Louder Than Words

by Laurie Plissner

  “EXACTLY. I THINK THAT’S WHAT MADE IT SO COOL. SHE LOVED IT.”

  Liz would have been nineteen if she had lived. I wondered what she would look like, where she would have gone to college, whether she would have a boyfriend. Would we still be close, or would she have left me behind when she went away to school? So many questions that could never be asked or answered. Maybe I should put away my detective hat and leave the past in the past. But looking over at Jules, I realized there was no backing out.

  “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?” Jules was dressed in brown coveralls and a matching cap. “ARE YOU PLANNING ON CHANGING THE OIL BEFORE OR AFTER THE BIG STAKEOUT?”

  “You’re a riot. There’s a matching set for you in the back seat, smartass. This way we’ll be sure no one can spot us in the trees.” She tapped the side of her head. “Success is in the details.”

  “I THOUGHT GOD WAS IN THE DETAILS. YOU’VE WATCHED ONE TOO MANY EPISODES OF LAW & ORDER: SVU.”

  “I’m just being logical. We’re going to park down the road a ways and approach through the woods.” She had it all worked out.

  “YOU FORGOT THE CAMOUFLAGE NETTING.”

  “No, I didn’t. It’s in the trunk.”

  Her father was an avid hunter, so I shouldn’t have been surprised that Jules would be so knowledgeable and well equipped. I rolled my eyes. If she made me put shoe polish on my face, I would have to hit her.

  “If we’re going to do this, we’re going to do it right. We have to be invisible.”

  “OR AT LEAST CRAZY.”

  “I got you your chocolate doughnut. Now let me have my fun—and increase the chance of catching this guy. Leave your coffee in the car.”

  “WHY CAN’T I TAKE MY COFFEE? IT’S 4:30 IN THE MORNING. I NEED CAFFEINE.”

  “The same reason you can’t take your Hawkie Talkie—we’re trying to blend in with the woods, so no unexpected smells and no unexpected noise.” Jules handed me a pen and a small pad of paper. “If you have something to say, you’ll have to write it down.”

  “UNEXPECTED SMELLS? THAT’S RIDICULOUS. WE’RE NOT TRACKING A BEAR. AND IT’S PITCH DARK. HOW WILL YOU SEE WHAT I WRITE ON THE PAD?” She pulled out a tiny flashlight and cupped her hand around it. “NO NIGHT VISION GOGGLES?”

  “Daddy wouldn’t let me borrow them. They cost a fortune, and he was afraid we’d break them.”

  I should have known. “FINE. LET’S GO, GENERAL.”

  Huddled next to each other in the crotch of a tree, shrouded in netting, we each peered at nothing through binoculars. A squirrel scurried across a branch overhead and I flinched, almost falling from our precarious perch.

  “Careful, you’ll break your neck,” Jules whispered, grabbing me around the waist.

  I scribbled on my pad. Sorry. Just nervous. What if one of the squirrels mistakes our heads for giant acorns?

  “Relax, I think the squirrels know the difference.”

  Two hours later we folded our camouflage netting and limped back to the car, our legs numb from sitting still for so long. At least we hadn’t been attacked by rabid chipmunks. Our flower-leaving bard had failed to show. Not that I’d really expected it, but somewhere, deep down, I had hoped it would be that easy.

  “NOW WHAT?” I sipped my cold coffee and gnawed on a doughnut. “WHOEVER IT IS FORGOT MY SISTER’S BIRTHDAY.”

  “You can’t be ready to give up after one mission.”

  “MISSION? SHOULD I BE SALUTING WHEN I TALK TO YOU?”

  “I’m just saying it’s a little soon to throw in the towel.”

  Jules took a swig of coffee and removed her cap. Even in a dirt-colored mechanic’s jumpsuit, she was still the head cheerleader who never wanted for a date on a Saturday night. Her flawless skin glowed, and I wondered, as I had so many times, why she bothered with me.

  “AND WHY ARE WE SO SURE THAT THIS FLOWER DROP ONLY OCCURS UNDER COVER OF DARKNESS?” Spending the afternoon with Chip and Dale was way more appealing than huddling in the dark, not sure what was about to crawl up my leg.

  Clearly a stupid question, based on the look Jules threw my way. “Because whoever is leaving the flowers is a killer and wouldn’t dare show his face in the daytime.”

  “I SUPPOSE THAT MAKES SENSE, BUT I’M NOT CONVINCED IT’S GOING TO MAKE ANY DIFFERENCE IN THE END.”

  “Have you totally forgotten why you’re doing this?” Yawning, Jules put the car in gear and slowly headed back toward town.

