Body Language (32 page)

“One possibility is money. He apparently suffers from some serious delusions about the funds that are available to him—he made exorbitant, unbacked offers to buy both the
Register
and this house out from under me, only to learn that he doesn’t have a dime of expendable income. The other possibility is resentment. The twelve-year-old brain in his middle-aged body has not dealt well with the fact that the world has passed him by. His sister became the focus of all the attention and adulation that he would have liked to share, but couldn’t. His petulant behavior, frequently prompted by the mere mention of Suzanne’s name, could be the surface clue to deeply buried anxieties that were vented in murder.”

Parker took a seat on one side of the partners desk, asking, “Since Suzanne’s funeral last week, how’s Joey been acting?”

“Even more erratic and agitated,” I answered, sitting in my uncle’s chair at the desk, opposite Parker. “I’ve phoned him several times at Quatro Press, and he’s rarely even shown up for his job, though of course he still draws a paycheck. I have to admit that I’ve grown to feel both suspicion and concern for Joey. So I phoned him at home last night and suggested that he pick up Thad after school today and bring him here to the house for a family supper. Joey perked up. He liked the idea. He phoned Miriam to get permission to spend the evening with Thad—he even had sense enough not to tell her that he was bringing him here.”

We both laughed at the ease with which Miriam had been duped by Joey’s simplemindedness. Parker said, “This dinner tonight—it’s a family thing. Do you want me around, or should I make other plans?”

“By all means, please join us. You’re as much a part of this peculiar, extended ‘family’ as anyone, Parker. Besides, I need you there to help me observe things. It wasn’t entirely the warm fuzzies that prompted me to call this meal. Either Thad or Joey may have killed Suzanne, and I want to set them both in a comfortable, unthreatening situation in hopes that someone might drop a useful clue.”

Parker grinned—he was impressed. “Good plan,” he told me. “Of Thad or Joey, do your suspicions fall more heavily toward either one of them?”

Exasperated, I shook my head. “I’m leaning toward Joey, but there’s one major hitch with that theory. In all likelihood, it was the murderer who planted the king-thing in my trunk, but, as far as I know, Joey never had access to my car.”

“
Mark
,” said Parker, leaning over the blotter toward me, “don’t you remember? On the Monday after Christmas, when we were helping the Chicagoans pack up for their return trip, Neil had forgotten a wastebasket or something in the trunk of your car. I went to get it, and Joey went with me to help. But he claimed to like your car so much, he stayed in it, ‘playing,’ till we called him into the house later.”

“God”—my mouth fell—“of course. I’d forgotten that. Thank you, Parker.” I uncapped my pen and added a footnote to the page I had begun on Joey.

Parker leaned back in his chair, gloating. “For that matter,” he reminded me, “both Neil and I have had constant access to your car, and we were both in the house at the time of the murder. It’s important to remain coldly analytical about this, Mark. Leave no stone unturned.”

His tone was serious—too serious—and I responded with a laugh. “I appreciate your rigorous approach. Rest assured that I
have
left no stone unturned. I’ve already considered the fact that either you or Neil could have conceivably planted the finial in my trunk. Outweighing this, however, is the fact that you both met Suzanne for the first time on the day she died. It’s highly unlikely that either of you could develop sufficient motive for murder within the span of an hour.”

“Just checking.” He nodded, satisfied that my methods had not gone sloppy. Then he leaned forward again, trying to read my notes. “As long as we’re exploring long shots, what about Thad’s father?”

“Austin Reece is still a possible suspect, but we’re working on little more than a hunch—and Hazel’s story that he left town complaining that Suzanne had ‘wrecked his life.’ So far, the sheriff’s investigators have not been able to determine Reece’s whereabouts.”

Parker drummed his fingers on the blotter, thinking. “If I’m not mistaken, that leaves us with only one remaining possibility—the ‘brother from the grave.’”

“That’s
your
theory,” I reminded him. “It’s a compelling idea—everything fits. But it’s a puzzle with a piece missing, a piece that may not exist. Neither Suzanne’s pile of dossiers nor your own retracing of Suzanne’s morgue research has revealed a likely new alias for Mark Quatrain. If he’s still alive, where is he?
Who
is he?”

Parker tapped my notes. “Joey gave us a lead—that inquisitive Vietnam vet working in the credit department at Quatro Press.”

Slumping back in my chair, I said, “Doug Pierce followed up on that last week, the day after Suzanne’s funeral. He drove out to Quatro, intending to interview both Joey and the credit manager, whose name is Allan Addams. Joey wasn’t there, though—he hasn’t shown up at the office since New Year’s. And Addams wasn’t there, either. It turns out, Addams was finishing up a winter vacation with his family. They were in Mexico, and they left the morning of Christmas Eve. Maybe that’s why Joey was so insistent that Addams couldn’t be his brother—the man wasn’t even in the country on the day Suzanne was killed. What’s more, he was still away when the weapon was put in my car. So, unless it turns out that Addams never really took the trip, he’s in the clear.”

