Dead Body Language

by Penny Warner

“How about Chad Anderson?”

  He paused.

  I blinked.

  “Larry Longo?”

  I frowned. “Risa Longo’s husband?”

  “And Del Morris.”

  I gasped. “Oh, my God!”

  “And Jeff Knight. His wife, Gail, over in Volcano, has just been notified of his death.”

  At that point, I sat down.

  Dan and I drove to the tiny former mining camp called Volcano in silence for a few minutes, then Dan hit the steering wheel hard with his hand. “Goddamn it!”

  “What? Flat tire? What’s wrong?”

  “Stupid!”

  “Who? Me?”

  “No! Me! Didn’t what’s-his-name say the guy was from southern California somewhere? An actor?”

  I bit the inside of my cheek for a moment. “Yeah. He said the guy was married to Risa Longo in Whiskey Slide and Arden Morris in Rio Vista. And now he’s got another wife in Volcano named Gail Knight.”

  “Sounds like Hollywood to me.” Dan ran his fingers through his hair.

  “So you think maybe he ‘acted’ like he loved these women, married them, and what—took their money? It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s done something like this.”

  “Didn’t your deputy say the guy had four other ID’s and an address book full of women’s names and addresses?”

  “Including Lacy Penzance. How does someone get so many fake ID’s? Is it really that easy?” I thought for a moment then added, “And he’s not my deputy.”

  Dan nodded. “Extremely easy. All you have to do is to go to another state, check out the microfilm at the library for an obituary of a child who was born about the same time you were, and died before the age of two. Use the name of the dead infant to write to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and request a copy of the birth certificate. Then use that to get a driver’s license and social security number, saying you’ve been out of the country for several years and haven’t applied for one before. That’s it.”

  “You know a lot about this stuff.” I got a tickle at the back of my neck when I thought about Dan’s own identification. I pushed the thought away and continued. “So, he must have been the mystery man Lacy’d been seeing. She figured out the guy was a bigamist and she started searching for his other wives to confirm her suspicions. She managed to find Risa Longo. Then she was about to meet Arden Morris when she was killed.”

  “By him?”

  I didn’t know. But he was dead now, too. So what did that mean? The parts just weren’t coming together like they did on Murder, She Wrote.

  “That business ledger Mickey said they found in the guy’s room. If it was full of incriminating information, why didn’t the killer take it with him … or her?” Dan asked.

  “You think it could be a her? An ex-wife who found out about his past, then killed him? And killed Lacy first to get her out of the way?”

  “Could be,” Dan said. “Maybe it was Risa or Arden who killed Lacy, then she got rid of the two-timer for fooling around on her.”

  “If that’s the case, whoever did it might be after the other women on the ledger list. The sheriff said one of the pages had been torn out.”

  “The possibilities are endless,” Dan said.

  I thought a minute. “The weapons aren’t your everyday murder weapons.

  Dan frowned, turned off the radio, and gripped the wheel.

  “What were you listening to?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t paying attention. Uh—” he seemed to be trying to recall something. “I think it was Pearl Jam.”

  Music is so invisible to me. I try to make shapes and colors out of it, but it’s not easy. It’s a puzzle, elusive, and yet I know it’s there because other people react to it. They dance. They sing. Their moods change all of a sudden. To me, the answer to this puzzle was kind of like music. I knew it was there, but I just couldn’t hear it. Because I can’t hear things, I try to figure out solutions in other ways. I try to see it, taste it, smell it, touch it. And finally, I’m able, in my own way, to hear it.

  “Look, Dan, it’s possible that whoever killed Lacy with that trocar killed what’s-his-name at the bed-and-breakfast with the mining pick. Someone connected to the mortuary? Someone who had a connection to Lacy Penzance and the dead man, and wanted both of them dead.”

  We made good time to Volcano, arriving at nearly eight-thirty P.M. but the trip turned out to be a waste of time. Gail Knight wasn’t seeing anyone, which was made very plain to us by a burly man who called himself her brother. I tried what I thought were a couple of unusually creative and believable approaches, but he wasn’t buying.

