Body Language (18 page)

“Only if it’s of interest to the new publisher,” she answered demurely—while reminding the old publisher that his days were numbered.

If they were sparring, it was a mannerly match, one that had apparently been enacted countless times over the years. Logan checked his watch and apologized, “I’m afraid I need to spend some time preparing for a lunch meeting—Rotary, you know—so perhaps Glee could squire you gentlemen through the offices. With
her
tenure, she knows where everything is.” He winked at her.

Without comment to Logan, she come-hithered us with her finger, asking, “May I take your coats?”

Once she mentioned it, I felt warm, having worn my long topcoat since entering the building. I had already unbuttoned it, but I was glad to be rid of it entirely, handing it to her with my thanks.

Parker wore a heavy Eisenhower jacket. Its snug waistline showed his butt to particularly fine advantage that morning—an anatomical nicety that now magnetized Glee’s stare. I thought she might pounce and bite him. Parker also noticed her interest, taking it in stride, returning the compliment with a wolfish innuendo as he passed her the jacket, a muffler, gloves.

She placed our things in her own office, which we passed while traversing several corridors on our way to the reference room. Arriving at the morgue, Glee introduced us to the reference staff, who took turns explaining various aspects of how the paper’s records were stored, cataloged, and retrieved.

Parker was impressed. “I’m amazed,” he said. “Your setup here is more typical of much larger papers. What a wonderful resource.”

He was right. The thoroughness and organization of the clippings, photos, and other records reminded me of the
Journal
’s morgue in Chicago. The
Register
operated on a much smaller scale, of course, but technologically, all the bases were covered, with electronic systems in place to complement the older collections of microfiche and hard copy.

Parker questioned the staff about the research that Suzanne Quatrain had been pursuing, and they voiced their willingness to help him try to trace it. “I’d like to dig right in,” he told me. “Do you mind if I get to work?”

I was still uneasy playing boss, but Logan had already given me carte blanche on the whole issue of the Quatrains, so I told Parker, “Enjoy yourself.”

“Hold on,” said Glee. “I was planning to take you guys to lunch. Mr. Logan has Rotary today, but he asked me to flex the house account for you at First Avenue Grill—best in town, you know.”

Somehow I got the feeling I’d be seeing a lot of the Grill. “I’d be delighted,” I told her. “Parker, how about you?”

He hesitated. “I’m really not hungry. And I really do want to delve into this. Would you mind terribly if I bugged out?”

“Terribly.” Glee pouted. “I was hoping to get to know the new number two.” She was talking to his face, but staring at his pants.

“Rain check?” he asked. “Sometime soon—I’d like that.” He winked.

“Oh, very well,” she groaned, resigned to lunch without Parker. “I guess it’s just us,” she told me, linking an arm with mine.

We were about to return to her office for coats when someone at the research desk said, “You have a call, Mr. Manning.”

Parker, Glee, and I exchanged a quizzical shrug; then I crossed to the desk and took the receiver. “Mark Manning,” I answered.

“Tag—I found you,” said a familiar voice. “Hi, Mark. Doug Pierce.”

“Did it require an APB,” I asked the sheriff with amiable sarcasm, “or did you deduce that if I was not at the house, you might find me here?”

“The latter,” he admitted. “Hazel was evasive about your whereabouts—she does have something of a shifty streak—but I figured, Try the
Register.
Logan’s secretary put me through pronto. I’m surprised you’re not more ‘connected.’ Haven’t you gone wireless?”

Again that sense of déjà vu swept over me: The previous night, Barret Logan was tracked down with a phone call at the Grill, and I found it remarkable that he was able to function unfettered by electronics. I explained to Pierce, “Back in Chicago, I was on call via every gizmo known to science, but those toys belonged to the
Journal
, and they stayed there. Up here, I’ll wait and see.”

“It’s a modern world,” he reminded me.

Standing there with the phone in one hand, I pulled the antique Montblanc from my jacket pocket and rolled it in my fingers. “Get this,” I told Pierce. “I still use a fountain pen.”

“A what?” He was joking.

I asked him, “What can I do for you, Doug?”

His tone was instantly more serious. “There have been some developments on the case. We should meet again.”

“Is it urgent? I could come right over to the department.”

