Body Language

by Michael Craft

  “Harley Kaiser’s a prick.”

  “Why, Parker,” I told him, feigning dismay, “you don’t even know the man.” In truth, neither did I. In the hours of crisis following my arrest, I never actually met the district attorney, but was handled by one of his assistants. Kaiser himself had to tangle with Roxanne, whose big-city credentials, to say nothing of her adept, argumentative style, forced him to release me on my own recognizance—with the stipulation that I not leave town until the investigation was resolved.

  Parker said, “Now that things have calmed down some, have you come to any conclusions? Who killed Suzanne?”

  “Good question,” I told him, leaning forward, grasping the Journal mug with both hands to warm my fingers. “Let’s talk it through, Parker.”

  “Great.” He also leaned forward. “Recap. Who’s first on your list?”

  “Hazel,” I told him. “Well, actually she’s last on my list. Granted, her inheritance from Suzanne establishes an obvious motive. What’s more, she’s had ready access to the trunk of my car since the day I arrived, so she would have had ample opportunity to plant the murder weapon there in an attempt to frame me. However, I just don’t think she has either the temperament or the physical ability to club a person to death, especially a person she helped raise. She still seems genuinely grief-stricken by Suzanne’s death.”

  Parker nodded. “That’s my gut feeling about her exactly. But if Hazel is innocent, why would she concoct that screwy story—if she concocted it—about Miriam Westerman bringing a fruitcake to the house at the time of the murder?”

  “Two possibilities. First, she can’t stand Miriam, so maybe she just wanted to make trouble for her. Second, and more likely, Hazel may have been trying to cast suspicion on Miriam in order to protect Thad, who she fears may be the actual killer. Whatever her motive in blaming Miriam, I think we can still safely conclude that Hazel was not attempting to cover her own guilt.”

  “Agreed,” said Parker. “Who’s next on your list?”

  I chortled. “I do, in fact, have a list,” I told him, rising and crossing to my desk, where I pulled a notebook from a drawer and flipped it open. “Next is Miriam Westerman. She had two strong motives—getting the trust money for her school, and getting custody of Thad, whom she has always considered to be rightfully her own son, ‘Ariel.’ Adding to my suspicions of Miriam, I caught her snooping around my car a few days before the weapon was planted there. However, Doug Pierce said that it was a man on the phone who tipped the sheriff’s department about the finial in my trunk, which casts suspicion away from both Miriam and Hazel.”

  Parker stood, hands in pockets, thinking. “What does Doug think of Hazel’s allegations about Miriam’s fruitcake visit?”

  I shook my head. “He doesn’t think that Miriam was in the house when Suzanne was killed. He’s questioned her at length about it, and she has an alibi that seems solid. He no longer considers Miriam a suspect, and he suggested that I cross her off my list.” As I said this, I uncapped my Montblanc and did so.

  With a thoughtful tone, Parker mused, “The sheriff has certainly been accommodating to you throughout this case—in stark contrast to the district attorney. Has it occurred to you, Mark, that Sheriff Pierce might be gay?”

  Though Parker’s question was unexpected, his observation didn’t surprise me in the least. I told him, “I’ve had that thought. He’s not married because ‘the right girl never came along,’ but he’s volunteered nothing explicit. Yes, he’s friendly. My best guess is that this is an issue he’s struggling with at some level, but I don’t know what level he’s at. Maybe he’s gay but closeted, or straight but curious, or anywhere in between.”

  “Keep me posted.” Parker smiled. (Was he interested in Pierce?) He crossed to me at the desk and glanced at my list. “Who’s next?”

  “Uh… Thad. I don’t know what to make of the kid. He was a belligerent, detestable snot on the day we met, which was also the day his mother was killed. Since then, we’ve warmed up, a lot, and he’s actually begged me, tears and all, to keep him out of Miriam’s clutches. And now I’ve got Roxanne embroiled in the legal battle to return him to my custody. So, needless to say, I’m conflicted on this one. I like the boy, and I’m taking steps to make a home for him, but I haven’t forgotten that there’s a possibility, however remote, that he’s a murderer.”

