Bitch Slap

by Michael Craft

  I explained, “I don’t know whether Neil caught up with Todd Draper, and if he did, whether Todd agreed to stay on the job. In any event, the curtains aren’t hung. The installation was supposed to take several days.”

  Lucy arched her brows. “Those must be some curtains.”

  “Fifty grand worth—in the living room alone. Care to have a peek?”

  “Try and stop me.”

  “In here,” I said, stepping her to the double doors that led from the front hall. “They were just getting started this morning, and that’s when all hell broke loose”—in case the lady of the house was nearby, I lowered my voice—“with Gillian.”

  Lucy bumped up behind me as I stopped at the doors, cracked one of them open, and looked inside. “All clear,” I told her, now feeling decidedly stealthy, traipsing through someone else’s home. Opening the door wider, I whispered, “Come on. Let’s take a quick look.”

  And in we went.

  Leading Lucy through the middle of the long, elliptical room, heading straight to the fireplace on the far wall, I explained, “Neil designed the living room as a functioning library, surrounding the perimeter with two-story bookcases, accessible by rolling ladders and the winding stairway.” I pointed while continuing, “Full-length windows circle the room. Todd Draper’s crew managed to get one of the curtains up before Gillian threw a fit. There—I’ve never paid much attention to curtains, but are those drop-dead, or what?”

  Hearing no gushy reply, I glanced over at Lucy, whose wide eyes were riveted not upon the curtains, but on the floor beneath them. Following her gaze, I caught my breath.

  There lay Gillian Reece with her limbs at tortuous angles, unmoving, on the cold expanse of limestone. I wasn’t sure if she was dead, but I knew she wasn’t napping, not like that, twisted at the torso with her face flat against the floor.

  Lucy and I rushed from the fireplace to the body on the floor, then knelt, both to get a closer look at the woman and to show our respect for her presumed condition. Lucy was a seasoned journalist who’d had close encounters with unexplained death; I didn’t need to warn her not to touch anything; I didn’t need to explain to her that this was not only a front-page story, but a police case.

  Had there been any hope of reviving Gillian, we would have attempted CPR. But I found no pulse in her neck, and the purple cast of lividity had already begun to discolor the side of her face against the floor—her right side.

  The left side of her face, away from the floor, was gaunt and ashen, except for the cheek, which still seemed rosy, as if burning from the welt of another bitch slap.

  Reaching inside my pocket, I found my phone.

  Within half an hour, the street outside the Reeces’ house was filled again, not with tradesmen’s vans, but with an array of police vehicles.

  Inside, the focus of activity was on the dead woman who lay on the floor. Towering over her was the shimmering, silken expanse of Todd Draper’s magnificent curtains.

  Sheriff Pierce, who headed Dumont’s combined city and county police force, stood aside with Lucy and me. Pulling a notebook from the inside pocket of his green blazer, he asked, “There was no one else in the house when you arrived?”

  “We didn’t see anyone,” I told him. “We knocked and gave a shout or two, but no one answered. I assume no one else was here, Doug, but it’s not as if we checked every room. We came to the living room directly from the foyer.”

  He squinted. “And, uh, why exactly were you here?”

  “As you saw in today’s paper, we were planning to run a photo feature on the new house. Lucy and I wanted to confirm the scheduling.” I didn’t mention that we were concerned about the meeting that morning between Glee Savage and Gillian, nor did I mention their confrontation of the previous day. I did detail how we’d found the door unlocked and how it opened when I knocked. “I wouldn’t normally walk into someone’s front hall like that, without being let in.”

  “And what brought you into the living room?”

  Sheepishly, Lucy answered, “I wanted to see the curtains.”

  We all looked at the single panel of silk that hung near the body. I now noticed that the fringe had come loose or been torn from the top edge of the curtain, hanging to the side. Sealed cartons of more curtains were placed about the room, as earlier that morning, except one of the cartons, which had been opened—up on the balcony, nearest the partially finished window. A bundle of silk hung over the edge of the box; another had fallen or been dropped to the floor, near the rolling library ladder that was parked at the end of the balcony, next to the window.

