Dead Body Language

by Penny Warner

  Lacy’s attorney, Croaky Wheeler, sat alone in a window booth reading the Mother Lode Monitor and dining on what looked like a meat loaf sandwich. I ignored him, not ready to deal with the five-thousand-dollar check waiting for me in his office. The rest of the booths were filled, so I took a seat at the counter and ordered a glass of orange juice from Jilda.

  “I guess you heard about that guy at the Mark Twain, huh, Connor? Whoa! Unbelievable!” She set down my juice, then leaned her elbows on the counter in front of me. “God, it’s like there’s some kind of serial killer loose around here or something. I’m getting totally paranoid.”

  “It’s pretty scary. Did you happen to know the guy? James Russell?” I tried to sound casual.

  “No way. But I heard he was married to a whole bunch of women. Must of been some kinda major stud.”

  “So you weren’t one of his wives, huh?” I teased.

  She laughed. “Naw, I’m a one-man woman. French is my honey.” She glanced over at him but he was too engrossed in making a sale to notice.

  “Well, I hope you were locked up safe in your room with the windows closed and the lights on last night.”

  “I was with Frenchy, thank God, although don’t print that in your newspaper. He doesn’t want anyone to know we actually sleep together. He’s kind of old-fashioned that way, you know. Thinks people wouldn’t understand ’cause I’m so young and he’s older. Isn’t that cool?”

  Cool. I finished my juice and noticed the sheriff and deputy getting ready to leave their table. I moved over next to them.

  “Mind if I grab this table?” I asked, as the sheriff pulled a couple of dollars from his pocket for a tip.

  “It’s all yours,” he said with a toothpick in his mouth. He gestured toward the red leatherette seat. “I recommend the Pepto-Bismol today.”

  “Thanks. Hope it goes well with calamine lotion.” I set the bottle on the table and gave my arm a scratch. “At least the colors match. Any news on that guy they found last night?”

  The sheriff pulled the toothpick out of his mouth, which helped my comprehension a great deal.

  “Yep.”

  I grinned. “Well, what? Tell me!”

  The sheriff looked at Mickey, then back at me and made a zip-the-lip gesture.

  “Come on, Sheriff! Don’t hold out on me! The police and the press have to work together on these things. I want to do a serious story on this.” I hoped I wasn’t whining.

  “You’ll find out soon enough. Soon as the evidence comes back from the lab. Then everything will be P.I.”

  “Public information,” Mickey explained.

  “I suspect I’ll be making an arrest sometime soon,” the sheriff continued. “Yep. But I can’t say anything more yet. If my suspicions are correct, everyone is in for a big surprise. Especially you, Connor Westphal. By the way, I don’t suppose you’re responsible for all this, just to build up circulation in that newspaper of yours, huh?”

  “My paper hasn’t even come out yet! Listen, Sheriff, I—”

  Just then Dan entered the café. Both the sheriff and the deputy looked over at him, then at each other. While the sheriff paid the bill, Mickey mouthed the words, “See you tonight, Connor, and be careful,” then followed Sheriff Mercer out the door.

  “Hey,” Dan said as he slid into the booth. “What was that all about? They looked like they’d just seen the ghost of Elvis or something.”

  “I don’t know. Sheriff says he’s close to making an arrest in the death of James Russell, or whoever he is. But he won’t say who or what he’s got. He’s being very mysterious. Why does everyone love the drama of this so much?”

  Dan and I ordered Hangtown Fry, the oysters-egg-and-bacon dish new to Dan’s palate, and relatively new to mine. As soon as we finished, we headed outside into the bright sunny afternoon, stuffed and satisfied.

  “I need to walk,” I said. “Wanna come?”

  We chatted about our latest cache of information as we strolled toward the end of Main Street to the cemetery. Dan followed me up Pioneer Hill and we located Lacy’s freshly filled grave. Dan started to sit down when I grabbed his arm.

  “Poison oak. Right there. Be careful.”

  He stood back up.

