Dead Body Language (12 page)

F
ollowing a suspect looks easy in the movies. You jump in the car, keep your distance, and eventually you both end up at the same destination.

But anticipating the direction a real live person is actually headed when she doesn’t use her blinker, she drives too fast, and she’s three cars ahead, is about as easy as lipreading.

With lipreading you’re on target maybe thirty to fifty percent of the time. The rest is guesswork. I’m able to guess most words that come over the lips, so I suppose that makes me a good lip-reader. Stuck in the middle of tourist traffic behind Elmer Fudd and the Mrs., I was not so good at guessing which way Risa Longo had suddenly turned.

When Fudd slammed on the brakes to point out a statue of Mark Twain to Mrs. Fudd, I rear-ended him while trying to get a lock on my suspect’s new direction. A common misconception about the deaf is that we seem to have a sixth sense, some sort of ESP, to make up for the hearing loss. Not me. But I do have insurance.

“Shit,” I cursed as I slapped my hand down on the
steering wheel. It must have been audible because Mrs. Fudd turned and gave me a disgusted look. My language must have upset her. Or maybe it was the minor dent I had nicked in their oversized puke green Lincoln.

Suffice it to say, the bump in his fender was barely visible to the naked eye, while the front of my classic two-tone ’57 Chevy had turned ugly. While the Fudds and I exchanged insurance information, I caught the Mrs. saying to her husband, “I didn’t know deaf people could drive cars.”

We pushed my car to the side, after backing up traffic on the two-lane road and drawing a nice gawking crowd. Thanks to a new wheel alignment created by the impact, I had to walk to the nearest garage three blocks away to arrange repairs. The mechanic on duty said no problem, piece of cake, and I thanked him profusely as I sat down ready to wait it out with a few more chapters of my mystery. That’s when the guy in the overalls named Ed smiled and shook his head.

“What? You can’t fix it?” I asked.

“Oh, we can fix it all right, but it won’t be ready until tomorrow. Gotta get a part from Sonora. Don’t have any Chevy parts that old in stock. Don’t suppose you wanna sell it?”

I said no, thanks, and walked back to my car to get a few things. Now what? I had just pulled out my backpack and shut the door when someone touched my shoulder from behind. I jumped and dropped my bag.

“You gave me a heart attack! Don’t you know better than to come sneaking up on a deaf person?” I hate when that happens. And it happens all the time.

Dan leaned against the red-and-white fin of my sidelined Chevy. He was wearing a blue work shirt which matched his eyes, jeans that fit like a glove, and his tanned leather cowboy boots.

“Car trouble?” he asked, grinning. I surveyed the front-end damage and explained the ineptitude of the camera-burdened Fudds.

“So what are you doing here anyway?” he asked. “Following me?”

“No. I have business here. But my car …” I looked helplessly at what now appeared to be a hunk of classic junk.

“How about a beer?” He nodded toward the oak-and-stained-glass door of the He’s Not Here bar across the street.

I ran my fingers through my hair, wiped possible mascara shadows from under my eyes, and followed him into the popular refreshment getaway. Dan motioned toward a small burl table in a dark corner but I opted for one by the window. I could read him better there, and perhaps spot Risa Longo on the chance that she might decide to cruise the Main again.

“What do you want?” asked Dan, standing halfway between the table and the bar. I ordered a Sierra Nevada and Dan returned with two frosty bottles and glasses. Neither of us poured the beers into the glasses.

“So. What are you doing here?” Dan repeated, his upper lip frothy with beer foam. It caused me to lick my own lip, which in turn caused him to smile. “And where’s my cat? Fine cat sitter you turned out to be.”

“Your fur ball is fine. I left it with Miah, along with complete instructions on how to care for it and the name of a good personal injury lawyer in case he’s scratched to death during your absence.” I took a swallow of beer and tried to think of something profound to say. “Thought I might run into you here.” Very profound.

“Easy to do,” he said, after taking a deep pull from the bottle. He had a disconcerting habit of licking the mouth of the bottle before taking a drink. “Another small town with one main street. You looking for something to put in your newspaper?”

I decided to tell him the truth—at least some of it. I didn’t fully trust him yet, especially after the TTY chat with New Mexico’s corrections facility. But the little he’d said so far had checked out. And what I had to share wasn’t anything he probably wouldn’t hear at the Nugget. I explained about Lacy’s advertisement for her missing sister, since keeping it to myself no longer made sense.
And I told him about the name written on the back of the mortuary business card.

