Body Language (27 page)

Roxanne sat at the kitchen counter on a stool, legs crossed, listening, experimenting with the sandwich Neil had given her. Unable to get it into her mouth, she pulled it apart and picked at it with a knife and fork. Splatting a puddle of mustard on her plate, she said, “All
right,
Mark—the meal sounds fabulous, and I’m glad the wine was perfect, but what ‘happened’?”

Her impatience was justified. My narrative had given no hint of the evening’s climax. So, while preparing a sandwich of my own, I explained, “After midnight, after the toasts, we all settled into conversation in the living room.”

Roxanne mumbled, “Meanwhile, back in the drawing room…”

Without comment, I continued. “Both Joey and Hazel had been drinking far more than usual all night, and between the two of them, they managed to spill some extraordinary family secrets.”

“How delicious,” said Roxanne, licking something from a finger. It wasn’t clear whether “delicious” applied to her finger or to the secrets. Carl shushed her, preferring to hear my story.

“Ultimately”—I paused—“Hazel revealed that Suzanne had an out-of-state abortion during high school. We had already suspected as much. This wasn’t just a typical unwanted pregnancy, however. Suzanne had been raped. On a Christmas morning. Upstairs in the great room of this house.” Roxanne’s jaw was already drooping. Was she ready for the corker? “The rapist was Suzanne’s own brother, Mark Quatrain.”

Roxanne and Carl were of course stunned by this news, losing interest in their lunch. I was hungry, though, and took advantage of the lull to eat a few bites of my sandwich. Roxanne also lost interest, at least for the moment, in wisecracking. “Lord, how awful,” she said, slumping on the stool. Whirling her hand, she attempted to piece together the story: “So Suzanne had the abortion, but what happened to her brother? Didn’t you say he died in Vietnam?”

“Right,” I told her, “but I didn’t know the details till this past week. The family never pressed charges against him. They were—what? Conflicted? They just wanted him out of here. A few months later, he graduated from college, got drafted, and, before long, he was off to Asia. There he raped another girl, a local girl, and—this gets worse—he murdered her. Then, while awaiting a military trial, he himself was killed in an ambush.”

Parker interjected, while stirring the soup, “Or so the story goes.”

Roxanne looked from face to face, confused. I told her, “Parker has a theory, based on the fact that Mark Quatrain’s body was mutilated beyond recognition in the ambush.”

Parker crossed from the stove to us, explaining, “Mark Quatrain could have survived the ambush and switched identities with a badly mutilated victim in order to escape prosecution for killing the Vietnamese girl. Years later, when Edwin Quatrain died and the probate lawyers began nitpicking the estate, they may have concluded that Mark Quatrain’s death could not be absolutely verified. Even though the estate was settled without incident and Suzanne was its principal beneficiary, she’d gotten wind of the idea that her brother might still be alive. Now, in light of what we learned last night from Hazel, it’s perfectly obvious why Suzanne would be motivated to find him—revenge.”

Roxanne and Carl, both of them lawyers, were by then fully engrossed in Parker’s theory, nodding to each other as he led them point by point through an intriguing legal thicket.

I told them, “Parker’s theory took on even greater plausibility yesterday when Elliot Coop delivered to me a pile of private investigators’ dossiers that Suzanne had been collecting.” I turned to Parker and Neil, confirming, “I studied some of the files this morning, and, sure enough, they trace the whereabouts of veterans who had survived the ambush in which Mark Quatrain supposedly died. Unfortunately, the files I read pointed nowhere.”

Parker pressed onward. “Still, consider: The plot comes full circle. Suzanne has had these guys under investigation for a couple of years now. Suppose Mark Quatrain is, in fact, one of them, and suppose he’s clever enough to figure out that Suzanne was on his trail. He would then have a strong, obvious motive to kill her.”

“Jeez,” said Carl, shaking his head at the thought of it, “the brother from the grave.” He plucked a pickle from his plate and bit off its end.

Neil asked, “But how would he do it? I mean, Suzanne was killed here in the house, on Christmas Day. We know who was here—at least we
think
we do. Did Mark Quatrain sneak in, kill Suzanne, and sneak out again?”

“Not likely,” said Parker, “but he could have paid or otherwise convinced someone—anyone—to do it for him. He may be nowhere near Dumont. Or maybe he’s been here all along.”

