Dead Body Language

by Penny Warner

  “No.”

  I mentally retraced my steps. “I had it with me when I came back to the office. I remember stuffing it in my bag when I left the café. I brought it back here … and started to work on it … then Lacy came in …”

  I had been talking to myself out loud. It surprised me when Dan responded, “Lacy took it?”

  I didn’t answer but bent over the trash can and retrieved a blood-soaked paper from the bottom. It wasn’t the mystery napkin. But the pieces were slowly coming together. I had been wrong, very wrong, in my hunch about who murdered Lacy Penzance.

  “Dan, I’ve got some work to do. Do you mind if we talk later?”

  Dan picked up on the chill in the room and stood. He looked puzzled or maybe a little hurt, but said only, “All right. See you later, then.”

  I didn’t like being rude, but I had some sorting out to do before I could pull off my new plan. I spent the whole day working on it, giving Miah the duty of taking phone calls from curious readers wanting to know more about the missing part of the article or the rest of the frog recipe that had been cut off. I didn’t mention my plan to him either.

  At around four-thirty P.M. the phone light lit up once again and blinked. This time Miah heard the white noise of the TTY and set the receiver on the intake cradle.

  “TTY,” he signed. I stopped what I was doing and waited for the log-on, but no name appeared. I watched the message move across the screen. It read simply:

  “deadline”

  The word flickered off as the line went dead.

  I set down the receiver and chewed the inside of my cheek. My heart was racing as I pondered the message that had just flickered to darkness on my TTY screen. What was it supposed to mean? And who was the messenger?

  A few more pieces fell into place.

  I lifted the phone to dial the sheriff, then abruptly hung up.

  “Miah, you listen to music. Do you ever make your own tapes?”

  “All the time. Why?” he signed.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “What?”

  “Make a tape for me?”

  He looked puzzled. “Yeah, but why?”

  In lieu of an answer I gave him instructions for what I wanted, then headed for the office next door.

  “Sheriff? It’s Connor. GA,” I typed when I returned a few moments later.

  “HEy Connor. WHat’s up?”

  I waited for the GA, then gave up.

  “Did you get my message about the mortuary? GA.”

  “YEah, Connor. What’s going on? WHat happened?”

  “I don’t know. Someone …” I paused. It seemed a little incredible retelling it. “Someone was in my house again. They knocked me out and locked me in a casket. At the mortuary. And just now I had a phone call. Someone’s …” I thought for a moment, wondering how all this was coming across on the TTY. “… threatening me. I think they want me to butt out of the Lacy Penzance business. GA.”

  “A casket? You serious? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I am! Now! GA.”

  “Maybe buting out is a graet idea, COnnor. YOu say were run off the road. YOur house was broken into—twice. NOw you say yuo were shut up in a casket and youre getting threatening phone calls. IM gettting complaints about you from the folks over at MEmory Kingdom, not to mention the penzance maid who says someone stopped by posing as an insurance agent—and it sounded a lot like you. I dont know what to do with you CONnnor? That newspaper story you wrote. Whta’s that crap aabout? GA.”

  “Nothing, Sheriff. A mistake. I really don’t know anything. Not yet anyway. GA.”

  “YOu must be involved somehow CW. And you could very well be in serious danger if you dont watch it. I CAn only doo so much you know.”

  “OK, Sheriff. Is Mickey there by any chance? I’m supposed to meet with him tonight. GA.”

  “HE tried to call you but yuor line was busy. SAid he was going to stop by your office on his way to the mortuary.”

  “Is he checking out that missing jewelry? GA.” “CoOnnor!”

  “Sheriff, about that fingerprint on the paper you found at the inn. Whose was it? GA.”

  “SOrry Connor but I can’t give you that information yet. Not until we’re ready to make an arrest GA.”

  “Will you let me know as soon as you can? GA. SK.”

  “WAtch yourself, COnnor. I mean it. We got a killer running around, and it looks like he’s got your number. You got somewhere to sleep for the next few days, cause Id recommend it. GA. SK.”

