by Ellery Adams
Sinclair had wandered over to a nearby trench, and when he drew in a sharp breath, Jane knew that he’d found something else.
It was not another helmet.
It was a body.
Sinclair scrambled down into the trench. He touched the man’s neck, feeling for a pulse.
When he looked back up at Jane, she knew that there was no pulse to be found.
The man lay in the trench with his face turned to the side. Dust and dirt covered his entire head. There was blood too. As Jane knelt by the edge of the trench, she saw the angry laceration just over the man’s left temple. The blood had run down his cheek to mix with the dirt, hardening into a dark crust.
With extreme care, Sinclair rolled the man onto his back. He used a handkerchief to wipe the man’s face. His movements blocked Jane’s view, but she saw Sinclair’s shoulders abruptly stiffen. It was clear that he’d identified the body.
In a frightened whisper, Jane asked, “Who is it?”
“Archie Banks,” Sinclair said.
“No!” Jane cried. “No, no, no. How am I supposed to tell Butterworth that his cousin is dead?”
Chapter Eleven
Sinclair offered to stay with the body while Jane carted the twins back to Storyton Hall. With a potential murderer on the loose, she wasn’t about to leave them unguarded. As Sterling wasn’t needed to drive guests, he offered to watch the twins while they tossed a football on the great lawn. Jane headed for the garages.
When Butterworth exited the door leading to the basement room where Parrish was being held, Jane was momentarily paralyzed. Butterworth was such a formal, formidable man. He was her unflappable protector. How could she find the words to tell him about Archie? How could she hurt him so deeply?
“Miss Jane? What’s wrong?”
There was no use delaying. Above all else, Butterworth appreciated directness and candor. Jane would give him both.
“I’m sorry to be the one to tell you this, but Archie is dead. Sinclair and I just found his body on the battlefield.”
Butterworth’s eyes widened a fraction, and the muscle in his jaw tensed. “Are you quite certain? By what means?”
How can he be so calm? Jane wondered.
“A head wound. I’m so very sorry.”
Butterworth raised a single finger. “Miss Jane, your sympathy might be misplaced. I spoke with Archie not too long ago. Unless he was on his way to the field . . .” He frowned. “There’s no sense our standing here, conjecturing. Would you take me to him, please?”
Jane gestured at the Gator, which she’d left parked just outside the garages, and Butterworth climbed into the passenger seat. It was a strange role reversal to be driving Storyton Hall’s head butler over the grounds he knew so well. He’d been custodian to the estate for as long as Jane could remember. Like Sinclair, Butterworth was one of several men who’d helped raise her. They’d been her teachers, her confidants, and her family. But she was a grown woman now, and she wanted to give back to them. She wanted to be a shoulder to lean on. A friend. A surrogate daughter.
Some of them have real families, she reminded herself. Families they never see because of the oath they took to protect my family and the treasures housed within Storyton Hall.
“Would you fill me in on Parrish as we drive?” she asked Butterworth. She knew he wouldn’t find the question insensitive but would welcome the distraction.
“If possible, the man was more complacent than usual.”
Jane shot Butterworth a worried glance. “Could he have orchestrated Archie’s death?”
Instead of replying, Butterworth said, “Tell me about the day’s event. What details stand out? I spent most of my time watching the field from the starting position of the Central Powers. You had a midfield viewpoint.”
“What struck me most was the noise,” Jane said. “It was easy to believe that what we were seeing was real. Not a Great War battle, but a genuine conflict. I found the soldiers very convincing—even those pretending to die.” Regretting this phrase, Jane hurried on. “Three things interrupted my complete immersion. Seeing Bob wave at Betty, hearing the children in the twins’ class cry, and watching Ajax pitch his rider.”
This detail caught Butterworth’s attention. “Did you see the rider fall?”
Jane thought back on the scene. “No. Ajax just appeared from behind a big cloud of dust without a rider. A minute later, we saw Michael Murphy looking a little dazed. He was headed toward the orchard. His helmet was in his hand.”
