Body Language (24 page)

“You’re looking damn hot yourself,” Neil told him, and the compliment was well warranted. Parker didn’t wear a tux—that just wasn’t his style, and I doubt if he even owned one—but he’d put together an all-black outfit, casually chic, with the right measure of theatricality for a New Year’s at home. He’d chosen wool slacks, silk shirt, and dressy vest, with a flash of silver here and there. Other than the couple of times I’d seen him in sweatpants, that evening was the first time I’d seen him not wearing khaki, and, in truth, I did not get the same charge from his ass in dress slacks. But that was a highly personal prejudice, I recognized, noting that the cut of his vest left his backside fetchingly displayed for those who might harbor a fetish for flannel. Perfectly groomed, as always, he had trimmed his neat beard in a more severe fashion that gave his face a rakish edge. Parker was ready to party.

As the three of us went downstairs together to the front hall, I asked Neil, “Did you get the stereo working? I heard a few blasts this afternoon.” The house had seemed too quiet when all the company left after Christmas, so I bought a sound system during the intervening week, but left it boxed for Neil to deal with. Odd—there was a time when I’d have torn into that project like a kid with a present, but middle age had brought with it a singular disinterest in electronics.

“Thad helped me set it up,” Neil told me, revealing that his own fascination with black boxes was waning at thirty-four. “It sounds great,” he continued, “and you needn’t worry—I took care to hide all the wires. Everything’s out of sight.”

“Thanks,” I told him, giving him a kiss as we reached the foot of the stairs. Then I remembered, “Music—I didn’t shop for any music.”

“I’m way ahead of you,” he assured me, pausing to pouf my bow tie. “You mentioned on the phone that you’d bought the new equipment, so I brought a bunch of favorite old CDs up with me—no Christmas carols, either.”

“Where would I be without you?” In answer to my own wistfully rhetorical question, I gave him another kiss. Comically synchronized with the peck of my lips, the doorbell rang.

“Yow,” said Neil, feigning a swoon, “I heard bells.”

Laughing, Parker offered, “Shall I get it?”

But before he could act, Hazel bustled past us toward the door, wiping her hands on the apron that covered her Sunday-best navy-blue dress—not her typical kitchen garb by a long shot, so I concluded that she had grown more comfortable with the idea of joining us at table that night. As she passed, she commented, “My, we’re all looking spiffy!” And she opened the door.

Glee Savage stepped inside, accompanied by a gush of cold air that made my nipples go hard, scratching against the stiffly starched bib of my shirt. Hazel got the door closed, taking our guest’s coat as I stepped forward to greet her. Glee handed me a bottle of something wrapped with foil and ribbon, which I passed along to Neil. Neil extended his hand, saying, “Neil Waite, Mark’s friend from Chicago.”

“I’m
sorry,
” I told them both. “I forgot that you hadn’t met. Glee, please meet Neil Waite, my lover and better half, a Chicago architect. Neil, this is Glee Savage, features editor of the
Register
.” They exchanged the expected pleasantries about having heard so much about each other, but I wasn’t really sure that I’d given either of them much to go on.

Glee told Neil, “You and Mark certainly make a handsome couple. Will we be seeing much of you here in Dumont?”

As Neil explained to her our arrangement—the alternating weekends—I couldn’t help but notice that he and I did indeed make a good-looking couple, and our “couplehood” was accentuated that night by our nearly identical dress. We looked like a pair of grooms on a gay wedding cake. Good thing, I decided, in case Glee had a taste for younger men. While she may have doubted my word about Parker’s homosexuality, there could be no doubt, in this context, about Neil’s.

Neil reinforced this conclusion when he told Glee, “By the way, your outfit is a real knockout. It’s always interested me the way fashion trends are sometimes a harbinger of broader stylistic changes that can even ripple into architecture. I’d enjoy discussing it with you at length sometime.”

Outright captivated by Neil and by his comment, she gushed, “My
dear
, what a fascinating premise for a fashion feature. I’d love to interview you, soon, for a page-one story in our Trends section. It could double as a personality profile, introducing you to the community. Do let me make a note of this.” And she snapped open her big bag, fishing for a steno book.