  I gathered my thoughts before continuing. “Consider: He’s been obsessed with an adolescent independence kick, and he argued violently with his mother about it, threatening her. He raised the same issues with me only minutes after he, Neil, and I decided we’d attempt to build a semblance of a family together. That was the day before Suzanne was to be buried, and Thad had completely forgotten the funeral. While I recognize that everyone has his own way of dealing with death, I find it worrisome that Thad has yet to show the slightest sign of grief. And finally, there’s the issue of my car. I’ve lent it to him, and he seemed grateful. Yes, he enjoyed driving it, but he also had the opportunity to plant the weapon in my trunk. The bottom line is: As far as I’m concerned, the jury is still out on Thad.”

  Parker read further down my list. “It looks like your rogues’ gallery has a late entry—the victim’s feebleminded brother.”

  I breathed an uncomfortable sigh. “I’m afraid that Joey Quatrain’s chilling performance on New Year’s Day has earned him a prominent spot on the list. In front of the sheriff and a roomful of witnesses, he not only ‘guessed’ the identity of the murder weapon, but also gave a convincing display of its use. When you think about it, he had a couple of feasible motives for wanting his sister dead.

  “One possibility is money. He apparently suffers from some serious delusions about the funds that are available to him—he made exorbitant, unbacked offers to buy both the Register and this house out from under me, only to learn that he doesn’t have a dime of expendable income. The other possibility is resentment. The twelve-year-old brain in his middle-aged body has not dealt well with the fact that the world has passed him by. His sister became the focus of all the attention and adulation that he would have liked to share, but couldn’t. His petulant behavior, frequently prompted by the mere mention of Suzanne’s name, could be the surface clue to deeply buried anxieties that were vented in murder.”

  Parker took a seat on one side of the partners desk, asking, “Since Suzanne’s funeral last week, how’s Joey been acting?”

  “Even more erratic and agitated,” I answered, sitting in my uncle’s chair at the desk, opposite Parker. “I’ve phoned him several times at Quatro Press, and he’s rarely even shown up for his job, though of course he still draws a paycheck. I have to admit that I’ve grown to feel both suspicion and concern for Joey. So I phoned him at home last night and suggested that he pick up Thad after school today and bring him here to the house for a family supper. Joey perked up. He liked the idea. He phoned Miriam to get permission to spend the evening with Thad—he even had sense enough not to tell her that he was bringing him here.”

  We both laughed at the ease with which Miriam had been duped by Joey’s simplemindedness. Parker said, “This dinner tonight—it’s a family thing. Do you want me around, or should I make other plans?”

  “By all means, please join us. You’re as much a part of this peculiar, extended ‘family’ as anyone, Parker. Besides, I need you there to help me observe things. It wasn’t entirely the warm fuzzies that prompted me to call this meal. Either Thad or Joey may have killed Suzanne, and I want to set them both in a comfortable, unthreatening situation in hopes that someone might drop a useful clue.”

  Parker grinned—he was impressed. “Good plan,” he told me. “Of Thad or Joey, do your suspicions fall more heavily toward either one of them?”

  Exasperated, I shook my head. “I’m leaning toward Joey, but there’s one major hitch with that theory. In all likelihood, it was the murderer who planted the king-thing in my trunk, but, as far as I know, Joey never had access to my car.”

  “Ma
rk,” said Parker, leaning over the blotter toward me, “don’t you remember? On the Monday after Christmas, when we were helping the Chicagoans pack up for their return trip, Neil had forgotten a wastebasket or something in the trunk of your car. I went to get it, and Joey went with me to help. But he claimed to like your car so much, he stayed in it, ‘playing,’ till we called him into the house later.”

  “God”—my mouth fell—“of course. I’d forgotten that. Thank you, Parker.” I uncapped my pen and added a footnote to the page I had begun on Joey.

  Parker leaned back in his chair, gloating. “For that matter,” he reminded me, “both Neil and I have had constant access to your car, and we were both in the house at the time of the murder. It’s important to remain coldly analytical about this, Mark. Leave no stone unturned.”