“Was Michael Murphy Ajax’s rider?”
“I assume so.”
Jane brought the Gator to a stop but didn’t get out. “Thinking back on it, I can’t say who rode Ajax. I thought it was Michael Murphy, but I didn’t actually see him on horseback. In any case, Sam will know. Is this important?”
“Sam would never entrust his horse to a man he didn’t know,” said Butterworth. “Therefore, I think it’s important.”
Jane didn’t have time to mull this over because Butterworth alighted from the Gator and pointed at the field. “Please lead the way.”
Sinclair was kneeling next to Archie’s body so that his torso shaded the dead man’s face. When he saw Butterworth, he slowly got to his feet and spread his hands. Butterworth responded to this wordless gesture of sympathy with the faintest of nods. He then knelt on the ground opposite his friend and stared at his cousin.
His eyes traveled from Archie’s dirt-encrusted face, to his hands, and back to his face. Next, he removed a handkerchief from his pocket and cleaned Archie’s cheek. Very gently, Butterworth took his cousin’s chin in his hand and pivoted his face skyward.
“This man is not Archibald,” Butterworth said, turning to Jane. “They bear a close resemblance, especially because they’re both bald. They’re also of a very similar build. However, this is not my cousin.”
“Thank God,” Jane said and instantly lowered her eyes in shame. “I don’t want a stranger to be dead. I’m just relieved that you don’t need to grieve.”
Butterworth reached up and squeezed Jane’s hand. The touch was brief but conveyed his gratitude. When he focused on the dead man again, he was all business.
“We should call the sheriff and Doc Lydgate. Mr. Sinclair, did you find anything of note at the scene?”
Sinclair shook his head. “I searched for his helmet as well as any clue as to what caused his head injury, but the field was cleaned up quite thoroughly. The efficiency of the groundskeepers makes this discovery all the more unusual. How was this man missed? Every sandbag and detonated grenade has been removed, but a body lies undetected? Something is off about this scenario.”
“Do you think he was killed after the battle?” Jane asked.
“All I know is that we need to discover what happened here without delay,” said Sinclair. “Luckily, this event was filmed from several angles. If we can identify this man, we can track his movements using the footage.”
Jane gestured at the man’s green wool coat. “He’s an American. At least, he was today. All we need to do is ask the uniform rental people for the name of the man who neglected to turn in his uniform. They’re probably looking for him as we speak.”
Sinclair arched his brows. “Shall I place the call to the sheriff?”
With her gaze fixed on the dead man, Jane nodded. She knelt down, touched the soiled shoulder of his uniform coat, and whispered, “I want you to know that you look like a genuine Great War doughboy, and I’m sure you put your heart into today’s battle. Rest in peace now.”
After this farewell, Jane and Butterworth drove back to Storyton Hall to identify the unknown soldier.
* * *
“It’s been a long time since my days as an Army doc, but I never thought I’d be examining a patient killed in the line of mock duty.” Doc Lydgate rubbed the white whiskers of his beard and frowned. “Such a shame.”
Jane handed him a cup of tea before passing a mug of black coffee to Sheriff Evans. “Any idea what caused his death
?”
“I’d say we’re looking at head trauma.” Doc Lydgate dropped a lemon slice into his teacup. “The patient struck a rock or another unyielding object. I expect the coroner to find a fractured skull and bleeding to the brain. Not long after the initial blow, it would have been lights out for this gentleman. He wouldn’t have felt pain after losing consciousness.”
Sheriff Evans, an honest and intelligent lawman in his late fifties, touched his temple. “I was wondering if the fall into the trench killed him, but I saw nothing for him to hit his head on. The wood planks on the bottom couldn’t have made that wound.”
“No,” the doc agreed. “I believe he sustained the injury elsewhere and was disoriented by the time he came upon that trench. He probably toppled in, possibly exacerbating the damage caused by the original injury, and died shortly after.”
The sheriff looked at Jane. “Mr. Sinclair, Deputy Phelps, and I searched a fairly wide circle around the body. We found no rock or other object marked with blood. Did the groundskeepers clean up man-made objects only or did they remove natural debris too?”
