Dead Body Language (28 page)

“Celeste, I think you were at the bed-and-breakfast last night, with the man known occasionally as James Russell. There was a bottle of hair color found at the scene. I’ll bet it was yours.”

“What? You’re crazy. Why on earth would I go there to color my hair? Besides, mine is Mahogany, not Cappuccino—” She stopped abruptly.

“How did you know it was Cappuccino they found at the B-and-B?”

Celeste’s face drained of color, leaving the artificial glow of blush on her cheeks. She looked like a rag doll.

“You knew the man who was staying there. The man who was apparently married to at least three wealthy women. The man who was about to marry a fourth: Lacy Penzance.”

“I … don’t …”

“Do you know what happened to him, Celeste?”

“No, I …”

“Did you kill him, Celeste?” I asked impulsively, then suddenly realized I might be standing in front of a cold-blooded murderer, unarmed and defenseless. I glanced around for a protective weapon, but Celeste didn’t whip out a trocar and try to shish-kebab me.

Instead, she burst into tears. Wild, physical sobs, tears streaming down her overly made-up face, giving a bizarre carnival look. She leaned back against the door and slid weakly to the floor.

All I could do was sit there and let the outburst run its course. After the big sobs subsided she spoke, her mouth wet from the copious tears.

“I … didn’t … kill … Jim … I didn’t … I loved him.”

I knelt over her and took her hand, but she pulled it away. I moved down next to her on the floor, close, but not touching, so I could watch her lips.

“You were there last night.”

She bit her lip, then said, “I went to see him, yes, for a while.”

“Why?”

Celeste paused, bit her lip hard enough to make a mark, and wiped her running nose with the palm of her hand. “I helped him with his hair. And then I left. That’s it. He was alive and perfectly fine—and now he’s dead.” She burst into tears again.

I waited a few moments. “He was your husband, wasn’t he?”

She looked at me, her expression a mixture of panic and amazement.

“The ring.” I nodded at the gold band she was twisting on her finger.

I waited for the next outburst of tears to subside as we sat on the floor, facing one another. “You found out about his relationship with Lacy, and you killed him? And her?”

“No! No! I told you! I didn’t kill him—or her.”

“But you know about the other women …”

Celeste nodded. It caused her nose to drip down onto her lip. She wiped it away with the back of her hand.

“What are you going to do?” she said, in jerky, hiccuping sentences. I had to strain my eyes to understand her altered speech.

“Nothing. I just want to know what this is all about. I’m sure you’ll do the right thing.”

“Are you going to tell the sheriff?”

“No, but you should. If you don’t, he’ll figure it out for himself. He found hairs and fingerprints—and that bottle of dye your husband used to change his appearance. It won’t take him long.”

Tears welled again in her eyes. “I didn’t kill Jim. I met him a couple of years ago, when I was a hairdresser in Hollywood.”

I nodded for her to continue.

“He was an actor, an aspiring one anyway. We hit it off and got married impulsively one night. Things went fine for a while, wonderful really. But then I lost my job and he wasn’t getting much work as an actor. So I took the mortuary job up here while he stayed in L.A. trying to get parts.”

Celeste took a deep breath and pinched her nose.

“Where’d you get the idea to introduce him to your clients?”

She looked away and wiped a tear that spilled down her splotchy cheeks. “I … I started working as a grief counselor for French. All these lonely rich widows would tell me their problems, just to have someone to talk to. I used to tell Jim about them. Some of the things they would tell me …”

She reached over to her desk, grabbed a tissue, and blew her nose.

“So, once you had the information on them, you introduced them to James?”

“He got the idea to meet them. He’d call them up and say he was an old army buddy or college friend of their dead husband’s. Then he’d ask them out to dinner and share some of the information I’d learned about them. You know, to prove he was an old friend.”

“So it was his idea to romance them?” I suggested.

