The Battered Body

by J. B. Stanley

  “Hello?” James’s voice was filled with trepidation.

  “James?”

  It was Lucy. He relaxed a fraction and then suddenly recalled that she was a sheriff’s deputy scheduled to be on duty that day.

  “What’s happened?” he asked her over the sound of the running water.

  “It’s Paulette,” she answered evenly. “She’s dead. I’m here at the Widow’s Peak.”

  “I’ll be right over.”

  “No, James.” Lucy’s tone was firm. “We haven’t determined if the death is accidental or not. I’ll call you as soon as we know something.”

  “Lucy, I’ll be there in ten minutes,” he stated as though she hadn’t spoken, and then he hung up the phone. Drawing Milla toward him, he gently pushed down on the faucet until the harsh stream of water ceased and then whispered, “I’ll find out what happened. I promise.”

  He then eased Milla into his father’s arms and the two men exchanged imperceptible nods. “Make her some coffee,” James whispered as he headed upstairs to pull on some clothes. “Pour in a shot of Cutty Sark. Make yourself one too. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long day.”

  When the Bronco crested the top of the hill leading to the entrance of the Widow’s Peak Inn, James expected to see Sheriff’s Department cruisers with their light bars flashing, but there was only one sedan present parked neatly off to the side. The porch lights flanking the double front doors still burned, providing meager competition with the waking sun.

  Mr. Mintzer, the owner of the inn, sat on one of the wicker rockers with a coffee mug cradled in his hands. He gazed at James dully and did not rise to greet him.

  Noting that the older man wore no coat and that his sockless feet were encased in a pair of unlined slippers, James speculated that the innkeeper was in shock. Touching him lightly on the arm, James squatted next to the silent man. “You must be cold, sir,” he spoke softly. “Could I get you a coat from inside?”

  After a long pause, Mr. Mintzer answered mechanically. “You can hang your coat in the hall closet. It’s just past the stairs.”

  Since Paulette had booked every room, James felt it safe to assume that the red barn coat, gray wool hat, and thick leather gloves belonged to the gentleman out on the porch. Without pausing to announce his presence to Lucy, James returned outside and made sure that the innkeeper was appropriately attired.

  “Can I get you anything else?”

  James handed Mr. Mintzer his gloves, growing more and more concerned at the vacant look in his eyes. Without warning, the man blinked and grabbed him by the hand. “She was an awful woman, but we’d never wish this on her.” He shook his head. “That picture’ll be burned in my mind for the rest of my days. Her on the floor—her face covered like she was wearin’ a mask made of mud. It’s a good thing Hattie wasn’t up when I forced my way in. Ever since that first mornin’, when that woman told my wife her eggs were runny and her fruit salad wasn’t ripe, Hattie’s given up cookin’ for her.” He shrugged and stared off into the distance again. “It feels awful odd to take it so slow in the mornin’ when you’ve got guests, but there’s been no need for us to stir until we were sure she didn’t need the kitchen. Looks like we won’t be goin’ in there for a spell anyhow.”

  “So you found Paulette?” James couldn’t help asking.

  “I like to have coffee about six,” Mr. Mintzer explained. “When you get older, you just can’t sleep late anymore, even if you want to. It’s like your body’s tryin’ to tell you that time is runnin’ out and you’d best get up and live a full day. Anyhow, I collected the paper and went to fix the coffee but the kitchen door was locked. I’d given that baker lady a spare key but I still had mine and I knew she didn’t wanna be bothered when she was makin’ cakes, but a man’s gotta have his coffee! Isn’t that so?”

  “Absolutely,” James agreed, wishing he had a cup that very moment.

  “She was in the kitchen when we went to bed last night.” He creased his brow in thought. “That musta been a bit before ten. I couldn’t believe she was still in there all those hours later. Never heard of somebody cookin’ all night, but then again, I’ve never met someone like her.” He raised his eyebrows quizzically. “When she didn’t answer my knock this mornin’, I felt in my bones that somethin’ wasn’t right, so I unlocked the door and there she was.” The man huddled forward in the chair and took a sip of coffee that had surely lost all trace of heat. “Looks like her heart just gave out and she toppled over. What a shame. And what a mess too.”