“So you thought you’d come up here and try to find Lacy’s sister? Why?”

“I don’t know. Thought it might add to the story I’m working on. There might be a connection between Lacy’s search for her sister and her own death. The sheriff doesn’t think it’s a suicide any more, even though it was made to look like one.” I waited for some sort of surprised body language.

“I know,” he said simply.

“You know? What do you know?”

“That it may not have been a suicide. Everyone’s talking about it.”

“Figures. There are no secrets in Flat Skunk.” The bartender dropped off a bowl of pretzels and asked if we wanted another round. I passed. Dan nodded. “Actually, I feel I sort of owe her,” I said.

“How?”

“I think she wanted my help in some way. She seemed so upset, desperate to find her sister. I wasn’t very … encouraging.”

Dan stuck the end of a pretzel in his mouth and munched it like a chipmunk, in little bites, until it disappeared.

“How about you? Any news about Boone?” I asked.

Dan took another gulp of beer. “Not much. No one saw him except maybe the bartender here. He said a guy who looked like Boone came in for a couple of beers about three or four days ago. He hasn’t seen him since and doesn’t remember much else. No one I’ve talked to knows anything.”

“You’d better call the sheriff.”

“I did. He doesn’t know anything either.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I filed a report. Other than that, look around a while longer. What about you?”

I checked my watch. It was nearly five
P.M
. The car wouldn’t be ready until morning. I could either take the bus home and back again, rent or borrow a car, or wait it
out, pick up my car tomorrow, and try to follow Risa again. And hope my newspaper didn’t fold in my absence. I could call Miah to cover—there was lots of busy work. And maybe he’d appreciate the extra pay.

“I’ve got to make some phone calls. Want to help me out? I left my portable TTY in the car.”

“You mean like talk for you, over the phone?”

“Yep.”

Dan downed the rest of his beer, then followed me to the pay phone in the corner by the bathroom. I gave him my office number to talk with Miah.

“No answer,” he said. “Machine. You want to leave a message?”

I nodded and reached out my hand to take the phone. “Did it beep?” Dan paused a moment, then handed the receiver over.

“Miah, this is Connor. I’m stuck in Whiskey Slide. Would you do a couple of things for me?” I gave him instructions to feed Dan’s cat and my dog at home—clueing him in on the well-hidden key—then asked him to finish a couple of articles that were ready to be typed, and prepare the copy for print. He’d done it all before so it shouldn’t be a problem—I hoped. Then I hung up, dialed the sheriff, and gave the phone back to Dan. In a few seconds he began to speak.

“Hi, uh, this is, uh—I’m calling for Connor Westphal.” He paused, then looked at me.

“Tell him I’m stuck here and won’t be back until tomorrow. How’s my house?”

Dan repeated my words in his own way, paused, then covered the receiver and spoke to me. “He said he doesn’t know how your diner is on the inside, but no one’s reported any other break-ins in the area. Said he’ll cruise by there again tonight, and check it out tomorrow when you get back.”

Another pause, then, “I’m on hold.”

A couple of seconds passed before Dan said anything else. Then he frowned and covered the receiver again. “He’s asking me, ‘who’s this talking?’ ”

“He’s probably confused, since I’m not using my
TTY. Ask him to check on my dog when he’s out there.” Dan relayed the message to the sheriff, then interpreted the sheriff’s reply back to me.

“He said he’s not a dog sitter. Says you feed that dog better food than he eats. Says your dog doesn’t like him. Says what are you doing in Whiskey Slide? Says hurry back before something bad happens to your underwear. Says who the hell is talking for you.”

Dan pulled the receiver from his ear. “Connor, I—”

I cut him off. “Tell him thanks. I’ll make him a nice dinner on Sunday. Something low in cholesterol and fat. Tell him the guy interpreting for me is … never mind. Just say good-bye.”

After relaying the message, probably edited slightly, Dan hung up. “What was that all about?”

“I’ll tell you over dinner. Where are you staying? That guest inn on the way into town—Breakfast in Bed?”

“No, the Black Bart Motel. It’s cheaper and it’s got one of those all-you-can-eat buffets right next door. You staying over?”

