Body Language (35 page)

The next volume was Suzanne’s, the last Joey’s, each as lovingly compiled as Mark’s, but neither having the same effect on me.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Hazel talked while I studied the albums, “but I’ve already taken the liberty of looking through them. I wanted to have a little visit with the past—happier times, you know—but sad to say, the memories were just too painful. Who’d think? All three Quatrain children, all dead, each a tragic end.” She was well into her sniffles again.

I looked up at her. “Thank you for finding them, Hazel. I’ll hold on to them for a while. Someday, they should probably go to Thad.”

“My thoughts exactly, Mr. Manning. When I began to search in earnest for the books on Wednesday, I had assumed they would go to Joey…” More tears.

It was a bitter irony indeed. Not only was Joey now dead, but these were the very books that Suzanne had been looking for in the loft when Joey clubbed her. Why, though, were they so important to her? Were they important to Joey as well? Or was the timing of the murder a mere coincidence? It didn’t make sense.

I told Hazel, “You’ve been through a lot lately—we all have. The funeral’s not till one. Why don’t you get some rest? You’ll feel better.”

She mustered a smile. “Thank you. I’d like that.” She began to leave the room.

“Oh, Hazel?” I thought of something I’d been meaning to ask.

She turned in the doorway. “Yes, sir?”

“I realize that you’ve been moving things around upstairs in order to, well… dig through everything. But I was up there last night looking for Joey’s old typewriter, and I couldn’t find it. Do you recall where you put it?”

The color drained from her face. “Good heavens, Mr. Manning, I had no idea. Was it—is it valuable?”

“I doubt it,” I answered with a laugh. “No, I was just curious about something. Thought I’d have another look at it.” I could tell from the pallor of her face that my curiosity was moot. Saving her the agony of explaining, I said, “It’s all right if you threw it out, though—I told you to use your own judgment.”

“I’m so
sorry,
Mr. Manning. I just assumed it was worthless. It was trucked away with the first load of junk on Wednesday.”

“That’s perfectly all right,” I assured her. “It wasn’t important. Now go get some rest.” Flapping my hands, I shooed her from the room, and she retreated down the hall toward the kitchen.

Setting the stack of baby books to one side of my desk, I rearranged the papers I’d been working on before Hazel’s arrival. Uncapping my pen, I crossed another item off the checklist I’d prepared for Monday’s transition at the
Register.
Two days from now, I’d be sitting at Barret Logan’s desk, and…

Wednesday?
Not possible, I thought. I’d seen the Goodwill truck haul away that first load of junk on Wednesday afternoon. That same night, Joey died, using the typewriter to write his suicide note. Certainly, Hazel was mistaken—the typewriter
had
to have been in the house on Wednesday night.

I rose from the desk and crossed to the door, intending to dash down the hall, fetch Hazel, and question her on this point. Stopping in the doorway, though, I had another thought, walked back to my desk, and fished the little brass key from the ashtray of paper clips. Unlocking the door to the credenza, I slid out the box of dossiers and plopped it on the floor.

I fingered past the first bundle of files, labeled suspicious, fingered past the large middle bundle, inconclusive, then grabbed the last bundle, above suspicion, the group of Vietnam veterans’ dossiers that I had not yet bothered to study. Something told me I had ignored these too long.

There weren’t many, less than a dozen, so I fanned them out upon my desk so that I could scan the names of the men profiled in them. At once, I recognized a name. Flipping to the last page of the folder, I read why the investigator had concluded that the subject was “above suspicion.” Glancing over the remainder of the files, I recognized another name, then checked inside to see why that subject was also “above suspicion.”

I paused as a sense of serenity and closure washed over me. Yes, the mystery of Suzanne’s murder had indeed been solved. The case was indeed closed. I needed to make one quick phone call; then I could at last put the tragedies of the last three weeks behind me.

Gathering the files, I returned them to the box, returned the box to the credenza, and locked the cabinet door. Then I placed that one quick call.

Half an hour later, around ten in the morning, I sat in the third-floor great room on the leather sofa under the roof’s central peak, mulling the room’s history and the bizarre role it had played in my life. My thoughts were clear and I felt no anxiety, content that a deadly mystery had been solved.

