Winter Witness, page 1
Tina deBellegarde
WINTER WITNESS
A Batavia-on-Hudson Mystery
First published by Level Best Books 2020
Copyright © 2020 by Tina deBellegarde
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
Tina deBellegarde asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
CREDITS:
MAP ARTIST: Sachi Mulkey
PHOTO CREDIT: Patrizia Tersigni
First edition
ISBN: 978-1-947915-77-0
Cover art by Sachi Mulkey
This book was professionally typeset on Reedsy
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For
Denis and Alessandro
With my love
Praise for WINTER WITNESS
“In Winter Witness, Tina deBellegarde gives us an evocative debut mystery so lush you’ll believe you’re strolling the streets of Batavia-on-Hudson, battling the brutal winter’s chill, even inhaling the aroma of the town bakery’s wares. Through Bianca St. Denis’s eyes, we gain an outsider’s perspective on the quirks and secrets of a village rife with history and deception, as well as a glimpse into her own loss and heartbreak.”—Annette Dashofy, USA Today Bestselling Author of the Agatha-nominated Zoe Chambers Mysteries
“Richly atmospheric, Winter Witness reminds us of the high cost of family secrets - and the even higher cost of those secrets being revealed.”—Liz Milliron, author of The Laurel Highlands Mysteries and The Home Front Mysteries
“Beautifully written and evocative, Winter Witness explores the comforts and quirky charms of small-town life that have drawn so many urban dwellers to the slower rhythms of the Hudson Valley. But Winter Witness is far more than a simple cozy mystery; it is also a sensitive and nuanced examination of the nature of compassion, loss, and community… Bianca and Mike make a believable and engaging investigative team, with a balance of complementary strengths and vulnerabilities that never descend into cliché. I’m looking forward to spending more time with them, along with the other citizens of Batavia-on-Hudson, in the future.”—Erica Obey, author of The Curse of the Braddock Brides and The Horseman’s Word
“Winter Witness is a sly and subtle mystery, full of nuanced observations of life in a small town. Tina deBellegarde’s debut novel reveals a masterful understanding of grief, of feeling stuck and lost in life, and the price of keeping secrets. Her Bianca St. Denis is the compassionate outsider who has a journalist’s eye for detail and a writer’s understanding of human weakness. Watch the mystery be solved and the clues fall into place, the way the lid of a box clicks closed. You’ll want the next installment.”—Gabriel Valjan, Agatha- and Anthony-nominated author of The Naming Game.
“Tina deBellegarde’s Winter Witness is an accomplished debut, offering well-crafted characters and a setting that pulls the reader in. The story grabbed me right at the beginning and kept me turning the pages all the way through to a satisfying conclusion. I’m looking forward to the next installment in this series.”—Carol Pouliot, Author of The Blackwell and Watson Time-Travel Mysteries.
Chapter One
Thursday, December 15
She could have been sleeping, were it not for the gaping gash in the back of her head and the bloody stone next to her limp body.
Sheriff Mike Riley stood alone on the shore of the near-frozen lake. At his feet, Sister Elaine Fisher lay face down, ice crystals forming around her body where it met the shoreline. The murmuring water of the nearby stream imparted a peacefulness at odds with the scene. In the waning winter light, he paused ankle deep in the snow illuminated by the beat of red strobe lights.
Murder seemed so extreme. The villagers would be baffled. Murder didn’t happen in sleepy Batavia-on-Hudson. An occasional stolen bicycle, some were paid off the books, but that was hardly worth mentioning. Lately, there had been a handful of amateur burglaries. Murder was another story altogether.
But there was no denying it. Elaine’s body was there before him, lifeless on a cushion of snow at the edge of the lake.
Sheriff Riley ran his chapped hands through his salt and pepper hair. A knowing person might have noticed that he used this motion to disguise a quick brush at his cheek, to eliminate the one tear that slipped through.
He feared this day, the day his lazy job would bring him face to face once again with the ugly underbelly he knew existed even in a quiet place like Batavia-on-Hudson. Mike Riley wasn’t afraid of death. He was afraid of the transformation a village like this was bound to go through after an act of murder.
He cried for Elaine; though he barely knew her. But also, he cried for the village that died with her that morning. A place where children still wandered freely. A village that didn’t lock doors, and trusted everyone, even the ones they gossiped about. Now, inevitably, the villagers would be guarded around each other, never quite sure anymore if someone could be trusted.
He thought he could already hear the locks snapping shut in cars and homes as word of the murder got out. Mothers yanking children indoors, hand-in-hand lovers escaping the once-romantic shadows of the wooded pathways, and old ladies turning into shut-ins instead of walking their dogs across the windy bluff.
Sheriff Riley steeled himself not just to confront the damaged body of the first murder victim of Batavia in over seventy years, but to confront the worried faces of mothers, the defeated faces of fathers and the vulnerable faces of the elderly.
