Dead Body Language

by Penny Warner

  Mickey waved to Sluice Jackson, who was digging haphazardly around a tree, then squatted down next to the tombstone. I squatted, too, so I could read Mickey’s lips. Being so close to the grave, I was aware of a peculiar smell, not unlike the white paste I used to sample in kindergarten. Or was it the stuff we used to use in science class—formaldehyde? My imagination was getting to me. Had I pithed too many frogs to shake the association of this smell with death?

  “She was found here …?” I prodded, allowing him to assume I knew more than I did. It’s a good technique for getting information.

  Mickey ran his eyes over the blood stain. “Yeah, about seven this morning, by the Clemetson kid who cuts through the Pioneer on his way to school every day.” With a bend of his head he indicated the opposite side of the hill. “Scared the bejesus out of him, I’ll tell ya. Came running into the office like a rabid skunk screaming, ‘There’s a dead body in the cemetery. There’s a dead body in the cemetery.’ Over and over.” Mickey waved his hands like a frightened kid. “So I says, ‘Yeah, and I’ll bet you got Prince Albert in a can,’ and …”

  Mickey laughed, then noticed my blank expression and shrugged. “Anyway, the sheriff wasn’t in yet, so Craig, the kid, he drags me over here and sure enough, there’s Lacy Penzance lying here against this grave, her hand covering a circle of blood, the knife—” Deputy Arnold rubbed his forehead, as if trying to rub away the image. “So I radioed the sheriff.”

  “Sheriff Mercer said it may be a suicide.”

  Mickey raised both eyebrows. “I suppose so …” He glanced over at Sluice and cocked his jaw.

  “What do you think?” I prodded, with an emphasis on the “you.”

  Mickey took his eyes off Sluice and looked at me. He spoke slowly, deliberately. “I don’t know. There was a knife in her chest. That’s not a common way to commit suicide, man or woman. But it’s possible. One of her hands had kinda dropped down to her side, as if she had let go of the knife after using it. You know, it reminds me a lot of one of your mystery puzzles.”

  I thought about the Polaroid pictures I’d seen at the sheriff’s office. “So you have your doubts, too.”

  He rubbed his forehead again, which was beginning to turn a little red from all the attention. “I figure, if she wanted to commit suicide, why here? Why with a knife? But if somebody killed her, why do it on the grave? How’d they get her here? There aren’t any tracks like she was dragged. And who would want to kill Lacy Penzance? Like I said, it reminds me of one of your puzzles.”

  He paused, scratched his arm again, and surveyed the area. I urged him on. “Can you show me what she looked like when you found her? You know, her body language?”

  Mickey sat down on a nearby grave to demonstrate. It took him several seconds to get into position. “She was sort of like this.” He lay across the grave, his legs open, one hand on the ground, the other at his side, his head tilted to the side.

  I tried to visualize Lacy Penzance in that awkward, unladylike position. “What was she wearing?” I asked, remembering only a skirt and blouse.

  “A skirt, black. Kinda tight. It was open, there.” He pointed to the area between his knees. “Had a sweater-like thing on top—pink, with black decorations on it, like little circles. Lots of jewelry—all gold. An earring was missing from one ear. Hasn’t turned up yet. No coat, even though it was fairly cool last night. She ran the knife right through her sweater. Didn’t even lift it up.”

  “What kind of knife was it?”

  Mickey thought for a moment, his eyes shifting to Reuben Penzance’s grave, as if to conjure up the image. “It was a fancy one, not one of those you order from the TV ads. The maid showed me her kitchen stuff this morning. A similar knife was missing from a collection she kept on a rack on the counter. I figure it was hers.”

  He stood up, shook out his pant legs, and brushed off the back of his jeans. “I think I’ll take another quick look around. Never know. I got a feeling we might’ve missed something.”

  “Okay to touch this?” I asked, referring to Reuben’s gravestone. It was covered with a patina of white powder and red dust.

  Mickey nodded. “It’s been printed.”

  I ran my hand over the inscription. The stone was cold, hard, and disturbingly new. According to the date cut on the marker, Reuben Penzance had died last October. He was fifty-two years old.

