The Battered Body (3 page)

As he climbed the stairs to change from his work khakis into jeans, James heard Milla say, “Jackson, I just love that boy of yours.”

“He’s all right most of the time,” Jackson huffed. “But now he’s gone and crumpled both my
Reader’s Digest
and my
Star Ledger
.”

Shaking his head at his father’s customary gruffness, James continued down the hall to the room he had occupied since the day his parents had brought him home from the hospital. Kicking his shoes off, he laid back on his bed and picked up
Pillars of the Earth,
a book he made a point of rereading every five years or so. Before he could get too absorbed in Follett’s prose, he heard Jackson roughly shake a newspaper page and exclaim, “Look here, Milla! If my eyes are workin’ right, James’s ole girlfriend has gone and written a book about our town. And it’s one of them murder mysteries. Look at this mess of blood on the cover.”

James covered his face with Follett’s novel, hoping to block the image of Murphy’s book cover.

“Oh, dear!” Milla stated woefully after a few moments of silence. “It says in this article that one of the characters is an intelligent, overweight librarian. I sure hope that librarian isn’t our own sweet James.”

“I bet it is. That boy attracts trouble like a bear to a honeycomb.” Jackson shook his head. “Too bad
he
can’t sleep away the winter. He might have finally found a book that he’ll wanna ban from his library.”

James woke up at seven o’clock Saturday morning and stumbled downstairs for some coffee. Jackson had already consumed half the pot and was most likely out in his shed, working on a new painting. He would expect breakfast before James departed for the airport, but luckily Milla had a sausage and cheese casserole in the freezer that only required defrosting. After turning the oven on, James finished his first cup of coffee, took a warm shower, and dressed in a gray wool sweater and a pair of jeans. He then threw on his coat and walked out to the shed, his breath puffing from his mouth like smoke from a steam engine.

“I’m coming in!” James shouted as he knocked twice on the shed door. He opened it just in time to see Jackson throw a drop cloth over his latest work.

“Isn’t that going to smudge the paint?” James asked in concern.

Jackson waved a dry brush near James’s face. “Ain’t no paint on there yet.”

“Well, come on in and get some breakfast casserole. That’ll get your creative juices flowing.”

Jackson frowned. “My juices are just fine. I decided that I’m gonna paint Milla’s sister. Only problem is I don’t know what a diva’s hands look like close up, so I gotta wait to see her in the flesh, while she’s makin’ one of her famous cakes.”

James checked his watch. “Well, shortly after lunchtime you’ll have a celebrity in your life.”

“That’ll make two of them, then, if I’m includin’ you,” Jackson murmured as he closed the shed door.

“What’s that, Pop?” James asked.

“Nothin’. You’d best get goin’. There’s gonna be a snow today, and them mountain roads are gonna be a mess. The state’s not prepared for an early snow. I know that for a fact ’cause the mayor said they weren’t loadin’ the trucks up with sand ’til after Christmas.”

Glancing up at the scattering of thin clouds in an otherwise blue sky, James eyed his father in disbelief. “You think we’re getting snow today?”

“
I
don’t need to think. I know ’cause that hound down the road hollered at the moon all night long. That mutt’s been alive for twenty years, and every time he sets up that kinda racket durin’ a cold night, we get snow the next day. And not some dustin’ either. We’ll get ’least an inch.” Jackson shook his head, his mouth forming a fractional grin. “Damn dog’s never been wrong once.”

“Amazing.” James decided to humor his father. “I’d better hit the road then, Pop. I just hope Paulette’s flight beats out the storm.”

After filling a travel mug with coffee, James headed north toward Washington-Dulles. Milla had left her sister’s flight information on the kitchen table along with a note warning that Paulette might not be traveling alone. James tossed the paper on the Bronco’s passenger seat, cranked up the heat, popped in the latest Clive Cussler audio book, and spent the next two hours contentedly lost in one of Dirk Pitt’s grandiose adventures.

