The Battered Body

by J. B. Stanley

  “I’m closing on my new house tonight,” James explained, and he picked up the day’s edition of the Star. He showed Scott the front-page photograph of the mangled rental car being hauled up the cliff edge by a mammoth crane. “It’s not that we aren’t all upset by the … accident,” he said, for lack of a better word. “But we’ve got a plan to help the Sheriff’s Department find out who did this.” James stared solemnly at the photograph. “You and Francis reminded me that we didn’t need to stand around and wait to see if any clue emerged. We’re on the hunt for whoever did this.”

  “We knew you would be,” Scott answered faithfully, and he moved off to organize the disheveled children’s section.

  Lucy phoned a few minutes before noon and asked James if he was free for lunch. “I’m not offering anything fancy,” she said. “Just sandwiches from KFC. We’ll be eating in the car.”

  “That’s fine.” James was curious. “Does this outing have anything to do with the outline of events we made last night?”

  “Yes. It might not lead anywhere, but I’m going to investigate every angle. See you in ten minutes.”

  James spent the small chunk of time trying to avoid a book club that met between eleven and twelve once a month. Its members were comprised of middle-aged women who took over the magazine section for the meeting and always held passionate discussions about every book pick.

  For the month of January, they had chosen to read The Body in the Bakery, and every one of them had pre-ordered the novel from Amazon.com. Because he had no desire to hear more unpleasant details about himself or the rest of the supper club members as they were depicted in Murphy’s book, James hid in his office, pretending to answer e-mails.

  At 11:58, as he put his coat on and headed for the lobby, James found himself bombarded by questions from the book club members, who literally chased him out the front door in their quest to have their curiosity sated. James couldn’t remember ever being so relieved by the sight of the dirty, cluttered passenger seat inside Lucy’s blue Jeep.

  “Is it true, Ms. Hanover?” One of the women shouted as James climbed into the car. “Did you and Professor Henry talk over the Brinkley Myers murder case in bed?”

  Lucy gave the woman her fiercest scowl. “That book is fiction, Mrs. Wright. Fiction means that it’s a made-up story, kind of like ‘Cinderella’ or Pretty Woman. If you have questions about what Ms. Alistair wrote, why don’t you send her an e-mail? In fact, why don’t you all send her a note? Maybe you can be in her next book!”

  “What a great idea!” Mrs. Wright trilled, and she rushed back to the library steps to share Lucy’s recommendation with her group.

  James looked over at Lucy and smiled, visualizing the women stampeding to the group of computers in the Tech Corner. “Nicely done. I’ll have to remember that one. After all, Murphy created this mess, so why shouldn’t she be the one to deal with the readers?”

  “Exactly. Now eat your honey barbecue chicken sandwich. It won’t take us long to get to the goat farm.”

  After unwrapping his sandwich from its cocoon of aluminum foil and inspecting it with happy anticipation, James spread a napkin across his lap and took a hungry bite. “Hmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “Is this the farm where Milla was going to buy her wedding favors?”

  Lucy nodded and began to eat her sandwich, holding it in her right hand as she drove with her left. James was impressed that she didn’t allow any pieces of barbecued chicken to dribble out of the sandwich. His napkin was already littered with a dozen bits of red-tinged meat.

  By the time they drove out of town, she had finished her lunch. It was a good thing too, because Lucy needed both hands to maneuver the Jeep over the winding, mountainous roads. Consulting a few lines of directions she had written on a piece of scrap paper, Lucy turned off the two-lane highway onto a dirt road. The Jeep made its way up an unpaved, rambling drive until James felt as though they were either lost or had driven right into West Virginia. Finally, the ground leveled off and a rusty tin sign that hung from an equally rusty mailbox indicated that they had reached the Cornflower Goat Farm.

  “Cornflower. Like your eyes,” James remarked as he gestured at the sign.

  Lucy blushed and seemed on the verge of speaking when they saw a man appear around the corner of the main house, which was a two-story log cabin with a picturesque front porch. A pair of dogs trailed after him, barking defensively at the sight of the Jeep. The canines had cream-colored coats and tan markings as well as dark muzzles and flashes of white teeth. The man put a reassuring hand on the back of the closest dog and waved at James and Lucy.