He squatted in the slush, wincing as his bad knee rebelled, and laid his hands on Elaine’s rough canvas jacket, two-sizes too big—one of her thrift shop purchases, no doubt. As reverently as was possible in the muddy snow, Mike Riley turned over her body to examine the face of a changing village.
Sister Elaine had no one left, she had no known siblings and of course, no spouse or children. Only Agatha Miller, her childhood companion, could have been considered next of kin. How Elaine had tolerated her grumpy old friend was a mystery to everyone.
The sheriff knew that Elaine’s death would rock the community. Even a relative outsider like Mike understood that Elaine had been an anchor in Batavia. Her kindness had given the village heart, and her compassion had given it soul. No one would be prepared for this.
Mike knew from experience that preparation for death eases the grief. You start getting ready emotionally and psychologically. You make arrangements. You imagine your life without someone. But Mike also knew that when the time comes it still slaps you in the face, cold and bracing. And you realize you were only fooling yourself. Then somehow, in short order, work becomes demanding, bills need to be paid and something on the radio steals a chuckle right out of your throat. For a brief second you realize that there are moments of respite from your grief and perhaps someday those moments will expand and you may be able to experience joy once again.
But for now, Elaine’s death will be a shock. No one had prepared for her death, let alone her murder.
***
Agatha Miller raised herself on one elbow and looked out the window. More snow. More cold.
“This weather will kill me.”
She let her body drop to the pillows. Agatha had made her peace with terminal cancer but it was the ice that had taken her down.
Agatha stretched for the cup of water on her bedside. Her fingers inched toward it, but it remained out of reach. She rearranged herself on the bed and reached her arm out again. Just as her fingers touched the plastic cup, her nurse walked in.
“Time for your pills.”
Agatha clutched at the cup, and watched it go over the far side of the table, water splashing to the carpet.
“Stop turning this place into a hospital room. If I wanted plastic cups I’d stay in the hospital,” Agatha snapped. “Bring me a glass and my blue crystal pitcher from the breakfront.”
The nurse dried the carpet and returned with a half-full glass and the pitcher.
“Agatha, I don’t think this is a good idea. You won’t be able to lift those. I’ll leave the plastic on the side over here.”
“Just get the plastic out of here and turn down the heat. It’s an oven in here. It’s bad enough no one will let me go outside. Now you’re incubating everyone’s germs for me too. Want to make sure if one thing doesn’t kill me, something else will?” Agatha sputtered more to herself than to the nurse.
Agatha took a deep drink, enjoying the heft of the glass and the coolness of the water. The nurse returned with a tray: light tea, dry whole-wheat toast, a banana and two pills.
“It’s almost five and someone should be here soon,” the nurse said over her shoulder on her way out the door.
Agatha took a bite of the cold toast, regretting her outburst.
“Why do I do that? I have become a grumpy old lady just like everyone says,” she whispered to the empty room. She took another bite and pushed the plate aside. She hated toast and tea. She ate the banana but her mind wandered to black coffee and a cheese danish. For some reason she couldn’t get her nurses to understand that all she wanted was black coff ee and a danish. “Stupid, stupid girl,” Agatha muttered, surprised to find herself on the verge of tears.
“Why does coffee make me cry but not a hip fracture or cancer? What is wrong with me?”
She finished the banana and reached for the pitcher to refill the water glass. It was too heavy from her awkward angle in bed. She rearranged her grasp and tried again but with no luck. Out of breath, she gave up and receded into the pillows.
Agatha studied the water stain on the ceiling. Bert should have fixed that leak by now. Her stomach lurched in hunger. Maybe she could call Bianca and ask her to pick up some real food at Stella’s on her way. How she missed the aroma of the diner. Agatha picked up the phone and started to dial the number from the list at the side of the bed: one for every villager on rotation to care for her. Her eyes caught sight of the calendar on the nightstand. She slipped her glasses on for a closer look. Bianca wasn’t scheduled until tomorrow. Claire Koop was due at five, but Agatha had no intention of asking any favors of that busy-body. She placed the phone back in the cradle before it started to ring. She didn’t like to ask favors, they needed to be reciprocated. Besides, she had other plans for Bianca.
Agatha was finally ready to tell someone her story and Bianca St. Denis seemed like the perfect confidante. Agatha needed to have one person witness her story, acknowledge her life, someone who might understand but not judge. She was tired of being overlooked. And labeled. Grumpy Agatha, woman of few words.
She wanted to share her thoughts but couldn’t decide how far to trust this newcomer.
Not being able to tell her story had made her question her own existence. She needed to share her story, but most of all she needed someone to hear her. This was a need she had just started to face. Once she is gone her story will go with her. What will remain of her? Her son was no longer in her life. Her daughter was distant. Allison was upstanding and solid, but not warm. Agatha took the blame. She had tried to make Allison strong, to prepare her for life’s difficulties, to make it on her own and not rely on a man. And she had succeeded.
Sister Elaine had always been there and had never asked Agatha to explain herself. Elaine had taken her in—no questions asked. That was exactly what Agatha had needed at the time but, all these years later, Agatha felt inconsequential, impermanent. She needed to concretize her life now and she could only do that with a willing witness.
