Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “And,” Hazel picked up the narrative, “you warned her. You warned your own mother that if she didn’t stop treating you like a baby, she’d be sorry. You threatened to take matters into your own hands. ‘One way or another,’ you yelled at her, ‘I’m getting out of this frigging house.’”

  “Oh, brother”—Thad smirked audibly—“I’d never say ‘frigging.’”

  “Then you know good and well what you did say, and I won’t repeat that word.”

  Thad challenged her, “So long as you were snooping on us, you know what happened next.”

  “Indeed I do. She threatened you with boarding school.”

  Hmm. Suzanne and I had been thinking along the same lines.

  Hazel continued. “Not just any boarding school, mind you, but a good, strict military academy. The discipline would serve you well, young man.”

  “I’d never go there. Never!”

  “And that’s just what you told your mother. Exactly. Then you said”—Hazel choked on the words—“you said you’d kill her first.”

  There was a long pause. I heard my heart pounding, fast. When Thad spoke, he seemed to be fighting back tears. “I’d never hurt Mom!” he blurted.

  “Then why did you say such things, Thad?”

  “I don’t know. We had a lot of fights lately. We both said lots of things we didn’t really mean.” He repeated, “But I’d never hurt Mom.”

  I’d heard enough. Thad and Hazel’s argument had climaxed and was winding down. Retreating through the hallway to the foot of the stairs, I wondered, Is Thad sincere now about being incapable of hurting his mother? Or is he merely squirming? Was Suzanne’s dying word, “Thad,” in fact meant to name her killer? And what about Hazel? On the day of the murder, she did her best to paint Miriam Westerman in a suspicious light, so what was her motive in precipitating today’s quarrel with Thad? What game was she playing?

  I needed time to weigh all of this. My more immediate need, however, was caffeine. So I crept up a few stairs, then bounded back down, calling, “Anybody up yet? Hazel? Coffee ready?”

  Around eleven that morning, I took Parker over to the offices of the Dumont Daily Register. He had been there only once with me, briefly, on Christmas Eve day, and had not yet seen the operation running at full tilt. I found a parking spot on First Avenue within a block of the paper and, while backing my black Bavarian V-8 into the space, wondered when I could legitimately claim one of the prime spots in the executive lot behind the building. Walking toward the offices with Parker, I told him, “Barret Logan should write a textbook on publishing a well-run small-town daily. He’s not only managed to attract top talent, but he’s also reinvested the company’s profits in a continual modernization of its physical plant.”

  “Sounds like the ideal setup,” said Parker. “I’m eager to be a part of it.”

  Stepping through the glass doors into the vestibule, I noticed that our names had been displayed on the welcome board. A well-dressed receptionist (CONSTANCE said the plaque on the counter) greeted us warmly on sight. “Good morning, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you.” I introduced Parker as the new managing editor, and she told us, “Mr. Logan said to send you right up.”

  By now I had a sense of the building’s general layout. The editorial department was upstairs on the second floor, advertising on the ground floor, circulation below. The actual printing plant, along with its warehouse and loading docks, occupied a separate larger building behind the offices. I led Parker up to the editorial floor, telling him, “Welcome to your new domain.”

  The newsroom was fully staffed at that hour, but I recognized the activity level as low—with a single morning edition, the Register’s next deadline would not hit until late afternoon. Phones rang sporadically, but it was not the din of breaking news. So I felt comfortable mingling with the staff a bit, introducing Parker, on our way to the executive offices.

  Logan saw us coming and came out from behind his desk to greet us. If he had any misgivings about passing the torch after so many years, they were not the least evident. He spoke of “your office” (meaning mine), and I had to wonder if his sparky nonchalance would wane as the day of the actual takeover neared. In three weeks’ time, when he woke up retired, without a desk to report to, would he don the same dark three-piece suit (navy blue, with the faintest gray chalk stripes) that he wore that Tuesday morning? Or would he think, The hell with it, and lounge in a bathrobe till lunch?