  “What beautiful dogs!” Lucy exclaimed as she slammed her door shut. “Are they shepherds?”

  The man nodded. “Anatolian shepherds. Best livestock guard dogs in the world. This here’s Knight and the smaller gal is Lady. My daughter named ’em.” He held out a weathered, calloused hand. “I’m Kyle Mills. How can I help you folks?”

  Lucy began by praising the goat’s milk soap and lotion Milla had purchased in December and then casually asked Kyle if he remembered Milla and Paulette’s visit to the farm.

  “Sure don’t, ma’am.” Kyle scratched Knight between the ears until the dog’s pink tongue unrolled sideways out of his smiling mouth. “I’ve owed the missus a vacation for nigh on ten years now, and she said if I didn’t get her someplace warm for Christmas, I could go huntin’ for a new wife.” He gestured behind him at the rustic barn, the rectangular cement building James assumed was used to create and package the goat’s milk products, and the vast stretch of pastureland. “Farmers don’t get much time off. I got one kid, but she’s at college and has got her sights set on bein’ a nurse,” he added with pride. “I hire some local boys to lend a hand now and then, but I couldn’t leave for a month without some real help ’round here.”

  “Sounds like you found someone suitable,” Lucy prodded.

  Kyle grinned. “Seems like the answer to my prayers dropped right out of the sky. That boy we got could take care of animals and customers. He even showed me how to get my wares on the computer. Made back every dollar I spent takin’ the missus ’round the state of Texas. Anyhow, Russ’d be the one who helped your lady friends.”

  “Could we speak to him about maybe ordering more favors?” Lucy inquired. “We’ll only need a few minutes of his time.”

  Lady walked over to James and sniffed his shoes. Obviously deciding that he was not a threat to her or to Kyle, she stuck her wet nose against the palm of his hand and gazed up at him with a twinkle in her eyes. James rewarded her friendliness by stroking the soft fur on the back of her neck.

  “I wouldn’t mind, ma’am, but Russ ain’t here.” Kyle looked sorry to disappoint them. “He needed to run on back home for a week or so.”

  “He’s not from these parts, I take it,” James stated.

  “No sir. He’s got one heck of a long ride back to Natchez.”

  James did his best not to lean over and nudge Lucy. Natchez! This couldn’t be a coincidence. Wheezie, Paulette, and Milla had grown up in Natchez. Now this young man, Russ, who possessed both the physical hardiness to run a goat farm and the mental acuity to create an online business for his employer, had suddenly disappeared.

  Lucy shot James the briefest glance, but in her eyes he saw a familiar, predatory glimmer. “Milla was so thrilled with the goat’s milk products she bought from your farm that I believe she’d like to stock your products in her new gift store, Quincy’s Whimsies.”

  “That’d be just swell.” Kyle beamed, his weathered face crinkling in pleasure.

  “She may also want to carry local food products, like homegrown eggs. Do you have chickens here too?”

  Kyle seemed surprised by the question. “Funny you should mention that, ma’am. Russ wanted to experiment with raising some layin’ hens, so he built a coop and bought the birds and feed outta his own pocket.” The farmer ruffled the fur on Knight’s back as he spoke. “Guess it didn’t work so well, though. Them ch
ickens all got sick and Russ scrapped the whole notion. Whole pen was gone ’fore I even got home. I don’t mind though,” he confessed. “Young man’s got a right to flex his muscles, but I’m relieved he’s back to focusin’ on the goats. He’s real good with them, and I’m not overly fond of chickens myself. Damn birds stink in the summertime.”

  Acting as natural as possible, Lucy checked her watch. “Well, our lunch break is nearly done. We’d best be getting back to work. James, why don’t you take down contact information for Mr. Mills and his assistant, Russ … ?” She turned to Kyle. “What is the young man’s last name?”

  “DuPont,” the farmer answered. “Russ DuPont.”

  James pulled out Dr. Ruth’s business card from his wallet, flipped it over, and wrote down the phone number for the Cornflower Goat Farm. Handing the farmer one of his own cards, he shook the calloused hand once again. “Please call as soon as Russ has returned, and we’ll talk about placing regular orders for the shop.”

