Body Language (12 page)

Thad added, “I’d even rather live with
him
,” jerking his head in my direction.

Though a backhanded compliment, it was a distinct improvement over his earlier performance, and I was surprised to feel a change of heart regarding what was best for Thad’s future. I told Pierce, “The woman is obviously lying about the guardianship—Suzanne showed no qualms whatever about my life with Neil. At the same time, I know that Thad has serious misgivings about living with me, and that’s his right. Ultimately, I feel that this is a decision that should rest with Thad himself and, if necessary, the courts. For the short term, though, I feel that Thad should stay here in the house on Prairie Street.”

Pierce turned to the boy. “What do you think, Thad?”

“Why can’t me and Uncle Joey”—he caught it—“can’t Joey and I live together?”

Pierce smiled. There was a tender quality to his voice as he said, “Now, Thad, you know that’s not a good idea. Yes, Joey loves you, and he’s a wonderful uncle, but I don’t think he’s able to act as your parent. Do you understand that?”

Thad quietly answered, “Yes.”

“So then,” said Pierce, “your uncle Mark thinks that it should be your own choice whether he or Miss Westerman will take care of you. But sometimes these things get complicated, and the courts have to help us sort it out. We’ll see about that later. Tonight, though, it’s up to you. Where would you like to stay—here, or with Miss Westerman?”

For the first time, I actually felt sorry for Thad, being faced with a decision between two options that he found so unappealing. Anguishing with his choice, he at last answered, barely above a whisper, “I guess I’ll stay here.”

“Okay,” said Pierce to the room as a whole, his voice now carrying the ring of authority, “the boy will stay here for now, at least till things get sorted out better.”

Miffed, Miriam scurried to Thad’s side and poked his arm, telling him, “Don’t take any chances, Ariel. You be sure to lock your door tonight—and I mean lock it good and tight!”

“That’s
enough
,” I told her. “I’m sick of your insults. Get out.”

She glared at me. Everyone else in the room beamed at the prospects of a delicious confrontation. Pierce asked me, “Shall I escort her to the door?”

“Thank you, Sheriff, but I’ll handle this myself.” I marched toward Miriam and, pointing toward the hall, repeated, “Get out of my house.”

She crossed her arms with a defiant smirk.

So I grabbed one of her arms and dragged her into the hall. She hadn’t expected that, and she started yelping about male aggression and sexual harassment and lawsuits and my penis. “Sheriff!” she hollered. “Do something!”

By then we had reached the front door, which I opened with my free hand. “Get the hell
out
,” I told her, shoving her over the threshold, slamming the door behind her. I was tempted to open the door again and shout a profanity into the darkness, but I’d already made my point, and it would have been rude to disturb the neighbors.

Everyone in the dining room had watched from the portal, and by now they were enjoying a hearty round of laughter, Thad included. “Can we finally
eat?
” someone asked, and the little crowd herded back to the table.

Still standing at the door, I caught my breath and felt my adrenaline subsiding. Then I noticed that Hazel was not with the others, but there in the front hall, watching from near the Christmas tree. When our eyes met, she approached me. With lowered voice, she said, “Mr. Manning, there’s something I need to discuss with you.”

“I’m sure there is,” I told her, guessing the topic. “Thad’s room—we need to put one of the spare bedrooms in order. Could you help with linens?”

“Certainly, sir. But that’s not what I meant to discuss.” She checked over her shoulder, then touched my arm, as if preparing to tell a secret. “It’s regarding
Mizz
Westerman.” She wagged her head, signaling general disapproval of the woman.

I led her to the den, and we stepped inside the doorway to talk. I told Hazel, “I’ve been wondering about something. How did Suzanne ever get involved with Miriam’s group in the first place? I can understand Suzanne’s general interest in feminism—she was a talented and strong-willed woman—but I can’t imagine how she could support the Society’s belief in paganism. The Quatrain family is Catholic to the core.”

Hazel sighed. “Suzie had a strong Catholic upbringing like the other children, but she broke from the Church many years ago, way back in high school.” Hazel wrung her hands, offering no more details—there was something else she was anxious to broach.

Again she touched my arm. Leaning close, she told me, “I thought you’d want to know that
Mizz
Westerman was here at the house earlier today.” She removed her heavy glasses, waiting for me to react.