  “She isn’t seeing anyone,” the big guy said firmly.

  “But I have important information about—”

  “I said, she isn’t seeing anyone. Are you deaf, lady?”

  I said, as a matter of fact I was, at which point he closed the door in my face. I pitied the poor Girl Scouts who tried to sell cookies to this man. Dan and I headed home.

  We pulled up to the hotel building once again and headed up the stairs. Although it was late, I desperately needed to catch up on some work. The deadline loomed ahead relentlessly. Dan wanted to sort things out about Boone, in Boone’s surroundings, so we said good night and went our separate ways. I unlocked the office door and stepped into the chaos I’d left behind.

  After an hour of trying to think straight but unable to keep my mind on work, I called it a night, exhausted from the stressful day. Too many things had happened and I doubted whether I could even get to sleep, but it was worth a try. I switched out the light, secured the door, and walked past Boone’s office. The light was still on.

  I knocked. I opened the door, not waiting for an invitation. I wouldn’t hear it anyway.

  Dan was sitting in Boone’s chair, hunched over, his forearms resting on his knees. He looked tired and worn.

  “You okay?” I asked. He nodded without looking up. I moved in closer and could see his eyes were rimmed with tears. He sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. I put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a rub. I’m not good at this comforting stuff. I’ve always kept my distance from people, both physically and emotionally. It was part of the problem I’d had with my ex-boyfriend.

  Dan reached up and placed his hand over mine. I massaged his shoulder, and after a few moments, pulled him up and led him to Boone’s couch. Unfolding the sofa bed, I yanked open the covers and guided him onto the bumpy mattress. Before I could move away, he pulled me down next to him and I lay there, holding his head on my breast, until we both fell asleep.

  I was going to have to stop sleeping on couches.

  My arm had fallen asleep during the night sometime after the rest of me, and it felt as if a colony of bees had made their home inside. The kink in my neck was back, the poison oak patch had conquered new territory, and both knees were accented with crusty scabs the color of a bad red wine.

  And I had pillow hair.

  Dan was gone. In his place on the lumpy couch, next to his curled-up cat, was a note that read, “How about lunch at the Nugget around noon? Got a few things to take care of this morning. Dan. P.S. You snore.”

  I do not snore. It was probably his cat.

  I rolled out of the couch bed, fluffed my flat hair, rubbed my numb arm, massaged my stiff neck, scratched all around my poison oak, and ignored my ugly knees.

  A vision of the dead mystery man popped into my head. Things certainly could be worse.

  After a quick stop at home to feed Casper and take a shower, change into fresh jeans and a Dr. Seuss T-shirt, I made a brief search for the calamine lotion. Not finding the bottle, I made a mental note to pick up a refill, then taped new bandages over my knees. Patched together temporarily, I rode my bike to the Mark Twain Slept Here Inn.

  Looking a little less anxious than the previous day, Beau was sitting on the verandah with his mocha and reading my competition.

  “Any dirt?” I called up as I parked the bike
off to the side of the porch.

  “In this rag? Are you kidding? Just another tabloid full of lies. Of course, that’s why I read it. But it could use a few more stories about Sean Connery and not so many about Leviathan Smiley’s latest grandchild. By the way, loved your mystery puzzle last week.”

  “Did you solve it?” I plopped down in a wicker chair next to him and eyed his drink.

  “I would have, if you hadn’t made the clues so obscure. How was I supposed to know it would take two bottles of rat poison to kill the IRS agent. I thought it was at least twice that. Did you read the story on ‘The Bed-and-Breakfast Murder’?” He held up the front-page headline. It read: “Dead-and-Breakfast,” with a by-line by Mary Meek. “They just had to call it that, didn’t they. Oh, well. Business is booming. My phone hasn’t stopped ringing. Everyone wants a crime scene with their blueberry scones and heirloom comforters, I guess. Want a mocha?”

  “I would die for one of your mochas, pardon the expression. With cinnamon. And whipping cream. And chocolate sprinkles. In one of those oversized mugs with—”

  “One Sanka, black, coming up.”

