Body Language (16 page)

I rested my case, as if there were some great mystery of interconnectedness linking these events.

Again Parker said, “People die, Mark.” He patted his hand on the table, stopping just short of touching mine. “It’s the natural order of things. Sickness, old age, warfare—these are forces that lead inexorably and
naturally
toward death. Each loss, while surely sad, is nothing ominous.”

“There was nothing ‘natural’ about Suzanne’s death,” I pointed out.

“Yes”—he nodded—“she’s the tragic exception in the litany you’ve recited, but her murder does not imply some doomful conspiracy of death within your family.” He eyed me squarely, grinning. “Wouldn’t such a view be a tad irrational?”

I smiled. He’d caught me flirting with the illogical, bemoaning the bugbears of fate, and I was glad to be chastened for it. “Thanks for the reminder,” I told him, lifting my glass to sip my drink.

In a much lighter tone, I mused, “Something happened at my mother’s funeral that intrigued me for years—and this does relate to my early visit to Dumont.”

Parker leaned back in his chair. “I’d be happy to hear about it,” he told me, drinking some of his Scotch.

“As I’ve mentioned, Mom died while I was in college, victim of the same cigarettes—the same brand, in fact—that had killed her sister eleven years before. Ours was a small family, so the funeral was little more than a discreet memorial service. Preoccupied with my own loss, I hadn’t realized that Uncle Edwin might attend, but he did, and he seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Not that he wouldn’t expect to see me at my own mother’s funeral, but he was unprepared to see me
as a man.
‘My God, Mark,’ he said as we embraced, ‘you’d have no way of knowing, but you’ve grown into the very image of your father.’ Then he repeated something he’d told me during my boyhood visit to Dumont: ‘You’re such a special young man, not at all like the others.’ And he kissed me. Right on the lips.”

Parker’s jaw dropped. I expected him to comment on the kiss, but instead he asked, “What ‘others’ was your uncle talking about?”

“I assumed he meant his own children.”

Parker seemed baffled by this. “What did he mean when he said that you were different from them?”

I leaned forward to explain something that I thought should already be obvious. “Parker, the man kissed me on the mouth. I wasn’t a little kid anymore, but a junior in college. He said that I wasn’t like the others because he sensed that I was gay—long before I myself figured it out. And I wondered, standing near my mother’s grave, if
he
was gay.”

“Was he?”

At that moment, I was distracted by the distinguished figure of Barret Logan entering the restaurant. The
Register
’s retiring publisher saw me as well and headed straight for our table. Parker and I stood. He offered condolences on Suzanne’s death, wished Parker and me a belated merry Christmas, and took off his coat. Since I’d previously had lunch with Logan at the First Avenue Grill, I quipped, “Do you take
all
your meals here, Barret?”

“In fact, I do,” he answered with a laugh. “Or at least it seems so. I’ve been a widower for some years now, and there’s no appeal in cooking for myself. Besides, this is easily the best place in town.” He wore a dark business suit that night, which struck me as a bit overdressed (Parker and I were dressed nicely, but casually). I wondered if Logan was
always
attired this way, or if tonight he had spiffed for his outing to “the best place in town.”

I asked if he would care to join Parker and me for dinner. He thought about it, but not for long, and readily agreed. The hostess whisked away his coat and brought him a place setting; they both understood that he didn’t need a menu. “Would you like a drink, Mr. Logan?” she asked. “Yes, please,” he answered. “Lillet.” The woman went away to fetch it, a French apéritif. I was surprised that they had it, up here in the hinterlands, and I suspected that it was laid in at Logan’s request.

Our small talk quickly returned to the murder, and I mentioned the irony of circumstances that had pegged me as a prime suspect. I was relieved to note from Logan’s tone that he harbored no such suspicions himself. “The investigation is in good hands with Douglas Pierce,” he assured me. “He’s a dedicated professional. What’s more, he has a genuine hunger that justice be served.”

“I’ve already learned that,” I told Logan. “We’ve come up with a handful of potential suspects, and I’m sure the investigation is grinding away, even as we speak. He’s an impressive guy.” We all paused as Logan’s Lillet was delivered. Exchanging a silent toast, we drank. Then I told Logan, “I was also impressed with one of your staff. Glee Savage visited me yesterday.”

