Are you sure?” the second man asked.

“He wouldn’t have the nerve to show up.”

“Kinda odd in a way. You’d think he wouldn’t pass up an opportunity to make trouble.
After all, it was the discovery of the bones that brought his project to a halt. I
woulda thought he’d try to make it a point to learn what he could about all this.”

“I don’t care if he does or he doesn’t. But given a choice, I’d rather not see him
or hear from him again.” The man tossed his paper cup into the trash and turned away.

Lucky gave a signal to Janie, and slipped out from behind the table. The break was
almost over. In a vain hope that her fears about Elizabeth were unjustified, she walked
back into the main meeting hall and, standing on tiptoe, scanned the crowd for Elizabeth’s
silver white bob. She knew it was a desperate hope but couldn’t resist looking. She
felt as if she had been searching for Elizabeth the last few nights in her dreams.
There was no sign of her. Lucky took a deep breath and fought down the rising anxiety
in her chest.

“Hey, give me a hand, Lucky.” Sophie was holding the outside door open with her foot
and trying to push a large cardboard box over the threshold.

“You made it.” Lucky hurried over, secured the door and helped Sophie carry another
heavy box into the rear of the meeting hall.

Sophie brushed her hands off on the back of her jeans. “No word? She’s not here?”

Lucky shook her head. “I looked everywhere. I know it’s crazy, but I was hoping against
hope. She’s definitely not here.”

“Sorry it took me so long. I wanted to wait until the print shop finished the last
batch.”

“How do they look?” Lucky asked, dreading the moment when the flyers would make Elizabeth’s
disappearance all the more real.

“They did a good job.” Sophie squeezed Lucky’s hand for support. “I know you’re scared.
Your hands are shaking. Try to keep it together. We
will
find her.”

The noise level had grown, but many people were settling back into their seats. “Sophie,
you have a seat and I’ll help Janie clean up.” Sophie nodded and grabbed a chair near
the rear of the room.

Lucky headed to the side room, but left the doors open so she could hear the rest
of the presentation and Nate’s announcement. When everyone had quieted down, Horace
and Professor Arnold returned to the stage at the front of the room. Professor Arnold,
microphone in hand, asked if there were any questions.

Barry raised his hand. “What does this mean for the construction site? You must know
we want to close it down.”

“Yes,” Arnold answered. “I had heard about the dispute. This closure should only be
temporary. I understand it must be difficult for the developer.”

“Not as difficult as we’re gonna make it for him!” a man shouted from the back. He
was greeted with a murmuring of agreement.

“Our graduate students have been working hard, but we have not found any evidence
that this might be a larger burial site. If it were, it would certainly be eligible
for the State Registry. In the best of all possible worlds, the developer should do
due diligence. In other words, find out about the site before any plans are drawn
up. Unfortunately, in my experience, this never happens. So, as soon as we’ve finished
our work, then, I assume, the construction will begin again.”

The outside door to the meeting hall slammed open. Several heads turned. As if the
name of the devil had been spoken, Richard Rowland marched from the back of the room
and stood in the center aisle between the rows of chairs. At first there was silence
and then a disapproving murmur grew throughout the hall.

“You better believe it’ll begin again,” Rowland announced angrily. “All you people
be warned. I’m hiring my own guards, and if anybody tries to screw up my site you’ll
be sorry as hell.” Rowland was less agitated than he had been during the demonstration
but there was no mistaking his anger.

Norman Rank, Cordelia’s husband and Lucky’s landlord at the Spoonful, stood and pointed
a finger in Rowland’s direction. “You little weasel. What the hell do you think you’re
doing here? You weren’t invited and no one wants to see your face.” His voice was
level and chilling. Norman’s outburst was greeted with grumblings of approval throughout
the room. Rowland stood his ground, facing Norman down.

“You may own a lot of this town, Mr. Norman Rank, but you don’t own this building,
and I’ll damn well come here if I want. Maybe you oughta mind your own business before
you lose some of your precious real estate.” Rowland snickered coldly.

“Why you . . .” Norman struggled out of his row and stormed down the aisle toward
Rowland.

Rowland smirked, his hands on his hips, calmly watching Rank approach. “Oh yeah, what
are you gonna do about it, old man?” Rowland smiled wider, taking in the room. He
was playing to the crowd, Lucky knew, and the tension was palpable.

Hank and another man moved quickly into the aisle to intercept Norman before he could
reach Rowland. Hank grasped his arm, holding him back “Leave him be. It’s not worth
it, Norman.”

Norman’s face was red with fury. “You’ll be sorry you ever showed your face in this
town,” Norman spat.

“Oh yeah? What does that mean?” A flicker of fear passed across Rowland’s face. He
was surprised for a moment at Norman’s vehemence.

Cordelia rushed down the aisle and grasped her husband’s other arm. She leaned close
to him and whispered in his ear. Norman’s shoulders finally relaxed and Hank released
his firm grip. Cordelia took her husband by the arm and led him back to their seats.

Lucky, watching the exchange, realized she had been holding her breath, afraid that
some form of violence would erupt. Professor Arnold was silent, taken aback at the
animosity in the room.

Horace took the microphone from him and spoke in an effort to break the tension. Ignoring
the exchange between Norman Rank and Rowland, he said, “I’d just like to say a few
words.” He cleared his throat. “First of all, as many of you know, I am thrilled to
be living in Snowflake. Even though I’m not a longtime resident, as most of you are,
I can honestly say I’ve fallen in love with this town and am happy to be working on
my research in a place that was so important during the Revolution.”

“Get on with it, Horace. We love you too,” one man called out. Several people laughed
nervously. At the same moment, the outer door slammed shut. Richard Rowland had stormed
out of the hall. Lucky breathed a sigh of relief.

Horace, ignoring Rowland’s exit, smiled broadly at the jest. “So . . . let me just
say, the tiny remnants we discovered were very exciting. We believe the fabric will
be found to be homespun cloth and in colors created with native plants. Besides the
skeleton and fabric fragments we uncovered some very astonishing articles. We came
across silver shoe buckles and a powder horn. Now that doesn’t necessarily mean he
was a militiaman, since many of the colonists hunted for game, but he could have been.
On the powder horn there were carvings. Very lovely, like scrimshaw. If anyone is
interested, I will have some photos I can make available.”