  Beau returned moments later with my coffee-and-chocolate drink, just the way I like it. The break gave me a chance to think about the previous night’s tragedy.

  “Get any sleep last night?” I asked, when Beau returned.

  “Not a wink. Of course, I don’t think the dead man got much sleep while he was here either, so I shouldn’t complain. At least I woke up this morning. Can’t say the same for him.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, after licking the mocha mustache from my upper lip.

  “He’s dead.”

  “I know that! I mean, what do you mean about not getting much sleep?”

  Beau pursed his lips. “Well, I’m not one to gossip,” he said, then flushed when I rolled my eyes. “But our mystery man had a visitor practically every night he was here. And the two of them weren’t exactly playing Yahtzee in there.”

  “Really! Who was it? Lacy?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t spy on my guests, contrary to what you might suspect. But every morning when I cleaned the room I’d find evidence of a midnight guest.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, wine glasses and empty bottles. Cosmetic jars. All that women’s stuff. You know.”

  I knew women’s stuff.

  “And that bottle of hair coloring the sheriff found. It wasn’t a common brand, like Clairol. It was called ‘Persistence’ or ‘Permanence,’ or something like that. I think the shade was Cappuccino. Personally I prefer Cinnamon on mine. It’s a little more subtle.”

  So the bigamist had a visitor who colored her hair. Lacy? I asked Beau if he’d saved any of the castaways but he hadn’t. The sheriff had confiscated the hair-coloring bottle, and the rest of the discards were long gone. For another half hour we discussed all the possibilities of who the man might have entertained, but came up with nothing that resembled a solution. Beau hadn’t seen a strange car, hadn’t glimpsed a telltale silhouette on the window shade, hadn’t found anything other than the “women’s stuff.”

  I thanked Beau for the mocha and rode my bike to the office. Miah was keying in the obituary for yesterday’s murder victim.

  “It’s like trying to make a mountain out of a molehill,” Miah said. “We’ve got nothing on this guy.” He leaned aside to let me read the bit of copy. An anthill was more like it.

  “I’ve got an idea. Let’s make a couple of phone calls.”

  Miah dialed the first phone number I gave him. I read his lips as he asked the questions I had written out, and watched him jot down the responses. He called the next number, and the next, using his obituary format to glean the information we needed.

  “Great job!” I gave him two vigorous thumbs up. “Listen, I’ve got to go see someone. Can you hold things together for me while I’m out? I’ve got Barbara Libbey coming in with that report on the frog festival ticket sales in about an hour, and three more fillers to add. Will you cover those for me? I’ll owe you.”

  “You always owe me,” Miah said, sweeping his blond hair back. Nipple ring or no nipple ring, he was still the cutest young guy in Flat Skunk. I was grateful for his help. I hoped he was grateful for the paycheck.

  My next stop was the mortuary. I hoped for another little chat with French and Celeste, but French wasn’t in. I knocked on Celeste’s door. She greeted me courteously but didn’t seem to be her usual cheery self. Small puffy pillows framed her eyes. Her usually perfect hair was flat and droopy. She wore an extra layer of makeup, as if to mask her emotions rather than cover up her blemishes. She kept her hands fisted at her sides.

  With slumped shoulders she led me into her office, promising attention for the next few minutes, until the expected prospective buyer arrived—a man who apparently knew the value of purchasing “pre-need.”

  “Sorry about all the questions the other day,” I said. “I was just trying to get some information for the newspaper. This Lacy Penzance thing is a big story and I’d like to write the best possible report I can. I guess I pushed a little too far.”

  She gave a half-smile. The fists remained clenched. I went on.

  “Pre-need, huh? It sure is popular. I guess that’s what I should do for my aunt.”

  Celeste spoke with little animation or enthusiasm, almost as if by rote. “Most people don’t want to leave the financial burden to their bereaved loved ones. How is your aunt?” Although facing me, she didn’t look me in the eye.

  “Fine, actually,” I said quickly. “Couldn’t be better.”

