Dead Body Language (19 page)

The book dated back to Lacy’s marriage fifteen years earlier. The entries were made every few days, and were brief, with only the highlights of her life detailed. Very little emotion was revealed in the writing—just the facts, ma’am.

I flipped through the second, the third, and finally the fourth journal, each one of a different shade of pink, purple, or lavender, to see if there was something of interest that could put some light on her death. The fourth one—and most recent—began with Reuben’s death. This time, the writing was more emotional. Although it seemed she had loved and missed her less-than-perfect husband, her fear or loneliness—and of being alone—was more evident than her sorrow of losing her partner.

The paper in this last journal was pale pink, scented, and flowery, like the stationery Lacy had used to write her assumed suicide note. But all the pages seemed intact. The entries ended about six weeks earlier. I wondered if she could have started one more volume—a journal that would explain the more recent events in her life.

I checked the drawer. No more boxes.

I returned the journals to their hiding place, all but the last one, which I tucked into my notebook while the maid was engaged in a feminine hygiene commercial. As I got up to thank Carmen, I noticed that the light was blinking on the answering machine next to the bedroom phone.

“Did someone call?” I asked.

She shrugged.

“Have you listened to any of her messages since she died?”

“Uh, no. I … I don’t know. Some. The sheriff took
the tape when he came here yesterday. I put another one in but I haven’t checked it. I just haven’t been thinking right, you know. I don’t like to listen to her messages. It seems not good.”

“So these calls came in after her death?”

Carmen pulled at her hair. “Yes. When Mrs. Penzance was alive, she didn’t want me to answer her personal phone or take the messages from the machine in here. I always left it alone, like she said. But I guess I should listen now, and call them back and tell them Mrs. Penzance is not … here any more.” Her eyes welled.

I pulled out my tape recorder. “Listen, why don’t you play them now, and I’ll record them. You never know. There may be something important on the machine.”

“I don’t know … maybe I should wait for the sheriff …” she said, hesitating.

“Well, it can’t hurt. And if there is something important, you can tell him tomorrow. I’m sure he would appreciate that.”

She paused for another moment, then let go of her hair and pushed the playback button. I turned on my tape recorder and held it next to the speaker. I would get Miah to translate it when I got back to the office. But if Carmen’s expression was any indication, there was something significant on that tape.

M
y scabbed knees ached as I climbed the stairs to my office. My right arm itched from what appeared to be poison oak. And my head throbbed from the strain of constant lipreading. I needed some peace along with the quiet.

Although it was late, Miah was at his small desk in the corner of my office, working away on the assignment I’d given him to wrap the upcoming frog festival. Something to do with a frog costume contest. If we were to get the paper out by Saturday, we needed to wind up most of the contents by tomorrow. And I had been neglecting my share of the work trying to get this front-page story.

“What-doing?” I signed, after waving to catch his attention. The simple sign, index and thumb making little pincher movements, palm up, meant more like “What’s up?” than “What are you doing?”

He signed back the ASL version of “I’m trying to make fun of this story.” I think he meant he was trying to put some fun into the story. Either way it didn’t really matter. I was beyond sweating the small stuff. I just wanted to get it done.

“Favor, please?” I said, more with my face than my
hands. He nodded. His hair fell over his face and he threw it back with a sharp twist of his head. It was kind of a sexy move, if you tended to have thoughts like that about twenty-five-year-old guys.

“Interpret? Tape, Lacy Penzance answer machine. Maybe important, don’t-know,” I signed. He followed my signs, nodding occasionally and frowning intently. I can always tell when he’s not understanding me. He gets this glazed look over his eyes, his mouth falls open, and he just nods his head reflectively. At the moment he was looking pretty sharp.

“You take from house, you?” he asked, eyebrows raised.

I made a negative face and shook my head. “Me? No. My tape. Just copied. Left it there. OK?”

He looked relieved that I hadn’t stolen some important evidence from Lacy’s home, like Exhibit A.

I cleaned up my desk while he listened and typed, listened and typed.

About the time I tossed out the last of the See’s candy papers, old sticky notes, pizza coupons, computer catalogs, and creatively bent paper clips, he handed the completed copy to me. I had even recorded her outgoing message, just in case. It read:

The sales pitch went on. I skimmed down to the next message.

I looked up at Miah. He figuratively signed, “There were four more hang-ups. That was it. What do you think?”

“I think we’d better get down to Wentling right away if we want to take advantage of that portrait offer.” I winked and underlined the name Arden Morris on his notes.

“Think that’s something?” Miah signed.

I gave him the universal sign for how-the-hell-should-I-know—shoulders up and down—thought for a moment, then handed him the phone.

“Let’s call him. He sounds interesting—”

“It’s a she,” Miah interrupted.

“What?”

“She. Arden Morris is a she.”

“How do you know?”

“Her voice.”

