A Roux of Revenge (2 page)

Nate sighed and shook his head. Why don’t they ever wear their seat belts?

He wrenched the
door open and stood back to let gravity do the hard work. The man’s left sleeve and shirtfront were soaked in blood. Nate scanned the interior of the van searching for broken glass or a sharp object to explain the blood loss but found nothing. He pulled a pen from his pocket and, using the tip of the pen, very carefully lifted the sleeve of the man’s shirt. Humming tunelessly to himself, he replaced
his pen and climbed around the van. He studied the ground, noticing a deep footprint at the rear of the vehicle. Stepping carefully over the depression, he leaned close to the bumper for a better look.

“Bradley!” he bellowed.

Nate looked to the top of the rise. His deputy’s face appeared over the edge.

“Bring the camera down here.” Nate knew the technicians would take plenty of pictures,
but whenever possible, he preferred to document the scene himself—too easy for a key piece of evidence to disappear or be overlooked.

Bradley appeared a few moments later, a camera bag slung over his shoulder. He slid down a lot more gracefully than the older man had. When Bradley reached bottom, he passed the camera to Nate, carefully keeping his gaze averted from the front seat of the van.

“Come on over here.” Nate scrambled around to the driver’s door. “What do you see?”

Bradley followed his boss dutifully. He felt his stomach lurch. “Blood.”

“What else do you see?”

“Well, he didn’t have a seat belt on. Went straight into the windshield.”

“Anything else?”

Bradley shrugged his shoulders. “He bled all over himself.”

“Really? So, what do you think caused
all the blood?” Nate asked.

Bradley, his face white, shrugged his shoulders.

“Look again.” Nate pointed to the dead man’s arm and shirtfront and waited patiently for light to dawn in Bradley’s eyes.

“This wasn’t from the accident?”

Nate slid the pen from his pocket and once again lifted the material of the shirt away from the dead man’s arm. “Now what do you see?”

Bradley squinted.
“A hole.” He turned to Nate, surprise on his face. “He was shot?”

“There’s more. Listen and learn.” Nate pointed to the rear of the van and led the way. “See this?” He pointed to a clear footprint.

Bradley stared. “Maybe the guy up there . . .” he said, indicating the man by the sports car.

“Oh yeah? What kinda shoes is he wearing?”

“Uh . . . I don’t know.”

“He’s wearing some
kind of expensive running shoes. This looks like maybe a small man’s size, distinct heel, maybe leather soles—city shoes.” Nate indicated dents on the rear bumper. “Here.” He pointed to a second spot of damage. “And here? A lot of dings and rust spots, but there’s no rust on these. A little paint in there. Maybe they can match it.”

“You’re saying somebody made sure he went off the road?”

“Yup. Twice, it looks like. Stand over here and help me get this back door open. Whatever you do, don’t mess up that print.” Nate pulled a handkerchief from his back pocket and wrapped it around his hand. He pulled the door open while Bradley wedged his arm into the opening and pushed. The door creaked and swung open. Gravity did the rest.

Nate stared at the floor of the van. “There’s a
track of dirt and leaves—fresh. Maybe somebody was having a look around before we got here. Grab your camera. I want you to get some good shots of this and our man inside, his shirt and these dings on the bumper. But don’t touch anything, all right?”

Bradley nodded and began to fidget with the settings on his camera.

Nate climbed into the empty interior of the van. Using his handkerchief,
he pushed gently against the panels that lined the interior. One gave slightly, as though loosened. He climbed out, careful to avoid the deep footprint, and jerked his thumb to the top of the rise. “I want to talk to those two up there before they decide to take off.”

Nate straightened his back.
Getting stiffer every day
, he thought.
Getting too damn old for this job.
He heaved another sigh
and made an effort to climb back up to the road. Taking two steps up and sliding back one, he clung to the thin plantings and branches to give himself purchase.

The man at the car stood as Nate approached. The woman held her hands against her face, leaning over her knees. “Can we go now?” the man asked.