Logan sat back in his chair with a broad smile. “She’s a great gal—and a damn good writer, too. She’s added a lot to the
Register
over the years. You’ll enjoy working with her.” His expression turned quizzical. “Why the visit?”

I explained to Logan—and also to Parker, who had not yet heard details of my discussion with Glee—that she had told me about Suzanne’s mysterious high school “ailment,” her disappearance from town for a week, and her recent research in the
Register
’s morgue. “In a nutshell, Glee has a theory that the research was related to the ‘ailment’ and that the murder is related to both. Glee wasn’t specific on this point, but I got the impression that Suzanne may have dealt with an unwanted pregnancy.”

Parker listened to this story with wide-eyed interest, but Logan merely nodded, deep in thought. He told me, “I recall the incident—some thirty years ago. I also recall that Glee was eager to work up an exposé. I spiked it before it was written.”

“Glee mentioned that,” I admitted.

“Mark,” he told me, “you’re calling the shots on this now. In three weeks, you’ll be sitting at my desk down the street, and the issues you’ve raised relate to your own family. My policy has always been to treat the Quatrains with kid gloves, but you’re welcome to take any approach that suits your own journalistic philosophy. Just be aware”—he raised a cautionary finger—“that a Quatrain scandal, for the sake of mere headlines, will serve neither the town nor the paper well.”

“But”—I, too, raised a finger, countering his—“if a scandal is the result of bared secrets that help solve a high-profile murder, the scandal is an unavoidable consequence of serving the public’s best interest.”

“That’s a tough call,” Logan conceded. With a chuckle, he added, “I
am
looking forward to retirement.”

Parker had been itching to enter this discussion, and now he did so. “Mark,” he said, practically leaning out of his chair, “Suzanne
mentioned
that research to me. She asked me to
help
her, remember? Mr. Logan, I don’t know what kind of systems you have in place at the
Register,
but chances are, I could retrace whatever it was she was digging for—research almost always leaves a trail. Mark, what do you think? This could be valuable in helping to clear you with the DA.”

He had a point. “Let me think about it,” I told him. Turning to Logan, I asked, “Do you mind if Parker and I pay another visit to the
Register
’s offices tomorrow? There’s still staff I haven’t met, and Parker could check out the morgue.”

“Mark,” Logan assured me, “you needn’t ask permission to visit the
Register.
Drop in anytime, announced or otherwise, and we’ll all try to be on our toes.”

“That’s gracious of you, Barret. But I just don’t want to give the impression that I’m…
usurping
anything.”

He laughed. “Hell, Mark, you’re
buying
it—lock, stock, and barrel.” He was right, of course, and Parker and I shared his laughter.

The hostess sent a waitress over to take our order, and Logan recommended that night’s special, a meat loaf that he claimed was extraordinary. Meat loaf? I hadn’t had it since I was a kid, and I had never much missed it, but suddenly it seemed appealing—comforting—and I joined Logan in ordering it. Parker ordered steak, a strip, rare. We all decided on the ubiquitous Caesar salad, only Parker opting for anchovies. And we needed another drink, Logan switching to Bordeaux.

Try as we might to focus our conversation on carefree matters, we could not avoid the topic of Suzanne’s murder. “Aside from the possible economic implications for the community,” lamented Logan, “there’s the tremendous personal toll on Suzanne’s son.”

“And her brother,” I added. “Poor Joey. I don’t think the loss has hit him yet.”

“How well do you know him?” Logan asked me.

“I’ve spent a bit of time with him this weekend,” I explained, “but I knew him better as a child. He was ten then; I was nine. Even as a kid, I could tell there was something not-quite-right about him.”

“It’s a pity,” said Logan. “Joey’s ability to learn never progressed much beyond the level you witnessed as a child. Suzanne told me that test results described him as having a twelve-year-old brain in a middle-aged body. He’s a good-natured soul, but emotionally, of course, he’s highly immature. At least he’s learned to take care of himself, and a few years ago, he finally got a driver’s license, with restrictions. Thank God—because he’s on his own now.”

Parker said, “He’s secure at Quatro Press, isn’t he?”

“Certainly,” said Logan. “He’s held a job there—personnel, I think—his entire adult life, and that will continue to take care of him. But he’s aware that he ought to be sitting behind his father’s desk by now, and he’s incapable of understanding why his learning disability has hobbled his natural desire for fulfillment.”

