A Roux of Revenge Read online

  Praise for

  A Spoonful of Murder

  “Snow in Vermont, soup, and murder. What could be more cozy? . . . A charming new amateur-sleuth series.”

  —Julie Hyzy, New York Times bestselling author of

  the White House Chef Mysteries

  “An engaging amateur sleuth due to the troubled heroine and the delightful Vermont location.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  “Plenty of small-town New England charm.”

  —The Mystery Reader

  “A ‘souper’ idea for a cozy mystery series! . . . [Archer] has set a great foundation for this series. We have met the star and recurring characters and they have been left with plenty of room to grow. The setting is ideal.”

  —Escape with Dollycas

  “The way cozies should be written. A small town with lovable characters and a plot that leaves you satisfied at the end.”

  —Girl Lost in a Book

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Connie Archer

  A SPOONFUL OF MURDER

  A BROTH OF BETRAYAL

  A ROUX OF REVENGE

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China

  penguin.com

  A Penguin Random House Company

  A ROUX OF REVENGE

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2014 by Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME and the PRIME CRIME logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-13802-5

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2014

  Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron.

  Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons,

  living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  Version_1

  For Tom

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks and much appreciation to Paige Wheeler of Folio Literary Management for her hard work, good advice and expertise, and to Faith Black and Kayleigh Clark of Berkley Prime Crime for their enthusiasm and support of the soup lover’s mystery series. And thank you to everyone at Berkley Prime Crime who had a hand in bringing this series to life.

  Many thanks as well to the writers’ group—Cheryl Brughelli, Don Fedosiuk, Paula Freeman, R. B. Lodge and Marguerite Summers—for their criticism and encouragement. And a special thank you to William M. Walker for his knowledge of bagpipes and Scottish laments and to Adam Smith of the University of Glasgow for his Gaelic expertise. Last, but certainly not least, special thanks to my family and my wonderful husband for their tolerance in living with a woman who is constantly thinking about ways to kill people.

  CONNIE ARCHER

  CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES.COM

  FACEBOOK.COM/CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES

  TWITTER: @SNOWFLAKEVT

  Contents

  Praise for Connie Archer

  Also by Connie Archer

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Recipes

  Chapter 1

  NATE EDGERTON, SNOWFLAKE’S Chief of Police, reached over and flipped off the siren and flashing light. He pulled his cruiser to the side of the road, slowing and coming to a stop behind a bright blue sports car. Early morning sunlight reflected off the rear bumper of the car where two people, a young couple, sat huddled together. Nate could tell from their expressions there was no need to hurry.

  He turned to his deputy. “Cancel the ambulance.” Nate heaved a sigh and climbed out. He already knew what he’d find in the ditch—a mangled body or bodies trapped in an equally crushed vehicle. Not how he wanted his day to go. His spirits had been high when he’d left home that morning. He had impulsively hugged his wife and kissed her quickly on the cheek. It was a golden October day. Indian summer warmth lingered over the countryside, and a brilliant glow of crimson and orange covered the trees, leaves unwilling to submit to the coming winter.

  He turned back to the cruiser and leaned into the driver’s window. “Get their plate number and run it. And get hold of somebody in Lincoln Falls for a coroner’s van.”

  Bradley nodded and, following Nate’s orders, began to make the calls. He really hoped he wouldn’t have to see any blood today.

  “And after you’ve done that, talk to those two.” Nate indicated the young couple by the sports car. “Get their information, and don’t let ’em leave just yet.” Nate straightened up slowly, holding a hand against his stiff back, and approached the pair. “You the folks who called this in?”

  The man nodded. His arm was slung protectively around the shoulder of the woman who sat next to him. Her face was pale and pinched.

  “Did you both
go down to have a look?” Nate asked.

  “Yes, we . . . well, I got there first. I told my wife to go back, not to look.”

  “I see.” Nate nodded. “My deputy will get your information, and I’ll be with you in a few minutes.”

  Nate doubted the couple was mistaken, but he needed to make sure. He walked to the edge of the road and gauged the distance to a white van tilted forward into the soft earth below him at a twenty-five degree angle. He grasped a sapling that clung to the side of the ditch, and doing his best not to slip or tumble, stepped sideways down the slope. He took note of the footprints in the soft earth, one set larger and deeper than the other. As careful as he was, he was barely able to keep from sliding the rest of the way down into the gully.

  The windshield of the van had shattered from the impact. Probably from the victim’s head, he guessed. Nate peered through the open driver’s window. The body of a man dressed in casual work clothes was splayed over the steering wheel. His face, pressed into the shattered windshield, was striped with rivulets of blood. Sightless eyes were open, fixed at a place well beyond the ditch in which he lay.

  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, ma
ybe 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.”