  While Mickey searched the site, I tried to recall what I knew of Reuben’s death. I’d heard he’d been on a hunting trip with old Sluice. The story was that Penzance had fallen over in the boat and drowned. The sheriff said they had investigated and ruled it accidental. Jilda said Sluice Jackson, the lone survivor, hasn’t been the same since.

  I caught the deputy waving his arms to get my attention. “Hey, Connor, I gotta get back. Didn’t find anything. I don’t think the earring’s here,” he mouthed exaggeratedly. I hated when he did that. It made him look like an ape.

  “So what happens next?” I asked as we headed back toward the street.

  “Wait for the medical examiner’s report. Then we should know more. But I wouldn’t be surprised if they call it something other than suicide.” He stopped abruptly and looked at me. “That’s off the record, Connor. There’s no story yet. Just supposition. I don’t want to read about any of this in the Eureka! until we know what’s what.”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, although I hated that phrase. It was something my ex-lover had said to me every time he wanted to skirt an issue. But noncommittal came in handy for the moment.

  “Well, gotta go. Maybe we could have coffee later? Or I could rent that movie, Children of a Lesser God, and bring it by your place tonight. With a pizza?”

  Children of a Lesser God? It was a good movie, but it wasn’t the only movie a deaf person wanted to watch. I suppose if I’d been Asian, he’d want to rent me a Jackie Chan or Bruce Lee film.

  “Yeah, maybe. Call me.” I smiled lamely and waved him off. He signed “See you later”—with an awkward twist of an “L” in midair—and headed down the street toward the sheriff’s office.

  I glanced back at the cemetery, paused a few minutes until Mickey was out of sight, and decided to take another look at the area surrounding the police line. The barrier enclosed only a small section, leaving the rest for friends and families to wander about and visit their departed loved ones. I walked down the path, through the newer area, moving deeper into the past. The farther back I walked, the older and more decaying the cemetery became.

  I revisited my great-grandmother, Sierra Westphal, honored by a modest marker amidst her own pioneering family. She was lying next to her husband, William, and not far from her sons, Cullin, Cosmo, and Jackson Westphal. She had lived to be eighty-six years old, dying in August of 1915. Curiously, she had lived only a month longer than her husband. The inscriptions on the twin graves were difficult to read, aged by the elements, but I could still make out the archaic poem that had been inscribed on Sierra’s stone:

  Here lyes MOTHER,

  Moved Above;

  Gone and Left Us

  With Her Love.

  I passed by several other stones, wondering who had died from smallpox, cholera, typhoid, tuberculosis, and other long-lost diseases; who had died from broken hearts; whose lives had been cut short by greed, fraud, jealousy, or revenge; who had died of unknown causes.

  Vandals had come and gone over the years, doing damage to the Flat Skunk heritage, until finally French McClusky had taken over the funeral business. He organized the Friends of the Cemetery, a charitable group that offered time and money to preserve the historic site. Lacy Penzance had no doubt been on that committee, too.

  The Friends had reconstructed many of the broken monuments, patched chips and cracks, and carefully rescued the land from weeds and erosion. Even so, many of these markers that had been created to last forever were on their way to becoming dust themselves.

  Darcy Muff Sutton.

  Died of thin clothes

  And no shoes
.

  April 17, 1889, aged 16 years.

  I walked the cobblestone path through history, curious about what life had been like in the gold country over a hundred and fifty years ago.

  Sacred to the memory of

  Major Jeffrey D. Knight

  Who was killed by the accidental discharge

  Of a pistol by his deputy.

  14th April 1878.

  Neglected by his mother,

  Ill treated by his wife,

  Ignored by all his children,

  He gave up on life.

  Good-bye Leonidas W. Smiley

  Beneath this stone a woman lies;

  Her heart a broken shell,

  The man she loved, he died too soon,

  Now she is dead, as well.

  No name was inscribed. Had Lacy Penzance died of a broken heart too? I turned away from the solemn markers, full of troubling questions about the Pioneer Cemetery’s next resident.