“No,” he said, “there’s no need to interrupt your day. Tomorrow morning would be good, though, if you’re free. I could stop at the house.”

Flipping through my pocket calendar, uncapping my pen, I told him, “The day’s wide open. How’s nine or ten?”

“I’ll be there at nine,” he said. “And, Mark? Try to keep an open mind, okay?”

“What does that mean?”

“You’ll find out soon enough—tomorrow at nine. Thanks, Mark.” We hung up.

Noting the appointment, I returned the pen and calendar to my jacket, telling Parker, “Something’s up. Details tomorrow.”

“I’d better get busy. Maybe we can come up with something by then.”

I thanked him, checked my watch, and turned to Glee. “Time for lunch?”

We left the morgue together, returning to her office for coats. Helping her on with hers—a flashy ocher-colored sort of smock with wide sleeves and a thick fur collar—I said, “I’m glad you came to see me at the house on Sunday. As you probably know, I’m considered a suspect in this case, so I need to explore every possible angle.”

Returning the courtesy, she helped me into my own coat. “I hope it proves useful to you, but that wasn’t my motive for telling you about Suzanne’s high-school episode. There’s a
story
there, Mark. If it pans out, will you let me write it?”

“Absolutely.” I liked her candor. I liked her persistence. “Let’s go.”

“I just need to grab my purse.” From behind the door, she hefted another portfolio-size carpetbag, identical to the one she carried before, except that it was patterned with tiger stripes instead of leopard spots.

Out on the street, walking the block or so to the restaurant, we both donned sunglasses against the glare of a clear winter day. Though the low noontide sun cast an appearance of warmth, the illusion was dispelled by a sharp, cold wind that played havoc with Glee’s purse. Struggling to anchor it under the flapping sleeve of her coat, she barely flinched—such was the price of fashion.

Pacing briskly to the snap of her heels on the sidewalk, she asked, for no apparent reason, “How old is Parker?”

I had to think for a moment, recalling his resume. “Fifty-one.” I also recalled that during Glee’s Sunday visit, she mentioned being twenty-two when she started working at the
Register
thirty years ago. So she and Parker were about the same age.

“Jeez, he sure doesn’t look it. Seems raring to go.”

“Yes,” I confirmed, “he’s eager. I was lucky to find him, and I think we’ll all enjoy working with him.”

“I know
I
will.” Glee swung her head toward me. “Say, boss—do you have any particular policy on workplace romance?”

With a chortle, I replied, “Why do you ask?”

“Well…” she singsonged coyly, “new blood is always welcome here, and my prospects have been somewhat limited of late, and he seems unattached…”

“
Parker?
” I stopped in my tracks.

“Why not?” she asked. The peck of her heels ceased. “He’s hot.”

“Glee”—I was laughing openly, loudly there on the street, with passersby pausing in dismay to observe my boisterous behavior—“he’s gay!” I would not normally be so quick to out an associate, but Parker’s near-militant homosexuality was a matter of public record, and I was certain that he would not want Glee to harbor false assumptions on this issue.

“I don’t believe it,” she told me flatly, removing her sunglasses.

“He was editor of the
Milwaukee Triangle
, for Christ’s sake, and I can show you a pile of first-person editorials in which he crusades for every gay cause, from employment rights to adoption.” I could have added that the man had professed his love for me on Christmas night, but that was a detail she didn’t need to know. I simply told her, “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

She fixed me with a skeptical stare for a moment, then resumed walking toward the restaurant. I followed. With a pensive shake of her head, she said to me, “I’ve always had a sixth sense about these things, and I’m never wrong. Mark, he was flirting.”

“Glee,” I assured her, “your radar needs adjusting.”

Wednesday morning, working in my den, I heard the slam of car doors at the curb, then the muffled sounds of conversation. It was nine o’clock. I expected Sheriff Douglas Pierce, but who was with him? Glancing out the window, I was stunned to see Miriam Westerman walking with him toward the front door.

I bounded from my desk into the hall and opened the door as they were mounting the porch steps. Looking past Pierce as if he didn’t exist, I told Miriam with a flat inflection, “Go away. I don’t want you here.”

Pierce rushed to meet me in the doorway and placed a restraining hand on my shoulder. “Mark, you agreed to keep an open mind.”

With my eyes fixed on Miriam, I told Pierce, “Now I understand why you wouldn’t explain that comment. I don’t want her in my house, Doug.”

