Dead Body Language (16 page)

I
’m not big on funerals. I’ve only been to one, when I was thirteen and my grandfather died. It was open casket and I got my first glimpse of a dead body. He looked like a delicate porcelain doll, heavy on the rouge, and not like himself at all. Everyone was crying, including my dad. I’d never seen him cry before. I decided then that I didn’t want to have a funeral if it was going to make everyone so upset.

But solemn, depressing funerals were becoming a thing of the past, according to Celeste.

The event at the Memory Kingdom Memorial Park was shaping up to be more like a party than a burial ceremony. Of course, no one was drunk or laughing too loud or trying to pick up a date, as they might have been at a typical party.

The chapel looked the setting for a wedding rather than a funeral. Pink and black streamers had been twisted around the ends of each pew, topped with large pink velvety bows. A lavish pink floral display was mounted on a black drape over the casket, featuring dyed-to-match pink carnations, pink lilies, pink daisies, and pink roses. The
room was filled with a sickly sweet scent. It smelled pink. It probably sounded pink.

Hanging from the ceiling were small stuffed birds that looked like mutant pink-dyed canaries. The tastefully printed program I had been handed as I entered was pink, of course, with black lettering, and a picture of a tiny gold bird in the upper right-hand corner just above Lacy Penzance’s swirled and stylish name.

I took a seat in the far corner of the nearly full chapel and glanced around at the attending guests while waiting for the service to begin. Most of the town’s citizenry had turned out, including the sheriff and deputy, who nodded soberly from across the aisle. Again I marveled at how quickly Lacy was being laid to rest.

I recognized several regulars from the café, and of course, the funeral home was well represented by French, Celeste—who stood by the door as if ready to flee—and a few of the staff. Celeste matched the decor in her long pink gown with black velvet trim.

I spotted Sluice Jackson, who stood mumbling in a corner, guarding his leather pouch. He had dressed for the occasion by removing his ragged, bead-covered cap. His sparse hair stood up in wisps, as if swirled by a tornado.

The funeral began with a song, performed by a woman I didn’t recognize. I could tell it was a song because her mouth stayed open a long time. I watched the singer for a few minutes until I became bored, then gazed at the listeners as I waited patiently for the song to end.

I had made a mistake in coming, I realized shortly after the minister began his sermon. I hadn’t brought an interpreter and I was too far away to lip-read him with any kind of accuracy. He had a pair of those thin, flat, lipless lips that make a mouth look like a gash across the face.

I occupied myself by watching the guests squirm, doodle, yawn, pick their teeth, scratch, and cough during his ten-minute monologue. After a middle-aged woman headed for the podium to say a few words, I sneaked out the back.

The Gathering Room next door was still in the
process of being set up for the postfuneral assembly. I peeked in to see more pink-and-black decorations that floated, hung, or draped the room. Tables were set with large bowls of pink punch, tiny pink sandwiches, and silver platters of salmon paté and cold cuts. One wall featured large posters of Lacy, obviously blown up from photographs, in a variety of formal and charitable poses.

I noticed Celeste standing across the room giving orders to a group of waitresses. She waved cheerily when she saw me, then directed a flower delivery man to a far table, a caterer to a melting ice sculpture, and a custodian to a glitch in the lighting ambiance.

“Did you do all this?” I asked when the frenzy died down. I made a sweeping gesture of the room. Celeste beamed with pride.

“Yes. Of course, it’s all in accord with Lacy’s wishes. We talked a lot about her own final plans during the days when I was counseling her about Reuben’s passing. I’ve simply provided what she requested. We encourage all our guests to plan the details of their finales. Lacy’s favorite colors were pink and black, so she chose them for her color scheme. Did you get a look at her casket? It’s lined in pink velvet with black trim and tiny embroidered gold birds. It’s really becoming. She picked the flowers, the music, the food, even the caterers.”

“Wow,” I said as I took it all in. “This was all Lacy’s idea? Did she have some sort of premonition she was going to die soon?” I wondered if there might have been some hints made during the grief counseling sessions.

“Oh, no! At least not that I know of. She was bereaved, but she didn’t seem suicidal.”