Five miles away from the airport, James began to wish he possessed even the smallest amount of Pitt’s inventiveness and daring. If so, he might have discovered a way to circumvent the stand-still traffic looming ahead. After spending ten agonizing minutes bathed in the spotlight of a blinking arrow sign set up by the Virginia Department of Transportation, James knew that he was going to be late fetching Paulette.

Over the next thirty minutes, the traffic inched forward as three lanes were forced to converge into one. James tried to ignore the forward progression of his clock radio as he craned his neck to see if there was any end to the clogged roadway.

“This is where a high-tech guy would be searching for alternative routes on his GPS system,” he muttered and switched off the audio book. He couldn’t concentrate on Dirk’s romantic interlude and was suddenly irritated by the fact that Cussler’s hero had been shot three times but still had no difficulty in scaling a cliff or scooping a hundred-and-twenty-pound woman into his arms and carrying her up seven flights of stairs.

As James’s anxiety mounted, he longed for something to chew on, but all he had stored within the center console was a blue and purple candy cane presented to him by the Salvation Army volunteer outside of the grocery store. Peeling back the wrapper, James sniffed the candy cane suspiciously.

“What happened to red and white?” he demanded of the confection, and then he took a small bite. He tasted sugared blueberries and tart raspberries coated beneath of smooth layer of cream. The sweetness immediately alleviated some of his tension, but when he pulled up to the curb outside of the Continental Airlines gate and saw a woman in her late sixties with a blunt cut of snow-white hair pacing angrily back and forth while hollering into her cell phone, his agitation was renewed.

James slammed the Bronco into park, leapt from the car, and waved at Paulette. He recognized her immediately because Milla had informed him that Paulette closely resembled Meryl Streep’s character in the movie
The Devil Wears Prada
. The displeased woman surrounded by a small mountain of Louis Vuitton luggage had a slim figure, well-tailored clothing, and a pair of narrowed, angry eyes.

“Paulette?” James extended his hand as the older woman snapped her phone closed and bared a row of white but rather pointy teeth.

“Where the
hell
have you been?” she snarled at James. “I have been standing outside for
fifteen
minutes.” She gestured at her shoes. “Do these heels look
comfortable
to you?”

James didn’t know whether he was more surprised by her hostile tone or the fact that Milla’s sister wore black stiletto boots and was enveloped in what appeared to be a fox-hair fur coat. As she swiveled to bark orders at a pale, reed-thin young woman with slumped shoulders and white-blonde hair, James noticed a rather flattened fox head on Paulette’s left shoulder and a bushy tail draped across her right.

“Willow!” Paulette shouted. “Get the luggage into this heap with wheels and let’s get going! The pollution from the jet fuel is going to clog my pores! My hair is already a wreck from standing out here. I hope no one of
significance
recognizes me!” And with that, the Diva of Dough wrenched open the Bronco’s rear door and settled herself inside.

James turned to the young woman, his mouth agape. “Is she for real?”

“’Fraid so. I’m Willow Singletary, Ms. Martine’s assistant.” She smiled weakly. “Don’t take her personally. She always gets strung out when she travels. She thinks New York City is the center of the world, and that the second she leaves it, she’ll be forced to live in a mud hut and scavenge for her own food.” She picked up two suitcases and shuffled toward the truck. With a lowered voice, she added, “She doesn’t get much better than this though. It’s why I go through two packs of cigarettes a day.”

Relieved that there would be at least one friendly passenger in his truck, James helped Willow load the enormous suitcases into his Bronco. From her position in the back seat, Paulette directed the stacking of her luggage and then, apparently satisfied that everything had been stowed to her specifications, opened her cell phone and began to discuss future television show ideas with her producer. Her loud and animated chatter lasted for over an hour and a half. Unused to such a consistent barrage of noise, James stole glances at Paulette in the rearview mirror and longed to drown out her nasal voice with a dose of Clive Cussler.

Eventually, James began to make quiet small-talk with Willow and learned that she had been Paulette’s assistant for the past three years and that her job requirements included, but were not limited to, seeing to the Diva’s travel arrangements, answering fan mail, editing her cookbooks, handling all the personal phone calls Paulette deemed unimportant, and fetching her non-fat, no foam vanilla lattes from Starbucks whenever the Diva required a caffeine fix.