“About what time did you first pull over?”

“Maybe forty-five minutes ago, I think.
We saw the top of the van down below. We stopped, thinking somebody might need help, but . . .” He trailed off.

“It was too late.” Nate finished his sentence.

The man gulped and nodded.

“Where are you headed, by the way?” Nate made a circuit of the sports car, looking for signs of damage. The chrome bumper was unmarred.

“Over to Bournmouth to visit my wife’s parents. We live in
Lincoln Falls.”

“Did you happen to see any other vehicles when you first noticed the van? Anybody pass by?”

“No. Not a soul. There wasn’t any traffic. We came this way ’cause we wanted to take the scenic route.” The man shook his head ruefully. “We sure as hell didn’t bargain for this.”

Nate nodded. “Sorry you had to be the ones. If you’ve given your names and home address to my deputy,
you can be on your way.”

Without a word the young woman stood, a look of relief on her face. They climbed into the sports car without a backward glance. The engine revved, and the car pulled onto the road heading east.

Nate watched until the car navigated a turn and was out of sight. He heard the crunch of gravel behind him as another car pulled off the road.

Elias Scott, Snowflake’s
town doctor and the local coroner, climbed out, a heavy black bag in his hand. Nate shook his head negatively to let Elias know there was no hurry.

“You’re sure?” Elias asked as he approached.

“Sorry to drag you out here. Not much you can do now.”

“Well, since I’m here, why don’t I have a closer look?”

“Be my guest.”

Elias stepped carefully down the side of the ditch. When
he reached the bottom, he slipped on a pair of latex gloves. Nate followed and watched as Elias looked in the open driver’s door. Elias whistled softly.

“What do you think?” Nate asked.

“Well, the accident caused this.” Elias pointed to a gash on the man’s head and facial cuts. “Might have caused a concussion too. But it doesn’t account for all this blood. Looks like it flowed from his
left arm. See here.” He pointed a gloved finger and then carefully examined the material of the shirt.

“Yeah, I caught that. A gunshot wound.”

“He was alive when he went off the road. He could have been in shock from the wound, maybe that’s what caused the crash. Could have died from the trauma, the blood loss or even the head injury. Can’t be certain yet.”

“Have a look back here.”
Elias followed the path that Nate had taken, careful not to slip on the damp vegetation. Bradley was returning the camera to its bag.

“Don’t walk over there. One good print I noticed.” Nate pointed to the area by the rear door.

“Somebody else was here?” Elias asked.

“That’s what I think. And then there are two areas of damage. Here and here.” Nate indicated the spots on the crushed
bumper. “And these are new—no rust. This wasn’t caused by the accident. Somebody rear-ended this guy—a couple of times, I’d guess.”

“So you think he was shot first? Maybe whoever shot him managed to hit a vital artery.”

“And maybe he was able to get away—tried to get help. But somebody didn’t want him to.” Nate shook his head. “Nothing’s simple, is it? I’m gonna have to get the body moved
and this thing towed to Lincoln Falls where the techs can have a better look. Let’s go back up to the road. I want to get some shots of the tire tracks before everybody messes them up.”

The three men climbed back to the road, doing their best not to slip on the soft earth or wet autumn leaves. Nate reached out and took the camera from Bradley. Elias stepped away and watched as Nate shot several
photos.

“What can you tell from those?”

“See these right here?” Nate said, pointing to wide tire tracks. “These are the marks from the van. They start right here. No sign of an attempt to brake. This guy just flew off the road. Maybe he was already unconscious. But I still think somebody helped him along.”

Elias followed in Nate’s wake. “And back here . . .” Nate pointed to another
set of marks. “Somebody hit the brakes real hard. See these? And then it looks like he drove onto the soft shoulder.”

He turned to his deputy. “Bradley, you stay here until everything’s handled and then bring the cruiser back to the station. And make sure you don’t touch anything and don’t let anybody stop to gawk. And especially right here,” Nate said, pointing to a set of tire tracks. “Get
some markers out of the trunk and make sure they get an impression of that tire and that one good footprint down there.”