  “I KNOW. MY VOICE. BUT AFTER SO LONG I CAN’T BELIEVE ANYTHING COULD REALLY MATTER.” When I was feeling discouraged, I tended to wallow in it.

  “First of all, it’s not just your voice you’re trying to get back. What about your twenty-first-century Roman god? You can’t have forgotten about his tongue already. I mean, the way you described him to me, I can practically taste him.”

  Oh yeah, kissing. I nodded.

  “Having kissed a few guys, I can tell you he sounds like a rare talent—worth working for. Don’t give up so easily.”

  “YOU’RE RIGHT. I NEED TO THINK LONG TERM, BE POSITIVE. SO TOMORROW MORNING, SAME TIME, SAME DOUGHNUTS?”

  “I was thinking tonight. It’s still Liz’s birthday, right up until midnight. I’m up for it if you are.” We pulled into my driveway just as the sun rose over the trees.

  “OKAY. WHAT HAVE WE GOT TO LOSE? THANKS FOR EVERYTHING. I FEEL BETTER.”

  In spite of Jules’s overzealous attention to details, it was obvious that all she wanted to do was help me get what I wanted. Knowing how sincere she was, I could easily forgive her over-the-top approach.

  “Wear all black. I’ll bring stuff to blacken our faces.”

  “WE’RE NOT GOING BEHIND ENEMY LINES.”

  “No complaining allowed. I’m in charge of makeup and wardrobe. Be ready at 2200 hours, Corporal, or else.”

  I gave her a hug and climbed out of the car. “YOU NEED TO DO MORE THEATER STUFF AT SCHOOL, OR MAYBE LESS. BYE. DON’T TEXT ME. I’M GOING TO BED.”

  “Sweet dreams. Remember the tongue.” Jules saluted and sped away.

  “I feel it. Tonight’s the night,” she said as I climbed into the car, my feet crunching on an empty doughnut box and four cardboard coffee cups.

  “JUST BECAUSE YOU SAY IT DOESN’T MEAN YOU CAN WILL IT INTO HAPPENING.”

  “Don’t be so negative. Remind me to throw that crap out when we get back. It’s pretty disgusting, isn’t it?”

  The car seemed to know its way to the spot down the road from the wounded tree. We marched quickly and soundlessly through the woods. I was getting into the whole paramilitary fantasy, imagining us on a top-secret mission deep in enemy territory. If we stepped on a twig, we would give away our position and be taken prisoner. When the interrogators threatened me with death unless I talked, I would just smile knowingly.

  After about an hour in our tree, I must have dozed off, because I opened my eyes to the glare of headlights when the rumble of tires on the dirt by the side of the road woke me. Jules put her finger to her lips, and we carefully climbed down from our branch, trying to get close enough to glimpse a license plate. We hadn’t discussed what we would do if someone actually came to leave flowers, and now we looked at each other, eyes wide, afraid of what would happen if we were discovered. If this was the murderer of my family, he might kill us and hide our bodies in the woods to avoid having to pay the price for his wretched crime. The closest thing we had to a weapon was the tiny diamond emery board that Jules always carried since she stopped biting her nails. It was unlikely we would be able to file anyone into submission. As we got closer, I could see that it was a van, not a car, and it had writing on the side. It said Shakespeare’s Flowers, and underneath, “A rose by any other name …”

  Suddenly Jules ran toward the van, yelling, “Stop!” just as a balding, slightly overweight man stepped out with a bouquet of white tulips.

  Dropping the flowers, he threw his hands in the air. “I don’t carry any money in my truck. There’s twenty bucks in my wallet in my back pocket. T
ake it. Don’t hurt me. I’ve got a kid.” He tossed the keys he was holding into the dirt. “Here, take the van too.”

  Jules stopped in her tracks and I caught up with her. “We’re not going to rob you.”

  “Then what the hell are you doing? You almost gave me a heart attack.” When the man realized his muggers were a couple of teenage girls in matching jumpsuits, he sheepishly lowered his hands and picked up the dropped flowers. “What kind of crazies are you, hiding in the woods?”

  “We wanted to know who brought the flowers and poems.”

  “What? I deliver a bunch of white tulips to this spot a few times a year. That’s all I know. I get paid extra to deliver them at midnight. You’ll have to talk to my boss if you want to find out more.” Gently placing the bouquet at the base of the tree, he climbed back into the truck and rolled down the window. “You two shouldn’t be wandering around in the middle of the night. It’s not safe, for you or anybody else, for that matter,” he said, putting one hand to his chest. “You scared the shit out of me.”

  “Thank you, sir, and I’m sorry we frightened you. It’s just that my friend’s family was killed in an accident on this spot, and we’re trying to find someone who might know more about what happened.”