  I lied and said I did, then hung up the phone and twirled around in my chair for a few moments until I made myself dizzy. I turned slowly to look out the window. Mickey was walking up the street toward my building, applying Chapstick to his lips.

  I watched him until he reached the hotel and turned the corner toward the stairwell. Searching through a file folder, I found the journal I’d lifted from Lacy’s stash and opened it on my desk.

  The door light flashed. I yelled, “Come in,” and Mickey opened the door, wearing one of those embarrassed grins he couldn’t seem to shake when he was around me.

  “Hi, Connor. Is this a good—”

  He stopped and looked at the journal, his eyes widening. I closed it and rested my hand on top.

  “Is that—” He didn’t finish his sentence.

  “No, it’s one of her old ones, not the one that’s been missing.”

  Mickey gave me a suspicious look. “Connor, did you steal that from Lacy’s place?”

  “No, I just borrowed it. It’s given me an idea.”

  I explained part of my plan to the deputy. He nodded every few moments, encouraging me to go on. When I finished, he gave me a big open-mouthed grin.

  “Go for it—only don’t tell the sheriff I know anything about it if you get caught. I could get into big trouble if he finds out.”

  While Mickey waited for me downstairs, I locked up my office, and stopped first by Miah’s shop to check on his progress with my request, and then Dan’s office to see about a couple of things. I walked with Mickey across the street to the Nugget. The place was packed for the Saturday night special: meat loaf and gravy, peas, and raspberry Jell-O. We sat in a booth in the middle of the café, ordered a couple of BLT’s and slices of boysenberry pie, and I pulled out the journal.

  No one paid much attention.

  “I think you may be interested in this, Mickey,” I said a little too loudly. Heads begun to turn. “Someone dropped it by the newspaper office anonymously. I think it contains some information you might need.”

  “What is it?” Mickey said, feigning interest. He could have used a few acting lessons from Celeste, but his performance would do for our amateur production.

  “It’s Lacy Penzance’s missing journal. It tells just about everything she was involved in right before she died.”

  The room went still. I assumed the phrase, “You could hear a pin drop,” would have been appropriate.

  Mickey pretended to read a few excerpts to himself, then looked up. “Whoa, there are a lot of familiar names in this thing.” He glanced around the café at the patrons: Wolf, who sat alone; Beau, who was gossiping with Rebecca Matthews, the dispatcher; French, without Celeste; Croaky Wheeler with a client I didn’t recognize; Sluice at the counter, and Jilda behind it.

  “Even that guy who was killed at the Mark Twain is mentioned in here. Thanks, Connor. This looks like the break we’ve been waiting for!”

  I glanced around at the attention Mickey had garnered; there was a mixture of reactions. Wolf looked angrier than his usual scowl. French just seemed dumbfounded. Beau blinked a few extra times. Croaky checked out everyone else. Jilda reacted with exaggerated surprise—you could tell by the eyebrows. And Sluice gave another one of his deer-caught-in-the-headlights stares.

  Mickey slammed the journal shut, looking very official and serious. “I’m going to have to take this to the sheriff and—”

  He stopped midsentence. I didn’t know why for
a second—I thought everything was going so well. But he looked abruptly at Jilda who seemed to have called his attention. I saw the object of his interest: Jilda was holding up the receiver of the café’s telephone.

  Mickey moved over to the phone, the journal clutched tightly in his hand, and took the call.

  “Deputy Arnold,” Mickey said. In a matter of seconds his face lost its color. Tiny beads of sweat glistened on his forehead like miniature diamonds. He hung up the phone, and, without saying another word, wiped his brow with the back of his hand. He glanced up at the diner patrons who were staring at him intently and began to stammer.

  “There’s … been an emergency. I’ve got to go. Everyone—just stay put!”

  Mickey carried the journal on his way toward the door. I jumped quickly to my feet.

  “Mickey, what is it?”

  Mickey stopped and pointed a finger at me like I was a little kid. “Stay here, Connor. I’ll be right back. Do what you can to keep them all here. I’ll explain later.”