I reminded everyone, “This is all speculation, involving a bunch of ‘ifs’. At this point, I’d call the ‘brother from the grave’ a long-shot suspect at best. I think we need to concentrate on the short list of living, breathing known suspects we’ve already identified.”

At that point we heard footfalls in the hall, and all of us turned to see Joey Quatrain step through the kitchen doorway. He stood there timidly, looking like hell, having slept in his clothes. His suit was wrinkled, tie askew, beard unshaven, hair unkempt. Seeing me, he immediately asked, “Was I bad, Mark?”

“No, Joey, no”—I waved him into the room—“you just had a bit too much to drink. It was New Year’s, and no harm was done.” I reintroduced him to Roxanne and Carl, whom he remembered from Christmas, but he had little to say to them. I asked him, “Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure. He answered quietly, “I’m sort of hungry.”

Neil offered, “How about some soup?”

Joey nodded, licking his lips. Neil crossed to the stove with a bowl.

I told Joey, “There’s coffee, too. That’ll help wake you up.”

He hesitated. “Do you have any cocoa?”

Parker laughed. “I’ll get it.” And he went to the refrigerator for milk.

I asked Joey, “Is Thad up yet?”

He shook his head. “I looked in his room. He’s still asleep.”

Roxanne eyed me accusingly. “Did you get
him
smashed, too?”

“
No
,” I assured her, “he’s just sleeping in. You know how kids are at that age.”

“
No
,” she assured me, “I don’t.” Then she reconsidered. “Actually, I do recall reading something about their circadian rhythms.”

“God, Rox,” said Neil, “you make him sound like a locust or something.” He carried the bowl of soup to the counter and pulled up another stool so Joey could join us and eat.

In deference to Joey, we avoided the topic of Suzanne’s murder and dropped our discussion of Parker’s “brother from the grave” theory. We focused instead on Joey himself, and Roxanne got him to talk about his job at Quatro Press.

“They call us ‘human resources’ now,” said Joey. “We used to be just the personnel department. It sounds more important, I guess, but we don’t do anything different.”

Carl said, “I assume Quatro is Dumont’s largest employer.”

“Oh, yes,” said Joey, pausing to slurp a noodle, “we’re biggest by far.”

Parker stepped into the conversation with Joey’s cocoa. “I just had a thought,” he said. “Joey, I know you find the topic of your sister’s murder upsetting, but you know how important it is that we find the killer, don’t you?”

“Yes,” he answered skeptically. I myself wondered where Parker was heading.

Parker told him, “Before you came downstairs, we were talking about an idea that your older brother, Mark, might still be alive.”

Joey dropped his spoon in his soup. “He died a long time ago, Parker. He was killed in Vietnam.”

“Yes, we know that,” Parker explained patiently, “but there’s a slight chance that somebody made a mistake. It’s possible that Mark didn’t die, and if that’s true, he might be able to help us discover who killed Suzanne. But first, we’d have to find Mark. Would you be willing to help us?”

Joey tried his cocoa, thinking over the question. “Sure,” he answered, “but I don’t know how to help you. Where would we look?”

Good question. I was wondering about that myself. Parker told him, and the rest of us, “Quatro Press is the area’s largest employer. If Mark Quatrain were still alive, and moved back to town and needed employment but wanted to get lost in the crowd, chances are he’d apply for work at Quatro. He could quietly keep an eye on things at close range; then, when the time was right, he could act.”

“Act on what?” Joey asked. But the rest of us now understood what Parker was driving at, and I had to admit that he had raised an interesting possibility.

Parker said, “The point is, Joey, that since you work in personnel at Quatro, you probably know everyone who works there, at least in passing, right?” Joey nodded, and Parker continued. “So I’m wondering if you could check your files and find out if there are any Vietnam veterans who started working at Quatro anytime within the last three years. We need someone about fifty years old, with an honorable discharge, who may have asked questions about the Quatrain family.”

“Allan Addams,” Joey said at once, looking suddenly alert. “I don’t
need
to check the files, Parker. The person you’re talking about is Allan Addams. I hired him about three years ago—it was shortly after Dad died. Allan was hurt in Vietnam, so he walks funny. He works in the credit department, just down the hall from me, so I see him all the time. He’s
always
asking me about the family.”

The rest of us all looked at each other, astonished. Had Parker hit pay dirt?

He told Joey, “I know this may come as something of a shock to you, but Allan Addams could possibly be your brother, Mark Quatrain.”