Jane shook her head. “I don’t think so. They mostly filled in holes caused by grenades. Tomorrow, they’ll use a Bobcat to fill in the trenches.”
“Would you ask the crew about hard or sharp objects found near that trench? Maybe one of them will remember seeing something,” the sheriff said.
“Right away.”
Jane placed the call, and her head groundskeeper promised to check with the crew and get back to her. She’d just hung up when there was a knock on the door.
It was Butterworth. “Pardon the interruption. We have identified the Rip Van Winkle.”
Rip Van Winkle was code for the presence of a dead body in Storyton Hall’s manor house or grounds. The term had first been coined after a guest suffered a fatal heart attack on the pickleball courts, and Jane had had to use it several times since. Storyton Hall wasn’t the only resort to employ a code name for an expired guest. Jane had heard of several others during the hotelier conference.
“Death is a part of hotel life,” another manager had said. “With a stream of people coming and going, it’s bound to happen. Our job is to continue to treat the expired guest with respect.”
Jane always focused on discretion. As did her staff. Which is why Butterworth closed her office door and waited for Jane to give him the signal to speak.
“The gentleman’s name is Ray Pizzolato,” Butterworth said. “He’s a middle school history teacher known as Mr. Pizza to his students and coworkers alike. Mr. Pizzolato was thirty-four and a bachelor. He’s from a small town in Tennessee. His passions were teaching and participating in reenactments. He was friendly with several of our current guests. These historians have attended many of the same events and describe Mr. Pizzolato as witty, fun-loving, and easygoing.”
“Sounds like the perfect teacher. An affable man with a passion for his subject. What a shame,” said Doc Lydgate.
Jane couldn’t have agreed more.
Butterworth handed a piece of paper to Sheriff Evans. “Mr. Pizzolato listed his mother as his emergency contact. Her name and phone number are here. I don’t envy you that phone call, Sheriff.”
Butterworth left the room. As soon as he was gone, Sheriff Evans put down his coffee cup and donned his hat. “Ms. Steward, I’ll give you an update when I have the coroner’s report. For now, I’m viewing this case as death by misadventure. Though others might call it accidental, there are risks involved in these reenactments. It’s why waivers are required. Mr. Pizzolato took a risk by participating, and unfortunately, the risk resulted in his death.”
Doc Lydgate murmured in agreement.
“I’m leaving Deputy Phelps behind in case a guest has information to share,” the sheriff said as he moved toward the door. He reached for the handle and hesitated. “You know, I thought about signing up for this event, but half of the department wanted to participate. With all the members of the Storyton Sheriff’s Department on that field today, I feel confident someone would have noticed any funny business.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Jane said. Her words rang false to her ears, but neither the sheriff nor Doc Lydgate appeared to notice. After promising to touch base, both men left her office.
“Mr. Pizza,” Jane mused aloud.
She spent several moments thinking of how much the dead man’s family, students, coworkers, and friends would miss him. His loved ones would want answers. A mysterious head wound was not enough of an explanation to grant them closure. It certainly wasn’t enough for Jane.
Reaching for her phone, she sent a group text telling the Fins to meet her in the William Faulkner Conference Room in thirty minutes. By then, she wanted them to have finished collecting footage from the battle. She planned to host her own Great War film screening so that she and the Fins could scrutinize every frame. They wouldn’t be looking to be entertained. They’d be searching for a killer.
* * *
Jane hadn’t expected Archie to join their meeting. She glanced at Butterworth, her mouth opening in protest, when Sinclair placed a hand on her arm.
“You need to hear what he has to say,” he whispered.
With a tight smile, Jane invited Archie to take a seat.
“Ms. Steward,” he began. “I have reason to believe that the body you found on the battlefield was supposed to be mine.”
Jane stared at him in surprise. “Please explain.”