  Glee Savage turned an aisle and beelined toward us. “I heard you were in the building.” Big smile. Big red lips. “Good morning, gentlemen!”

  As she had not yet met Parker, I introduced them, explaining that Parker, an experienced researcher, was interested in exploring the Register’s morgue.

  Logan interjected, “I understand, Glee, that you’re pushing to resurrect that expose idea.” He wagged a finger.

  “Only if it’s of interest to the new publisher,” she answered demurely—while reminding the old publisher that his days were numbered.

  If they were sparring, it was a mannerly match, one that had apparently been enacted countless times over the years. Logan checked his watch and apologized, “I’m afraid I need to spend some time preparing for a lunch meeting—Rotary, you know—so perhaps Glee could squire you gentlemen through the offices. With her tenure, she knows where everything is.” He winked at her.

  Without comment to Logan, she come-hithered us with her finger, asking, “May I take your coats?”

  Once she mentioned it, I felt warm, having worn my long topcoat since entering the building. I had already unbuttoned it, but I was glad to be rid of it entirely, handing it to her with my thanks.

  Parker wore a heavy Eisenhower jacket. Its snug waistline showed his butt to particularly fine advantage that morning—an anatomical nicety that now magnetized Glee’s stare. I thought she might pounce and bite him. Parker also noticed her interest, taking it in stride, returning the compliment with a wolfish innuendo as he passed her the jacket, a muffler, gloves.

  She placed our things in her own office, which we passed while traversing several corridors on our way to the reference room. Arriving at the morgue, Glee introduced us to the reference staff, who took turns explaining various aspects of how the paper’s records were stored, cataloged, and retrieved.

  Parker was impressed. “I’m amazed,” he said. “Your setup here is more typical of much larger papers. What a wonderful resource.”

  He was right. The thoroughness and organization of the clippings, photos, and other records reminded me of the Journal’s morgue in Chicago. The Register operated on a much smaller scale, of course, but technologically, all the bases were covered, with electronic systems in place to complement the older collections of microfiche and hard copy.

  Parker questioned the staff about the research that Suzanne Quatrain had been pursuing, and they voiced their willingness to help him try to trace it. “I’d like to dig right in,” he told me. “Do you mind if I get to work?”

  I was still uneasy playing boss, but Logan had already given me carte blanche on the whole issue of the Quatrains, so I told Parker, “Enjoy yourself.”

  “Hold on,” said Glee. “I was planning to take you guys to lunch. Mr. Logan has Rotary today, but he asked me to flex the house account for you at First Avenue Grill—best in town, you know.”

  Somehow I got the feeling I’d be seeing a lot of the Grill. “I’d be delighted,” I told her. “Parker, how about you?”

  He hesitated. “I’m really not hungry. And I really do want to delve into this. Would you mind terribly if I bugged out?”

  “Terribly.” Glee pouted. “I was hoping to get to know the new number two.” She was talking to his face, but staring at his pants.

  “Rain check?” he asked. “Sometime soon—I’d like that.” He winked.

  “Oh, very well,” she groaned, resigned to lunch without Parker. “I guess it’s just us,” she told me, linking an arm with mine.

  We were about to
return to her office for coats when someone at the research desk said, “You have a call, Mr. Manning.”

  Parker, Glee, and I exchanged a quizzical shrug; then I crossed to the desk and took the receiver. “Mark Manning,” I answered.

  “Tag—I found you,” said a familiar voice. “Hi, Mark. Doug Pierce.”

  “Did it require an APB,” I asked the sheriff with amiable sarcasm, “or did you deduce that if I was not at the house, you might find me here?”

  “The latter,” he admitted. “Hazel was evasive about your whereabouts—she does have something of a shifty streak—but I figured, Try the Register. Logan’s secretary put me through pronto. I’m surprised you’re not more ‘connected.’ Haven’t you gone wireless?”