The purse she carried that night was identical to the two others I’d seen, but this one was finished not in tiger or leopard, but zebra stripes. The black-and-white theme, so starkly appropriate to New Year’s, carried through her entire ensemble, its various elements boldly patterned with everything from railroad-gate stripes to polka dots. Topping it all off was a black pillbox hat sporting a lavish white ostrich plume, which of course she did not remove. The sole exception to the monochromatic palette of her attire was the oily ruby gleam of her lips. While all this may sound tasteless in the telling, its total effect was quite the opposite—she was a dynamic woman of confident bearing who could flout the rules and draw envious stares from the more timidly correct. I was happier than ever to know she would be on my staff.

“Good evening, Glee,” said Parker, stepping into the conversation. He gave her hand a friendly clasp. “Nice to see you outside the office for a change.”

She offered him her arm. “Parker,” she told him, “it’s always a pleasure to see you, at work or at play.”

I flashed him a discreet I-told-you-so. Motioning toward the living room, I suggested to everyone, “Shall we?”

Parker led Glee out of the hall, Neil and I following. As Glee disappeared through the portal into the living room, she stole a glance behind Parker, below his vest. Neil whispered to me, “I wonder if he has
any
idea that we’ve all been staring at his butt.” I laughed loudly, but it drew no reaction from either Parker or Glee—we were getting into a party mood.

“Why don’t you start some music?” I suggested to Neil, sending him ahead. I stopped at the foot of the stairs and called up to the second floor, “Thad? Joey? Come on, boys—” I stopped myself, regretting having called Joey a boy, an understandable mistake, as it was difficult not to think of him as a child. I rephrased, “Come on, guys. The party’s begun.”

Within a few minutes, the evening was under way. Neil had selected an album of not-too-raucous club tunes that thumped brightly in the background. The cocktail cart was poised to serve, and ice clanked in glasses, Parker taking requests.

“The boys” bounded into the room from upstairs, glad to be a part of things. Joey asked Parker for a brandy old-fashioned, sweet, which surprised me, not because of the weirdness of the concoction (something of a standby in Wisconsin), but because I didn’t realize that Joey had a taste for alcohol. Thad sidled up behind Joey and told Parker, “Same as my uncle, please.”

Parker said, “Hey, Mark?” and Thad knew he wouldn’t get away with it.

With lowered voice, I asked Neil, “When they’re not boozing, what do kids drink these days?”

Neil shrugged. “Beats me. Pop? Juice in little boxes?”

Clearly, I had a lot to learn about parenting before considering any responsibilities of guardianship. I took Thad aside, telling him with a half-laugh, “Nice try.” Hoping we could all keep our senses of humor about this, I said, “Look. Come midnight, you’re welcome to have a glass of champagne with us and toast the New Year. Till then, though—”

“Cool,” he interrupted, apparently getting more than he’d hoped. “Thanks, Mark.” Then he asked Parker for some cranberry juice. I heaved an inner sigh, surprised at the adroitness with which I’d averted a potential crisis.

Soon, Parker had mixed drinks for all present—Scotch for himself, Joey’s old-fashioned, Thad’s juice, the usual vodka and orange peel for Neil and me. As for Glee (I might have predicted it, though I had never seen her drink), she ordered a breathlessly dry gin martini, vigorously shaken (“at least fifty times,” she instructed), straight up in a birdbath, with a pearl onion.

I forgot about Hazel. Just as we were about to exchange our first toast of the evening, Hazel appeared from the kitchen with the caviar service and all its accoutrements—toast, blini, sour cream, chopped egg, and onion. “Hazel, won’t you join us with a drink?” I asked, assuming she would decline. To my surprise, though, she accepted a glass of wine, saying, “It might be nice to have something to nip while keeping an eye on things in the kitchen.” So the seven of us assembled around the caviar and toasted the future, the first of many such wishful little speeches we would intone that night.

By ten o’clock, Neil, Parker, Thad and I had all taken turns helping Hazel in the kitchen, and it was time to move the party to the dining room. We abandoned our cocktails, all of us on our second, exercising a measure of abstemiousness, save Joey, who finished his third old-fashioned. I poured wine, deciding on an inch or so for Thad, whose company that evening had actually proved pleasant. The table was set, the fire was roaring, the music was now demurely eighteenth century. We all sat down, Neil and I at either end of the table, Hazel nearest the kitchen.