Willow leaned toward James and muttered softly, “Though these days she prefers the eggnog lattes. The Diva’s a
total
eggnog junkie.”

“Wow,” James whispered and said a silent prayer of gratitude for the wonderful job he held. “I hope you get paid a lot for all you do.”

“For being a slave, you mean?” Willow murmured lowly and then uttered a humorless laugh. “I haven’t had a raise since I started, but I’m planning to ask for one on this trip. After all, weddings are supposed to bring out the best in people.”

James had no idea whether Willow was being sarcastic or not, but he didn’t have the opportunity to ask her as a few miles north of the town of Battle Creek, Paulette shoved her phone into a purse large enough to contain a small goat and inquired sharply, “Is there some logical explanation for your indigo tongue?”

“I ate a blue candy cane on the way to the airport,” James answered somewhat sheepishly, and then, as he met Paulette’s judgmental stare in the rearview mirror, his embarrassment quickly morphed into irritation. “The Charlottesville airport is much closer than Dulles. You could have saved a lot of time by flying in there.”

“And subject myself to one of those tin cans with wings the airlines call ‘sky buses’? Never! Those things are death traps!” The Diva removed a compact from her purse and touched up her flawless makeup. “Are we almost there? This
vehicle
is most uncomfortable.”

James rubbed his steering wheel with tenderness as though to ward off Paulette’s last remark.

As the Bronco climbed a steep hill, Willow whistled at the sight of a dramatic slope covered in green-topped pine trees and leafless hardwoods. “I bet this looks lovely in the snow,” she said.

“The Shenandoah Valley is the most beautiful place on earth,” James bragged. “I’d rather be here than on a beach in Hawaii or some café in Paris.”

Paulette snorted. “As if
you’d
know what a Parisian café is like.
I
went to culinary school there and the dirtiest alley in France has more grandeur than these puny, blue hills. Oh, how I detest the country! How on earth could my sister be living in such a state of crudeness?”

Annoyed beyond measure, James switched on the radio. “Jingle Bells” played merrily through the speakers as the Bronco moved rapidly through the town of Grove Hill. Most of the towns along the highway could be driven through in the time it took one to sing the chorus from “Jingle Bells,” but James was tempted to pick up speed in order to shorten the amount of time he was forced to spend with the Diva.

“Is your town like all these others?” Paulette inquired with a trace of anxiety. “I haven’t seen a single Starbucks, let alone a decent hotel or restaurant.” She leaned forward and poked Willow in the shoulder. “I told you we should have had cooking supplies FedExed down here. How am I supposed to make my sister’s wedding cake using materials from a store called
Food Lion
?”

James couldn’t take it any longer. “We’re actually still usin’ the barter system ’round these parts,” he drawled. “But I’m right sure you could find something to trade for a dozen eggs and some fresh-milled flour. Someone might fancy that fur coat of yours. Now, sugar’s mighty dear, what with the war and all. And I sure hope you brought your own toilet paper for the outhouse.”

“Very droll, young man,” Paulette replied acerbically, but James thought he caught a glimmer of amusement in her cool, gray eyes.

Having been instructed to take Paulette directly to the only inn near Quincy’s Gap, a quaint bed-and-breakfast called the Widow’s Peak, James was greatly relieved when he turned off the main road and made the steady but gentle climb up the winding driveway to the front of the restored 1800s farmhouse.

“Oh my,” Paulette muttered as James turned off the engine. “Willow, you’d better have bought out all the rooms for the next two weeks. I don’t want to have our work interrupted by couples on romantic getaways or those bed-and-breakfast junkies that actually seek out these sorts of establishments. Also, I was assured that we could have full use of the kitchen. Make sure they’re aware that I will not stand for any interruptions when I’m baking, no matter what time it is.” After a moment’s pause, the Diva of Dough sharply chided, “Why are you still standing there, you fool of a girl! No wonder you can’t find yourself a husband. You’re as slow and stupid as a particular member of the bovine kingdom. Get going!”