  Again that sense of déjà vu swept over me: The previous night, Barret Logan was tracked down with a phone call at the Grill, and I found it remarkable that he was able to function unfettered by electronics. I explained to Pierce, “Back in Chicago, I was on call via every gizmo known to science, but those toys belonged to the Journal, and they stayed there. Up here, I’ll wait and see.”

  “It’s a modern world,” he reminded me.

  Standing there with the phone in one hand, I pulled the antique Montblanc from my jacket pocket and rolled it in my fingers. “Get this,” I told Pierce. “I still use a fountain pen.”

  “A what?” He was joking.

  I asked him, “What can I do for you, Doug?”

  His tone was instantly more serious. “There have been some developments on the case. We should meet again.”

  “Is it urgent? I could come right over to the department.”

  “No,” he said, “there’s no need to interrupt your day. Tomorrow morning would be good, though, if you’re free. I could stop at the house.”

  Flipping through my pocket calendar, uncapping my pen, I told him, “The day’s wide open. How’s nine or ten?”

  “I’ll be there at nine,” he said. “And, Mark? Try to keep an open mind, okay?”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll find out soon enough—tomorrow at nine. Thanks, Mark.” We hung up.

  Noting the appointment, I returned the pen and calendar to my jacket, telling Parker, “Something’s up. Details tomorrow.”

  “I’d better get busy. Maybe we can come up with something by then.”

  I thanked him, checked my watch, and turned to Glee. “Time for lunch?”

  We left the morgue together, returning to her office for coats. Helping her on with hers—a flashy ocher-colored sort of smock with wide sleeves and a thick fur collar—I said, “I’m glad you came to see me at the house on Sunday. As you probably know, I’m considered a suspect in this case, so I need to explore every possible angle.”

  Returning the courtesy, she helped me into my own coat. “I hope it proves useful to you, but that wasn’t my motive for telling you about Suzanne’s high-school episode. There’s a story there, Mark. If it pans out, will you let me write it?”

  “Absolutely.” I liked her candor. I liked her persistence. “Let’s go.”

  “I just need to grab my purse.” From behind the door, she hefted another portfolio-size carpetbag, identical to the one she carried before, except that it was patterned with tiger stripes instead of leopard spots.

  Out on the street, walking the block or so to the restaurant, we both donned sunglasses against the glare of a clear winter day. Though the low noontide sun cast an appearance of warmth, the illusion was dispelled by a sharp, cold wind that played havoc with Glee’s purse. Struggling to anchor it under the flapping sleeve of her coat, she barely flinched—such was the price of fashion.

  Pacing briskly to the snap of her heels on the sidewalk, she asked, for no apparent reason, “How old is Parker?”

  I had to think for a moment, recalling his resume. “Fifty-one.” I also recalled that during Glee’s Sunday visit, she mentioned being twenty-two when she started working at the Register thirty years ago. So she and Parker were about the same age.

  “Jeez, he sure doesn’t look it. Seems raring to go.”

  “Yes,” I confirmed, “he’s eager. I was lucky to find him, and I think we’ll all enjoy working with him.”

  “I know I will.” Glee swung her head toward me. “Say, boss—do you have any particular policy on workplace romance?”

  With a chortle, I replied, “Why do you ask?”

  “Well…” she singsonged coyly, “new blood is always welcome here, and my prospects have been somewhat limited of late, and he seems unattached…”

  “Parker?” I stopped in my tracks.

  “Why not?” she asked. The peck of her heels ceased. “He’s hot.”

  “Glee”—I was laughing openly, loudly there on the street, with passersby pausing in dismay to observe my boisterous behavior—“he’s gay!” I would not normally be so quick to out an associate, but Parker’s near-militant homosexuality was a matter of public record, and I was certain that he would not want Glee to harbor false assumptions on this issue.

  “I don’t believe it,” she told me flatly, removing her sunglasses.