  I’d never seen him looking so distressed.

  Deputy Arnold fled the Nugget, leaving the meat-loaf gourmets with mouthfuls of half-eaten food.

  “Okay, you heard the deputy. Just stay put,” I repeated Mickey’s words to the group of onlookers with the authority vested in me.

  Then I followed right behind him out the door.

  Not wanting to upset Mickey by deliberately disobeying him—at least, not wanting him to know—I kept my distance as he headed for the sheriff’s office to get his patrol car. I backtracked to the Penzance Hotel, unlocked my bike, stepped just out of sight, and waited.

  In a few moments Mickey was driving down Main, and I was more or less behind him, pedaling like an Olympic contender. I followed him at some distance to Gold Dust Street. He turned down a pockmarked road, which was difficult to maneuver on my bike in the dimming light of sunset. We passed by tiny clapboard homes built decades earlier, unfenced and unlandscaped, with postage-stamp lawns, overgrown flower gardens, relentless weeds, and rusted cars.

  I had never been to Mickey’s place, but I figured that’s where we were headed. The cabin-sized house was located two blocks down the road, framed by an easy-care rock garden. On the front porch stood a disassembled Harley Davidson motorcycle, apparently Mickey’s hobby during his time off. It hardly fit his image, but maybe that’s why it appealed to him. I watched as he leapt out of the car without closing the door. Jamming his key in the front door lock, he entered the house, again leaving the door wide open behind him.

  The man was in a hurry.

  I moved behind a nearby shed and waited for Mickey to return. It was growing dark and getting cool. I wouldn’t be able to see him well or keep up with him if he went any great distance. And I was sure this wasn’t his final destination. Otherwise he would have closed the doors.

  What was he doing in there?

  I propped up the bike, stepped over to the front window and peeked in. No Mickey. I scanned the tiny living room. The coffee table was filled with police journals, crime books, and gun magazines. On the wall hung a variety of weapons and police paraphernalia: antique handcuffs, a billy club, a collection of bullets, and a historic gun display.

  On the mantel above the fireplace was a picture of Mickey fresh out of police academy, looking puffed and proud in his new khaki uniform. Next to his picture were framed snapshots of well-known police officers who had made names for themselves over the years: Serpico, Joseph McNamara, Daryl Gates, Napoleon Hendrix—all in uniform, and all signed “To Mickey.”

  I didn’t want to get caught—I knew I wouldn’t hear him coming—so I ducked out of the way and waited until he appeared at the door. After a few moments, panting and moving quickly, Mickey came through the door holding a key ring in one hand and the journal in the other. He quickly ran back to the car, tossing the journal onto the car seat.

  I waited until he’d driven past me, then emerged from the growing darkness and rode the few blocks back to Main Street hoping I could keep up. If he was headed out of town, I wouldn’t have a chance.

  But he wasn’t. Abruptly he turned into the driveway of Memory Kingdom Mortuary.

  The mortuary. It had begun here. I had a feeling it would end here.

  Mickey had already gone through the front doors when I arrived. Had French left the doors unlocked? Was Celeste working late? I slipped in cautiously, flashing for a moment on my recent incarceration.

  There didn’t appear to be anyone around. A couple of night-lights in the main entrance had been turned on, but the offices were dark, the blinds drawn.

  The light in Celeste’s office flickered on.

  I ducked into an alcove and waited. Nothing. I took another step forward in the dim light, hoping to peek through a gap in the blinds without being noticed, when Mickey stepped out of the room, his hand on his gun belt, ready to draw and shoot. He looked very surprised to see me.

  “For God’s sake, Connor! What are you doing here?” Mickey held the journal in one hand; his key ring was bulging in his pocket.

  “I … I was worried. You left so suddenly and looked upset. I … wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  Mickey’s eyebrows pinched. He seemed agitated, rubbing his thumb over the edge of the journal and shifting his weight from leg to leg.

  “Did something happen? Was that the sheriff on the phone at the café—”

  He turned away suddenly, and I stopped talking. He was looking at Celeste’s phone. And he didn’t appear pleased.