  “Oh, that’s terrible. Good luck, then, and I’m sorry about your family. Call my boss in the morning. His name’s Mike Grant. Maybe he can help you.”

  As he pulled away, leaving us choking on a cloud of dust, Jules jumped up and down. “We did it. It worked. Sasha, this is huge. We’re going to figure out what happened that night. Can you believe it?”

  I shook my head and stared at the cellophane-wrapped bouquet. Maybe I really was on my way to a breakthrough. Tears silently streamed down my cheeks, and I put my head on Jules’s shoulder. In the light of our little flashlight we stood holding each other. After a few minutes, I picked up the bouquet, and we walked back through the woods. Finally, we were making some progress.

  “So what does this one say?” Jules started the car, and I unfolded the most recent poem and read it out loud.

  “LIFE IS TRANSIENT,

  DEATH IS FOREVER. LIKE YOU,

  I AM LOST FOR WORDS.”

  “Is that a haiku?”

  “IT IS.” But it wasn’t the fact that our mystery poet was branching out beyond simple rhyming that caught my attention.

  “It’s not bad. I like haiku. Using only a few words is very dramatic.”

  Sometimes Jules missed the forest for the trees. “THANK YOU FOR YOUR INSIGHTFUL LITERARY ANALYSIS, PROFESSOR HARPER. BUT DIDN’T YOU HEAR? WHOEVER WROTE THIS KNOWS ME, KNOWS THAT I’M MUTE.”

  “We live in a small town. Lots of people know you don’t talk, don’t they? It’s not exactly a deep dark secret, Dr. Hawking.”

  “IF YOU WEREN’T DRIVING, I’D PUNCH YOU.”

  “It’s true. The fact that the person who wrote this poem knows you don’t speak doesn’t get us anywhere.” Jules seemed awfully sure of that fact, but I wasn’t totally convinced.

  “I SUPPOSE YOU’RE RIGHT. BUT MAYBE IT MEANS THIS PERSON IS FROM HERE, NOT SOMEONE WHO WAS JUST PASSING THROUGH.”

  Who would cause a terrible accident and drive away without even calling an ambulance? A criminal fleeing after committing a crime? A drunk driver? A kid? A drunk kid? The possibilities were endless.

  “I’ll give you that, but local still means we’re talking about thousands of possible suspects. If we were CSI, we could do paper and ink analysis, but I think that’s beyond us.” Jules was clearly disappointed that we were so technically limited.

  “MAYBE THE GUY AT THE BARD’S BUDS WILL HAVE SOME ANSWERS.”

  “How long did it take you to come up with that?”

  “IT JUST CAME TO ME. IT’S GOOD, RIGHT? LET’S GO BACK TO YOUR HOUSE AND GET SOME SLEEP. ALL THIS SLEUTHING IS EXHAUSTING.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Nancy Drew.”

  Shakespeare’s Flowers was a half-timbered Tudor storefront in a strip shopping mall two towns away from ours. Kitschy was an understatement, and I wouldn’t have been surprised if the owner had greeted us wearing knee breeches and a codpiece. Fortunately, the Disney details only extended to the architecture. I stood next to Jules, biting my lower lip, desperate to speak for myself.

  “Good morning. How may I help you, ladies?” said a blondish man in Levi’s and a work shirt.

  Jules stepped forward, chest out, trying to make herself look taller. “We’re looking for Mike Grant.”

  “That would be me.” He looked at us expectantly, and I gave Jules a nudge.

  “We’re investigating a possible homicide, and we need some information about the flowers and poems left at the site of the accident on Old Farm Road in Shoreland. Your delivery driver said you could help us.”

  Way to go Jules Harper, cheerleader/cop. She was doing an uncanny impersonation of Horatio Caine on CSI: Miami—entertaining, but unlikely to get us very far. I glared at her, but she was deep in character, and, short of slapping her, nothing was going to stop the interrogation.

  “Oh, really?” Mike Grant said, flipping through a stack of receipts on the counter.

  This wasn’t going to be so easy. I nudged Jules again and scribbled the words Cool it, Sherlock on the palm of my hand.

  “Yes, sir,” Jules answered in an unnaturally deep voice.

  “May I ask the reason for your interest? It’s against company policy to share information about my customers, and you two don’t look like you’re here in an official capacity. Do you by chance have a search warrant?”