Wolf Quick appeared at the door, a little out of his element among the pink puffery. He signaled Celeste with a look and she excused herself. I snatched a pink cookie from a passing platter. While I headed back to the main entrance, Wolf followed Celeste to a room behind another heavy curtain. He looked upset, but then he always seemed to have a scowl on his rugged face. I wondered what was up between the two of them. Secret lovers? You never knew.

I sneaked a couple of fancy crackers from the prepared banquet table and wondered what I would choose if it were time to plan my own funeral. Maybe a beer bust, with plenty of chips and dip, some of those little cheese toast things, and maybe a cake in the shape of a giant—

I felt a tap on my shoulder and whirled around.

“Shit! You scared me!” I said, sputtering cracker crumbs. It was Dan Smith, freshly groomed, wearing a casual leather jacket, long-sleeved tan cotton shirt, and khaki Dockers. “You’ve got to quit sneaking up on me like that without a warning!”

“Sorry,” he said, trying to stifle a grin. I’m sure that’s what he said. His mouth was full of pink stuff so I couldn’t make out the exact word, but it had better have been an apology.

“But how am I supposed to warn you without tapping you?” he said.

I ignored his unanswerable question. “What are you doing here, anyway? You didn’t know Lacy Penzance.”

He shrugged. “I could say I was hungry and heard there was a great buffet here, but that would sound cold and heartless. Truthfully, I just wanted to see who her friends were. I think there’s a connection between Lacy Penzance and my brother’s disappearance. Thought I’d check it out.”

“You expect to find a clue to your missing brother’s whereabouts in the crackers and salsa?” I frowned.

He smiled. There was pink stuff on his lips. It looked good on him. For a second, I wondered how it tasted. I gave myself a mental slap on the face.

I suspected the funeral must have just ended, because a few people were beginning to appear in the entryway. Within moments the room was full of Lacy’s friends and followers, all eating and drinking, if not making merry, at least enjoying one another’s company. Dan and I were soon pushed into a far corner, away from the “grieving” crowd.

I noticed the sheriff huddled in an intense conversation with a man whose back was turned to me. They
leaned into one another, glancing around as if discussing something they didn’t want anyone else to hear.

That, of course, made me really curious. I watched the sheriff intently as he spoke.

“Prenuptial?” I was fairly certain he said that word. Then something like, “Do you think Lacy was planning to marry—” He turned his head.

The man said a few words and the sheriff responded, “Who was he?” The man said something and the sheriff said, “You’re sure?” Then someone with big hair stood in my way and I couldn’t see his lips anymore.

Dan was staring at me. “It’s not polite to stare,” he said.

“I wasn’t staring. You’re staring.”

“I’m not staring. I’m waiting for a response. You’ve definitely been staring at those two over there. Are you reading their lips?”

“Of course not. That would be an invasion of privacy, wouldn’t it. Now what were you saying?”

“I said, this funeral is really something. Don’t think I’ve ever been to one like this before. Not in New Mexico, not in New York.”

“Lacy planned it all,” I said, waving my hand at the decorations and food.

“Her own funeral?” Dan asked, then stuck his bottom lip out. “I guess that’s not a bad idea.” He looked around and grinned. “Of course, it’s not my style, all that pink frilly stuff.”

“So what is your style?” I asked, grabbing a couple of glasses of pink champagne from another passing tray. I was getting good at eating and drinking on the run. I offered one to Dan and he took it.

“Well, let’s see. First of all, I’d go for dark green or brown. And pictures of Clint Eastwood or Hemingway on the walls, not posters of me. The champagne’s nice but I prefer beer. Bud. Some burgers, pizzas, Polish hot dogs, and a bunch of peanuts. And I’d get rid of that crap they’re playing.”

I looked puzzled.

“The music.”

“You don’t like Linda Ronstadt?” I asked.

“Hey, I thought you were …”

I stuck my finger in my ear, wiggled it around, then pulled it out. “Yep. Still deaf.”

“Cute. So how do you know about Linda Ronstadt?”

“I know about music. Just because I can’t hear it doesn’t mean I’m not interested in what’s going on in the music world. Ever see a black hole? No. But it’s still interesting to read about. Besides, I like to impress my hearing friends with music trivia. They’re always surprised when I tell them about the latest Pearl Jam cut or explain the difference between ska and reggae. Linda Ronstadt is kind of pop-country, right? With a side of salsa. I prefer those artists who aren’t so mainstream. Morrissey. Boingo. R.E.M.”