Bianca seemed intelligent and caring. And best of all she was another historian. Agatha never lent her books out to anyone but she surprised herself by how readily she shared her books with Bianca.
If she could trust Bianca with her books, why not more? Bianca was a clean slate, had no history in Batavia, no grudge, no agenda. The perfect witness.
***
Bianca St. Denis wended her way through the narrow aisles dropping groceries into her basket as she went: one can of tuna, a small head of lettuce, two oranges, a quart of milk, and two freshly baked rolls. Rudy’s Market was lively with the before dinner rush. She treated herself to some roasted artichokes at the deli counter, then moved on to the meat counter. She waited at the end of the very informal line. It was barely a line but everyone was good about waiting their turn. Bianca was grateful she didn’t need to keep her defenses up. No one would steal her spot.
Still, she was a little tense since Rudy always seemed a little put off when she requested only one pork chop or a quarter of a chicken. Today all she wanted was two of his homemade bratwursts to sauté with her artichokes.
Bianca enjoyed the homey atmosphere of the market. Rudy’s carried all the necessities. Not much variety, but it saved the villagers the long trip into the next big town. She didn’t mind waiting on line since Rudy Bauer’s wife, Trudy, offered her homemade German baked goods, along with fresh-ground coffee. Today she was serving buttery linzer tarts. At forty-two, Bianca wasn’t vain but struggled to keep her sweet tooth in check. Trudy’s masterpieces were particularly troublesome.
Bianca sipped and nibbled and waited. Her eyes fell on the hand crank coffee grinder behind the bakery counter. The heady aroma permeated the entire market. She really had died and gone to coffee heaven when she had moved to Batavia; it seemed all the local merchants were trying to outdo each other. No wonder the market was always crowded and the lines moved so slowly. Three years ago this place would have made her blood pressure rise. Today it relaxed her.
Above the grinder was a sign she had noticed the last few times she had come into the store. “Ask Dad…he knows.” Bianca always found the sign vaguely familiar but she could never place it.
The sign was not the only mystery of the morning. Bianca started to notice that the market was busier and noisier than usual. The half-whispered murmurings were tense and furtive. Through the chatter she noticed a common thread. She heard Elaine Fisher’s name over and over. Finally, when Trudy came by to refill the tray of cookies she asked. “Excuse me, Mrs. Bauer, but has something happened to Sister Elaine?”
“Ya, ya!” Trudy nodded vigorously. “She vas murtert. The mahn from za hills vound her by za zee!”
Bianca deciphered what she’d heard to: “She was murdered. The man from the hills found her by the sea.”
But it couldn’t be. There was no sea in Batavia; there was a river, a stream, a lake and even a creek, but no sea. Bianca assumed she’d misunderstood. Why had she chosen Trudy of all people to ask? A murder in Batavia? It wasn’t possible. Elaine couldn’t have been murdered.
“I’m sorry Trudy, did you say murdered?”
“Ya, ya murtert by za zee!”
Then Bianca’s college German kicked in and she remembered that zee meant lake. Could Elaine have been murdered by Groenmeer Lake?
Now the muttering all around her started to make sense.
“He found her by the lake with a bloody gash.”
“She was face down in the icy water.”
“Ishikawa found her. He was walking his dog.”
“Odd one that one. Never comes out of the woods except to walk his dog around the lake and then he finds a murdered body. Sounds fishy to me.”
“I’m locking my doors tonight.”
“My wife can’t stop crying. Sister Elaine had been her teacher years ago before the Catholic school closed.”
“No weapon. Just a bloody rock, Doctor Spenser said.”
“You can’t kill someone with a rock. What does a young kid like him know anyway?”
“Elaine was so tiny, probably easier than you think.”
The line had stopped moving. Everyone hovered in twos and threes. No one even pretended to make purchases and Rudy had made his way around to the front of the meat counter. Bianca wandered the aisles listening attentively. Through the spaetzle and rice she could hear them speculating.
“Who would kill Sister Elaine, of all people?”
“Bert Henderson says her family ring was gone.”
“Bert was the one who took her to Albany to get it appraised. He said it was worth a small fortune.”
“I’m not surprised. It was a family heirloom, sapphire and diamond, it’s been in her family for three generations.”
“Let’s not forget, there have been a couple of burglaries the last couple of months.”
“Those damn kids on their ATVs…I wonder…”
“Those kids are disturbing everything. The deer, the bears and now this.”
“Did the sheriff ever arrest anyone for the burglaries?”
“If you ask me, Trevor Streat always seems to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. I never trusted that boy.”
Walter Patten walked into the market. Before he could greet anyone, the state senator was surrounded by neighbors shooting questions at him.
Trudy used her considerable heft to make her way to the front of the room and cornered him. She was not just wider, she was taller than Walt.
“Valter, vat are you doing about zis? Zis is a small town. Vee shouldn’t vorry about burglary, cazinos and now murter!” Trudy’s round face was splotched with red.