  Wondering whether Donovan or Lucy had questioned Mr. Mintzer yet, James decided to satisfy his own curiosity. “Did you hear any strange noises over the course of the night?”

  “Nope, but I sleep like a stuffed bear. Harriet’s the one who’ll wake up if the wind changes direction, but I don’t know if she heard anything ’cause I sent her straight upstairs. I didn’t want her to see the kitchen like, well, you know.”

  James felt that he had to view the scene of Paulette’s death, but he wasn’t sure how to gain access to the kitchen. He was determined to do so, however, as he had promised Milla that he would return with a full explanation of how her sister had died.

  As he stepped from the center hallway in search of Lucy, he ran into Deputy Keith Donovan pacing around the dining room while barking orders into his walkie-talkie.

  “You!” Donovan’s freckled face immediately turned ruddy in anger and he lowered his radio to his hip. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be sniffing around for your girlfriend? Or are you on the hunt for a nice, big, free breakfast? ’Cause if you are, the kitchen’s closed. No cake for you, my friend.”

  Fighting back the urge to respond to yet another of Donovan’s barbs, James pointed toward the porch instead. “I think Mr. Mintzer’s in shock. If you don’t convince him to come inside, he could require medical attention.”

  “He’s a grown man,” Donovan replied caustically.

  “But it’s your scene, right? If something happens to him, you’ll be held responsible. What if the press hears about such neglect?”

  After sending him a look that could freeze water, Donovan pushed open the swing door separating the dining room from the butler’s pantry. “Hanover! Get outside and see to Mr. Mintzer. He’s freezing his ass off out there on the porch. Bring him in here and question him before he turns into a human Popsicle.”

  “Where’s Willow?” James inquired casually.

  “I sent her to her room.” Donovan smoothed his red hair and gave James a superior smirk.

  “Mr. Mintzer told me that his wife is a really light sleeper.” James sat down in a nearby chair as though awaiting orders from the deputy. “If there was any foul play last night, she’d be the one to know. I’m sure the press and Sheriff Huckabee will be pretty impressed that you figured everything out within an hour of being called to the scene. You might even get a commendation.”

  Though Donovan wasn’t exactly wise, he was smart enough to be suspicious of James’s motives. “Don’t you have some books to shelve? Go on, get outta here.”

  “I’m just trying to help Lucy out,” James lied. “She’s your partner, so if you tidy this up quickly, then she looks good de facto. I mean, the deceased is a celebrity. This case could make you famous.”

  The deputy spent a moment pondering the meaning of de facto and then pointed at James. “You stay right here. If you move from that chair, I’ll find somethin’ to charge you with. Go ahead and try me if you think I’m kiddin’.” He made a V with his fingers and directed them at his eyes. “I’ll be watchin’ you even when you don’t know it. Are we clear?”

  “Yessir.” James did his best to act submissive, but as soon as he heard the heavy tread of Donovan’s boots clomping up the wooden staircase, he eased open the swing door and entered the butler’s pantry.

  The narrow, closetlike room, which had been painted a robin’s-egg blue with white trim, housed stacks of cream-colored dinnerware, glass tumblers, a variety of ceramic p
latters, soup tureens, and casserole dishes, as well as wine goblets and a crystal punch bowl set. The plates were so clean that they gleamed beneath the light cast by a single overheard fixture. The wooden door leading into the kitchen was slightly ajar, as though someone had meant to close it behind them but had been too hurried to pull it completely shut. Using his sleeve, James pushed on it gently, and it swung inward with a minimal creak of hinges.

  The sight before him was confusing at first, probably because the room seemed like it had been the center of a flurry of activity that had instantly paused and had never been resumed.

  James’s eyes fell upon the body on the floor. His reaction to its presence was suspended by the fact that the face he knew belonged to Paulette Martine was, in fact, so completely camouflaged that it could have been any woman in black pants, black boots, and an apron splayed on the cold tile.