“Hmm.” Parker slumped in his own chair, mirroring my posture. “Suzanne’s dossiers—you checked them all, and there was no file on Allan Addams?”

I shook my head. “I’ve had a chance to study all the pertinent files—those grouped as either ‘suspicious’ or ‘inconclusive’—and there was nothing on Addams. The remaining files, ‘above suspicion,’ offered no promise at all.”

“Do you mind if I take a look at them? A fresh pair of eyes might find something you missed.”

“Good idea.” I’d meant to have Parker review them anyway, but he’d been spending most of his days at the
Register.
I stood at the desk, forewarning him with a laugh, “There’s a hell of a lot of material. It may bog you down for a while.”

He stood. “Then I’d better get more coffee. Need some?”

“Thanks.” I passed him my empty mug, and he left the den, headed back through the house toward the kitchen.

I took the little brass key from the ashtray of paper clips and opened the credenza near the desk. Hunkering down to pull the heavy box of files from the cabinet, I heard the doorbell. So I abandoned the dossiers and went out to the front hall to answer the door.

It was Sheriff Pierce. “Good morning, Mark,” he told me, stepping inside, removing a glove to shake my hand. “Sorry to bother you so early.” It was not yet nine o’clock.

“You’re always welcome, Doug,” I told him, thumping the door closed, “and no appointment is necessary.” I helped him out of his coat. “What can I do for you?”

But before Pierce could answer, Parker reappeared in the hall, bearing the two cups of coffee. “Uh-oh,” he said comically, “it’s the law. ’Morning, Sheriff.”

They exchanged some pleasantries, remarking on the bitter weather; then Parker commented, “It looks like you two have some business to discuss.”

Pierce told us, “Yes, actually. Mark, do you have a few minutes?”

Parker interjected, “I really ought to get going anyway, Mark. I’ll study that material sometime later, when it’s more convenient. Meanwhile, there’s plenty to keep me busy down at the paper, preparing for next week’s transition.”

“Fine,” I told him. “Just let me know when you’d like to see the files.”

He handed me my
Journal
mug, then asked, “Coffee, Sheriff?” Offering Pierce the cup he’d refilled for himself, he joked, “Drink from the back side—it’s clean.”

Pierce gratefully accepted it, if only to warm his hands. Parker waved a good-bye, retreating down the hall to get his coat, near the back door. I led Pierce into the den and hung his coat; then we took our customary seats on either side of Uncle Edwin’s partners desk, with the cabinet door still open behind me. We heard Parker leave.

Pierce asked, “Is there anyone else in the house?”

“Just Hazel. She’s probably upstairs, cleaning the unused bedrooms.”

Pierce leaned toward me. I noticed the polished shine of the leather shoulder holster under his handsome cashmere blazer. “We’re getting ready to make an arrest, Mark. The DA feels this has gone on long enough, and, to an extent, I agree with him. I’m here because I wanted to let you know where this is headed.”

“Thanks, Doug,” I told him quietly. Leaning close over the blotter, I asked, “So then—who is it?”

“I’m not entirely comfortable with the results of the investigation, but everything seems to point to Joey.”

I sighed, sitting back. “I was beginning to reach that conclusion myself, but—like you—I’m not comfortable with it. And I thought Harley Kaiser was reluctant to implicate a Quatrain.”

“He is,” Pierce assured me, “but let’s face it: Joey’s not quite ‘all there.’ I mean, chances are, he’d end up institutionalized someday anyway. It’s a sad, tragic situation. On the positive side—if there is one—because of Joey’s mental condition and nonviolent past, the law will go easy on him.”

Again I sighed. Everything Pierce said made sense, but it was hard to accept. While I felt that Joey was indeed our strongest suspect, I didn’t want to believe that he had ruthlessly bludgeoned his sister.

“Doug,” I said, holding his stare with mine, “can you wait till tonight to make the arrest? Joey is coming to the house this evening with Thad. It’s going to be a family supper that I’d hoped to turn into a weekly tradition. If you wait till then, you’ll have the rest of the day to check every possible lead one more time. If you’re still convinced of Joey’s guilt, just drop by the house during dinner. It’ll give you the opportunity to question him discreetly before making the arrest—and it won’t be such a public spectacle.” I leaned forward, arms propped on the desk. “Please, Doug. What do you think?”

He exhaled noisily. With the slightest nod, he told me, “All right, Mark. That’s the plan.” Again he exhaled, but this time the noise had the character of a nascent laugh. “It’s really ironic. Growing up here in Dumont, knowing the Quatrain kids all their lives, the rest of us thought of them as the luckiest people in the world—hell, just for starters, they were
rich.
Who’d have thought their lives would be ruined by such a heartbreaking string of events?”