Celeste laughed. “No one could resist Jimmy’s charm. Not even me. He was a great actor.”

She wiped the moist streaks under her eyes and took another breath.

“And then he married them?”

“Not at first. At first he just took what money he
could get. It didn’t seem so bad. They were rich. They could spare it. And he gave them a wonderful fantasy life. But over time he got carried away.”

“He didn’t stop there?” I suggested.

Celeste pulled a tissue from the desk and kneaded it in her hands. “If things looked promising he’d propose, thinking that would get him even more—property deeds, wills, things like that. Then one day he said he was going to marry one of them.”

“Then he’d what—take their money and run?”

Celeste smeared a tear off her cheek. “Sometimes he’d withdraw money from the bank, or liquidate their homes or cars, saying he needed the cash for a secret mission or journalism job or whatever. He was very creative at coming up with excuses for leaving for weeks at a time. And the money we—he made—it was phenomenal!”

She smiled wistfully. It seemed what she admired most about her man was his ability to lie so effectively.

“How did he get away with that? Didn’t the women become suspicious?”

“Not until Lacy. He was very careful. These women wanted to believe in him so badly, they’d buy into almost anything he said. He’d take off for weeks at a time, saying he was on some kind of mission, then come back for a few days, give them a thrill, get some more money, then take off again.”

“How could he keep that up? Especially with so many women?”

Celeste shrugged. “After a while he just wouldn’t return to the earlier ones anymore. He’d send a fake telegram about his death without leaving any information they could trace. He took what he could and then moved on to the next one.”

“And you set him up.”

Celeste didn’t answer. Her eyes welled with tears. “It wasn’t supposed to be that way. But Jimmy was so persuasive. He said he didn’t love any of them. Just me. I hated sharing him with those old women, but what could I do?”

“The two of you essentially ran a kind of polygamy ring,” I said, summarizing her exploits into a clear ugly picture.

She sniffled and looked and me pleadingly. “We didn’t really hurt anyone. The women were happy to find someone who loved them again. They didn’t need all that money—they weren’t going to live forever, and they had plenty. They loved having this exciting, elusive man in their fantasy lives, even when he was gone.”

“How did he keep all the women separate? Wasn’t he afraid they’d find out about each other?”

“He was careful. They were all in different towns. Since I travel from place to place working for the Memory Kingdom chain, it made it easy to find new prospects throughout the Mother Lode.”

“And Arden Morris? What about her?”

“She moved to Rio Vista after they were married.”

“Did he kill Lacy because she found out about the bigamy scam?” I asked.

“No! He didn’t kill anyone! Neither of us did! He was just in it for the money. And I was in it for him mostly. Nobody got hurt—except Jimmy.”

“You don’t know that for sure. What about Lacy? She got hurt. She’s dead. And I’m fairly certain she was onto him. And perhaps onto you, too.”

“I know she was onto something. She found out about Risa Longo—I guess she went through Jim’s wallet and found the business card or something. She went up to Whiskey Slide to see for herself. But it wasn’t a big deal. Jimmy was just going to disappear for a while until things cooled off. They’d never find him because he had so many false identities.”

“But Lacy died.”

“Yes, she’s dead. And I’m sorry, not that I particularly liked her. She was just another spoiled, rich lady. But we didn’t have anything to do with her death.”

“Somebody used a trocar, Celeste. From the mortuary.”

“I know! I know! I don’t know how they got it. But I swear to you, we didn’t do it. That’s way out of our league.”

“You can’t really speak for James Russell, can you?”

Celeste looked at me. A large tear collected in the corner of her eye, rolled under her nose and down to her lip, then dropped to the floor, making a tiny damp circle in the dark carpet.

“W
hat’s going on here?” French demanded, pushing his way into the room, face flushed and eyes surveying what little he could see inside the room. Celeste, leaning against the door, scooted a few inches to give him access. “Didn’t you hear me knocking? Celeste, you’ve got a client! Celeste?”