“It’s pathetic,” I agreed. “But Joey is obviously unable to run a business.”

“Can you imagine?” asked Logan with a restrained laugh. “When Joey heard that I was finally ready to sell the
Register
, he wanted to buy it himself. He offered me twice what you’re paying, Mark. But I wasn’t tempted.”

Unprepared for this bit of news, I told him, “Then I must have gotten a real bargain—thank you, Barret.”

With a not-so-fast gesture of his hands, Logan explained, “I refused Joey’s offer because, first, he hasn’t a clue as to how to run a newspaper. And second, he hasn’t a dime—at least not beyond the generous trusts that were established to care for him. In short, Joey has no grip on reality, and as he’s grown older, he’s grown increasingly confused and frustrated about his role in the world.”

Parker shook his head. “One thing’s certain. He’ll never fill his sister’s shoes—talk about an emasculating notion.”

“And in their father’s eyes, Suzanne never filled her older brother Mark’s shoes, in spite of the circumstances.”

Parker and I exchanged a confused glance. I asked Logan, “What circumstances? His death in Vietnam?”

“That’s part of it,” said Logan, “certainly.” But his manner was now highly reticent, and I understood that he had ventured into sensitive territory that he assumed, incorrectly, was familiar to me. I could tell that he would have been more comfortable dropping the topic of Mark Quatrain, but the door had been opened, and I waited for more. At last he elaborated, “There were circumstances surrounding your elder cousin’s death that you apparently never knew. I’m sorry, Mark, to have been so insensitive to broach this. You’ve been through a lot already this weekend.”

“Please, Barret, fill me in. I need to know what happened.”

He fingered the empty glass in front of him, searching for the fortification of alcohol. “Very well,” he told me. “Your cousin Mark was drafted fresh out of college—he’d majored in English, taking his degree with highest honors. Predictably, he ended up in Vietnam. As you know, he died there. What you’ve never heard is that, before he was killed, he got into trouble there. Serious trouble.”

Logan paused. “Mark Quatrain raped, then killed, an Asian girl in Vietnam. He was awaiting a military trial there when he died, along with most of his platoon, in an ambush—a hideous massacre that left Mark and many of his compatriots butchered beyond recognition. There were very few survivors of the attack, and Mark was identified among the casualties on the basis of his dog tag and personal effects.” Logan swallowed. “I apologize for relating this at table, but his body had been mutilated, with most of his head missing.” Again he paused. “Mark’s mother, your aunt Peggy, was, of course, highly distraught by this news. As you know, she suffered from what we then simply called a ‘weak heart.’ News of her son’s death, and the details surrounding it, literally killed the woman. Peggy died the same week. The
Register
reported the deaths of both mother and son, of course, but I never saw reason to reveal in print the crimes that Mark committed in Asia—the family had been through enough.”

At some point during Logan’s recounting of this, I had stopped breathing. Uncounted moments of suspended silence followed; then the waitress reappeared with our second round of drinks, saying, “You have a phone call, Mr. Logan—one of your editors.” I gulped for air as he excused himself. As I watched him cross the room to take his call, my mind spun to grasp all that he had told me.

Though I was thinking about a beautiful young man who had lived as a fantasy in my subconscious for over thirty years, I said to Parker, “Wouldn’t you think that a man like Barret Logan would carry a cell phone, or even a pager? Maybe there’s a lesson here, Parker. Maybe the ultimate luxury, the height of sophistication, is to be
dis
-connected. If people really need to reach you, they can somehow figure out…”

“Mark,” Parker stopped me, “you don’t have to bury your emotions about this, not from me. You told me how you felt about your cousin. I understand. It must be devastating.”

“It’s not devastating,” I lied, “just unexpected. I’ll deal with it, Parker. But I do appreciate your concern.”

Then he patted my hand and repeated something I’d already heard from him more than once: “This is all I’ve ever wanted.”

I had a dream that night, an eerie exercise in déjà vu.

I’m a boy of nine, visiting the house on Prairie Street for the first time. It’s the second day of my visit, and I’ve met everyone in the household except my oldest cousin, Mark Quatrain, who’s returning that morning from college. Everyone’s excited because it’s the first time he’s been away, and they all miss him.