Archie leaned forward, clearly eager to do just that. “When we lined up to rent our uniforms, I was right behind Mr. Pizzolato. He and I started talking. He was an engaging guy.” A note of sadness entered Archie’s voice. “When we got to the front of the line, the man distributing the uniforms commented on the resemblance between us. It was our baldness and our overall stature. Mr. Pizzolato had brown eyes to my blue, and his face was more angular. But from a distance, it wouldn’t be easy to tell us apart.”
“Were you registered as an American or a British soldier?” Jane asked.
“British,” said Archie. “But the man distributing the uniforms messed up and gave my uniform to Mr. Pizzolato. Because everything was in a bag, I didn’t realize what had happened until it was time to get dressed. I phoned Mr. Pizzolato’s room. When he didn’t answer, I went ahead and put on the American uniform.”
Jane shot a quick glance at Butterworth to see what he made of this story. His expression was as inscrutable as ever. Turning back to Archie, she asked, “Didn’t this create confusion for your American unit?”
“Things were fairly chaotic in that group, so I didn’t explain the mix-up. I just jumped in. I spotted my British regiment right before the battle began. I noticed Mr. Pizzolato and we exchanged waves. He seemed to have been adopted by my brothers-in-arms.”
“Naturally. They were British, after all,” said Butterworth sotto voce.
“So we’ve gathered here to identify the person who meant to kill you?” Jane studied Archie for a long moment. “For what reason? Because you’re Butterworth’s cousin?”
“Because I’m a Fin. Which means I’m your man for as long as I’m at Storyton Hall.” Archie quickly undid the top three buttons of his shirt, revealing a small tattoo of an arrow over his heart. An arrow tattoo was the mark of a Fin.
“Do you have a Guardian back in New York?” Jane was unable to hide her astonishment.
Archie looked stricken. “I did. He passed away recently, leaving no heirs.”
Jane scanned the faces of her Fins. Had they known about this other Guardian? Were there more places like Storyton Hall?
No doubt, Sinclair could tell that Archie’s remark had piqued Jane’s curiosity, for he pointed at the screen and said, “Miss Jane, shall we start watching the footage?”
Jane knew her attention was being misdirected, but she also knew that she had a duty to Mr. Pizzolato. She had failed Gerald Tucker. She would not fail to seek justice for one of her own guests. With a nod, she indicated that she was ready to look
for a killer.
The footage had been provided by three historians who filmed reenactments rather than participating in them. Each videographer had a different vantage point. The first man followed the movements of the Allies. The second tracked those of the Central Powers. The third shot his footage from the middle of the battlefield.
Sterling loaded the Allied footage and Archie moved to the front of the room, ready to call for a pause should his regiment appear. However, they showed up only during the first ten minutes of filming. At this point, the various units were still getting organized. Neither side had started firing the gas guns.
Next, the group watched the footage shot by the cameraman following the Central Powers. After a while, all the noise, shouting, and movement became a blur to Jane.
Suddenly, Archie bolted out of his chair and asked Sterling to pause the video.
“There’s Mr. Pizzolato.” He moved to the screen and placed his index finger on a man standing in profile. “His left puttee is coming unraveled. He must not have wrapped it tightly before the battle started. I noticed it when we waved to each other, but I never had the chance to tell him.”
Catching Jane’s blank stare, he said, “A puttee is a length of cloth wrapped around the lower leg.” He turned back to the screen. “Also, Mr. Pizzolato forgot to remove his watch. I guess he thought it wouldn’t show under his uniform sleeve, but it’s peeking out here. That neon yellow band draws the eye.”
“Did you notice that watch when the two of you and Mr. Pizzolato were in line for uniforms?” Sinclair asked.
Archie said that he had, and the group continued to watch Mr. Pizzolato, frame by frame. His face was shining, and there was no doubt that his final hours were happy ones.
Jane wondered where his once-animated body was now. On a metal slab? In a storage drawer? Was his face covered with a white sheet, or was he being examined under a harsh light?
Onscreen, Mr. Pizzolato veered off to the right while the camera stayed with a group of men running in the opposite direction. He never appeared again.