  “The guy who’s staying at your house,” said Doug. “Didn’t you tell me he made these curtains?”

  “Todd Draper.” I nodded. “Well, his workshop in Chicago made the curtains. Todd has a crew to handle the installing, and he’s up here to supervise. Since he’s worked with Neil on previous jobs, he’s staying at our house. The crew must be at a motel.”

  Huddled around Gillian’s body was a police team consisting of medical and evidence technicians, directed by Dr. Vernon Formhals, who served Dumont County as both coroner and medical examiner. As he rose from his task, his knees cracked. Stepping in our direction, he told Doug, “Too early to draw any conclusions, but it looks accidental.”

  A powerful-looking but mellow-voiced black man, Dr. Formhals had a dignified air about him that always struck me as slightly professorial. He spoke with the trace of a Caribbean patois, an accent so barely perceptible, I’d known him at least a year before noticing it. I asked, “Did she fall?”

  Formhals glanced at Doug, unsure if he should discuss such details in front of Lucy and me, the press. But Doug and I were known to be close friends, and in fact, we’d cooperated on several previous cases. He had become my primary news source regarding local stories of suspicious death, and I had lent whatever investigative skills I’d acquired during my reporting days at the Chicago Journal. He trusted my professionalism and knew that I would never violate his confidence, in print or otherwise. With a grin, he gave the coroner a go-ahead nod.

  Formhals told us, “Yes, I presume she fell, sustaining serious injuries. With no one else present to help, she died. The victim isn’t far from the foot of that ladder, and the contorted position of the body indicates a fall. Had she been standing on the floor and been stricken by some sudden, catastrophic condition—say, a heart attack, stroke, or brain hemorrhage—she’d have collapsed, certainly, but the limbs and torso would not have been so twisted. A complete medical-legal autopsy is called for, and I suspect we’ll find internal injuries consistent with those of an uncontrolled fall. Obviously, she wasn’t shot, stabbed, or bludgeoned; there was no external bleeding.”

  By then both Lucy and I had opened our steno pads, joining Doug in taking notes. Lucy asked the coroner, “Then you don’t suspect foul play?”

  “Not at the moment. If the victim fell from the ladder, it was an accident. If she was pushed, it was murder. My cursory examination, however, reveals no signs of a struggle.”

  I asked, “Did you notice that … that ‘blush’ on her left cheek?”

  Formhals rubbed his chin. “I did. That’s somewhat odd, I admit. An intriguing detail.”

  “What if someone slapped her? Hard.”

  “That might account for it, yes, but the rosiness could have any number of causes. I’ll need some time to determine that.”

  “Speaking of time,” said Doug, “what about time of death?”

  “Less than two hours ago, perhaps around eleven. Her body temperature has dropped only two or three degrees, and the livor mortis—the purple cast caused by stagnation of blood in the dependent or downward parts of the body—is still in its early stages, blanching to the touch. No signs of rigor mortis.” Summarizing, he repeated, “Less than two hours.”

  Doug looked over his notes. “I’ll need to check with the various contractors who were here this morning—exactly when did they leave, and why?” Turning to Formhals, he asked, “Y
ou’ll let me know when you have a complete report?”

  “Certainly, Douglas.” With a bob of his head, the doctor took his leave, returning to the team of techs who still busied themselves around Gillian’s body.

  “Doug,” I said tentatively, “can I talk to you about something?”

  Surprised by my tone, he said, “Sure, Mark. What is it?”

  I motioned that we should leave the room. Lucy stayed, taking notes as Dr. Formhals spoke with his crew.

  Out in the foyer, I asked Doug, “Do you think it’s an accident?”

  “Vernon does. Till he comes up with something conclusive, I’ll have to proceed on that assumption. Why?”

  I exhaled noisily. “Let’s just say that Gillian Reece was not generally well liked.”

  Doug studied me for a moment. “I thought you were one of her biggest fans—with the merger and all.”

  “I was. But a lot of weird stuff has been brewing in the last few days, all of it stemming from Gillian. I was here earlier this morning, Doug, and I’m telling you, it was nonstop confrontations. She actually hauled off and slapped a few people. I’ve seen her on the receiving end, as well.”