I shook my head. “Not I, certainly. Of course, I didn’t grow up with the kids—I knew them only from that one Christmas visit. But that was enough to convince me they would all lead charmed lives. Little did I know that it would all begin to fall apart only three years later.”

Pierce’s features turned suddenly inquisitive, as though he’d thought of something. “It’s none of my business, Mark, but is that what it was all about—the letter from your uncle Edwin? You started to tell me the story two weeks ago, and I’ve been curious about it since. Did he tell you what happened between Suzanne and Mark Quatrain?”

“God no,” I answered, allowing myself a weak laugh. I reminded him, “I didn’t learn about the rape until Hazel stunned us with her tell-all on New Year’s Eve. No, my uncle’s letter dealt with something more directly related to
me.
”

Pierce’s brows instinctively arched, wanting more details. But he surely sensed that we were venturing into very private territory, so he was not about to prod for information that was not offered. It was entirely my decision whether or not to continue. I asked myself what kind of game I’d been playing. Why had I tantalized him with this story? I had opened the door, and, by rights, he deserved a sense of closure. Besides, I knew I wanted to share the letter, and the time had come.

“You’ll recall,” I told him, “that when my uncle died three years ago, I inherited the house. On the day I came up here to sell the house to the Tawkins, Elliot Coop handed me a letter written by my uncle shortly before he died. I got into my car with it, and was preparing to follow the lawyer to his office to finalize the sale, when curiosity got the better of me. I pulled over to the curb and, in the shadow of the house, opened the letter.”

Reaching behind me into the open credenza, I removed the envelope that was kept there next to the box of dossiers, then held it in front of Pierce. “Would you like to read it?” I asked him.

He paused. He didn’t answer, didn’t nod. He carefully took the envelope from my fingers, handling it as if it were thinnest glass, as if it might shatter at his touch. It was addressed, simply, “Mr. Mark Manning, Jr., Chicago.” He slipped out the letter, unfolded its pages, and began to read the words that I’d pondered so often during countless bouts of introspection:

Dearest Mark,

I don’t like secrets. They put walls between people. They are lies of omission. But sometimes our best judgment is tempered by our worst frailties, and the laws of conventionality are allowed to rule.

In the name of convention, in the name of “what’s expected,” a secret has been kept from you. It involves me, and I feel shame—not for my past actions, but for my silence. Perhaps you have already figured this out, but you deserve to hear it, plainly, from me.

It was your father who used to live upstairs on Prairie Street. He and I were more than friends. For years, we were partners—in building the business, in building the house, and yes, most certainly in bed. We loved each other. And I never stopped loving him, not after he moved away, not after he died.

You can be proud to know that your father was openly homosexual—as open as anyone dared to be back in that dark age, that black-and-white era. I worshiped the man, but never had his strength, so I followed convention and married Peggy, naming our first son after him. My sister Edie (your mother-to-be) knew the whole story, but because she loved Mark (your father-to-be) as much as I did, she was happy to be his “armpiece.” Though she did not live with us on Prairie Street, she rounded out our daring foursome in public.

Even in a house that was custom designed to fit this extraordinary arrangement, day-to-day life was touchy. But we all determined to make it work, so there were unspoken, inviolable rules regarding the where-and-when of your father and me. Late one night, however, after an urgently needed transgression, all hell broke loose when Peggy caught me sneaking down from the third floor wearing little more than my still-obvious state of arousal. The subsequent uproar utterly shredded our delicate web of contrivance. Under those circumstances, in those times, your father simply had to leave. So he married my sister and moved with her to Illinois, selling out his share of the business to me. But he never sought reimbursement for his share of the house.

So you see, Mark, all along, the house has rightfully belonged more to you than to any one of my own children. More important, you are its spiritual heir. I used to tell you that you were “special” and “not like the others.” I assume you have deciphered my meaning, and I hope you have forgiven my presumption.

How did I know? We have a sense about these things, don’t we? What’s more, you showed me that little story about your infatuation with “Marshall.” Though cleverly constructed (for the work of a nine-year-old), it could not withstand the scrutiny of a discerning old closet queen. I hope the passion and honesty of your youthful confusion has long since affirmed itself in a happy and proud self-awareness. Take advantage of these more enlightened times. Simply be who you truly are, without compromise—even if by some miracle, God forbid, you’ve turned out straight!

Dearest Mark, I doubt that you will want to live in Dumont. You’d suffocate here. It’s a closet—a closet with streets. So, what will you do with the house? If I were you, I’d sell it. Buy a new car. Buy a new house—hell,
buy a houseboy!
And have yourself a ball.

Love,

Uncle Edwin