The house was quiet. Both Neil and Roxanne had returned to Dumont for the weekend, but they were each busy with other matters away from the house. Parker planned to put in a couple of hours’ work at the
Register
before the funeral. And Hazel was resting up for the afternoon’s ordeal, tucked away in her quarters downstairs behind the kitchen.

Checking my watch—it was three hours till Joey’s funeral—I rose from the sofa and glanced about the loft. Crossing from the center of the room toward the front wall, I stopped at the banister and peered out through the expansive half-circle of glass. The landscape of the town stretched frozen and white to the horizon, motionless as an old oil painting, save for the trekking of a few cars in the distance, the wisping of smoke from chimneys.

There near the banister stood the large worktable that had once served as my father’s desk. I had brought some things up from the den with me that morning, and I organized them on the table, making tidy piles—what Neil would call “an artful arrangement.” Squatting to check under the desk, I confirmed that the little wicker wastebasket was empty, newly lined with a fresh plastic bag. Satisfied, I stood again, scrutinizing the desktop. I moved a large magazine, an issue of
Wine Spectator
, placing it atop a small stack of books.

Then I heard the sound of a door, followed by footfalls, downstairs in the bedroom hall. “Hazel?” I called down the stairwell. “Is that you?”

“No, Mark,” answered Parker’s voice, “it’s me.”

“I thought you went downtown to the office.”

He came to the landing and looked up the stairs at me. “Just on my way.”

“As long as you’re still here, can you stay a few minutes? You’ll want to hear this. Come on up.”

“You’re the boss,” he said, climbing the stairs by twos. Arriving in the great room, he asked, “What’s happening?”

I crossed to the center of the room, motioning for him to follow. Sitting at the end of the sofa, I gestured for him to take the adjacent armchair. Leaning close—my knee touched his—I looked him in the eye to tell him, “Joey didn’t kill Suzanne.”

“
What?
” He flumped back in the chair, spreading his legs. “Mark, Sheriff Pierce said it was open-and-shut. The murder is solved; the killer has taken his own life; it’s over.”

“No, listen,” I told him, leaning closer, placing my hand on his knee. “This morning I finally got around to checking the last of Suzanne’s dossiers. I hadn’t bothered to study them earlier because they were judged ‘above suspicion.’ I wish to God I’d taken you up on your offer to read them a few days ago.”

“Wednesday morning,” recalled Parker, “but then Sheriff Pierce arrived.”

“Right. This morning Hazel mentioned something that made me suddenly curious, so I got back into the files.” I grinned. “Parker, I hit pay dirt. Guess who is not only a Vietnam veteran, but also a survivor of the same ambush that supposedly killed Mark Quatrain.”

Parker seemed stunned by my words. He didn’t offer a guess.

I told him, “Allan Addams, the credit guy at Quatro. Joey mentioned him.”

Parker shook his head, confused. “Addams sounded promising to me, too, but Joey said he couldn’t possibly be his brother.”

I shrugged. “You know Joey—sometimes his judgment left something to be desired. In any event, Parker, your hunch paid off. Your ‘brother from the grave’ theory was dead-on.” Laughing, I added, “In the future, your views will have considerably more weight with me.”

Parker leaned forward, smiling. Resting his hand on mine, he told me softly, “My view all along, Mark, has been that you and I belong together. I’m content to play second fiddle, though—this is all I’ve ever wanted, just to be here for you.”

“And I’m here for you.” With that, I closed the few inches that still separated our faces. Touching my lips to his, I kissed him.

“Wow.” His reaction was more surprised than impassioned. “Where’d that come from?”

I patted his face, then sat back on the sofa. Exhaling a sigh, I explained, “My ‘arrangement’ with Neil hasn’t been working very well—not only the back-and-forth weekends (that failure has been mine alone), but also the commitment, the will to make it stick. Our lives are different now. Since moving up here, I’ve felt a million miles from him, even when he’s here.”

Parker asked me, “Just what are you saying?”

I rose from the sofa and walked toward the window. From behind his chair, without looking at him, I told him, “I’m saying that this career move has done serious damage to my relationship with Neil. It’s the last thing I wanted to happen, but it happened. I’m also saying that I’m both lucky and grateful that you’ve entered my life, Parker. On Christmas night, when you told me you loved me, I was shocked. I had never thought of you in any context other than that of my managing editor. But I have to be honest with you: From the moment I met you, that Saturday afternoon at the loft in Chicago, I found you incredibly attractive.”

