Body Language (31 page)

Then I realized (and it was a disquieting thought) that I had not broached the subject of Parker’s residence because I myself felt no urgency to have him move out. Reminding myself that I must do nothing to encourage his stated but repressed affections for me, I nonetheless acknowledged that our friendship had grown increasingly close and comfortable over those past three weeks. So I pondered the possibility of suggesting that he plan to stay.

Would such a setup simply be too weird? Unconventional living arrangements seemed to be central to the history of the house, originally designed for both my uncle’s young family and his long-ago business partner. Then it passed to Professor and Mrs. Tawkin, an unconventional duo by any definition. Neil and I had recently moved in as its next inhabitants, he and I constituting another unconventional couple, at least by Dumont standards. Add Thad to the mix, as we were now petitioning the courts to do, and our little family would become even less typical. Add Parker, and it would get downright peculiar. How would Neil react to such a suggestion? I could very well guess.

These frets, I told myself, were premature. In five days, next Monday, I would officially take over as owner and publisher of the
Dumont Daily Register
, with Parker as my managing editor. That, after all, was the purpose of this move—I was giving new direction to my life in journalism, and I was doing so at considerable financial and emotional risk. Put things in perspective, I told myself. For the moment, the issue of where Parker would spend his nights was fairly trivial. If, within the next few weeks, he found his own apartment, the issue would be resolved. If not, I would face some sticky decisions—but it needn’t be dealt with now, at this moment, lying in bed, planning my day.

It was time to focus more on business and less on the family matters that had dominated my time since arriving in Dumont. That very afternoon, I reminded myself, Elliot Coop was to meet me at the
Register
’s offices with retiring publisher Barret Logan for the signing of some last bit of paperwork. I needed to phone Glee Savage and ask her to be there. She had already interviewed me for a big feature story that would appear that Sunday, detailing the change of ownership. She might want to describe the “color” of the signing itself—it might make a good lead for her story. And the impromptu ceremony might make a good photo-op as well. I needed to write some notes—it was too early to start phoning people.

I sat up in bed, switched on the lamp, and squinted, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the light. There on the nightstand was my trusty Montblanc and a fresh reporter’s notebook—old habits die hard. I wrote a few reminders of things to accomplish that day, and it was refreshing to realize that they all pertained to the newspaper, none to Suzanne’s unsolved murder. I felt invigorated. It was barely dawn, I had already accomplished some productive work, and I still felt the energized afterglow of my dream’s hot climax.

Maybe (it had been far too long since I’d done it) I should lace up my running shoes, head outdoors to tick off a mile or two before sunrise,
then
come home for coffee. I got up, crossed to the window, held back the curtain, and touched the glass. It was so cold, it burned my fingertips.

So I shrugged into my robe, deciding to pad downstairs and start the coffee. First coffee, then maybe a fire in the den, then the paper, then the idea of taking a run could be revisited. Maybe.

The idea of taking a run was never revisited that morning. Considering the weather, I neatly nudged the notion from my mind, dismissing it as ridiculous while I settled onto the little sofa in my den. The coffee was brewed, the fire was built, and I was dressed, with the morning paper spread before me on the low table. The sun had risen, bright if ineffective against the cold. Varied house noises (running water, creaking stairs, door thuds) told me that both Hazel and Parker had risen for the day.

Postseason Packers hoopla had made its way forward from the sports section and dominated the front page of the
Register.
My pen was not within reach, but I made a mental note to have a word with someone about that. It was a quiet morning for news—no developments on Suzanne’s murder—and the front page also contained a boxed story promoting Glee’s comprehensive Sunday feature on the impending change of management at the paper.

As I leaned from the love seat to turn the page, Hazel entered the den with a carafe. “Good morning, Mr. Manning,” she told me while stepping forward to refill my old
Journal
mug. “Sorry I wasn’t up in time to make coffee for you.”

“No problem.” I smiled. “Actually, I sort of enjoy performing the morning ritual myself.” I sipped from the mug, reconfirming that my coffee was in fact better than hers. “So feel welcome to sleep late whenever you like.”

She nodded a wary thank-you, as if she understood the ulterior side of my thoughtfulness. “If you have no objection,” she told me, “I thought I’d begin some of the sorting and packing we discussed.”

“Excellent,” I told her. Having been settled into the house for some three weeks, I’d grown annoyed by the disarray of the extra bedrooms upstairs, which had become virtual dumping grounds during the Tawkins’ move out and my own move in. I suggested, “Start with Joey’s old room—it’s the worst.”

She chuckled at my understatement. “Would you care to go through anything before I phone Goodwill for a pickup?”

I shook my head. Easy decision. “Just use your own judgment, Hazel. You know this house and its contents better than anyone. Anything of value, hang on to. Anything of interest to Joey or Thad, offer to them. Anything else, throw out.”

“Yes, sir. That’s clear enough.” She retreated from the room, then paused in the doorway to tell me, “I’m hoping I’ll run across those items that the Tawkins packed away for us, especially the three children’s baby books. With Suzanne gone now”—Hazel paused, letting a momentary pang pass—“I’d really like to look through those albums. Joey should have them. And someday they’ll go to Thad.”

“Happy hunting,” I told her softly. While the lost mementos had no sentimental value to me, they clearly meant a great deal to her, and I hoped she would find them. I added, “You’ve got a big project ahead of you. If you like, I could pick up the groceries for tonight.” Joey and Thad were coming over for a midweek dinner, a family supper we hoped to make a tradition of.

“Thank you, Mr. Manning,” she accepted my offer, “that would be most kind of you. I’ve already made a list. I’ll leave it on your desk later.”

As she backed out of the room, I heard Parker greet her in the hall. “Morning, Hazel. I started a new pot in the kitchen.” Then he entered the den, mug of coffee in hand.

“Hi, Parker,” I told him, motioning for him to join me. “You’re looking chipper this morning.” Fresh from the shower, his hair was still damp. He wore a bulky V-neck sweater over a white T-shirt. Below, of course, were the perpetual khakis. Sitting in the chair across from me, he looked downright cuddly in the glow from the fire, and I enjoyed a fleeting replay of his surprise appearance in my dream. I realized, in fact, that I was aroused by the sight of him—a reaction that was undeniably pleasurable, but entirely inappropriate to the working relationship I would officially establish with him next week. With a conscious effort to suppress this response to his physical presence, I resorted to a foolish commentary on the weather. “Cold one, huh?”

He nodded, slurping his coffee. “It doesn’t really bother me—it’s not as if we’re out digging ditches.” He laughed at the thought of it. Then his visage turned thoughtful. “Truth is, Mark, these have been the most exciting and rewarding weeks of my life. Weather be damned, you and I are about to embark on a career move together that could change the face of small-town journalism. Forgive my broken record, but this is all I’ve ever wanted.”

Yeah, I’d heard that before. For some reason, I told him, “Poor Neil. He’ll be driving back up here on Friday evening—four weekends in a row. I owe him so many visits, I’ll never live up to my end of the bargain.”

“Neil’s cool with it,” Parker assured me. “Clearly, the man loves you. Besides, you’re under orders not to leave town.”

“Can you imagine!” I laughed at the irony of the situation. “I move up here, make a major commitment to this town’s business climate and its future, only to end up targeted as a murder suspect, a virtual prisoner in my own house.”

“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.