Dan laughed loudly. I could tell because he threw his head back and attracted the attention of a couple standing nearby.

“What’s so funny?” I asked, a little annoyed.

“You can’t judge a musical group by its look! I mean, that’s like judging a book by its cover!”

“You’d be surprised. I can tell a lot about people by the music they listen to. Old hippies who are stuck in the sixties listen to the Grateful Dead and the Beatles. People who listen to hip hop and rap are still in their adolescence. The ones who listen to Mozart and Haydn are either very interesting or very boring. And people who are a little out of the mainstream listen to alternative music. I tend to like the people who listen to that stuff.”

“What about Beausoleil, Stevie Ray Vaughan, Dwight Yoakam, Eric Clapton? Can you tell what kind of person I am by the music I listen to?”

I nodded.

“What?”

“Confused.” I turned swiftly before he could hurt me, and bumped into a man who probably listened to Mantovani. He was the one I’d seen earlier talking with the sheriff.

“Hi, Sheriff,” I said, raising my glass.

The sheriff raised his, then introduced me to his cohort of the moment. He was a stiff-looking man in a
black suit, with a face creased like a weathered board and covered with age spots. “Connor, how you doing? This is Simon Wheeler, Lacy’s attorney. We call him Croaky.”

I stuck out a hand, still watching the sheriff in case he continued to talk. When he didn’t I turned my attention to Croaky.

“You’re the newspaper gal, aren’t you?” he said, grasping my hand and shaking it gently. His hand felt as if it might break in my grasp.

I swallowed the “gal” in deference to his age, and tried to remember if I had had any legal dealings with him. Thankfully, none came to mind.

The sheriff leaned over to catch my attention. “Quite a funeral, isn’t it?”

Small talk. Hate it. Let’s get to the point.

“Mr. Wheeler, one of my newspaper sources mentioned that Lacy Penzance may have had a new man in her life lately. She was even asking around about prenuptial agreements. Did she come to you about anything like that?”

The two men looked at each other and tried to cover their reactions of surprise. But the dropped jaws were dead giveaways.

“How—how did you know that?” Croaky glanced around the room, as if there might have been a mole in our midst.

“Newspaper sources?” The sheriff mimicked.

“It’s all over town. Was she really planning to get married soon?”

Croaky looked at the sheriff and seemed flustered. “I—I suppose I can talk about it, since she’s gone. She didn’t have any relatives to protect. Sheriff?”

The sheriff rubbed his temples. “It might help us figure out what happened to her.”

“Well, I want to do what I can to help. Uh, yes, she did come to my office and ask about prenuptial agreements.”

I downed the rest of my champagne in one swallow.

“Lacy’s husband has only been dead about six
months, right? You really think she could have been seriously involved with someone else already?”

Croaky looked at the sheriff as if to confirm my hunch. “Well, that’s what’s so puzzling about this. She never mentioned anyone. No one has actually seen her around town with anyone new. But she definitely asked for prenuptial information. What did your source say?”

I ignored him. It was my game. “What about her estate? Where will the money go?”

“It’s been left to various charities in the county. You know how dedicated she was to her causes. The Pioneer Preservation Project. The Penzance Historical Society. The restoration of the old Penzance Hotel. Except she did leave a check in my office for the sum of five thousand dollars.”

Five thousand dollars. “What for?” I asked, figuring it would be confidential. Still, it was worth a try.

Croaky glanced at the sheriff again, then at me. “As a matter of fact, I was going to call you this afternoon, after the funeral.”

“Me? Why?”

“The check was made out to you.”

“What? Why? What for?” I stammered, truly stunned.

He kneaded his hands as he spoke. “She wrote the check in my office and left it in an envelope for you. Said to hold it until she returned. But she never did come back. So I guess it’s yours. You can stop by and pick it up tomorrow if you like.”

The sheriff gave me the eye. “Connor?”

I looked at him helplessly. “Sheriff, I … really … I don’t know anything about it.”

“Connor, who is this so-called source of—”

Someone tickled my back and I turned to find Deputy Arnold. His touch gave me an uncontrolled shiver. I wasn’t used to being touched so lightly, not for a long time.