  “Will do.” Kyle whistled softly out of the side of his mouth and Lady sprang from James’s side and crashed against Knight in excitement. “Walk up!” he commanded, and the shepherds bounded away toward a fenced pasture behind the barn.

  As James and Lucy headed back to the Jeep, Lucy paused to gaze around the farm. James followed her lead, assuming she was looking for where Russ lived. There was a sprawling pasture behind the barn, but the area surrounding the main house was embraced by trees.

  “Maybe he stayed in their guest room,” James suggested. Squinting, he thought he saw a break in the trees. “Is that a path?” He pointed to the right of the house.

  Shielding her eyes from the winter sunlight, Lucy nodded. “Come on. We’ve got to check this out while we’re here.”

  Because Kyle Mills was headed in the opposite direction with both dogs, James agreed. “But let’s hurry. We don’t need to make Mr. Mills suspicious, or we might never hear from him again.”

  He and Lucy trotted over the rough path, which wound through the pines and sloped gently downhill. Irritated at how quickly he became winded as he jogged behind Lucy’s fleeter form, James vowed to be more disciplined about hitting the gym after work.

  Now that Bennett’s done with his studying, we can work out together again, he thought and decided to e-mail his friend as soon as he got back to the library so that they could schedule some cardio and weightlifting sessions.

  “Look!” Lucy stopped abruptly as a small cabin came into view. “This has got to be where Russ stayed.” With a burst of speed, she ran down the remainder of the path. By the time James joined her, she had knocked on the front door, tried the knob, and peered in all four windows.

  “I can’t see a thing!” She sighed in frustration. “Dark curtains, a locked door. Damnation! I don’t dare force my way in. I’ll have to do things the right way and come back with a warrant to search this cabin.”

  Relieved that Lucy was refraining from hurling a rock through the nearest window, James also tried to see inside, but the navy curtains were tightly closed, leaving no line of sight into the one-room cabin. He and Lucy walked around the perimeter once more, looking everywhere for clues. Aside from a stack of firewood, there was nothing of note near the cabin.

  “It would have been nice to find a bloodied shovel right here.” Lucy frowned as she gestured at the wood pile.

  James noticed an object resting on the top of a stack of kindling. “Turtle shell,” he said, passing the tawny hull to Lucy. “And here’s another one.”

  Accepting the shells, Lucy inspected them carefully and then returned them to the wood pile. Grabbing James by the elbow, she said, “We’re done here, but we’re not leaving empty handed. We’ve got a lead, James! A lead! I need to get back to my computer right away!” She winked at James, her face flushed with excitement and hope. “Good work, my friend. I’m going to run to the Jeep now. See if you can keep up.”

  Back at the library, James had trouble focusing on his regular tasks. As he assisted patrons in finding books or directed students to helpful periodicals and Internet sites so they might effectively research their latest school project, part of his mind kept trying to conjure an image of Russ DuPont.

  What did this mysterious young man look like? Did he have a bulky, muscular body and an angry face with a pair of black, hate-filled eyes? Was he quiet to the point of brooding while he spent hours plotting acts of violence as he went about his tasks on the Cornflower Goat Farm? How did he tie into the murders? He couldn’t have known Paulette when she was a child in Natchez. He wouldn’t even have been born by the time she left the town for good, destined for Paris and a future of fame and wealth.

  Yet he tried to raise laying hens, James thought.

  During a lull in activity shortly after four in the afternoon, James settled down at one of the computers in the Tech Corner and began to search for articles on salmonella. Several of the resources he found concentrated on how to avoid being exposed to the harmful bacteria, while others described the physical symptoms one experienced once one was infected.

  “Ugh,” James grimaced as he read. “What a messy illness. You’re going to experience vomiting, diarrhea, cramps, or all three if you ingest that nasty bug. You’d better come down with salmonella in the privacy of your own home.”

  “Excuse me, Professor,” Scott interrupted apologetically as he peered over his boss’s shoulder. “I’ve gotta know what you’re investigating over here. You’re making all sorts of funny faces and you’re talking to yourself.”

