Intentional Harm: An Iris DeVere Mystery

By B. Payton Settles

While attempting to support Gram's venture out into the world after Gramps' death, Iris stumbles onto a corpse and inadvertently embarrasses the church her grandmother has joined. When boss Jose Camargo attempts to help Iris, and a handsome Mill Valley detective comes sniffing around, things get worse instea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Level Best Books
• Release date: Jul 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781685122843

B. Payton Settles

B. Payton Settles lives in Sonoma, California. Stone Cold Dead, her second paranormal mystery and third published novel, draws on the author's fascination with Petaluma, California's colorful history and architecture. In this thriller the town is tactfully renamed Miwok after the original residents of this beautiful area.

Book preview

Chapter One

It was a glorious morning for a retreat; it was a glorious morning for anything, actually. Iris had her car back—the obscenities defacing the Nova were gone, stripped off before the vehicle got its sparkling baby blue paint job—and Gram was footing the bill for this three-day religious retreat at a historic mansion deep in the North San Francisco Bay redwoods.

It was a silent retreat, hosted by the Living Waters Christian church. Although nervous about the total silence part, Iris was determined to show up for her grandmother. Between Gramps’ unexpected death and the trouble caused by Iris’s new job, Gram was a bit frayed around the edges.

Iris’s boss at Camargo Investigations hadn’t blinked an eye when she asked for three days off. Si, Jose Camargo said. After that last case, this team deserves a break.

Iris smiled at the thought of herself and Jose Camargo as a team.

We are, though. Amazing what a difference a few months can make. When I walked into his office, I just wanted a job, any job, so I could stay in San Rafael and help Gram. Now, because he needed a secretary and took a chance on me, I’m enrolled in a Criminal Justice class and planning a career in investigations.

She glanced in the rearview mirror at the laptop nestled against overnight bags on the back seat. A giddy smile played on her lips.

Me, a private investigator. Who would’ve thunk?

I see you peeking at your computer. You know, don’t you, the only thing you’ll be studying this weekend is religious material? Gram’s tone was a bit waspish.

Relax, Gram. You got your wish: I’m going with you to this thing. Nobody will care if I slip in a little study time.

But, honey, the whole point of the retreat is to free your head of worldly things and let God enter your heart. Gram turned her most encouraging smile on Iris. That’s the exit up there, she added. East Blithedale, see?

Iris steered the Nova into the right lane and along the downslope to the turnoff. She muttered, God won’t mind sharing a little headspace with Forensics 101.

Gram sighed. You can take a mule to water, but you can’t make him drink.

Who’re you calling a mule? Iris laughed. If I’m stubborn, I inherited it from you.

Gram lightly punched Iris’s arm. And don’t you forget it, she said. It’s a curse and a blessing, as the men in your life have found out.

Huh, Iris responded. You mean Donny? I don’t consider my boss to be a ‘man in my life,’ and Donny’s not, either—anymore. She raised an eyebrow at Gram.

I certainly do mean Donny. And Mr. Camargo is a man—a single man—who you spend time with every day. That qualifies him, in my book. Gram frowned. Like I said, stubbornness is both a curse and a blessing. She winked at her granddaughter. Slow down, dear. This stretch of road is a speed trap.

The Nova wound through the narrow streets leading into downtown Mill Valley. The town, originally little more than a summer destination for San Francisco’s elite, consisted of tidy wood-frame cottages, elegant estates, and colorful adobe casas. Storefronts, homes, and apartment complexes were crowded at the foot of Mt. Tamalpais, a steep-sided extinct volcano. The climate—bay fog and filtered sunshine—provided ideal conditions for ferns, rhododendrons, and a thriving redwood forest.

Seriously, Gram, Iris spoke with the wisdom of a twenty-three-year-old, I’m delighted to have a break from work, but the church part of this weekend is for you, not me. You want to deepen your commitment to Pastor Greenwich and his cronies; I want to sleep in, eat good food, and breathe the air in this … She looked up through the windshield to the redwood-filtered rays of light, almost-magical place.

Gram smiled benignly at her slim, pretty granddaughter. With her Black Irish coloring—dark, straight hair, very white skin, and large blue-violet eyes, the girl was a much younger version of Gram, herself. She’s too pretty for her own good and still trying to prove her worth. Gram sighed. I’ll never forgive my son for abandoning her; thank God her grandfather, and I rescued her.