  I got on my bike and rode the short distance to the hotel. Although the May nights were still cool, the morning was already beginning to warm up the town, and the sun cast a diagonal spotlight on the main street. As usual, the early morning air was scented by the town’s namesake.

  The reality of Lacy Penzance’s death was beginning to sink in, and I had an uneasy feeling. I wanted to know more about the distant but charitable woman, and not just for my newspaper story. I couldn’t shake the sense that I owed her somehow.

  I climbed the hotel steps, two at a time, and entered the hallway. Boone Joslin’s door stood ajar as I walked by. I pushed it open slowly.

  Dan was facing the window overlooking the street, his weathered cowboy boots propped on the desk. He was tapping a pencil and waving his feet to a beat. I looked over at the radio and saw the “on” light lit up.

  “Hi,” I said, quietly. Must have been too quietly. He made no move. “Hello?!” I said again.

  Dan turned around, pulled his feet down from the desk, and stopped the beat of his pencil. “Connor! Hey. How you doing?”

  I shrugged halfheartedly. I wondered if he’d heard the news. “What are you listening to?” I said.

  I didn’t know different types of music by sound, but I knew them by reputation. I found that the kind of music people listened to told me a lot about them. Most folks around here favor country-western tunes, and worship the likes of Clint Black, Garth Brooks, and Dwight Yoakam. My old boyfriend used to say I was better off deaf when it came to country music. He only listened to jazz. That’s when I learned about music snobs.

  “Music,” he said.

  I made an “I-know-that” face.

  “It’s called Zydeco. From Louisiana. Kind of like—”

  “Soul, country, polka, and French all rolled into one.”

  He gave me a “how-did-you-know-that?” look. “You know much about music?”

  I shrugged again. Better to maintain a little mystique. “Heard from your brother yet?”

  Dan tapped his pencil, double-time, and shook his head.

  “Did you hear about Lacy Penzance?” I asked.

  “That the woman who killed herself in the cemetery?” He slowed the pencil rhythm.

  “Yeah. How did you find out?”

  “The waitress at the coffee shop told me. What’s her name? Jilly or something? Said the woman stabbed herself on her husband’s grave.”

  “I suppose she told you why, too?”

  “Said she was unhappy about the death of her husband or something. Left a note.”

  What, I wondered, was the point of having a newspaper in this town? Everybody knew everything before it even hit print. Maybe I could learn Lacy’s dress size or where her birthmarks were located if I spent more time at the Nugget Café.

  I pulled up the folding chair and sat down across the desk from him. “Don’t you think it’s kind of weird that she supposedly killed herself when—” I paused. Maybe I shouldn’t say too much. After all, Lacy had taken me into her confidence. Just because she was dead didn’t mean I could go blabbing her secrets.

  “When what?” Dan asked. The pencil paused. “You think there’s something more to it?” he added.

  I squirmed in the chair a little, trying to get comfortable. “No, I just think it’s strange, that’s all, to commit suicide on your husband’s grave in the local cemetery in the middle of the night. Especially when—” I stopped myself again. “Well, it’s just not something I would do. But then, I’m not much like her.”

  Dan smiled. It was a disconcerting smile. I frowned and stood up.

  “I better get to work.”

  I turned and headed for the door. A wadded-up paper hit the wall in front of me. People were always throwing wadded-up papers at me. I turned around; Dan was grinning widely at what he thought was a clever way of attracting my attention. I picked up the tossed ball.

  “Connor, I’m planning to go to Whiskey Slide to see if I can find Boone,” Dan said, dropping the smile. “I think he may have gone up there on a case. I may be away awhile. Thought you might want to know.”

  I said nothing, but silently decided it was time to find out a little more about Dan Smith. I pressed the ball of paper tightly in my hand, raised my arm, then threw it back at him. Got him, right in the heart.

  With the advent of the TTY, we deaf people finally came out of the Dark Ages in terms of long-distance communication. It’s only been in the past few of decades that we’ve been able to use the telephone via the teletype system, then electronics. Before that we relied on the tedious methods of writing letters or asking neighbors and friends for emergency telephone assistance. Our hope for the future: a TTY/computer in every home and office. I’m not holding my breath.