“Oh, yeah, okay. Tell her you’re Lacy’s secretary and … you’re phoning to set up that appointment, whatever it is. Maybe she hasn’t heard the news about Lacy, since Rio Vista’s out of the area. And get her address.”

Miah dialed, indicated a busy tone, redialed. The second time he nodded. He gave the voice on the line his name and spiel. Suddenly, his contrived smile drooped out of sight. He hung up the phone without saying another word.

“She said she doesn’t think I’m funny. She said I’m some sort of sick human being and if I call there again she’ll call the police.”

I guess she’d heard the news.

We had touched a nerve, I thought on my way to the tiny Flat Skunk Library, which was open until nine
P.M
. on Wednesday nights. I wanted to know more, and I had fifteen minutes until closing.

Despite the fact that the Flat Skunk Library reference section is about as small as the paperback section at the grocery store and the whole thing is housed in a double trailer, I located Arden Morris’s address in the ragged Delta Valley phone book. The “A. Morris” on River Road matched the phone number we’d received from Lacy’s answering machine tape.

After returning to the office and finishing up the layout on three ads—one for the Who Did Your Hair salon, one for Ernest N. Deavor Real Estate, and one for the Mark Twain Look-Alike Contest at the Frog Jubilee, I decided to make a last-minute trip to Rio Vista to meet the mystery woman. Armed with more bogus business cards and letterhead, I said good night to Miah as he headed home, and closed the door to my office.

Dan was just coming around the stairway corner when I turned around, a bag of cat food in one arm and a bag of burgers in the other. The smell of the food reminded me I hadn’t had anything decent to eat all day except for some pink stuff.

“Where are you off to?” Dan said, fumbling for the keys to Boone’s office.

“I have a lead,” I said, conjuring up the Whopper and fries emanating from the steaming bag. I hoped I wouldn’t actually drool down the front of my top.

Dan handed me the people food bag to hold while he stuck the key in the lock and opened the door. I followed him into the office and set the burgers on Boone’s desk.

“Hungry?” he asked, ripping open the cat food bag and pouring a small amount of hard colorful chunks into a plastic bowl near the window. The cat came creeping out from behind the filing cabinet in search of a simulated mouse dinner.

“A little,” I said, hoping my stomach wasn’t speaking louder than I was. Even the cat food was beginning to look good.

“So what’s up?”

I told him about the message on Lacy’s machine and my plans to visit Arden Morris. He looked up at the mention of her name.

“Arden Morris?”

I nodded. “You know her?”

He moved to the filing cabinet and pulled out a drawer. After a little rifling, he triumphantly extracted a file with “Arden Morris” scrawled across the top.

“I thought I remembered that name from one of the files I cleaned up in the mess. Shall we have a look?”

He set the file down on the desk next to the aromatic bag of greasy meat and fries and flipped it open.

Nothing inside.

“Shit! Somebody’s cleaned it out. What’s going on around here?”

He pulled out a burger and set it on the desk absentmindedly. I swallowed the Pavlovian collection of saliva in my mouth. Tasted like a burger in a strange way.

After a moment Dan seemed to come back to the planet. He tore the burger in half and offered me the smaller chunk. I took it, trying to seem nonchalant, and finished it in three bites and forty-five seconds.

“You planning to go see Arden Morris tonight?” he said, after finishing his half. I looked at my watch. It was
getting late for the long drive to Rio Vista to confront a mystery woman about a dead woman.

“To tell you the truth, Connor, I’d like to go, too. I think there’s a connection to my brother in all this. If you want to wait until morning I’ll join you, but it’s kind of late now and I’ve got a few things I need to do.”

I watched him pull another wrapper out of the bag. A chicken sandwich. He broke it apart and this time gave me the bigger half. I tried not to wolf it and my restraint was remarkable, considering my condition. I boldly helped myself to the fries.

“Yeah, okay, you’re right,” I said when I could talk again. “It’s late. Tomorrow, then. After I send up the paper. I’ve really been neglecting my work and I could use the time to catch up. I don’t know who Arden Morris is or what her connection to Lacy is, but I do think she’s a part of this, whatever this is.”

We finished our food in silence, gazing out the window at the lighted street as we watched the town activity die down. After the last of the fries was gone, I thanked Dan for the meal, told him I owed him one, and said I’d see him in the morning. I, too, had a few things I still needed to do.

As I left his office and started to return to my own, I had a thought. I reversed my steps, headed down the hotel stairs, and hopped in my car, heading for Memory Kingdom.

Outside it was already starry, with a sliver of moon, but the cloud-filled blue sky painted on the walls of the mortuary’s reception room gave the feeling of midafternoon. To my surprise, the main entrance door was unlocked at the late hour. “Our doors never close,” I thought would make a good motto.

I found French McClusky at his desk. He appeared to be the only soul in the place at that time of night. At least the only soul I could see. No telling what phantasms were lurking around the bodies back in the Morgatorium Room, or whatever it was called.