Body Language (21 page)

“I said,” Parker repeated, “that we won’t be able to reach Roxanne at her office till tomorrow. Shall I call her?”

“No,” I answered, “I’ll phone Neil first, then her. But thanks.”

“Good. Settled.” He stood. “It’s getting dark—and cold. Time to head back?”

I nodded, got up, stretched a bit; then we started our run back to the house. The pace was easy, and we may have chatted along the way, but I was still focused on an uncomfortable mix of memories and emotions. My fantasies of Mark Quatrain were safely buried in the past, I told myself, but I could not allow those fantasies to spill into the present, to color my relationship with Parker Trent, who was very much alive there at my side, returning home with me to sleep under my roof—while Neil caught up with his work, two hundred miles away.

Shortly past noon on Thursday, I entered the First Avenue Grill with Thad, and we instantly spotted Joey waiting for us at a table. Arranging the simple lunch outing had not been easy. My cousin Joey was eager enough to meet us, but when I proposed it to Thad, he at first refused, citing plans with “friends,” and he wasn’t going to waste one of his last days of Christmas vacation on family.

“That’s just the point,” I told him. “We
are
family, and, like it or not, we’d better pull together and get used to each other. You and Joey and I are all that’s left of the Quatrain clan in Dumont.”

“You’re not a Quatrain,” the kid told me.

“My mother was,” I reminded him. “Just like yours. We’re equally qualified to claim the name. And we’re going to lunch.”

Thad’s protests notwithstanding, we did indeed hop into my car at noon and left the house for downtown. While Thad made it clear that he had no interest in sharing a meal with me, I was surprised to note that he seemed to enjoy sharing the ride—my car was high on the list of “guy things” that had irresistible appeal for him, and, in his eyes, the fact that I’d shown sense enough to buy the Bavarian V-8 gave us our first shaky toehold on common ground.

In truth, my motives for calling the lunch were mixed. Yes, we were family and it seemed the right thing to do. And yes, there was family business that needed discussion, such as the venue for Suzanne’s funeral. But also, I’d heard Hazel stop just short of accusing Thad of killing his own mother—a murder, believed by some to be my own doing—so I wanted to spend some noncombative time with him and try to get into his head.

Inside the restaurant, already bustling with its lunch crowd, I shook hands with Joey and removed my coat. Thad had refused to wear a coat, insisting that the bulky sweater hanging past his hips was sufficient. He and Joey hugged warmly, and for the first time I saw Thad as the orphaned child he truly was.

We sat down, and when the waitress asked for drink orders, Joey wanted cocoa, which sounded good, so we all had some. Joey and I exchanged some small talk, and I quickly learned that his interests and world view were severely limited—the weather, the menu, the murder. Remembering that publisher Barret Logan had described Joey’s “twelve-year-old brain in a middle-aged body,” I treated him as an adult and mustered a show of interest in his discussion of snow and bread sticks and the many sympathy cards he was receiving from coworkers at Quatro Press.

Thad watched our conversation silently, but I did not, for once, interpret this behavior as sulking. It was obvious that he felt genuine affection for his retarded uncle—perhaps he even felt protective of him—and the fact that I treated Joey kindly must have earned me a measure of respect in Thad’s eyes. When I leaned forward, elbows on table, to say, “There’s something important that the three of us have to talk about,” Thad also leaned into the conversation, asking, “What’s that?” His tone was entirely civil.

“Suzanne’s funeral is scheduled for next Monday,” I told them both, “but there’s still some question as to where the service will be held. It’s up to us.”

Joey told us, “Father Winter says it ought to be at Saint Cecille’s. He came to work and talked to me about it yesterday.” Joey’s eyes widened as he recounted the meeting. There was a foamy mustache of cocoa on his upper lip. “He said that the Quatrain family goes way back with Saint Cecille’s, and that it’s time for Suzanne to come home, whatever that means. And I told him that I remembered something about people who were murdered—I thought that priests weren’t supposed to bury them, and that had me sort of worried. But Father Winter said no, I was thinking about people who killed themselves—that’s a sin, and the church doesn’t like that, but Suzanne’s murder was just fine, and they’d be happy to handle it.”

Thad and I glanced at each other and shared a silent laugh—another small step, I noted, along the bumpy road toward bonding.

“But Mom never went to church,” Thad told his uncle.

Joey answered, “She did when she was little.”