Celeste sat huddled in an upright fetal position at his feet. French looked at me for an explanation.

“Guy troubles,” I said, looking up at him. “She’ll be all right. Just give us a few minutes, okay? Think you can take care of things?”

French, clearly out of his league when it came to “guy troubles,” nodded dumbly and backed out of the room. I don’t think he’d ever seen Celeste less than perky.

“Come on, Celeste. I’ll get you a drink of water.” I stood up and pulled her gently to her feet, then guided her around the desk to her chair. She snatched a wad of tissues from the decorated box next to her brass nameplate and smeared them around her face while I went down the hall in search of a water faucet. I filled a coffee-stained Universal
Studios mug with water and returned to find her red-nosed, puffy-eyed, and subdued.

I set the mug on her desk. “Is French involved in any of this?” I asked.

She shook her head vigorously. “God, no. He hasn’t got a clue about anything. Not even his own business. Hell, I practically run this place.”

“Any chance he could have found out something, and maybe confronted James?”

Celeste sniffed. “I really don’t think so. It’s not in him. And if you’re going to ask me if I think he killed anyone, forget it. There’s no way. Sure, he dated Lacy a few times after Reuben died. But when she dumped him, he just sort of put his tail between his legs and went back to Jilda. He’s a mouse.”

“Well, if he wasn’t involved in the deaths of James or Lacy, and you weren’t, who’s left?” I decided not to mention Boone for the time being.

“I don’t know!”

I watched her rub the gold ring on her finger.

“That’s a beautiful ring. It looks very expensive.”

Celeste stopped the rubbing and folded her hands, obscuring the ring.

“Did you get it from Wolf?”

“Of course not. I got it from Jimmy.”

“I mean, it looks like Wolf’s work. It doesn’t look like a copy.”

Something snapped. Celeste stood up, brushed nonexistent dirt from her skirt, and said: “Connor, I’ve had just about all I can take from you. You know, none of this is any of your business. Why don’t you stick to what you do best—whatever that is—and stop accusing me of God knows what. Can’t you see I’m upset. Now, please—”

At that moment French burst back in the door. “Celeste! They want to talk with you! They’re not interested in what I have to say. Please, can you come out here now? We don’t want to lose these people.”

Celeste didn’t give me another glance as she walked out the door. I left the mortuary a few minutes later, just
as a bunch of yellow daisies was being delivered by a young man in a green jumpsuit.

I wasn’t going to get away with using this confrontational approach with everyone, I thought, as I entered Wolf’s shop. I would have to be a little more restrained. I had the excuse of publishing a newspaper, and I figured I ought to make use of it when questioning these people. That is, if I still had a newspaper and not a bunch of blank sheets, the way I was neglecting things. Besides, I was making accusations without any proof. What was I thinking?

Wolf came out from the back room wearing some kind of welding mask on his head. He lifted the plastic eye guard as he entered, then pulled off a pair of gloves and greeted me curtly without looking up.

“How did you know I was here?” I asked, scanning the room for some sort of signal bell. “You didn’t even give me a chance to grab any jewels.”

He didn’t laugh. “The mat has a buzzer. It sounds in the back. You still looking for a ring for your uncle? Or are you ready to turn that lump of gold into something you can wear to that little office of yours?”

“Nah, I like the lump. It’s a metaphor for my love life. Think I’ll keep it that way.”

“Yeah? I have a theory about love,” Wolf said, placing the gloves on the countertop. “It’s nothing more than a chemical dependency. Me, I don’t like being addicted to anything. Except my work.”

“So there’s no Mrs. Wolf, I mean Quick?” I said teasingly. He didn’t seem amused. We all handled our loneliness in different ways. I moved on. “Wolf, uh … I’m doing a story for my newspaper … on the first murder to take place in Flat Skunk in a hundred years. I wanted to ask you some questions, since you’ve been here, what—since you were born?”