  Doug was taking notes again. “Which explains her pink cheek.”

  “No, I’m afraid it doesn’t. The last person I saw slap her was her husband, Esmond, who’s left-handed, so he slapped her right cheek. But the body’s pink cheek is on Gillian’s left side, meaning, if it’s a welt from a slap, it came from someone’s right hand.”

  “Which doesn’t help us much—the vast majority of the general population is right-handed.”

  “Exactly. What’s more, we don’t know if the welt on the body is from a slap, and even if it is from a slap, we don’t know if it had anything to do with Gillian’s presumed fall from the ladder.”

  With a soft laugh, Doug noted, “Which puts us back at square one.”

  “I know, sorry. But I thought you should at least be aware of this background.”

  He put a hand on my shoulder. “Thanks, Mark. I appreciate it. For now, I’m working on the theory that this death was an accident, but just for the record, tell me about the confrontations you saw this morning.”

  Doug clicked his ballpoint and proceeded to take detailed notes as I described the earlier series of run-ins: Arguing about curtain fringe, Gillian had slapped Todd Draper. Then Gillian had verbally sparred with Perry Schield regarding accountant Tyler Pennell and the merger. Finally, when Esmond Reece and his yogi, Tamra Thaine, arrived and challenged Gillian on money matters, Gillian slapped Tamra; then Esmond slapped Gillian.

  “Whew!” said Doug, struggling to write fast enough. “Some morning.”

  “I admit, it threw me. I thought I had known Gillian Reece. Now that she’s gone, I’m not sure what to think of her.”

  “Sorry, can’t help you with that.” Doug again put a hand on my shoulder. “But, hey. Thanks for the insights.” Referring to his notes, he added, “No telling yet, but this could be important.”

  I was happy to help.

  I was also grateful that Doug had specifically asked me to describe the confrontations I had seen “this morning.” On a technicality, I felt justified in omitting from my report the incident of the previous afternoon—when Glee Savage had bitch-slapped Gillian.

  And where, I still wondered, had Glee been all day?

  Chapter Twelve

  I lunched alone that day. Lucy needed to run errands before returning to the office, so I dropped her downtown after returning from the Reece house. Neil had told me at breakfast that he needed to drive to Green Bay to meet with a subcontractor on an upcoming project, so I still hadn’t heard whether he had caught up with Todd Draper. For all I knew, our houseguest had skipped town.

  Sitting alone at “my” table at First Avenue Grill, I ate quietly without noticing my food, still shaken by the grim discovery of Gillian’s broken body on the limestone floor of a brand-new home in which she had never slept.

  “No, thank you, Berta, nothing else,” I told the plump waitress in white when she offered dessert.

  Returning to the Register and learning that the whereabouts of Glee Savage were still unknown, I went straight to my inner office and closed the door, which was not my habit—staffers noticed, glancing through my glass wall from their desks in the newsroom. I needed to think. More precisely, I needed to talk, and the woman whose counsel I sought was in Chicago.

  Hoping I’d catch Roxanne at her desk (it was well past one, nearly two), I sat at my own desk, reached for the phone, and began to dial. Then I paused. This was to be a free-form conversation—stream of consciousness—the sort of brainstorming that might be enhanced by my ability to pace about, thinking aloud. The springy cord of my desk phone would act as a tether, a needless restriction, so I hung up the receiver and, astonished by my own decision, reached for the cell phone that still nested in my pocket.

  Standing, I slipped on my reading glasses, opened the phone, and punched the tiny buttons that led to a direct line at the law firm of Kendall Yoshihara Exner.

  “Roxanne Exner,” she answered on the second ring.

  “Got a minute?” I asked. “It’s Mark.”

  “Well … ,” she said, taunting, “it’s a horribly busy afternoon, but for you, babe, anytime. What’s up? Wait—don’t tell me.” With a laugh, she guessed, “Death stalks Dumont.”

  “Unfortunately,” I informed her, “you’re right on the money.”

  “Oh, dear,” she said, sobered. But she couldn’t resist adding, “That sleepy little cow town of yours must have the highest murder rate in the Midwest.”