Bradley wasn’t happy to be stuck on the road for what would be several hours of a mop-up operation, but there wasn’t much he could say about it.

“I’ll hitch a ride back to town with you, Elias. Bradley can handle the rest.” Nate stood for a moment, silently surveying
the scene. “Yup. I’d bet my last dollar. Somebody was after this guy. We’ve got a murder on our hands.”

Chapter 2

J
ANIE SHIFTED THE
branches of brightly colored autumn leaves, rearranging them in a wooden cask, one of several placed around the restaurant. “What do you think, Lucky?”

“I think it’s
fabulous. Maybe you should consider a career in interior decoration, even though I’d hate to lose you.” Lucky’s compliments were sincere. The restaurant was filled with morning light, filtering through the yellow gingham curtains and reflecting off the wide pine floors of the By the Spoonful Soup Shop.

Janie laughed. “Don’t think that’ll be happening anytime soon. I’ll be stuck in Snowflake
for the rest of my life, more likely.” She pushed an unruly branch back into place. “But at least we’re all dressed up for Halloween.”

“I mean it, Janie. Look at this.” Lucky waved her arm to indicate the work that Janie had accomplished—bouquets of leaves in brilliant reds and oranges from the autumn chill, cornstalks and baskets of multicolored gourds in the front window. “It really looks
terrific.”

Lucky’s grandfather, Jack Jamieson, had decided to hold a promotion for the Spoonful—free soup from three o’clock to five o’clock on the afternoon of Halloween. Lucky agreed that would be a great idea. It would cover the time period from when the children were released from school until the sun went down for the children’s witching hour. Jack had also decided to sponsor a pumpkin-carving
contest. Anyone could enter, each entry was anonymous, and every customer would have one vote for their favorite by secret ballot. The prize would be three all-you-can-eat meals for two at the Spoonful any day of the week.

Janie and Meg, the Spoonful’s other waitress, and Sage DuBois, their chef, had each contributed carved pumpkins to get the contest rolling. Janie’s jack-o’-lantern sported
a smile, with red pepper lips, teeth of seeds and twig eyelashes. Meg had carved one that looked like a tiny demon. Sage’s was a leering witch with a parsnip nose. The jack-o’-lanterns were lined up on a long table against the wall. Tiny battery lights twinkled inside each of them.

The holidays were here again, Lucky thought. The first without her parents. Ten months had elapsed since she
had returned home to Snowflake to take over her parents’ business. Martha and Louis Jamieson had died in a car crash on an icy road, and their death had changed her life forever. Two more months would mark a full year. Somehow she had managed to keep the restaurant afloat. She had been terrified at first of taking over the Spoonful and doubtful about her decision to stay. But now, this path felt the
most natural one in the world.

“You can’t really see the lights inside the pumpkins during the day,” Janie said. Maybe we should turn them off for now and save the batteries ’til it’s dark.”

“Good idea.” Lucky looked up from laying out placemats on the tables.

Janie, a wooden bowl full of gourds in her arms, was staring intently out the front window. Something in her expression caught
Lucky’s attention.

“Janie? What is it?”

“Nothing.” Janie continued to stare across Broadway to the opposite sidewalk. “It’s just . . .”

Lucky moved closer to Janie and followed her gaze. “What do you see?”

“That man. I’ve seen him before.” Janie nodded her head, indicating a tall, muscular man with a full head of thick auburn hair streaked with gray. He stood on the other side
of the street, in the shade of an awning, as though waiting for someone.

“Maybe he’s someone in town working for the Harvest Festival,” Lucky said.

Snowflake, Vermont, had been chosen as this year’s location for the fall event, hosting a local farmers’ market, pony rides and a corn maze for children. Ernie White, a successful businessman from Lincoln Falls, a much larger town, was the
moving force behind the festival.