“Oh?” My brows arched. “When?”

“During all the confusion just before dinner, just before poor Suzie was butchered. Miriam Westerman came to the back door with a fruitcake—an
organic
fruitcake, if you can believe it—with her ‘belated best wishes for the winter solstice.’ I told her we’d tolerate no such heathen nonsense in this house, and then
she
had the gall to get huffy with
me
—right there in the back hall by the service stairway. I was getting pretty well steamed, and not feeling right about fighting on Christmas, when the oven timer went off, praise the Lord. So I bit my tongue, thanked her for the ‘gift,’ and excused myself to the kitchen.”

I couldn’t help laughing at the scene Hazel had sketched. I asked her, “What did Miriam do?”

“That’s my point,” said Hazel, replacing her glasses and peering tensely into my eyes. “I assumed the woman would
leave
—the back door is right there, just around the corner from the kitchen. Once I’d put down the fruitcake and checked the oven, I noticed that I hadn’t heard the door open and close, so I poked my head into the hall to ask her if she wanted something else. But she wasn’t
there,
Mr. Manning. Glad to be rid of her, I went back to work in the kitchen. Now, though, it’s plain enough what happened.”

Hazel folded her arms resolutely, concluding, “I’ll bet that woman slipped up the service stairs to clobber the life out of poor Suzie.”

It had been a harrowing day, and by ten o’clock, Roxanne and Carl were tucked in for the night in Aunt Peggy’s lovely former bedroom. Grudgingly, Thad settled into the old guest room, hastily arranged for him. Hazel retreated to cry in her quarters near the kitchen. And Joey had gone home hours ago (at the same time Sheriff Pierce left the house), not quite grasping the gravity of the day’s events.

Neil, Parker, and I sat up later than the others, talking in the den. There was a tidy group of stuffed furniture near the fireplace, and we sat there finishing a drink together. Neil and I had our usual—Japanese vodka on ice, garnished with orange peel—we both knew instinctively that it was important to maintain our rituals, since our relationship would now be tested by separate living arrangements. As for Parker, he drank Scotch, single malt, neat.

“Help me sort this out,” I asked my companions. “What do we know so far?”

Neil shrugged. “Suzanne Quatrain was murdered upstairs in the great room.”

Parker continued. “And we don’t know who did it, how, or why.”

“Thanks, guys,” I told them under my breath before sipping some vodka. Gathering my thoughts, I recalled aloud, “During the minutes leading up to the murder, the household was in a state of happy holiday mayhem, with people all over the place involved in various tasks—no one person’s actions can be mapped for the entire time. Since the third-floor apartment where the murder occurred is served by both a front and a back stairway, it’s impossible to focus on the killer’s access to the scene. And since there were no screams, Suzanne probably knew her killer. It could have been anyone in the house.”

Parker nodded. “Who was here? There were the three of us. And the three Quatrains—Joey, Thad, and victim Suzanne. Roxanne and Carl were here. And Hazel. That’s nine, minus Suzanne.”

“Plus Miriam Westerman,” I told them, “assuming Hazel was on the level with me, and I can’t imagine why she wouldn’t be. So the way I see it, we have three suspects: Me…”

“Stop that,” Neil interrupted. “Parker and I
know
you didn’t do it.”

“Thanks,” I told him, “so do I. But we have to be at least as objective as the DA will be, and right now I’m at the top of his list—I was found with the victim with her blood on my hands, and I’m suddenly a wealthy man as the result of her death.
We
know I’m innocent, but the only way to prove it is to prove someone else’s guilt.”

“Which leads us,” said Neil, “to your two other suspects.”

Parker guessed, “Thad and Miriam?”

“Right. Thad had even more to gain from Suzanne’s death than I did, and we’ve all seen enough of his awful behavior to know that he has a rebellious streak. Most compelling, of course, is the fact that Suzanne’s dying word was ‘Thad,’ but I never really felt that she was naming her killer. Further, while Thad is indeed ill-mannered and immature, I have no reason to believe that he was sufficiently motivated to kill his own mother. He’s snotty, not heinous.”

Neil grinned. “What about Miss Fem-Snach?”

“She’s another story entirely. I’m willing to believe that Miriam Westerman is capable of anything. Consider: There was a history of feuding between her and the victim; there was trust money at stake for her school; she spoke longingly of Thad as ‘Ariel, my child’; and she was reported to be in the house at the time of the murder, her presence known only to the maid.”