  His tone was serious—too serious—and I responded with a laugh. “I appreciate your rigorous approach. Rest assured that I have left no stone unturned. I’ve already considered the fact that either you or Neil could have conceivably planted the finial in my trunk. Outweighing this, however, is the fact that you both met Suzanne for the first time on the day she died. It’s highly unlikely that either of you could develop sufficient motive for murder within the span of an hour.”

  “Just checking.” He nodded, satisfied that my methods had not gone sloppy. Then he leaned forward again, trying to read my notes. “As long as we’re exploring long shots, what about Thad’s father?”

  “Austin Reece is still a possible suspect, but we’re working on little more than a hunch—and Hazel’s story that he left town complaining that Suzanne had ‘wrecked his life.’ So far, the sheriff’s investigators have not been able to determine Reece’s whereabouts.”

  Parker drummed his fingers on the blotter, thinking. “If I’m not mistaken, that leaves us with only one remaining possibility—the ‘brother from the grave.’”

  “That’s your theory,” I reminded him. “It’s a compelling idea—everything fits. But it’s a puzzle with a piece missing, a piece that may not exist. Neither Suzanne’s pile of dossiers nor your own retracing of Suzanne’s morgue research has revealed a likely new alias for Mark Quatrain. If he’s still alive, where is he? Who is he?”

  Parker tapped my notes. “Joey gave us a lead—that inquisitive Vietnam vet working in the credit department at Quatro Press.”

  Slumping back in my chair, I said, “Doug Pierce followed up on that last week, the day after Suzanne’s funeral. He drove out to Quatro, intending to interview both Joey and the credit manager, whose name is Allan Addams. Joey wasn’t there, though—he hasn’t shown up at the office since New Year’s. And Addams wasn’t there, either. It turns out, Addams was finishing up a winter vacation with his family. They were in Mexico, and they left the morning of Christmas Eve. Maybe that’s why Joey was so insistent that Addams couldn’t be his brother—the man wasn’t even in the country on the day Suzanne was killed. What’s more, he was still away when the weapon was put in my car. So, unless it turns out that Addams never really took the trip, he’s in the clear.”

  “Hmm.” Parker slumped in his own chair, mirroring my posture. “Suzanne’s dossiers—you checked them all, and there was no file on Allan Addams?”

  I shook my head. “I’ve had a chance to study all the pertinent files—those grouped as either ‘suspicious’ or ‘inconclusive’—and there was nothing on Addams. The remaining files, ‘above suspicion,’ offered no promise at all.”

  “Do you mind if I take a look at them? A fresh pair of eyes might find something you missed.”

  “Good idea.” I’d meant to have Parker review them anyway, but he’d been spending most of his days at the Register. I stood at the desk, forewarning him with a laugh, “There’s a hell of a lot of material. It may bog you down for a while.”

  He stood. “Then I’d better get more coffee. Need some?”

  “Thanks.” I passed him my empty mug, and he left the den, headed back through the house toward the kitchen.

  I took the little brass key from the ashtray of paper clips and opened the credenza near the desk. Hunkering down to pull the heavy box of files from the cabinet, I heard the doorbell. So I abandoned the dossiers and went out to the front hall to answer the door.

  It was Sheriff Pierce. “Good morning, Mark,” he told me, stepping inside, removing a glove to shake my hand. “Sorry to bother you so early.” It was not yet nine o’clock.

  “You’re always welcome, Doug,” I told him, thumping the door closed, “and no appointment is necessary.” I helped him out of his coat. “What can I do for you?”

  But before Pierce could answer, Parker reappeared in the hall, bearing the two cups of coffee. “Uh-oh,” he said comically, “it’s the law. ’Morning, Sheriff.”

  They exchanged some pleasantries, remarking on the bitter weather; then Parker commented, “It looks like you two have some business to discuss.”

  Pierce told us, “Yes, actually. Mark, do you have a few minutes?”

  Parker interjected, “I really ought to get going anyway, Mark. I’ll study that material sometime later, when it’s more convenient. Meanwhile, there’s plenty to keep me busy down at the paper, preparing for next week’s transition.”

  “Fine,” I told him. “Just let me know when you’d like to see the files.”

  He handed me my Journal mug, then asked, “Coffee, Sheriff?” Offering Pierce the cup he’d refilled for himself, he joked, “Drink from the back side—it’s clean.”