Just keep an open mind, Gram said quietly. Pastor knows you’re here as my guest, not as a convert. You’re my granddaughter, though, so he’ll expect you to have good manners.

"Yes, ma’am. I know how much the church means to you. I wonder if the church knows how much Gram means to me. My coming back home after college has helped both of us.

They had barely left Mill Valley’s center when Gram said, Look—on the right—that gap in the trees. See the driveway? That’s the place! Gram’s eyes lit up with child-like excitement. Be careful turning in. This lane was made for carriages, not automobiles.

Oh, yeah. Iris steered carefully between two stone pillars. No way am I going to scratch my new paint job.

A hedge of mature cedar bushes led to a knoll adorned with a heart-shaped, rose-bedecked lawn. Beyond the lawn, broad steps fronted a sparkling white, early 20th-century mansion.

Wow, Iris breathed.

Gram stared open-mouthed at the picture-book scene. Pastor said we’d be impressed. He wasn’t kidding!

Can you imagine someone actually lived here way back when? I’m pretending it’s ours for the next three days. Iris grinned.

Not sure I’d want it. Gram peered through the windshield. Think of the winter heating bill. She frowned. There’s a downside to everything, isn’t there?

Oh, yeah. The Nova stopped in the road. Wonder where you park—around back? The driveway goes around the house, under that patio cover.

It’s not a patio cover, dear; it’s a porte cochere. A lot of fancy homes had them, back in the day. People went from their carriages to their houses in bad weather without getting wet.

Whatever. As Iris released the brake, the blast of a horn sounded behind them.

BRAAAAT!

She and Gram both turned and stared at a truck’s grill. It completely filled the Nova’s rear window.

For crying’ out loud, Gram snapped.

Iris rolled down her side window, calling back, Where’s the parking?

The face that stared back at her was shadowed under a red ball cap. When the horn blasted again, she drove very slowly around the building to the parking area. Does that guy go to your church?

I certainly hope not. Gram glared out the back window.

Iris pulled into a parking spot and looked back. The truck was gone.

Good riddance.

The rear of the mansion was devoted to an extensive ornamental garden, with maintenance buildings and a parking strip to one side. A small group of people—four or five—chattered as they climbed the back steps.

We’re right on time, Gram chirped. There’s Laura Jo, my Bible Study leader, and the pastor’s wife. She heads up the Altar Guild.

As soon as the Nova stopped, Gram opened her door and hopped out. Hurry, Iris. We’re supposed to find our rooms before the Meet and Greet.

One of the women on the steps, a tall, big-boned blonde in a black-and-white striped pantsuit, turned and raised her eyebrows at Gram. She wasn’t smiling.

That’s Mrs. Greenwich. Am I supposed to be silent out here? Gram hesitated. I don’t know how these retreats work.

I wouldn’t worry about it. She probably has something else on her mind. Gram seems nervous. I hope she doesn’t regret bringing me.

Stifling an urge to tiptoe, Iris followed Gram into the building. Ten minutes later, they’d been directed to two sparely furnished bedrooms on the third floor and told the Pastor’s welcome was about to begin.

So, no Meet and Greet, Gram muttered.

They hurried downstairs to a room dominated by ornate stained-glass windows and a glittering crystal chandelier. Sunlight through the windows reflected off the chandelier in rainbow hues, adding to the room’s charm. While Iris gaped, Gram stepped smartly over to an elderly gentleman standing nearby. When he saw Gram, the man’s eyes lit up. He took her hand and patted it. So glad you could make it.

To Iris’s amazement, Gram blushed and stifled a giggle. Hmm. There’s more to her interest in the church than I realized.

The man—Iris later found out he was an assistant pastor—showed them into the mansion’s library, where three rows of folding chairs faced a small podium. As Iris gawked at the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and the room’s movable spiral staircase, Gram guided her to two empty chairs in the back row—women ranging in age from thirty-five to sixty filled the other seats. I’m the youngest person here.

Gram, Iris whispered. At that moment, a large, manicured hand gripped Gram’s shoulder.

