A Broth of Betrayal

A Body in the Auto Body Shop . . .

She clambered over the windowsill and jumped a foot to the concrete floor. She called
out again. No answer. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering through the high
dusty windows. She could just see her way across the garage without tripping on any
of the hoses lying about on the floor. The large empty space was completely still.
She moved toward the front of the shop and pushed open the door of the office where
Harry worked. A terrible odor assailed her nostrils. Her foot touched something soft.
She looked down and gasped. Harry lay on his side, his eyes staring sightlessly at
the legs of a chair. Part of his skull was caved in and a pool of now-congealed blood
surrounded his head.

Lucky covered her mouth, trying not to scream, but a low gurgle came from her throat.
Jack was right. Harry was gone . . .

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Connie Archer

A SPOONFUL OF MURDER

A BROTH OF BETRAYAL

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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A BROTH OF BETRAYAL

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

Copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

Excerpt from
A Roux of Revenge
by Connie Archer copyright © 2013 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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ISBN: 978-1-101-61980-3

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / April 2013

Cover illustration by Cathy Gendron.

Cover design by Diana Kolsky.

Interior design by Kristin del Rosario.

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.

In loving memory of Gale Hyatt.
You will live in our hearts always.

Acknowledgments

With thanks and appreciation to Paige Wheeler of Folio Literary Management for her
hard work, good advice and expertise and to Emily Beth Rapoport, Faith Black, and
Kayleigh Clark of Berkley Prime Crime for their enthusiasm and support for the Soup
Lover’s Mysteries. Thank you to Marianne Grace for her copyediting skill in making
this book the best it could be; and 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 Freedman,
R. B. Lodge, and Marguerite Summers—for their criticism and encouragement, and last,
but certainly not least, special thanks to my family and my wonderful husband for
their tolerance in living with a woman who is always thinking about ways to kill people.

CONNIE ARCHER
WWW.CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES.COM
WWW.FACEBOOK.COM/CONNIEARCHERMYSTERIES
TWITTER: @SNOWFLAKEVT

Chapter 1

Neigeville 1777

N
ATHANAEL COOPER CREPT
slowly, staying as close as possible to the trunks of the larger trees. He moved
silently, fearful of giving his presence away. His heart beat so heavily he thought
his chest would burst. Fragrant pine needles and dead leaves, dry and crumbled from
the summer heat, carpeted the forest floor. A small twig crackled beneath his feet.
He uttered a curse under his breath and froze. There were watchers now—watchers everywhere—on
both sides. The town of Neigeville had formed a committee of volunteers to monitor
the roads and report all movement, particularly British, immediately. At the slightest
alarm, the church bells would be rung to wake the countryside.

He had lain awake that night until he was certain everyone in the house was asleep—his
mother, father and sisters. He hoped they’d sleep deeply and not wake to find him
gone. He did not want to explain to anyone what he was about. Once certain it was
safe, he crept softly down the stairs and out into the fragrant, humid night. No one
must know. He would never be forgiven. He would be killed, no doubt about that, and
most likely his entire family as well. At the very least, their home and all their
goods would be confiscated by the militia.

His feet were encased in gray homespun socks and soft leather boots that made little
noise, but even so, a chorus of cricket song quieted at each step he took. A small
animal scurried away through the underbrush. It was the dark of the moon, just a day
or two to the new moon. Hard to see anything at all, much less among the trees. He
edged closer to the clearing where only thin saplings would offer him protection,
careful not to step out of the shelter of the dark. A single lantern burned in the
window of the tavern below where the British officer had approached him that very
afternoon. Somehow the man knew about his brother, knew that Jonathan was missing.
Nathanael had last seen his brother driving away in the family’s horse-drawn cart
to deliver ale to a neighboring town. The family had asked everyone in town if they
had seen Jonathan or heard any news of him. They had searched for him but had learned
nothing. His mother was consumed with worry, sure her missing son had been shot by
the British. At best, Nathanael’s brother had been taken prisoner. At the very worst,
he was dead.

His family was terrified by the events unfolding around them, as were many others.
Angry at the arrogance of the British regulars, the townspeople wanted to drive them
out. Yet many believed that as British citizens they still owed allegiance to the
King. Feelings had reached a boiling point and now there was no more time to debate.
Everyone must choose a side. Nathanael’s father was eager to fight, held in check
only by his mother’s fears. It was his father’s hesitation that had caused the town
to turn a suspicious eye in their direction. Against his mother’s wishes Nathanael
himself had joined the militia, more in an effort to protect his family than for any
other reason. He had no desire to fight, to kill other men, even if they were British.
Like his brother, he had little interest in politics and wished only to live the quiet
life of a farmer. He hoped he’d never be forced to kill anyone, British or Yankee.

The strange man with information about Jonathan had worn the clothing of a local,
short trousers and a coat of homespun cloth, in shades of brown, but there was no
mistaking him for a colonial. His manner was high-handed and arrogant, used to giving
orders. He hadn’t fooled anyone in the tavern, not even the young boy who swept the
floor. Another man followed in his footsteps and took orders from him—a servant. Only
a British officer would keep a servant. Perhaps the pastor was correct—if the town
did not take up arms, if the rebellion were quashed, they’d be slaves to the crown
forever. Nathanael was torn—stay loyal to the King and hope for peace, or join the
rebels in their hatred of the King’s authority? An iron fist was closing over all
their land. The loyalists were called traitors and the rebels were at risk of their
lives. To be hesitant to take a side might mean death at the hands of a neighbor.

The man had accosted him that afternoon outside the tavern. He had news. His brother
Jonathan had been taken prisoner on the road to Bournmouth, his cart, ale and horses
confiscated. The officer swore to Nathanael that Jonathan was still alive and promised
to reveal where his brother was being held. In exchange, he wanted information. Young
as he was, Nathanael was no fool. He knew there’d be a price to pay, but gasped when
he learned what the man wanted. He demanded to know where in the town the gunpowder
and arms were hidden. Even more, he wanted details about the stores at Bennington,
and how many rebels would march to defend the armory.

The Committee of Safety formed in Neigeville was certain the British, approaching
from the north, planned to confiscate all the guns and ammunition that had been so
carefully stockpiled, and ultimately gain control of the armory at Bennington. At
meetings, townspeople had learned that the ranks of Burgoyne, the hated British general,
were swelled with Hessians, loyalist Canadians, Indians and French. They knew their
horses and cattle would be taken to feed the soldiers on their march. A fierce battle
was coming, if not here in Neigeville, then closer to Bennington.

Nathanael knew that, with the blessing of their minister, guns and powder were hidden
under the pulpit of the white-steepled church on the Village Green, but he was not
privy to any information about the armory at Bennington. Nathanael would happily give
the lobsterback all the details he wanted, if only he could free his brother and bring
him home. But did he know enough?

He shivered in spite of the warm night.
Where was the man?
He was terrified of the officer, but far more terrified of discovery by his fellow
townsmen. He hated to think what would happen to him if it were known he had provided
information to the enemy. A branch crackled and Nathanael jumped in terror. The man
had come through the woods behind him and now had stepped out into the clearing. Nathanael
watched and waited. His heart finally slowed its rhythm. He took a deep breath and
moved out of the shadow of the trees. He recognized the linen shirt and brown vest,
the wide-brimmed hat, but when the figure turned toward him, his blood ran cold. This
was a different man, shorter and stockier, not the officer he had promised to meet.
The man raised his gun. A shot rang out. Nathanael reeled back, falling against a
tree. More surprised than in pain, he looked down at his chest to see his life’s blood
flowing from a wound. The last word he heard was “
Traitor.
”