Turning, I saw that he had risen from his chair and stood listening to me, arms crossed in astonishment. I continued. “The past few weeks have been hell for all of us, but you were there for me the whole time, making good on your word to see me through it. What you didn’t suspect was that, with the passing weeks, I’d grown increasingly frustrated by the feelings I had for you. There were countless times when I just wanted to reach over and touch you, Parker. I’ve had dreams about you. And now that the mess and uncertainty of Suzanne’s murder is finally behind us, I can breathe, I can think straight. And what I think is this: If you’re still interested, I think we could build a future together.”

“Mark,” he stammered, smiling, crossing a few steps toward me, “this is so… well,
unexpected.
Of course I want to plan a future with you, but we have to give careful consideration to the logistics.”

“Logistics?” I took a step toward him. “There’s nothing complicated about it. You have drives, I have drives. As to the where and the when—what’s wrong with right here, right now?”

“Now?”

I stepped to him and held both his shoulders. “Why not? Hazel is resting. Otherwise the house is empty. It’s hours till the funeral”—I smirked—“and we only need a few minutes.” I took his hand and led him the few steps to the patch of open floor between the central seating area and the desk near the banister. Then I held him close, resting my head next to his, my crotch next to his. I was highly aroused by the feel of him.

Sensing this, he laughed. “I guess you
have
had ideas.”

I held his head in my hands and kissed him, feeling the scratch of his trim beard on my face. Then, lowering my hands behind his back, I cupped his ass, feeling its taut muscles through the smooth layer of khaki. Yanking him toward me, I huffed when I heard the clank of our belt buckles. I said into his ear, “Kneel in front of me.”

Not sure where I was heading with this, he hesitated, but complied.

Running my fingers through his wavy hair, I pressed his head to my groin. His breath warmed my crotch as I tugged at his curls. Reliving the scene from my dream, I asked, “Do you want me to put my cock in your hair?”

He looked up at me for a moment. “Not particularly.”

Winding his hair around my fingers, I pulled harder. There and then, I thought I might come, still zipped.

“
Hey
,” he yelped, not at all the reaction he’d had in my dream. But just as in my dream, I found that my fingers were now covered with hair I’d pulled loose.

“Sorry,” I muttered. “Got carried away.” And I moved to the desk for a moment, whisking my hands clean over the wastebasket. Then I returned to him, kneeling with him, facing him. Pressing my mouth to his again, I tongued him deeply, but found his participation disappointingly passive. So I slid my mouth to his ear, telling him, “Feel my cock.” His hands groped at my pants, confirming that I was fully erect. Panting into his ear, I waited for him to unzip me, but he just kept rubbing. Lowering my own hands to his waist, I fingered his belt buckle, felt his ass once more, then groped his crotch. He was flaccid.

I pulled back from him, sitting on my heels. With a quizzical look and a tentative smile, I asked, “What’s the matter, Parker? I thought this was all you’ve ever wanted.”

He also sat back, mirroring my position. With our knees pressed to each other’s, he shook his head, laughing lamely. “Sorry, Mark,” he told me, “but it’s just not in me—I mean, not right now.” Sheepishly, he added, “You see, the house was quiet this morning, and we
have
been under lots of pressure lately, so I… just jacked off, not thirty minutes ago.” With a self-deprecating smirk, he reminded me, “I’m fifty-one, pal. I’m not as quick as I used to be.”

Extending my hand, I rested a fingertip on his lips, shushing his apology. “No, Parker,” I told him tenderly, “you’re not hard because you’re not gay.”

“Mark!” he countered, astounded. “I’m
sorry
I wasn’t able to get it up, but that doesn’t mean…”

“No, Parker,” I again shushed him, fingers to his lips, “you’re not gay—Glee Savage was right. And you’re not Parker Trent. You’re Mark Quatrain, the brother from the grave.”

His mouth drooped open. Lowering my hand, I dragged the tip of my middle finger over the edge of his teeth and pulled a strand of spit from his lip.

Slapping both hands on his legs, he rose to his feet, telling me, “For Christ’s sake, Mark, don’t be nuts. You’re jumping to ridiculous conclusions,
libelous
conclusions—”