I see you brought that granddaughter you’ve told us so much about. You didn’t mention she’s lovely.

A handsome, silver-haired man whose tweed sport coat and tie looked like they would have seriously compromised a preacher’s budget stood behind their chairs. Welcome, my dear. He grinned wolfishly.

Before Gram could respond, he had moved on. He went briskly to the podium, picked up a small bell, and rang it. The audience—eighteen women—froze.

Good morning, ladies …

That’s Pastor Greenwich. Gram’s lips formed the words silently.

Greenwich’s first order of business was the collection of the women’s cell phones. They’ll be on the sideboard in the dining room, to be returned when you leave day after tomorrow. He explained the power of silent reflection in spiritual development, saying the only voice they’d hear until the end of the retreat was that of his assistant, retired Pastor Johanssen. That fine gentleman’s food for the spirit will complement the fine cuisine. He delivered the last line with a chuckle.

There was a murmur of disappointment; evidently, some of the women had assumed their magnetic main pastor would be in charge. Greenwich quickly added that he’d check in on them daily. After outlining the schedule, he called for a vow of silence. If you do so, vow, Greenwich intoned, nod your head.

Iris looked around, saw seventeen heads nodding, and inclined her chin, too. God, help me.

As soon as the retreat began, the women gathered in clusters of three or four. Gram joined a group, but Iris hung back. I want to look around on my own.

She didn’t see Gram again until lunchtime and then just from across the room. Gram sat facing away from Iris’s table and didn’t look around. I know we can’t speak, but I’d sure like a smile. Iris felt completely forgotten. It’s going to be a long three days.

The retreat was set up so that attendees could study religious material, move through yoga routines, or be creative at a crafts table—all in silence. None of this appealed to Iris—it felt like old-lady busywork. In the silent, heavily religious atmosphere, she felt increasingly invisible.

What am I doing here, anyway? Gram doesn’t need me; she’s fitting in just fine. Everyone else is enjoying themselves—I’m the only malcontent. I don’t belong here.

By the afternoon of the first day, without the distractions of conversation or, at least, the sound of human voices, Iris was struggling against insecurities she hadn’t felt in years.

She did some schoolwork on her computer, then spent an hour analyzing Pastor Johanssen’s lectures and the women’s reactions to them. Shock and dismay had surfaced on seventeen faces when Pastor J. intoned, Women of the church have for centuries struggled to interpret the instructions so eloquently alluded to in Isaiah 47. Your task today is to reflect on those words concerning the Fall of Babylon: ‘Go down, sit in the dust, Virgin daughter of Babylon, sit on the ground without a throne, Daughter of the Babylonians. No more will you be called tender or delicate. Take millstones and grind flour, take off your veil…’

He’d finished with, As you reflect on this passage, look within for ways Isaiah could be speaking to you. Now, enjoy your soup. He sat down, seemingly oblivious to the effect of his message on the women.

Why do I get the feeling we’ve all just been spanked? Iris gazed around at the heads bent over their soup bowls. Someone sniffed. Good grief, is somebody crying? Was that a call to confession? This isn’t even that kind of church!

One by one, the women pushed back their chairs, stood, and left the room. Iris hoped to catch up with Gram and get a quick hug, but the pastor’s wife stepped between them and led Gram away.

This is not fun at all! Iris hurried to the stairs, hoping to escape into her studies.

Hardly five minutes had passed before one of the church ladies tapped on her bedroom door. When she saw Iris cross-legged on the bed, computer on her lap, the woman turned and left.

What did she want? It’s not like we can talk. Iris sighed, turned off the laptop, and laid back against the pillow. Waking thirty minutes later, she decided to kill some time by exploring the mansion. I’d love to get a look at the ballroom—I’m sure there must be one—or maybe the music room. There might even be a small chapel in here somewhere, for when the Hyde family couldn’t get to church.

The idea piqued her curiosity. She waited until the foyer was empty, then slipped out the front door and down the steps. A narrow space between clipped privet hedges and the exterior wall beckoned; she crept along it. On the driveway side of the mansion tall, wavy-paned windows were positioned close to the ground. She stood on tiptoe and looked in.

