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 platters, 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.”