  “Mickey, what’s wrong?”

  He looked at me, then at the telephone again. The color seemed to drain from his face a second time.

  “Is it the phone?”

  He looked at me puzzled, then his face relaxed. “No! No, I’m just trying to think. Connor, it isn’t safe for you to be here—”

  Abruptly he turned his attention back to the phone. Again his face grew paler, and his forehead was sprinkled with diamonds of sweat.

  The light on the answering machine began to blink.

  Mickey was listening to a message.

  The message machine light changed from a red blinking dot to the number “1.”

  Mickey looked back at me, his face masked in terror. He stared at me for several seconds, as if trying to read my expression.

  He jumped, startled by something, and turned sharply toward the metal filing cabinet. His panic-stricken face looked as if it might break from the strain.

  “Mickey, what’s going on?” I demanded. The change in him was beginning to scare me.

  “Nothing, Connor. Sit down. Don’t move. There … may be a prowler in here. I’m going to check it out. Stay here, Connor. I mean it. This could be … dangerous.”

  He spoke slowly, using exaggerated lip movements, as if I were retarded, not deaf. I obeyed orders and sat down on Celeste’s guest chair. Mickey left the room, one hand on his gun, the journal still clutched in the other hand.

  There was something about the journal that bothered me. There wasn’t anything truly useful in the thing. I had made up that stuff about revealing names and gaining information. And Mickey knew that when he helped me with the scene at the Nugget.

  But that was it: He wasn’t clutching the journal I had given him. Each journal Lacy owned had been a different shade in the pink and purple hues. That one had been, what, pale pink? This one was lavender. Mickey had found the missing journal!

  When I had given him enough time to get several steps away, I moved to the metal closet Mickey had looked at with such terror, and tried the door. Had he found the journal inside Celeste’s cabinet? Locked. I jiggled the handle a few more times, thinking it might open magically if I jerked it enough. Nothing.

  I was about to take my hand off the knob when I felt something vibrate from inside. I placed my hand on the metal cabinet door. It hummed beneath my fingertips intermittently. Was it catching the vibrations of the air conditioning and heating? Trucks passing by? An airplane overhead?

  Or so
mething inside.

  I needed a key.

  I yanked open Celeste’s desk drawer, checking the obvious hiding place. Nothing inside but some business cards, a few candies, and a half-used container of lipstick. Tropical Sunset. No key.

  The key! That was it.

  I had to find Mickey.

  After a quick search of the main halls, I pushed open the door to the embalming room. Mickey stood next to a steel table, his back to me. He had set the journal down on the instrument table and was holding something else in his hand—

  I must have made a sound because he whirled around with a terrified look on his doughy face.

  “Mickey! I was getting scared and …”

  He raised his hand. The thing he was holding, long and sharp and shiny, was glinting ominously off the room’s dim lighting. He raised it higher.

  A scalpel.

  “Connor,” Mickey said, shaking his head. “For God’s sakes, I told you to stay put. You shouldn’t have followed me here, not from the café, and not from the other room.”

  He took a step forward. I took a step backward.

  “I didn’t want you involved in this, Connor. That’s why I told you to stop snooping around. Things are much more dangerous than you realize. I tried to warn you, Connor. Don’t you understand?” It was difficult to read his face in the shadowy light. Was that a look of helplessness? Desperation? Or was that fear?

  He took another step forward. I took another step back and hit the edge of the door. It swung shut.

  “I wanted to help you with your newspaper stories, especially the murders, so you could make the Eureka! the newspaper you really want it to be. See, I understand you, Connor.”

  Mickey’s face became a kaleidoscope of emotion. The look of alarm changed to compassion, to eagerness, to empathy, all within seconds. I tried to mask my own feelings of growing terror. I reached behind me, felt for the doorknob, slowly twisted it, and inched the door open.

  “You could have helped me, too, Connor. Helped me get some credit for all the work I do to make this a safer place to live. I’ve done a lot for this town, but nobody knows that. I wanted you to know, so you’d understand me.”