by Penny Warner
“Hi, Sheriff. Doing OK. How’s Mickey? GA.”
“NOt good. HE’s really a messed up guy. GOt a new deputy coming in tomorrow to filli in until I Find a replacement. NAme’s HEather. HOw am I going to work with a deputy named HEather, for God’s sake?”
I waited for the GA. It never came. “It’ll be great for your image, Sheriff. Think about it. With a woman for a partner, maybe you won’t have to go to all those self-help groups or counselors anymore. She’ll help you get in touch with your feelings. How’s Celeste? GA.”
“IN a heap of trouble, but recovering. GA.”
“Hey, Sheriff, was French involved in any of this? GA.”
“DOesn’t look like it. HE didn’t know what was going on under his own roof. He’s got a lot of P.R. work ahead of him, though, I’ll tell you that.”
“Thanks for calling, Sheriff. GA. SK.”
“10-4. SK.”
Dan had come into the living area while I was on the phone. He was lying on the couch playing with the remote control.
“That’s another thing,” I said, sitting next to him.
“What is?” Dan asked.
“The typing. People have different ways of communicating on the TTY. Most Deaf people type in all caps, use abbreviations, and not much punctuation. But hearing people are used to typing more formally. The sheriff always holds his shift key down too long so that more than one letter is capitalized.”
“So?”
“Mickey never used capitals or punctuation. It was his style. When I got that threatening message on the TTY, I had a feeling it was from him. I always wondered how he knew I’d been up to Whiskey Slide to see Risa Longo. When I called the sheriff’s office from the pay phone using the TTY, I thought I was talking with the sheriff. But it was the deputy I was spilling my guts to about someone being in my house.”
“Typewriting analysis, eh? Something like handwriting analysis in the computer age? Pretty clever. Hey, what about the five-thousand dollars waiting for you at the attorney’s office?”
“I don’t know. It’s not really mine.”
“The sheriff thinks otherwise. He said you not only found the woman Lacy was looking for, but you found out who killed Lacy.”
We were quiet for a few moments, each contemplating the remnants of the week’s excitement. I placed a hand on his knee and said, “Sorry about Boone.”
Dan nodded. “I wish I’d known him better. I was looking forward to getting reacquainted. He didn’t have an easy life.”
“You told the sheriff?”
“Yeah. He asked where I wanted to body sent.”
“Not Memory Kingdom, I assume.”
“Neptune Society. No funeral. I think I’ll just scatter his ashes over the Mother Lode hills.”
I gave Dan’s knee a pat and removed my hand. I still wasn’t much good with words of sympathy.
Dan punched the remote around a few stations and landed on a screen featuring a woman in a police uniform. “Looks like there’s a good mystery on right now. Just started. One of those Jane Tennison stories. The female chief inspector?”
I took the remote from his hand and settled back on the couch. “I’ve had enough mystery for a while, thank you. How about something predictable?” I punched a couple of buttons and up popped a sitcom about a pair of newlyweds trying to figure out their relationship.
Dan leaned back, took the remote, and punched the button again. He found an ice hockey game on the next channel. “Sports?”
My turn. “MTV?”
“What do you get from MTV?” he asked, cautiously surprised.
“Fashion tips. Where to pierce my next body part. What tattoos look good with what outfits. Hairstyles, makeup, everything you need to know to be hip.”
He punched the button. An old black-and-white western. We wrestled over the remote until the wrestling turned to more playful physical contact. Dan punched the “off” button—left-handed, under the leg. Impressive.
“Teach me the sign for ‘mystery,’ ” he said, sitting up, but not removing his arms which had encircled me.
“There are several ways you can sign it. I like this one.”
I moved my right fist, thumb up, under my left facedown palm. He pulled his arms away and imitated me, awkwardly at first, then more smoothly the second time.
“Good. Anything else?” I asked.
“Naw. I don’t need any more signs. I can read your body language.”
“Oh, really? What am I saying?”
As if we both didn’t know.
About the Author
Penny Warner teaches child development and special education at Diablo Valley and Chabot College, and teaches creative writing at Cal-State University, Hayward and U.C. Berkeley Extension. She lives in Danville, California, with her husband Tom, where together they write and produce mystery events for libraries, corporations, and other organizations across the country.