I said to Joey, but more for Thad’s benefit, “I used to go to church, too, but sometimes people’s ideas change as they grow older.”

Joey told us, “Father Winter said it was never too late for Suzanne to come back. He called her a ‘prodigal.’”

“I don’t know,” said Thad with a skeptical shake of his head. “Mom never had very nice things to say about Father Winter. Sorry, Uncle Joey, I know he’s a friend of yours.”

“There
is
another option,” I reminded them. They both turned to me with the same puzzled look, apparently unaware of the squabbling reported in the
Register.
“Miriam Westerman, the Fem-Snach lady, says that she and Suzanne became best of friends again.” Thad and Joey both laughed their disbelief. I continued. “Miriam wants to officiate at Suzanne’s funeral. It would be some sort of New Age ceremony held on the grounds of the Society.”

“What does
that
mean?” asked Thad.

I chuckled. “I’m not exactly sure. Miriam’s Society believes that nature itself is sort of a god, so they have this loosely structured religion geared toward it. Some people call it paganism.”

Joey turned pale. “That won’t do at
all
, Mark. That would be sinful, I’m sure. Even if Suzanne didn’t much like Father Winter, we
can’t
get her into trouble with God. She
has
to be buried at Saint Cecille’s!” His voice was beginning to rise, and people at adjacent tables were turning to look. I recognized a pattern here—Joey’s boyhood petulance was emerging again, as it had on Christmas Day. Then the old threat. “If Father Winter doesn’t get to do the funeral, I’ll, I’ll… I’ll hold my breath till I turn blue, and this time I’ll die!” And with that, he crossed his arms, puffed his cheeks, and closed his eyes so tight, his brows were nearly swallowed by the wrinkles.

I sat there stunned as our lunching neighbors gasped, dropping forks. Someone hailed the hostess, wondering what should be done. But before anyone could act, Thad took over, having learned from experience how to handle these snits. He simply leaned over and tickled his uncle’s armpits. Joey burst into laughter, loving Thad’s attention. Uneasily, the others in the restaurant turned back to their food and attempted to pick up lost conversations.

When things had calmed down at our own table, Thad told me, “I haven’t decided about God, but I do know that Miriam Westerman is a bitch on wheels—a lying, crazy bitch on wheels. I say there’s no way in hell she’s gonna bury Mom.”

“I’m with you, Thad.” I patted his shoulder, and he did not pull away. “Joey seems to feel pretty strongly that Suzanne should have a Catholic burial. I’m not entirely comfortable with that, but at least they’ll put on a good show. Besides, there aren’t any other options.” I didn’t honestly think that Suzanne would have cared for
either
option, but since she had left no instructions, we were stuck with our best judgment. And in my judgment, if we went with the priest, we’d piss Miriam but good. It sounded like a plan. “Are we agreed then, guys? Should I tell the lawyer that the funeral will be at Saint Cecille’s?”

“Sure. Yeah,” they told me, making it official with a round of shaken hands.

The rest of our lunch was considerably less eventful. We returned to Joey’s chitchat about the weather and the food, and Thad volunteered a few comments about school—he’d enjoyed driver’s ed., he wasn’t into sports, and, surprisingly, he even had some cogent thoughts regarding
As You Like It
, his first exposure to Shakespeare. “By the way,” he told me, leaning back in his chair with an air of triumph, “Shakespeare started lots of sentences with ‘me’ instead of ‘I.’”

I should have seen that coming. “Methinks thou art a mite confused, Thad. ‘Methinks’ is not ‘me.’ What’s more, it’s Middle English and archaic. Trust me.”

I wasn’t sure how he would react, but he accepted my correction with good humor. Methinks he knew that I respected him for gaming with me on the issue.

Sometime during dessert (three chocolate sundaes—what is it about cold weather that makes ice cream so appealing?), Elliot Coop, the Quatrain family’s old attorney, entered the restaurant with a couple of businessmen. They ended up at a table on the far side of the room, but as soon as Elliot noticed me, he excused himself from his companions and walked over to us. “Gentlemen, good afternoon,” he told us brightly. “So nice to see everyone getting along so well. Suzanne would be delighted, I’m sure.” He shook hands with me, mentioning, “It didn’t take you long to discover the best place in town.” Then he gave a genial nod to both Thad and Joey.

I told him, “Glad we ran into you, Elliot. We were just discussing the controversy regarding Suzanne’s funeral. The
family
has decided”—I gestured with my hands that the word referred to all three of us—“that Saint Cecille’s will bury her. Could you convey our wishes to Father Winter, please?”