  “We can sit on those benches over there.” I pointed to a cement seat about fifty feet away. Dan nodded and we walked slowly over. The cemetery offered a kind of relaxed ambiance in the daytime; it didn’t seem to encourage hurry.

  “Well, it looks as if everyone—and no one—has a reason to kill Lacy and James Russell,” I said. “The folks around here sure have their little secrets, and they’re working hard to protect them. Did you tell the sheriff about Boone?”

  Dan nodded. “He already knew. Guess the sheriff from Rio Vista notified him after we left. He asked me a few questions. Said they’re calling it accidental over there, but he seemed to think I might know more than I do.”

  “Really?” I said, hoping he’d continue. While waiting, I thought about the conversations I’d had with Celeste, Wolf, and Jilda. Dan chewed on a blade of grass.

  “It sure looks as if someone from the mortuary is involved, what with the trocar being used, the missing jewelry, Sluice falling into the grave. But …”

  “But what?” Dan asked.

  “What about Boone? How does he fit into all this?”

  He shook his head, then held the grass blade between his thumbs and held it up to his mouth. His cheeks puffed up.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “Making a—” He looked at me, then dropped the blade of grass to the ground. “Nothing.”

  I didn’t pursue it. “Boone must have discovered something important enough to be silenced. That’s assuming he didn’t drown on his own. Maybe he figured out the bigamy scam. Or maybe he knew about the jewelry exchanges.”

  We tried to hash it out for another half hour or so but the loose ends only became more entangled as the afternoon wore on. We walked back to the hotel building and entered our respective offices to do our respective chores. Dan had a brother’s mysterious death to deal with. I still had a newspaper to publish—tomorrow, by God. I pushed the newspaper envelope the rest of the afternoon, promising no interruptions until all the copy was ready to go to print.

  At five o’clock I got a call on the TTY.

  “connor it’s mickey we sort of had a date tonight do you remember for dinner are you still free GA.”

  Oh, my God, I had completely forgotten. I stared at the red letters trying to think up a plausible excuse. I just didn’t feel like schmoozing tonight.

  “Mickey! Hi. Sorry. I DID forget! It’s been one of those days!! Will you ever forgive me? Could I have a raincheck? GA.”

  “no problem this case is getting to be very time consuming the sheriff is close to an arrest and i should hang around until things break GA.”

  “Great. Thanks for understanding. Don’t suppose you know who he’s going to arrest? GA.”

  “i really can’t say but can tell you this the hair and clothing threads we found at the mark twain were celestes! we also found some of lacys stolen jewelry there but the fingerprint belongs to someone else can’t say who but connor you should be careful GA”

  I thought for a moment, then typed, “Thanks, Mickey. I will. Let me know what happens, will you? Can you call me at home later? I’ll be working there most of the night. GA.”

  “sure enough ill check on you see ya later GA.”

  “Bye. GA. SK.”

  “i always forget that SK part GA. SK.”

  I hung up the phone.

  I rode my bike home and cautiously entered my diner. Within seconds I was greeted by my faithful dog, Casper, who had a reassuring effect on my stress levels. I served her up a big bowl of doggy beef Stroganoff. I was glad to have a dog, and not just for the company. With all that was going on around town, she made me feel a whole lot safer.

  I helped myself to the refrigerator leftovers—a bowl of rice, a couple of slices of cantaloup
e, some dill-rye toast, and a chicken leg—and washed it all down with a light beer.

  I was just about to go to bed when Casper started barking. I couldn’t hear her but I saw her head snap several times and the snarled expression from her mouth was unmistakable.

  “What is it, girl?” I asked, suddenly alert. The locks had been changed—but then locks hadn’t stopped an intruder the other day.

  The hair suddenly prickled on the back of my neck. I turned to recheck the front door when the lights throughout the diner went out.

  I froze, tingling with sweat, not moving, not breathing. I couldn’t see Casper in the darkness but I could feel the whisk of her tail as she backed up beside me. I reached down to touch her and felt her head still snapping wildly.

  And then I didn’t feel her any more.

  I had to stop myself from calling “Casper!” I didn’t want to give my location away in the dark if someone was there. I felt a bead of sweat trickle down my chest.