The windows were covered; a blur of stained drapery linings was all she could see except for a vertical, slivered gap where the drapes didn’t meet. Iris peered through the gap into a large, wood-and-wallpaper-paneled room lined with bulky, sheet-covered objects—furniture, obviously. Boxes were stacked in one corner. A sheet-covered grand piano stood in one corner.

She was about to turn away, disappointed when she glanced at the room’s ceiling. The light from the gap in the drapes revealed a painting of birds, towering trees, and a dark-skinned maiden with hair formed by the sun’s rays.

Wow, that’s Princess Tamalpa! Stunning!

An engine growled in the driveway behind her. Iris half-turned, startled, and felt the heat of a vehicle rolling past. She flailed wildly, lost her balance and fell elbow-first onto the nearest privet bush. As the vehicle rounded the mansion’s back corner—it was a truck—she saw, through the rear window of the cab, a red ball cap.

For crying out loud. Twice? Who is that rude guy?

She brushed herself off and walked slowly back around the building and inside, feeling strangely off-balance. There’s an odd mix of energies here. That glorious tribute to a mythical princess—that’s good; the rude truck guy? Not so much.

She wished she could talk; it might help make this place feel more normal.

* * *

Iris moved through the remainder of that day in a state of mild depression, trying to follow the retreat’s routine. She stared blankly at her plate during Pastor Johanssen’s mealtime homilies, absorbing neither his message nor the flavor of the food. When the lights blinked to signal bedtime, she was the first one up the stairs. In her room, she knelt by the bed, whispering her version of a prayer.

God, what’s going on? Why do I feel so left out? This is a beautiful place, and the people are okay. Not my type, whatever that is, but I’m here as a favor to Gram—she said she’d be more comfortable with me along. She doesn’t need me, though, and being alone with my thoughts for hours and hours is making me crazy.

A long sigh escaped Iris’s lips. If only my foster dad hadn’t been a church guy. At least, then, churches wouldn’t give me the creeps.

Breakfast the second day, blessedly early because Iris had been awake since 4:30, was curiously quiet. Pastor Johanssen said very little, spouting and interpreting a bible verse about God’s mercy and then lapsing into silence.

Iris tried to read the expressions on the other women’s faces but couldn’t get past the stoical, slightly unfocused stares.

As they filed out of the dining room, Gram stepped in next to Iris and touched her arm. When Iris turned, eager for reassurance, Gram gave her a peck on the cheek and drifted away to stand by Pastor Johanssen.

Not exactly the bonding I was hoping for, Gram. Better than nothing, though.

Wandering outside to the mansion’s back garden, Iris tried to stifle a feeling of profound sadness. For heaven’s sake, I should be able to handle complete silence and zero connection with other humans. Why is this getting to me? Is enforced silence enough to bring back all my childhood pain? I guess so. Maybe I need more therapy. As she focused on the healthy-looking flowers, she envied their good luck at living among the redwoods in this rich volcanic soil.

Beyond the gardens, Iris found a barely discernible, weed-choked path into the redwoods. As she followed moss-covered bricks up the slope, she began to feel at ease for the first time since the retreat began. These trees are so strong, so healthy. And so spiritual. Maybe this is a good place for me, after all.

Her wandering took her past a weathered gazebo nestled under the trees. At a glance, it looked inviting, but the moldy, deteriorating wood made Iris think of spiders. She shivered and stayed on the brick path to its’ end, an overgrown clearing.

Iris stopped. When her eyes adjusted to the dim light she saw, in the clearing’s center, an old, rectangular swimming pool. She stepped closer, pushing down revulsion at the pool’s dark, stagnant water and network of rotting leaves.

This pool hasn’t been used in years.

She walked slowly around the pool, careful to stay on the brick border. A low diving board at one end cast a curious shadow on the water. It took a second to realize there were no other shadows in this completely shaded spot. She leaned forward and peered into the dirty water.

The shadow didn’t correspond to the shape of the board: Its lower half was separated, like legs. That’s not a shadow. A body lay face-down at the bottom of the pool.

Chapter Two

Iris stared into the dark water, slowly registering the sight of a human body. Face-down, it lay legs and arms spread apart in the silt.

When reality set in, shock was close behind. She scanned the area frantically. Trees, ferns, and spiky orange flowers looked back at her, encircling the pool and ensuring complete, utter privacy from the mansion compound.