I decided it would be the best idea. Dan offered to make a call to the Black Bart and find me a room. While he did, I freshened up in the bathroom, then asked the bartender for a dining recommendation. I didn’t feel like stuffing it in tonight at the buffet, and the thought of Mexican food just didn’t sit right. I hoped he’d recommend some place nearby that was inexpensive and Italian.

“Room with a view for fifty-five bucks,” Dan said as he started to pay the bar tab. I pulled out my own cash and left a few bills. “No pets, no room service, no cable TV, but they do have claw-foot tubs and a candy machine in the lobby. And they’re serving fried chicken at the buffet.”

I winced and he caught it. “Don’t suppose a light fettucine primavera sounds good to you, does it?” I asked. “Garlic bread? A fresh garden salad? Zabaglione for dessert?” I hoped to make him change his mind by the mere description.

“Hey, I’m half Italian,” he said, accenting the statement
with pinched fingers, much the way the Godfather might gesture. “Lead on.”

Mama Leone and Alfredo di Roma have nothing on Hasta Be Pasta’s fettucine carbonara. The pasta was perfecto, the wine intoxicating, and the conversation stimulating. Although I learned little more from the tight-lipped Dan Smith, I managed to tell him my whole life story. He seemed to have a way of getting me to talk about myself. He would have made a great reporter.

“So what’s it like being deaf?”

“It’s really cool,” I said facetiously.

He laughed and the delight spread across his face. “You know what I mean.”

“I don’t cry over it. I’m used to it and don’t find it such a big problem. A little frustrating now and then, but more of an inconvenience than a handicap.”

“How’d you learn to speak so well?”

“My parents sent me to ‘normal’ public schools with hearing kids and I had a lot of speech training. Since I was hearing until I was four, I’d heard and used language for a couple of years. That helped.”

“What about sign language?”

“I learned it when I got older, hanging around other deaf kids at camp and deaf clubs. My parents wanted me to belong to the hearing world, but I felt pretty much out of it most of the time. By the time I learned sign language, I really wasn’t a part of the Deaf culture either. I’m kind of caught between two worlds.”

“But you get along so well.”

“I guess. Even though my parents didn’t really understand what it’s like being deaf, they helped me believe I could do just about anything I wanted. I fell for it.”

“Teach me a sign.”

I nodded, and showed him a simple phrase made by intersecting a couple of V’s.

He repeated it a few times before asking, “What does it mean?”

“ ‘Have a nice day,’ ” I said with a smile.

He signed it to the waitress as she brought us the bill.
Good thing she wasn’t deaf. I don’t think she would have liked being told “fuck you.”

Thanks to the wine, my head was spinning a little as it hit the pillow in the room named after bandito Joaquin Murietta. I’d been having a little trouble lip-reading Dan Smith’s interesting lips as the evening went on. But I had no trouble dreaming about them.

Morning comes early in the gold country, especially when you’ve downed a half carafe of the house red the night before. I headed to the breakfast buffet for a shock of coffee and some all-you-can-eat toast. I found Dan reading the
Mother Lode Monitor
over a cleaned plate of what may have been an order of Hangtown Fry.

“Any headlines?” I asked, as he folded the newspaper away.

“Sale at Norma Jean’s Who Did Your Hair salon, over on Jail Street. Perms half off. And Prospector’s Hardware’s got wheelbarrows marked down, with the purchase of a load of manure.”

“Thanks for sharing,” I grumbled, trying to revitalize myself with black fluid. I poured in some milk and dropped a Hershey’s Kiss from a nearby candy bowl into the cup for a makeshift mocha. I checked my watch and washed down my toast with something that tasted like motor oil. What I would have given for a Starbucks.

“Well, I’ve got to get going,” I said. “I don’t want to miss Risa Longo. The post office opens at nine. And I’ve got to get my car. You staying awhile?”

“Yeah. I still have a few things to check out. I should be back in Flat Skunk by tonight though, if nothing develops here.”

“Me, too. Lacy’s funeral is tomorrow and I don’t want to miss it. But I’m getting really worried about Boone, too. You’ve got to find out what’s happened to him.”

Dan didn’t say anything for a moment. I collected my bag and stood up. When I turned back to say good-bye, he was already speaking.

“What?”

“I said, I had a good time last night. It was a nice evening.”