  I had to move. If there was someone, they probably already knew where I was. Stifling a panic, I tried to grope my way to the front door. After two steps I tripped over an end table. It wasn’t easy curbing the urge to yell “Fuck!”

  Growing more frantic, I stumbled on in the direction of the door. Something moved next to me—I could feel the air swish by. Casper? I reached down to feel for her. Nothing.

  Was someone there? Was someone—

  My answer came as a jolting grab from behind.

  I took in a quick breath—mint?—and tried to duck. Too late.

  A cloth with something strong-smelling, like ammonia, covered my face. I felt as if I couldn’t breathe. My lungs filled in a painful gasp as I thrashed and swung my arms and legs at the assailant behind me. My throat burned.

  I grabbed at the stinging cloth, kicked—mostly at thin air—and tried to twist away. Cold, clammy hands held me tight at my head with a grip on my hair, holding the cloth against my face, suffocating me with the pungent odor.

  Suddenly I was very, very dizzy.

  I woke in darkness. Lying on my back, I couldn’t make out anything but blackness. I could feel my own breath come back at me, but felt little else, except the raw burn in my throat and lungs, and a throbbing pain in my right leg. I tried to lift my head, but it ached so badly I lay back down, the effort and pain too great. I tried to lift my arms; they were leaden; they wouldn’t move.

  Oh, God, I was paralyzed!

  I wiggled my fingers and toes. I bent my elbows slightly, and shrugged my shoulders. I moved my legs back and forth along a smooth velvety surface. No, not paralyzed. At least, not completely.

  What then? I spread my fingers and felt the soft, velvety fabric once again. I followed the curve of the material slowly as it moved around to cover me. Completely.

  Oh, my God. A casket.

  I tried to sit up and bumped my head.

  Some people might have screamed. That was not my first thought. Making a loud noise simply did not occur to a person like me, used to soundlessness. My first thought was, I’m going to suffocate in here—and suddenly I found I couldn’t breathe.

  Gasping for air, I tried to lift my arms and legs but they were immobilized between puffy pillows of softness. Feeling claustrophobic, I turned my head face up and was nearly smothered. With sweat dripping off my neck in rivulets, I turned my head sideways again. The back of my neck tickled and itched.

  I tried kicking the top of my prison with both feet, but my legs didn’t have much power or leverage with only inches of space in which to maneuver. I struck weakly a few more times for the hell of it.

  I was still having trouble breathing, beyond the burning sensation.

  I remembered Celeste saying something about the coffins being airtight, to keep the bugs out. Some kind of rubber gasket. It felt as if a weight were pressing on my chest. How long had I been here?

  I wiggled my fingers on either side of the velvety smoothness, hoping to find some kind of inner latch. Ha! What was I thinking? A safety catch for those occasional premature burials?

  Finally it occurred to me to scream. I’d seen it in the movies. It usually brought help. It was worth a try.

  I screamed. At least it felt like I did. I screamed and kicked and pounded like hell, hoping someone might hear me. I screamed and kicked and pounded until I was hoarse, sore, and physically defeated.

  Fuck, I thought. I’ve got to get out of here.

  What were my chances of spending hours in this thing, undetected? I could suffocate in this airtight container in a matter of hours. Or maybe minutes. What was it my science teacher had said about the amount of air per cubic foot? I think I missed that question on the test.

  I began to think about everything in life I still wanted to do: Make a proper go of the newspaper. Fix up the diner and maybe open it on weekends for cappuccino and croissants. Grow my hair long. Lose five pounds. Okay, ten pounds. See the home of my ancestors in Cornwall, England. Meet someone …

  I thought about my old boyfriend. Suddenly I missed the bastard. He was better than nothing, wasn’t he? I thought about Jilda and French. Celeste and her bigamist husband. I thought about Mickey. And Jeremiah. I thought about Dan.

  Goddammit! I had to come up with something or I’d really lose it.

  I took a deep breath, hoping there was still enough left to last me a while. All right, assuming I’m in the mortuary, surely someone—the night watchman—would be around. I had to assume eventually he would hear me if I screamed. What choice did I have?