“Delighted, Mr. Manning.” His head bobbed with a deferential bow. Then he chuckled and, turning to Joey, told him, “I thought perhaps
you
had called this meeting—to do a bit of arm-twisting regarding the house.”

Joey looked up from the sundae he was spooning. “Huh?” There was chocolate on his chin and a dab of whipped cream hooked at the end of his nose. Though Joey’s response was far from eloquent, it summed up my own reaction to Elliot’s statement—I had no idea what he was talking about.

The lawyer continued, telling me, “When word got out that the Tawkins were divorcing and the house would be sold, Joey came over to my office and made an offer to buy the place.” Elliot gave me a big obvious wink. “It was twice what you were willing to pay for it.”

Interesting. This had a familiar ring. Monday night, in this very restaurant, Barret Logan told me that Joey had tried to buy the
Register
at twice what I was offering. Logan concluded that Joey was growing increasingly confused and frustrated about his role in the world. Now, hearing this news of a similar incident with the house, I saw the accuracy of Logan’s assessment.

Joey seemed embarrassed that the lawyer had mentioned his offer. He put down his spoon and told me, “I just thought it would be nice to keep the house in the family. But it’s okay, Mark—you’re family, too.”

“Thanks, Joey.” I patted his arm. “I’m glad you feel that way.”

Oblivious to these emotional dynamics, Elliot prattled on, telling me, “While sifting through the details of disbursing Suzanne’s estate, I ran across a bundle of files that she had left with me for safekeeping. I’m not sure what should be done with them, but as you’ve been named her executor, Mr. Manning, I thought I’d offer them first to you.”

My reporter’s instincts were suddenly on full alert. “Thank you, Elliot,” I told him, trying not to appear too interested. “What sort of files are they?”

“I haven’t had time to study them—it’s rather a thick bundle, after all, and Suzanne’s instructions were simply to hold them for her, not to act on them—but they appear to have been compiled by various private investigators around the country. One might call them ‘dossiers,’ but that has such cloak-and-dagger overtones, don’t you think?”

Semantics aside, I told him, “I’ll be happy to take them off your hands, Elliot. Shall I come to your office?”

“That won’t be necessary. They’re already packed in my car, so I’ll deliver them to your house.”

I was tempted to suggest that we dash outside to the curb and move them to my own car, but that might appear impatient, and, besides, he needed to get back to his table. So I thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and we wished each other a pleasant afternoon.

When we had finished dessert, I paid the check, and we prepared to get up from the table. Glancing at my watch, I said, “I really need to get over to the
Register
’s offices—Parker is expecting me. Did you drive today, Joey? I wonder if you could give Thad a ride back to the house.”

“Sure,” said Joey, eager to help. “No one cares if I’m late getting back to work.”

Standing, I asked Thad, “Do you mind? I’m late already.”

“No, no problem. But I have to tell you, Mark”—I noted that it was the first time he spoke my name—“I’d rather be seen in
your
car any day.”

I thanked him for the compliment and handed Joey his overcoat from a nearby hook. While shrugging into my own coat, we all headed for the door. Then I thought of something. “Thad,” I asked, “you’ve started driving, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I got my license in the fall.”

“I know you’re planning to go out with friends tonight.” I paused. Did I really want to make this offer? Was the risk outweighed by the possibility of some shred of the kid’s affection? “Would you like to take my car?”

He stood speechless for a moment, not believing his ears, wondering if I was joking. When I did not burst into laughter and retract the offer, he said, “
Would
I!” He nodded stupidly. “Thanks, Mark. That’s really nice of you. I appreciate it.”

Within five minutes, I had walked the block or so to the First Avenue offices of the
Register,
said hello to Connie, the ground-floor receptionist, and climbed the stairs to the newsroom. The pace of activity there was rising, so I did not linger while greeting the staffers who noticed me, though it was satisfying to note that I could now actually remember some of their names. While unbuttoning my overcoat, I zigzagged through the maze of desks toward the back of the building, passing by Barret Logan’s office (he was working on something beyond the glass wall that separated him from his secretary, who acknowledged me with a smile and a nod) and Glee Savage’s office (her quarters were considerably smaller than Logan’s, without a secretary—Glee sat working on a story, wearing a feathered hat, and she glanced up from her computer to wave as I passed). Then I turned into the corridor that led to the morgue.