Oh, God, should I try to pull him out?

Reason prevailed. The body was at the deep end of a pool of foul water. And it wasn’t moving. At all.

A long tree branch lay nearby. Iris grabbed it, lay down at the pool’s edge and prodded the shadowy form. Bulky, solid, it made no response.

Dead.

It was a man, dark hair partially covered by a ball cap and work boots sticking out beneath jeans. One hand was balled into a fist; the other formed a claw.

As Iris probed near the head, the dark lips opened, showing yellowed teeth. She dropped the branch and stumbled back. Oh, my God!

As she stared in horror, a shaft of light broke through the clearing’s leafy ceiling and sparkled off one of the teeth.

Is that gold? A gold tooth?

Choking back panic, she sat down, hard. Maybe I’m imagining this. Maybe that just looks like a body. She jumped to her feet and allowed terror to propel her across the clearing and back down the brick path.

When the rear garden, with its roses, rhododendrons, and dew-bedecked lilies, came into sight, she allowed herself to breathe. Get a grip. You’re safe. Don’t think about the pool.

Two women knelt in prayer by a statue of St. Francis. Should I approach them? What if that horrible scene was all in my imagination? I’d be ruining their retreat experience for nothing.

Iris hurried to the maintenance shed. Maybe there’s a gardener in here. She rattled the locked door, got no response, Now what? The kitchen. Someone has to be in there.

In the Hyde mansion’s cavernous kitchen, the dishwasher swooshed, the counter tops sparkled, and someone chattered in Spanish. Iris thrust open the door and plunged across the linoleum, colliding head-on with Pastor Johanssen.

Oof! The old man grunted but uttered no words. Instead, his surprisingly strong hands gripped Iris’s shoulders. She stared up into his disapproving face and whispered, I have to talk.

At the far end of the kitchen, Gram stood, stirring something on a wood-burning stove. She handed her spoon to a kitchen worker and crossed the room, her mouth a thin, disapproving line.

Johanssen led the way into the laundry room. Iris recognized the smell of slightly burned cloth and noted a basket of linens by a drop-down ironing board. After he closed the door, Johanssen and Gram both looked mutely at Iris.

A dead body, she gulped. In the pool. The old swimming pool. In the woods.

Johanssen’s eyebrows went up so far, they almost disappeared into his bushy white hairline. Before he could speak, Gram put her face close to Iris’s. Really? Because if this is just some detective hocus-pocus to sabotage the retreat, I’ll never forgive you.

Iris took a step back. She felt the laundry basket against her calves and grabbed the back of a chair to keep from falling. It’s the truth. I’m not making it up. There’s a swimming pool in the woods, and I saw a body in it!

As she sputtered, she had a sinking feeling that maybe Gram was right, maybe she only thought she’d seen a body in that foul water. Was she so stressed from being here, she’d hallucinated? She gulped. Will you at least go and see for yourself? The words came out defeated, whiny.

Young lady. The associate pastor’s tone was grave. Perhaps the silent nature of this spiritual experience has unsettled you. I understand, he glanced at Gram, your emotional balance is fragile. Perhaps, for your own good, you should leave the retreat early and go on home.

Gram put a hand on the pastor’s arm. Iris is immature, but she’s not a liar. Give me a minute to finish that soup, and I’ll go take a look. Where is this pool, anyway?

The pastor rolled his eyes just a little before giving Gram a tight smile. Tai chi begins soon. Mrs. Greenwich had to leave the retreat early—struck down by a migraine—so I’m leading it. Can we make it there and back before Tai Chi?

Absolutely. Can I help with the soup? Iris hurried across to the stove, noting the glance Pastor Johanssen gave Gram as he left the kitchen.

Half an hour later, Iris, Johanssen, and Gram crossed the garden to the rear gate. The pastor shook his head. You were back here? This area is off limits.

She did say it was in the woods, Roland. Gram sounded nervous.

When Iris parted some branches and stepped into the clearing, Gram whispered, Are we there? This place is spooky.

Indeed. Pastor J. intoned. That swimming pool must date back to the 1920s. Looks like no one’s used it in years.

In the shadowed clearing, the pool could have been mistaken