  I screamed and kicked and pounded again, for what seemed an interminably long time. I gasped in air as it grew warmer and stuffier and more difficult to breathe in the man-made womb. Tomb.

  I screamed “Fuck!” until my throat felt even rougher, and dry and scratchy. I could feel droplets of sweat sliding down the sides of my face and pooling at the back of my neck. My back was drenched. What little air there was was stifling.

  I kicked again, more angry than anything else. Tears filled my eyes at the hopeless feeling that was beginning to overtake me.

  And then I had an idea. My first priority was an air hole. Not only would I be able to stay alive, but maybe someone would hear me if I could get the sound out. Could I make enough noise to raise the dead, so to speak?

  Frustratingly slowly I worked the fingers of my right hand up my body, to my chest, up my neck, and around the side of my left shoulder like a contortionist, each movement increasingly painful as I maneuvered my arm into positions it did not naturally go. Near the top of the casket, just above my head, I felt the cool rectangle of metal I had been searching for.

  I’d remembered from the tour that each casket had a bronze plaque with a name engraved on it, somehow secured to the puffy lining. Glue?

  I grasped the metal name tag with my stubby fingernails and tugged awkwardly. After several minutes of clawing, the thing ripped away from the cushiony fabric. With the plaque in hand, I slowly inched my arm back down my body. The plate was small, about six inches by two inches. I hoped it would do.

  I crept the fingers of my left hand along one side of the coffin, where I supposed the top and bottom met. After a few moments of prodding, poking, and pressing, I located the rubber gasket running along the juncture. Slipping the bronze plaque into the crevice, I pushed hard, attempting to use it as a wedge to create an opening.

  The lid didn’t move. I tried again. And again. I couldn’t get any leverage. It was hopeless, and I was nearing true panic.

  I took a slow, shallow breath, thought a moment, then tried another tack. Turning the plate on the diagonal, I jammed the sharp corner into the rubber lining where the two parts of the casket came together, and started digging like a frenzied prospector at a newly discovered gold mine.

  After a few minutes that seemed hours, I could feel the rubber begin to give and tear. I was breaking through. More digging, gouging, and grinding in the interminable darkness, and the soft wood of the casket also began to chip away. How long had it taken bef
ore I’d dug the plaque into the wood about a fingernail’s worth? It wasn’t much, but it was a start. I had nothing better to do.

  I twisted and dug the corner of the plaque around until I felt more of the soft wood give. Back and forth, back and forth, I twisted the piercing corner until my fingers were raw and scraped from the friction and pressure.

  Finally I pulled the plaque out of the tiny crevice I had created. A glimmer of light winked at me.

  I tried to crook my neck toward the air hole but didn’t have much room to move. Still, I sucked in a few difficult breaths, then I let out a scream that I hoped was ear-piercingly loud. I screamed until I thought I might never be able to speak again. When I finally stopped screaming to take a breath, I felt the casket vibrate.

  Someone had heard me! I felt the casket moving. Someone was opening it!

  My elation was dampened with a sobering thought: Who was on the other side?

  I broke out in another sweat, lying motionless as I waited for the lid to lift. After a few moments of unbearable stillness, I felt a rush of cool air sweep over me as the lid was lifted off.

  I gulped down several deep breaths, then pushed myself up, dizzy and light-headed, and took in a few more deep breaths until my breathing became more regular. The lights although dim, hurt my eyes and it took a few moments to adjust.

  Abruptly I jerked around to face whoever had come to my rescue.

  Sluice Jackson stood there staring at me, wide-eyed, pale, and frozen with fear, as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Sluice! Thank God! I … I was trapped in there. Someone … if you hadn’t …”

  I knew I was rambling. Sluice was looking more and more confused. He backed away from me as I spoke. The purple bruises on his face and hands were evidence of his recent fall into the open grave. I climbed unsteadily out of the coffin, and was surprised to see that the hand holding the bronze plate was bloody. There were droplets of crimson on the pale blue fabric where I had been digging.