  Fortunately, most government offices now own TTY’s, and those that don’t are accessible through the California Relay System, which offers telephone interpreting services. The New Mexico Corrections Facility owned a TTY, I discovered, after I switched on the device, placed the receiver in the handset, and dialed the long-distance number. After a short delay, electronic letters began to move across the glowing red display terminal.

  “Dept. of Corrections. Sgt. Bruce Taylor. GA.”

  You can often tell when a hearing person is using the TTY as opposed to a deaf person. The deaf tend to use all capitals, omit punctuation, and use common abbreviations. Hearies type more formally, as if writing a business letter. I adapt to the caller.

  “This is Connor Westphal from the Eureka! newspaper, Calaveras Co., CA. We’re interviewing an applicant for police beat position and need references verified. Was a Daniel Webster Smith in your employ recently? GA.”

  I typed as quickly as I could and kept it brief, but the TTY was still a relatively slow process taking sometimes four to five times longer. And it cost more than a long-distance call because of the time delays.

  “Hold on …”

  The cursor flashed for a few moments, then came to life with more electronic letters.

  “Daniel Webster Smith worked for the Dept. for 8 years, until June of last year. Job title was ‘Instructor, Dept. of Corrections.’ GA.”

  Instructor. What did he teach the prisoners? I wondered.

  “Could you tell me what courses he taught? GA.”

  Another delay. “According to the file, law. GA.”

  Law? “Is he an attorney? GA.”

  Pause. “Says ‘Instructor.’ That’s it. GA.”

  “Does the file give a reason for his resignation? GA.”

  Another delay. “Didn’t resign. Says here, ‘Employment terminated. Conflict of interest.’ GA.”

  “Does it say anything about next of kin or who to call in emergency? GA.”

  “Nothing here. GA.”

  I thanked the sergeant and keyed off.

  Dan Smith was terminated from his job at the correctional facility for conflict of interest. What kind of conflict?

  Was this guy Boone’s brother or not? I tried to imagine the two of them side by side, but the contrast was too extreme.
Dan was tall, well built, with arms you wanted to capture in photographs and hang on your walls. Boone was short, mostly paunch, with hairy arms and ruddy red hands. Dan had a well-trimmed blondish beard, hair a little too long to work in law enforcement, and blue eyes that probably glowed in the dark. Boone had chins where a beard should have grown, a scalp like a crystal ball, and red-rimmed green eyes that looked especially appropriate at Christmas time.

  Siblings. My thoughts moved to Lacy Penzance and the sister she had been trying to locate with the newspaper ad. Risa Longo. Who was she? Shouldn’t she be notified of her sister’s death, even if she didn’t know she had a sister? And where was she?

  I set the receiver in the TTY handset again and placed a call to Sheriff Mercer, who also had a TTY.

  After a few moments, “C.W.? GA.” appeared on my screen. He must have known my ring. Either that or I’m the only deaf person who calls him.

  “Hi, Sheriff. Got a question for you. Know anybody by the name of Risa Longo? GA.”

  “LOngo. YEah. HOw do yuo know her? GA.”

  I ignored his question and his typing skill. Like father, like son. “What can you tell me about her? GA.”

  “I’m not so surre I shoudl.” There was a pause. I waited it out. “All I can say is, taht’s the name written on the back of a business card found in LAcy Penzance’s purse. RIsa LOngo. NOw, wanna tell me who she is?”

  I loved the way he typed—omitting letters here, throwing extras in there, hanging onto the shift key a little too long. I waited for the GA, thinking this might be another pause. Half the time the sheriff forgot to add the “Go Ahead” signal. After a few more seconds I gave up and resumed keying.

  “Not sure, Sheriff. Just heard her name mentioned recently. What kind of business card was it? Did it say anything else? GA.”

  “THat was all. IT was a busines card from MEmory Kingdom. WITY? Whos this Longo woman? GA.”

  WITY. What’s It To You. One of his favorite abbreviations. “I really don’t know yet. Memory Kingdom—the one in Flat Skunk? GA.”