  “Don’t jump the gun.” I began pacing my office. “It may not be murder, but at this point, it’s an unexplained death.”

  “I hate to sound glib, but—anyone I know?”

  With a gulp, I told her, “Gillian Reece.”

  “Uh-oh.” Roxanne hadn’t met Gillian, but she was well aware of the woman, having studied an early proposal for the merger, advising me on its feasibility.

  “It appears her death was an accident.” And I detailed for Roxanne the events of that morning, including the series of confrontations, the coroner’s initial findings, and the sheriff’s assumption that there had been no foul play. “Except,” I continued, “I have a nagging suspicion that there may be more to this, and unfortunately, Glee Savage has a role in it.”

  “Glee?” said Roxanne. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I only wish.” Then I recounted for her the story of the bad blood between my features editor and the paper-mill CEO, their mutual shock upon meeting again yesterday, and finally, the bitch slap. “Most troubling of all, the last person I saw enter the Reece house this morning was Glee, and she hasn’t been seen since.”

  “It sounds as if lots of people had a bone to pick with this woman.”

  “True, but they don’t work for me.” Tired of pacing, I perched on the edge of my desk.

  “Hmmm … I see your point.”

  “So if the coroner should conclude that Gillian’s death was not accidental—”

  “Hold on,” Roxanne interrupted. “I just thought of something. What effect is Gillian’s death likely to have on the impending merger?”

  I stood again. “Good God.”

  “Unless I’m mistaken …”

  “It’s off, Roxanne. I just realized—the whole deal is now off. I don’t know if you saw the final agreement, but its terms were explicit. Gillian was to sign on behalf of Ashton Mills, Perry Schield on behalf of Quatro Press. Neither one could back out individually, so the deal could go forward without Gillian’s signature, but I’m virtually certain that Perry will view her demise as just the out he’s been looking for. With neither signature, there’s no merger.”

  “Perry was looking for an out?”

  “He was getting cold feet, based on some issues raised by due diligence. He was also getting an unvarnished picture of Gillian’s personality, so he couldn’t have relished the prospect of working wit
h her. Sure, he was looking for an out.”

  My inflections must have been transparently upbeat, since Roxanne then noted, “You don’t sound too disappointed yourself, Mr. Manning.” Though smirks aren’t audible, I’d have sworn I heard one.

  I admitted, “Though I regret Gillian’s untimely passing, yes, I’m relieved the merger won’t happen tomorrow. I was beginning to have serious doubts about it.”

  “Hmmm,” said Roxanne, grinding her mental gears (I heard that as well). “If Gillian’s death was not an accident—”

  “And if her death killed the deal,” I continued Roxanne’s thought, “this opens a variety of possibilities regarding motive.”

  With a skeptical laugh, she asked, “Are you saying you suspect kindly old Perry Schield of offing the dragon lady?”

  “Of course not. We don’t even know if Gillian died of foul play. But if she did, these business issues seem to point away from the ancient ill will that stemmed from Gillian’s stealing Glee’s boyfriend.”

  “In other words, if there’s a killer on the loose in Dumont—again—you’d prefer for that person not to be on your payroll.”

  “Well,” I noted, perhaps too pragmatically, “it would be dreadful PR for the paper.” Softening this view, I added, “It wouldn’t do Glee any good, either.”

  “Yeah, nothing can spoil your day quicker than a murder rap. It’s a real bitch.”

  “Exactly. Roxanne, it’s reassuring to know that, after all these years, you and I are still on the same wavelength.”

  “We have the same taste in men,” she noted. “Speaking of which, how’s Neil?”

  “He’s great. Busy as can be.”

  Someone rapped on my glass wall. Turning, I saw Glee standing outside my office. She waved.

  Roxanne said, “Give him a kiss for me, okay?”

  “Sure thing, Rox. Thanks for listening. I need to ring off now.”

  “Ciao, love.” And she hung up.

  Setting the phone on my desk, I opened the door and stepped to my outer office, where Glee awaited me.

  “Hi, boss,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt, but when I came in through the lobby, Connie said you’d been looking for me.”