  Tapping the computer screen, James replied, “I’m wondering how eggs get tainted by salmonella. I know that the bacteria can be found in eggs and poultry, meat products, unprocessed milk, and even in water, but why are some eggs more susceptible than others?”

  Fascinated, Scott’s fingers flew over the keyboard. “Unhealthy chickens can lay eggs with thin shell walls,” he read from an online medical encyclopedia. “If the chickens live in an unclean environment, such as, um, sitting around in their own feces, they lay eggs with thinner-than-normal shell walls. That makes it easier for the bacteria to pass through the shell and into the egg.” He grimaced. “Gross.”

  “So if someone bought sick laying hens, and deliberately kept them in a polluted environment, the chickens would produce infected eggs,” James mused to himself.

  Scott was completely absorbed by a microscopic image of the bacteria. “Man, I’ll have to remember not to eat raw turtle or lizard eggs if I end up stranded on a deserted island.” He turned to whisper to Francis, who was wiping off the computer screens using a specialized cleanser. “Do you think any of those Survivor contestants ever got salmonella? They eat wacko stuff on that show. I’m sure at least one of them has eaten undercooked lizard.”

  Intrigued by the subject, Francis paused in his cleaning and told his brother to search for exotic foods eaten by the reality show’s contestants. As the twins groaned in distaste over the idea of consuming crickets, beetles, and maggots, James decided someone should return to man the vacant chair at the information desk.

  “But I’d never eat a grasshopper!” Scott whispered in horror. “Way too crunchy.”

  “Crunchy’s better than gooey,” Francis argued. “You could pretend a grasshopper was a potato chip with legs or a granola cluster, perhaps. I don’t think you could talk yourself into believing larvae were anything but larvae. Totally revolting.”

  “Totally,” Scott said in agreement.

  James filled the copier and sundry printers with fresh supplies of paper, took care of a few transfer requests, and tidied up the bookmark displays and a stack of schedules detailing the library events for the month of January. That done, he spent a few minutes assisting a young mother track down several cookbooks featuring meals that could be made in thirty minutes or less.

  “Now, if only there were a book that could teach me to put my kids in a harmless trance for half an hour,” she joked, and James pretended to take her request seriously.

  “I’
m sure we have a book or two on hypnotism,” he said with a grin. He patiently listened to her describe how chaotic her household was between the hours of four and eight. She then declared that by the next time he saw her again she might need a reference book on battling fatigue and insanity.

  James recalled hearing this complaint from other patrons raising small children. Rushing to the stacks, he grabbed the book he had heard several moms praise and hurried back to the checkout computer with a copy of Time Out for Mom. “I think you need this one too.”

  “Oh, I sure do!” The woman looked delighted. Thanking him, she left the library with a lightness to her step.

  Feeling pleased with himself, James surveyed his peaceful kingdom and was once again shocked to recognize the face and figure of his ex-wife standing near the Children’s Corner. As though sensing he was watching her, Jane looked up from the book she held, smiled, and walked over to him.

  “Sorry to pop up like this again,” she whispered. “It was so great to talk to you the other night, but I felt like I had really picked a bad time to seek you out.”

  “Yes, there were quite a few things going on,” James admitted. “But for you to just disappear …,” he trailed off, no longer feeling angry about her behavior, merely puzzled.

  She reached across the desk and covered his hand with hers. “I wasn’t trying be dramatic, I assure you. I have some things to tell you, but it’s a conversation that requires a bit of quiet and privacy. And it so happens, this is the perfect setting.”

  More mystified than ever, James could merely nod.

  “First of all, I wanted you to know that I’m no longer teaching at William & Mary. I’m at James Madison now.” She smiled. “I love it. What a gorgeous campus!”

  “Wow. You’re so close,” he replied dumbly. “Did you change colleges because you and Kenneth broke up?”

  “Partially,” she replied enigmatically. “But like I told you before, Kenneth’s been out of the picture for quite a while. I moved to Harrisonburg to start a new life. Getting rid of Kenneth was just the first step toward that goal.”