  Celeste appeared unimpressed. She looked past me and I wondered if someone had appeared at the door behind me. A quick turnaround revealed no one.

  “Celeste, I was wondering. Are you handling the burial of the man who died last night?”

  Celeste’s lips tightened slightly. She looked at her watch, then rifled through some papers on her desk. “What man?”

  “The man who was killed at the bed-and-breakfast last night. You did hear the news?”

  She interrupted with a wave of her hand. “Oh—yeah. Uh, no, I don’t think Memory Kingdom is going to be involved with the … resolution of the body. At least, I haven’t heard anything yet. I’m sure he’s—it’s—still over at the coroner’s office.”

  “You didn’t happen to know him, did you, Celeste?”

  Celeste stopped fiddling with the papers, pressed her hands on the desk, and met my eyes. “For God’s sakes, Connor! Not this again. What is with you? No, I didn’t know him! Why would you even think that?”

  Definitely hit a nerve.

  “Sorry. Guess I figured you knew everyone who comes to pass in this town, you being in the mortuary business and all. Pretty narrow-minded of me, huh?”

  She just glared. I went on. “People are always thinking the same thing about me. Do I know this deaf person or that deaf person. They think we’re all one big happy family, just because we’re deaf.” I laughed, then turned it into a cough. This was getting me nowhere.

  I ran my fingers through my hair. “God, these murders are making me old before my time. I think I’m getting a few new gray hairs from all this stress.”

  She didn’t take the hint, just narrowed her eyes as if trying to figure out what the hell I was talking about. I floundered on.

  “That color you’re using. It’s really natural looking. I tried a new color a while back but it didn’t do anything except turn my hair an unflattering shade of green. I guess you do your own coloring, being a former beautician and all.”

  “Stylist. We don’t use ‘beautician’ anymore.” Celeste absentmindedly pushed at her flat hair, picking strands from the bottom and twirling them in her manicured fingers.

  “What color is it?”

  She spoke listlessly. “I mix them. I could do yours for you sometime, if you want.”

  “That’d be great. Where do I buy the colors you use?”

  “I can get them for you at the beauty
supply shop. They give me a discount.”

  Still nowhere. I needed a name. Another tack.

  “Is it Clairol? My mother used Clairol.”

  She shook her flat but shiny mane. “No, that’s for housewives who prefer to do it themselves when they really shouldn’t. I use professional coloring.”

  “What brand?”

  Celeste looked at me, paused, frowned, then said, “I don’t remember. I use all different kinds.”

  Right. “Beau says he uses a color called Cappuccino, I think. No, wait—Cinnamon. He—”

  Celeste paled and her eyes flared open. I thought she was going to speak but she said nothing.

  “Celeste, is anything wrong? You don’t look very well.”

  She blinked and sat up straight. “No. Everything’s fine. Just tired, I guess. Didn’t get much sleep last night. I think I’m overdoing it.”

  Join the club. She got up to show me out. I didn’t move but turned around in my chair and watched her walk toward the door. “Celeste, I have one more quick question.”

  “I do have this appointment, Connor. If you don’t mind, could we make it some other time?”

  “Do you know Risa Longo?”

  Celeste blinked and started to shake her head. “I—”

  “Arden Morris?”

  Celeste closed her mouth and looked at me.

  “Gail Knight?”

  Celeste closed the door, turned around, and crossed her arms in front of her.

  “No, I’ve never heard of them. What do you want, Connor?”

  I was certain there was a connection, but I had to create the details. Being deaf, you learn how to bluff well, especially when you don’t want to give away how little you sometimes understand.

  “They all knew you … They met you when their first husbands died … They were all counseled by you in their time of grief … And they all thought you were a saint.” I peeled out my fingers one at a time for each point. The phone calls Miah had made for me were paying off.

  Celeste didn’t smile at the compliment of being compared to a saint. “So? A lot of people come and go around here. I have many clients. Now, I really have to—”

  “Celeste, I think you were at the bed-and-breakfast last night, with the man known occasionally as James Russell. There was a bottle of hair color found at the scene. I’ll bet it was yours.”