Joey screwed his face in thought for a moment, then laughed. “No, I’m sure Allan isn’t Mark.”

Excited by the prospects raised by Parker, I jumped in, noting, “You haven’t seen your brother in over thirty years, Joey. People change a
lot
in thirty years. If Mark is still alive, he wouldn’t look anything like the way you remember him.”

Joey considered this. “Nahhh,” he told me, as if he’d caught me in a fib, “they
couldn’t
be the same person.”

Dingdong. We all looked toward the hall. “I’ll get it,” I said, then left the kitchen to answer the front door, leaving the others to gab about Allan Addams with Joey.

Even before opening the door, through the narrow sidelight I recognized the figure of Sheriff Douglas Pierce. “Good afternoon, Doug. Happy New Year,” I told him as I let him in.

He returned the greeting and removed his gloves to shake my hand. “Mark, I felt awful about declining your invitation for last night. I’ve got a lot going on right now”—he amplified—“personally, I mean. Maybe we can talk about it sometime.”

“How about now?” I offered.

“No.” He smiled. “That’s not why I’m here. I’m afraid this is business.”

With a wave of my hand, I led him into the den. Closing the door, I explained, “There’s a houseful of people, mostly in the kitchen.”

He hung his coat and told me, “In spite of the holiday, I’ve been getting a lot of pressure from the DA this morning on two fronts. Harley’s still pushing me to make an arrest, and now he’s started meddling in Miriam’s custody battle for Thad. I can’t hold him at bay much longer. We need a new lead, or at least a new wrinkle.”

“I can’t offer much regarding Thad”—I broke into a broad smile—“but I’ve got several significant wrinkles regarding Suzanne’s murder.”

“Oh?” He pulled out his notebook.

I gestured that we should sit opposite each other at the desk. Leaning over the suede blotter, propped up by my elbows, I gave him a detailed account of Hazel’s midnight revelations, Parker’s “brother from the grave” theory, and Joey’s inquisitive veteran credit manager.

“Well now”—Pierce poked a period on his pad—“this ought to keep Harley Kaiser off your tail for a while. It certainly warrants continued investigation. Do you have time to brainstorm a couple of loose ends with me?”

“Sure, Doug.” Then I had a thought. It was about one in the afternoon. “Have you eaten yet? We’ve got a casual lunch going in the kitchen—everyone’s out there. Why don’t you join us? We can all put our heads together.”

While Pierce had turned down my invitation for the previous evening, he showed no reluctance in accepting this one. Maybe he was hungry. So I led him to the kitchen, where everyone looked up from their soup and sandwiches to greet him, save Joey, who had forged onward to his dessert, piling a plate with frosted brownies, a variety of cookies, and a huge gob of leftover creme fraîche. “This stuff isn’t bad if you put enough sugar on it,” he told us. Then, noticing the new arrival, he added, “Oh, hi, Sheriff Pierce.”

“Hi, Joey,” Pierce answered brightly. Eyeing the plateload of sweets that Joey was wolfing, he offered a good-natured warning: “Go easy on that, Joey. You could get a serious buzz.”

We all laughed, except Joey, who appeared baffled by the comment, shrugged, and took an enormous chomp out of another brownie, smearing frosting on his unshaven cheek. The sight of his mouth devouring the chocolate made my own teeth tingle, but the overload of sugar didn’t seem to bother Joey in the least. Presumably, the buzz felt way better than his hangover.

I asked Pierce, “What can I fix you, Doug?”

Noticing an abandoned plate on the counter with a half-eaten sandwich that he presumed to be mine, he told me, “Go ahead and finish your lunch, Mark. I’ll put something together myself.” And he made himself at home among us.

Retrieving my sandwich, adding a folded slice of cheese to it, I told the others, “Doug is intrigued by our ‘brother from the grave’ angle, and he’d like to brainstorm a couple of points with all of us.”

“Ooo”—Roxanne rubbed her hands together—“I
love
parlor games.”

Neil laughed. Carl and I shot her a behave-yourself glance. Parker told Pierce, “We’d be happy to help. What’s on your mind?”

Pierce neatly sliced his sandwich with a serrated knife, not on the diagonal, I noted, but squarely in half, top to bottom. He told us, “By now, we should be able to focus this investigation on a key suspect or two, but, instead, our list is growing. The mystery of Suzanne’s murder has been dogging us, I think, because the case has too many loose ends. So let’s try concentrating on one detail at a time.”