  Pierce gratefully accepted it, if only to warm his hands. Parker waved a good-bye, retreating down the hall to get his coat, near the back door. I led Pierce into the den and hung his coat; then we took our customary seats on either side of Uncle Edwin’s partners desk, with the cabinet door still open behind me. We heard Parker leave.

  Pierce asked, “Is there anyone else in the house?”

  “Just Hazel. She’s probably upstairs, cleaning the unused bedrooms.”

  Pierce leaned toward me. I noticed the polished shine of the leather shoulder holster under his handsome cashmere blazer. “We’re getting ready to make an arrest, Mark. The DA feels this has gone on long enough, and, to an extent, I agree with him. I’m here because I wanted to let you know where this is headed.”

  “Thanks, Doug,” I told him quietly. Leaning close over the blotter, I asked, “So then—who is it?”

  “I’m not entirely comfortable with the results of the investigation, but everything seems to point to Joey.”

  I sighed, sitting back. “I was beginning to reach that conclusion myself, but—like you—I’m not comfortable with it. And I thought Harley Kaiser was reluctant to implicate a Quatrain.”

  “He is,” Pierce assured me, “but let’s face it: Joey’s not quite ‘all there.’ I mean, chances are, he’d end up institutionalized someday anyway. It’s a sad, tragic situation. On the positive side—if there is one—because of Joey’s mental condition and nonviolent past, the law will go easy on him.”

  Again I sighed. Everything Pierce said made sense, but it was hard to accept. While I felt that Joey was indeed our strongest suspect, I didn’t want to believe that he had ruthlessly bludgeoned his sister.

  “Doug,” I said, holding his stare with mine, “can you wait till tonight to make the arrest? Joey is coming to the house this evening with Thad. It’s going to be a family supper that I’d hoped to turn into a weekly tradition. If you wait till then, you’ll have the rest of the day to check every possible lead one more time. If you’re still convinced of Joey’s guilt, just drop by the house during dinner. It’ll give you the opportunity to question him discreetly before making the arrest—and it won’t be such a public spectacle.” I leaned forward, arms propped on the desk. “Please, Doug. What do you think?”

  He exhaled noisily. With the slightest nod, he told me, “All right, Mark. That’s the plan.” Again he exhaled, but this time the noise had the character of a nascent laugh. “It’s really ironic. Growing up here in Dumont, knowing the
Quatrain kids all their lives, the rest of us thought of them as the luckiest people in the world—hell, just for starters, they were rich. Who’d have thought their lives would be ruined by such a heartbreaking string of events?”

  I shook my head. “Not I, certainly. Of course, I didn’t grow up with the kids—I knew them only from that one Christmas visit. But that was enough to convince me they would all lead charmed lives. Little did I know that it would all begin to fall apart only three years later.”

  Pierce’s features turned suddenly inquisitive, as though he’d thought of something. “It’s none of my business, Mark, but is that what it was all about—the letter from your uncle Edwin? You started to tell me the story two weeks ago, and I’ve been curious about it since. Did he tell you what happened between Suzanne and Mark Quatrain?”

  “God no,” I answered, allowing myself a weak laugh. I reminded him, “I didn’t learn about the rape until Hazel stunned us with her tell-all on New Year’s Eve. No, my uncle’s letter dealt with something more directly related to me.”

  Pierce’s brows instinctively arched, wanting more details. But he surely sensed that we were venturing into very private territory, so he was not about to prod for information that was not offered. It was entirely my decision whether or not to continue. I asked myself what kind of game I’d been playing. Why had I tantalized him with this story? I had opened the door, and, by rights, he deserved a sense of closure. Besides, I knew I wanted to share the letter, and the time had come.

  “You’ll recall,” I told him, “that when my uncle died three years ago, I inherited the house. On the day I came up here to sell the house to the Tawkins, Elliot Coop handed me a letter written by my uncle shortly before he died. I got into my car with it, and was preparing to follow the lawyer to his office to finalize the sale, when curiosity got the better of me. I pulled over to the curb and, in the shadow of the house, opened the letter.”