  He smiled to let us know he was willing to play along, but his eyes were cool. This guy wasn’t going to reveal his favorite flower, let alone the information we were looking for. Jules had wanted us to dress like we were going on a job interview, but I had refused, thinking such details wouldn’t matter. But now we looked like a couple of kids playing Encyclopedia Brown, sticking their noses in where they didn’t belong. We were like a bad Nickelodeon TV show. I would definitely hear about this later. I guess Dr. Hawking was going to have to come out. Furiously I typed my appeal. It was our only hope.

  “FOUR YEARS AGO MY FAMILY WAS KILLED WHEN OUR CAR CRASHED INTO THAT TREE ON OLD FARM ROAD. I VISITED THE SCENE OF THE ACCIDENT FOR THE FIRST TIME A FEW WEEKS AGO AND FOUND THE NOTES AND THE FLOWERS. I’D ALWAYS THOUGHT THAT OUR CAR JUST SKIDDED ON THE ICE, BUT THESE POEMS MAKE ME THINK THAT IT WAS SOMEONE ELSE’S FAULT. I’M JUST TRYING TO FIND OUT WHAT REALLY HAPPENED AND WE THOUGHT YOU MIGHT BE ABLE TO HELP.” I held my breath.

  “I’m so sorry, miss …” Face contorted with empathetic grief, Mike Grant looked like he was about to cry. Bingo.

  “I’M SASHA BLACK, AND THIS IS MY FRIEND JULES HARPER.”

  Taking both my hands in his, he said, “I had no idea. I’m so sorry. What a terrible tragedy. Were you very seriously hurt? The injuries must have been severe to cause you to lose your voice.”

  This was embarrassing, but if there was a possibility this man might help us, I owed him an explanation. “I HAD NO PHYSICAL INJURIES, BUT I HAVEN’T BEEN ABLE TO SPEAK SINCE THE ACCIDENT. IT’S CALLED HYSTERICAL MUTISM. AND I HAVE AMNESIA. I’M JUST TRYING TO GET MY LIFE BACK TOGETHER.”

  Short of handing over my medical records, that was everything. I might as well lay it on thick if it might improve our chances of getting a name.

  “That’s horrible—orphaned and so severely traumatized.”

  “WE’RE SORRY TO BOTHER YOU, BUT WE HOPED YOU MIGHT HAVE SOME INFORMATION THAT COULD HELP US FIND THIS PERSON. IT WOULD MEAN SO MUCH TO ME TO KNOW WHAT REALLY HAPPENED THE NIGHT THAT MY FAMILY WAS KILLED.”

  My eyes filled up with tears. Everything I was saying was true, and the tears were real, but I felt like I was manipulating this poor man with my sob story.

  Jules, sensing his vulnerability, jumped in. “That’s exactly why we’re here, sir. Sasha’s doctor has said that she may be able to recover her voice and her memories if she can remember the minutes around the accident. If we can figure o
ut exactly what happened, Sasha might be cured. It’s been a four-year dead end, until we found the flowers.”

  There was nothing to add to that, so I just nodded earnestly and squeezed Mike Grant’s hands, which were still clutching mine.

  “As I said before, I make it a practice of respecting the privacy of my customers … but under the circumstances …” He took back his hands, rubbed his eyes, and sniffed.

  “THANK YOU, SIR.” Please don’t change your mind.

  Opening a filing cabinet behind him, Mike removed a large manila envelope and dumped its contents on the counter. “I really don’t know much, but I’ll show you what I have.” He carefully laid out thirteen identical business-size envelopes, all typed, with no return address. “A few times a year, I receive an envelope containing three hundred dollars in cash, a poem, and a note instructing me to place the poem and one dozen white tulips at the base of the tree on Old Farm Road. The notes are never signed, so I have no clue as to who the sender might be. I delivered the flowers myself the first time, but after that I just sent a driver. It was strange, I’ll admit, but truthfully I didn’t think about the possibility that this person could be a criminal.” Mr. Grant looked like he was worried that he might be in trouble, what Stuart would call an accessory after the fact. “I just thought it was somebody’s relative. I never even looked at what was written on the pieces of paper.”

  “JULES, LOOK AT THE ENVELOPES.”

  They were light blue, like the stationery, and postmarked all over the world, a stamp collector’s dream—London, New York, Zurich, Berlin, Barcelona, Florence, Venice, Rome. My mystery poet was either an airline pilot or an international spy.

  “Nearly every one was sent from a different city. And you have no idea who this person could be?” Detective Harper was back. She picked up an envelope and held it up to the light. Was she looking for fingerprints?

  “None. I don’t even know if it’s a man or a woman. Based on the postmarks, I’m assuming the person isn’t local, but no one has ever called to confirm a delivery or ask about the cost. Three hundred dollars is way too much for the size of the order, but there’s no way I can get in touch to offer a refund.”