“I know how you feel about her,” Pierce leaned close to tell me (though she could obviously hear him), “but Miriam may have something useful to contribute to this investigation. I wouldn’t steer you wrong, Mark—I think it’s in your best interest to ask her in.”

There was a brief, tense round of stares and counter stares. “Oh, all right,” I said, scuffing one foot like a reticent child.

I stood aside and let both of them enter, closing the door. They followed as I walked directly to the den, making no offer to takes coats. Standing rigid at my desk, I asked, “What’s this all about?”

Miriam jumped in. “I have no idea why Sheriff Pierce wished to see you,” she sniffed, “but as for me, I have a short agenda of two items to share with you.” She removed her cape and flung it over the back of the love seat. “First, of course, is Ariel’s welfare.”

“His name is Thad,” I reminded her sternly.

“I want you to be aware, Mr. Manning, that I am taking legal action against you regarding Ariel. I have spoken with Harley Kaiser, district attorney for Dumont County, regarding the most expedient procedure for having Ariel removed from your household. As you know, I maintain that I am rightfully the boy’s guardian, and I seek to have this claim upheld by the courts.”

I turned to Pierce. “Is this her ‘useful contribution,’ Doug, or is there something else?”

Pierce unbuttoned his coat and, with strained temper, told her, “You promised not to get antagonistic, Miriam. Let’s talk about Hazel Healy.”

That caught my interest, and I flashed Miriam an inquisitive look.

She smiled smugly, fingered her heavy primitive necklace (it looked like painted bones and teeth), and plopped herself in one of the chairs by the fireplace. “It may come as some surprise to you, Mr. Manning, that I do
not
consider you to be a likely suspect in Suzanne’s murder.”

She was right—her statement did surprise me. Warily, I asked, “Why not?”

She paused, leaning forward in her chair. “Because Hazel killed Suzanne.”

Before continuing the discussion, I thought it best to close the door. I did so, then sat across from Miriam at the fireplace. Pierce hung his coat behind the door, then joined us. With hushed voice, I asked Miriam, “How can you make this accusation?” I noticed that Pierce was not taking notes—he’d apparently already heard the answer.

Making no effort to subdue her stentorian speech, Miriam began, “Contrary to Mrs. Healy’s assertion, I was
not
in this house on Christmas Day prior to Suzanne’s murder. Hazel lied to you. And the obvious motive for her deception was to cast suspicion away from herself. It is now common knowledge that she was named to receive a sizable inheritance from Suzanne. Hazel may be getting old, and she may be going blind, but she’s suddenly a woman of considerable means.” Miriam paused, letting innuendo hang heavy in the air.

“Money can be a motive,” I allowed, “and you’ve raised a point that I myself have considered, but your conclusion is purely speculative.”

“Hardly!” She crossed her arms, clattering her bones. “Only days before your arrival in Dumont, Mr. Manning, Suzanne made the fatal mistake of
telling
Hazel about the generous terms of her will. I visited Suzanne at her home that day to pursue the issue of Ariel’s guardianship. But Suzanne was preoccupied. She recounted the discussion she had just finished with Hazel, and she was concerned about the effect that the news had had on her. To hear Suzanne tell it, and these were her exact words, ‘Hazel waltzed out of here with dollar signs in her eyes.’”

Again there was a pause as Miriam’s words sank in. “That’s very… interesting,” I told her, glancing sideways toward Pierce, not at all sure that I believed the woman, in spite of the fact that her story worked to my advantage.

Pierce said, “Thank you, Miriam. We’ll try to work with this.”

She rose, straightening the folds of her tunic. “I’m sure you will,” she said vaguely to both of us. Whisking up her cape, she crossed to the door and opened it. Framed by the doorway leading to the hall, she told me, “The Feminist Society for the New Age of Cosmological Holism will break ground for its new school come spring. My son Ariel will be among its charter enrollees.
Don’t
try to stop me, Mr. Manning.” She smiled. “I’ll see myself out.”

She turned on her heel and, in the swirl of her cape, disappeared through the front door, which closed behind her with a sturdy thud. It was as if she had vanished into thin air, and I would not have been surprised to hear her cackle. Instead, I heard the knock of her clogs crossing the porch toward the street.