Parker leaned forward with his drink between his hands. “What do you make of that business about the trust—and Miriam’s story that she and Suzanne had recently kissed and made up?”

“The document looked genuine,” I answered, “and if her lawyer assured her that its terms are still binding, chances are good that Miriam is about to land some serious cash. But I simply don’t believe her story about the rapprochement with Suzanne. Two reasons: First, shortly before the murder, while Suzanne and Roxanne were talking, Roxanne mentioned Miriam, and Suzanne reacted with a cold ‘Never heard of her.’ Second, Miriam said that Suzanne found my homosexuality ‘revolting,’ but this afternoon, she greeted me with open arms and took an instant liking to Neil. Our relationship didn’t bother her in the least—in fact, she seemed intrigued by it.”

Parker wore a confused expression. “If Suzanne was still on the outs with Miriam, why would she leave her all that money?”

“Suzanne must have simply forgotten about the trust. The original endowment wasn’t all that much—it’s been inflated by eighteen years’ interest.”

“Hmm,” said Neil, swirling his ice. “Miriam sounds like a strong suspect.”

“And at this point,” I told him, “everyone else who was in the house is above suspicion. Both of you guys, as well as Roxanne and Carl, barely knew the victim and had nothing to gain from her death. On the other hand, Hazel Healy and Joey Quatrain knew Suzanne all her life, and there’s no reason to think those relationships were anything but loving—they were both shedding tears today.”

“Conspicuously,” added Neil, “neither Thad nor Miriam showed any outward signs of grief.”

“Good observation,” I told him.

Neil sucked the last of his drink and set down the glass. “I’m shot,” he said. “Time for bed.”

Stifling a yawn, I told him, “I’ve still got a bit of
Register
business to discuss with Parker, but you go on up, kiddo. I’ll join you soon.”

He rose and stretched, then gave me a kiss, Parker a hug. Amid an exchange of good nights, he left the den and went upstairs.

For the first time that day, the house was calm. In the stillness, nothing moved, save the fire in the grate; all was quiet, save its hiss. Everyone had been talking, it seemed, all day long, and now it felt good to say nothing. But there were things that still needed to be said, which is why I’d asked Parker to remain there with me. Contrary to what I’d told Neil, though, it was not the
Register
that was on my mind. It was Parker’s lie to Sheriff Pierce about hearing Suzanne’s dying word, which injected a worrisome note of doubt into my decision to hire him as my second-in-command at the paper. While searching for the words to broach this, I heard his voice.

“I’m the outsider here.” He laughed quietly, rubbing the neatly trimmed bristles of his short beard. His eyes shone in the firelight.

“How so?” I asked him.

“This house was filled today with your friends and family. This house itself was
built
by your family. I’m honored to be here now, but I’ve got that weird feeling of being the new kid on the block. Think about it, Mark—I first met you and Neil only last month, and I’m a total stranger to everyone else who was here today.”

I reminded him, “I barely know the others myself. They may be family, but we’ve hardly been close. As for Thad, I’d never even met him till this afternoon.”

“Sure, I know,” he said, brushing my observation aside with a wag of his hand, “but you’ve got
roots
here. You belong in Dumont.”

Finishing my drink, I held the glass in my lap. “I was born in Illinois. I’ve lived my whole life there, till now. And my only significant exposure to Dumont was during a week’s visit as a kid.”

“You’ve mentioned that,” said Parker, leaning forward with interest. “You gave the impression that the visit was memorable for some reason.”

I laughed. “Lots of reasons.”

“Care to enlighten me?”

Did I really want to get into this? It was getting late, and I was tired. But my memories had, in fact, been stirring all day, and the wood-and-leather setting of the den was conducive to the spinning of a tale. “Okay, Parker. Need more Scotch first?” He shook his head and settled into his chair.

I told him, “As you know, the house was built by my uncle Edwin. He grew up in Dumont with my mother, Eden Quatrain (everyone called her Edie), and their younger sister, Edna. Edna later moved away to California, and my mother moved to Illinois, where I was born—where my father died when I was three. I never met my aunt Edna, but it was because of her illness thirty-three years ago that I first visited this house.”