  His gaze traveled upward from her figure to the countertop above. There, a commercial-sized KitchenAid mixer had been overturned and its contents had streamed onto Paulette’s face and hair, covering her with a thick layer of batter. Droplets of liquid batter had splattered in an outward radius from her visage and had then hardened into a firm crust. Taking a hesitant step forward, James leaned toward Milla’s sister and then hastily drew back.

  Paulette’s mouth was ajar and obviously filled with batter. That was disconcerting enough, but it was the anguished tilt of her chin and the scratch marks left in the wood above her right arm that proved that she had not experienced a peaceful death. The fingers that had reached out, smearing batter onto the shellacked wood and digging into its surface deeply enough to remove strips of stain, were now fixed into an inert claw, and James had a hard time tearing his eyes from Paulette’s thin, vulnerable fingers.

  “What happened to you?” he whispered, letting precious minutes tick by as he fixated on the obscured face.

  A knocking sound from above his head drew him back to reality and reminded him that he had no time to waste. Frantically, James scanned the room, trying to absorb the cooking paraphernalia scattered about the kitchen. Cake pans, measuring cups and spoons, spice jars, egg cartons, a butter tray, potholders … it all looked as it should, except for the unsettled mixer and the dead body.

  The muffled sounds of voices emanating from the downstairs hallway forced James to retreat to his chair in the dining room. He quickly took his gloves out of his pocket and pretended to be tapping the chair’s arm with them. Lucy walked in alone and frowned at him. “I know you went into the kitchen, so you can stop acting like you’ve been in that seat all along.”

  “I had to come.” James picked at a loose thread on his right glove. “It’s Milla’s sister.”

  Lucy’s face was unreadable. “And what’s your impression of the scene?”

  Gathering his thoughts for a moment, he looked around the sage-colored walls at the watercolor scenes of wildflowers and birds, framed pieces of lace, and colorful plates from Blue Ridge pottery. Gentle winter sunlight flowed through the large bay windows and fell in wide panels across the floor. James thought it must be a lovely room to sit in, sip coffee, and dine upon a hearty breakfast. One could hardly start the day off unpleasantly when it had begun with such warmth, he imagined.

  “It seems like she was using the mixer and then something caused her to grab onto the counter, like she was having an attack of some kind.” He spoke quietly, as though they were not in the appropriate place to discuss an unexpected death. “She knocked the machine over and then fell down where she’s now lying. The batter poured over the counter and onto her face, but she didn’t have the strength to get out of the way.” The image of her open mouth appeared in his mind’s eye. “Did she choke on the batter, do you think?”

  Lucy spent a moment in thought. “Maybe, but I think something else killed her. Something quick, but painful. Those scratches on the wood, did you see them?”

  He nodded. “They make me believe she was in incredible pain. Agony even. And the way her neck is arched and her chin lifted … she reminds me of one of those casts of the people who died when Mount Vesuvius erupted. They were frozen in postures of that kind of agony. Haunting.”

  “I’m not familiar with that, but I’ll Google it back at the station.” Lucy made a brief note on a small pad. “You didn’t touch anything did you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Good, because we’re waiting for someone to bring us another camera. Mine’s busted.” She listened as footsteps trod on the floorboards above them. “Donovan thinks she had a heart attack or brain aneurism or something. He’s planning to rule it an accidental death.”

  James heard the doubt in her voice. “But you don’t agree?”

  “If there were no motives to hurt her, then I might share Donovan’s opinion, but I’m going to ask Huckabee for an autopsy with all the works. It’ll take awhile, and if everything comes out clean, then I’ll look like an idiot. But think about it, James. She made a lot of people angry.”

  “No matter what the results are, Milla and the rest of us will be grateful that you followed your instincts and asked for a second opinion.” James stood up and reached for her hand. “Your senses are more fine-tuned than most people’s are, Lucy. Listen to what your gut is telling you. It’s never been wrong.”

  Lucy smiled with gratitude and then immediately resumed her professional expression. “You’ve got to leave now, James. You’re going to compromise my authority here and I’ve already got an uphill battle ahead of me.”

  “Understood. I’ll tell Milla that this was an accidental death. At least for now.”