  “He was editor of the Milwaukee Triangle, for Christ’s sake, and I can show you a pile of first-person editorials in which he crusades for every gay cause, from employment rights to adoption.” I could have added that the man had professed his love for me on Christmas night, but that was a detail she didn’t need to know. I simply told her, “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  She fixed me with a skeptical stare for a moment, then resumed walking toward the restaurant. I followed. With a pensive shake of her head, she said to me, “I’ve always had a sixth sense about these things, and I’m never wrong. Mark, he was flirting.”

  “Glee,” I assured her, “your radar needs adjusting.”

  Wednesday morning, working in my den, I heard the slam of car doors at the curb, then the muffled sounds of conversation. It was nine o’clock. I expected Sheriff Douglas Pierce, but who was with him? Glancing out the window, I was stunned to see Miriam Westerman walking with him toward the front door.

  I bounded from my desk into the hall and opened the door as they were mounting the porch steps. Looking past Pierce as if he didn’t exist, I told Miriam with a flat inflection, “Go away. I don’t want you here.”

  Pierce rushed to meet me in the doorway and placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Mark, you agreed to keep an open mind.”

  With my eyes fixed on Miriam, I told Pierce, “Now I understand why you wouldn’t explain that comment. I don’t want her in my house, Doug.”

  “I know how you feel about her,” Pierce leaned close to tell me (though she could obviously hear him), “but Miriam may have something useful to contribute to this investigation. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Mark—I think it’s in your best interest to ask her in.”

  There was a brief, tense round of stares and counter stares. “Oh, all right,” I said, scuffing one foot like a reticent child.

  I stood aside and let both of them enter, closing the door. They followed as I walked directly to the den, making no offer to takes coats. Standing rigid at my desk, I asked, “What’s this all about?”

  Miriam jumped in. “I have no idea why Sheriff Pierce wished to see you,” she sniffed, “but as for me, I have a short agenda of two items to share with you.” She removed her cape and flung it over the back of the love seat. “First, of course, is Ariel’s welfare.”

  “His name is Thad,” I reminded her sternly.

  “I want you to be aware, Mr. Manning, that I am taking legal action against you regarding Ariel. I have spoken with Harley Kaiser, district attorney for Dumont County, regarding the most expedient procedure for having Ariel removed from your household. As you know, I maintain that I am rightfully the boy’s guardian, and I seek to have this claim upheld by the courts.”

  I turned to Pierce. “Is this her ‘useful contribution,’ Doug, or is there something else?”

  Pierce unbuttoned his coat and, wit
h strained temper, told her, “You promised not to get antagonistic, Miriam. Let’s talk about Hazel Healy.”

  That caught my interest, and I flashed Miriam an inquisitive look.

  She smiled smugly, fingered her heavy primitive necklace (it looked like painted bones and teeth), and plopped herself in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “It may come as some surprise to you, Mr. Manning, that I do not consider you to be a likely suspect in Suzanne’s murder.”

  She was right—her statement did surprise me. Warily, I asked, “Why not?”

  She paused, leaning forward in her chair. “Because Hazel killed Suzanne.”

  Before continuing the discussion, I thought it best to close the door. I did so, then sat across from Miriam at the fireplace. Pierce hung his coat behind the door, then joined us. With hushed voice, I asked Miriam, “How can you make this accusation?” I noticed that Pierce was not taking notes—he’d apparently already heard the answer.

  Making no effort to subdue her stentorian speech, Miriam began, “Contrary to Mrs. Healy’s assertion, I was not in this house on Christmas Day prior to Suzanne’s murder. Hazel lied to you. And the obvious motive for her deception was to cast suspicion away from herself. It is now common knowledge that she was named to receive a sizable inheritance from Suzanne. Hazel may be getting old, and she may be going blind, but she’s suddenly a woman of considerable means.” Miriam paused, letting innuendo hang heavy in the air.

  “Money can be a motive,” I allowed, “and you’ve raised a point that I myself have considered, but your conclusion is purely speculative.”