  “Skip the ‘for now’ part,” Lucy ordered. “Over the next few days I’m going to be interviewing her and Willow and anybody else who spent time with Paulette, and no one needs to know about my personal suspicions.”

  James was stunned. “You don’t believe that Milla could actually hurt her own sister, do you?”

  But Lucy had turned her back on James as though he hadn’t spoken. He watched her disappear through the swing door into the butler’s pantry. The door flapped several times behind her, as though mocking him, and then fell still.

  After zipping up his coat, James pulled his scarf tight around his neck and walked out of the inn. As he drove slowly down the steep driveway, he passed another brown cruiser, driven by Deputy Glenn Truett. A man with a round face, thick neck, and curling gray mustache sat regally in the passenger seat. James glanced at the figure, which strongly reminded him of a walrus, and hoped he wouldn’t be recognized. Sheriff Huckabee wouldn’t be pleased to know that James had been allowed into the inn.

  With a sudden jolt of clarity, he realized that Lucy might not be forthcoming with her friends regarding information on Paulette’s death. In fact, it seemed as though she’d be visiting the Henry home in the imminent future not as a friend and potential girlfriend, but in an official capacity as a member of the Shenandoah County Sheriff’s Department.

  “We’re not on the same side anymore,” James murmured unhappily.

  Driving home he reflected on the number of times he and Lucy and the rest of the supper club members had joined forces in the name of justice. They were a good team—each person possessing unique gifts and abilities. But now, their group seemed to be splintering. Bennett was busy with Jade and Jeopardy!, Gillian was running two businesses and spending time with Officer Harding, Lindy was pining for the absent Luis, Lucy was acutely focused on her career, and what about himself ?

  Just yesterday he was in a celebratory mood. He was soon to be a homeowner, was taking steps to live a healthier lifestyle, and would witness his father’s nuptials.

  “The wedding!” he exclaimed as he parked alongside Milla’s lavender minivan. “I wonder if they’ll still get married on Christmas Eve.”

  Once again, to his dismay, life had thrown James and his loved ones off course. With weighted steps he walked toward the house he had lived in for the majority of his years. He had never been so reluctant to go inside, for he
knew that his words of comfort would be insufficient. The cold wind seemed to follow him through the door, diminishing the warmth within.

  The remainder of Saturday crawled by and the Henry house was markedly silent. Shortly after James’s return, Milla had driven off to the Holiday Inn to break the news to Paulette’s children, and Jackson had pulled on his painter’s overalls and locked himself in the shed. James phoned his friends in order to tell them what had happened, and within two hours of his calls, the women of Quincy’s Gap began to appear on his doorstop bearing casseroles, pies, and bottles of whiskey.

  “Is the weddin’ still on?” Dolly inquired as she popped a chicken and sausage casserole in the oven.

  James shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Word’s going ’round that Paulette Martine’s family’s in town.” Mrs. Emerson, the minister’s wife, chimed in as she put the kettle on for tea. “An older sister and her two children. You all might be gatherin’ for a different type of service.”

  Mrs. Waxman, James’s part-time library employee and his one-time junior high school teacher, shook her head as she unwrapped her famous sweet potato pecan pie and began to cut it into thick wedges. “A funeral instead of a wedding. Now there’s a shame.”

  “Maybe not,” Gillian countered as she hung up her coat on a hook near the back door. “Saying a loving farewell to someone whose spirit has moved on to a place of peace shouldn’t be an occasion of sorrow. There’s no reason why Milla and Jackson shouldn’t hold their commitment ceremony afterwards. After all, both services are just the congregating of friends and family in order to pay homage to love, the highest power of all!”

  Mrs. Emerson issued Gillian a disapproving frown. “But the tone of each service is quite different.”

  Slipping from the room before the two women could embark on one of their regular theological debates, James felt rather envious of his father. Safe within his shed, Jackson was probably painting to the soft strains of the light jazz station. With the space heater churning full force and a thermos of coffee and one of Milla’s cinnamon scones close at hand, Jackson would emerge from the unsettling day with more fortitude and calm than Milla or his son.