By any standard, the meal was sublime, its centerpiece being a prime tenderloin of beef with a perfect, silky bordelaise. We ate hungrily, as the hour was very late for a Midwestern dinner, also enjoying several bottles of an extraordinary Château Margaux that Neil had sprung from our pantry in the city. Though most of us had lent a hand in orchestrating the feast, the principal cooking chores had fallen to Hazel, whom we praised lavishly. In turn, she offered compliments on our choice of wine, enjoying several glasses of it. So much for nipping.

The mood of the evening was generally merry, but its bittersweet overtones were obvious to all. Despite our best efforts, table conversation kept drifting to the mystery surrounding Suzanne’s murder of only six days ago. It might have been a good opportunity for all of us to put our heads together and debate who-done-it, but the identity of the killer was an awkward topic, as three possible suspects—Thad, Hazel, and I—took part in the conversation. So we focused on Miriam Westerman (an easy target, liked by no one) and Thad’s father, Austin Reece.

“What happened to him?” asked Parker.

No one volunteered an answer, so I told him, “Sheriff Pierce says he hasn’t been seen in over sixteen years, since before Thad was born.” Then I realized that Thad might be troubled by this discussion—I wasn’t sure what, if anything, he knew of his father. I quietly told him, “Sorry, Thad.”

“Thanks, but I’m okay with it, Mark. Mom told me about never being married, that it was her decision, that my dad loves me even though I never knew him. He’s out there
somewhere.
I think about that sometimes.”

Surprised by the maturity with which he handled the issue, I wondered if Thad’s recent rebellious streak was some sort of psychological compensation for the repressed anxiety of his unknown roots. I told him, “The sheriff is trying to find out what happened to your dad. If they do find him, would you like to meet him?”

The table was dead quiet as Thad thought before answering, “I’m not sure.”

Glee asked a question that I’d rather not have raised in front of the boy: “Is Austin Reece a suspect in Suzanne’s murder?”

“No no no,” I assured her, trying to downplay the situation for Thad’s benefit. “Doug Pierce feels, and I agree, that Reece should simply be informed of what’s happened. At this point, there’s no reason to suspect him of anything. Without talking to him, we have no idea whether he had any sort of motive to—”

“Of
course
he had a motive,” Hazel interrupted me, to the surprise of all present. She sat back in her chair, fingering the stem of her empty wineglass. Her comment was made with absolute authority, and I realized at that moment that she was probably the only person still alive who had been really close to the situation, except Joey, of course, whose recollections would not be reliable.

Amid a chorus of throat-clearing from the rest of the table, I asked Hazel, “What do you mean?” Neil astutely reached to pour more wine for her.

She leaned forward and spoke with a blank, featureless expression. “When Suzanne turned thirty, she was already a successful businesswoman, but she was not yet a mother, and a woman has only so many years. She knew Austin Reece through her work. She was a big executive at Quatro Press, and he was a top salesman at one of the nearby paper mills. When I say that Austin was a salesman, I don’t mean that he worked behind a counter somewhere. No, he handled big corporate customers and made a lot of money. So everyone thought that he and Suzanne made a pretty good match—Lord knows I did—but Suzanne had something else in mind all along. She wanted a baby, not a husband. It’s funny. Sometimes a woman gets pregnant in order to nudge a reluctant suitor into marriage, but this was sort of the other way around. Austin
planned
on marrying Suzanne. I heard them talk about it, and she led him along, at least until the baby was on the way. Then she told him she would never marry. She would raise her baby alone. Austin was crushed, and I think he felt humiliated in the eyes of everyone who knew him, everyone who thought he was so lucky to be marrying the rich Quatrain daughter. He changed after that, people said. He got depressed, so much so that he was no good at his job anymore. The paper mill had to let him go, and that made things all the worse for him. When he finally left Dumont, it was only a few days before Thad was born. Austin wouldn’t tell anyone where he was headed, but he told lots of people, including me, that Suzanne had wrecked his life.”

No one breathed. Hazel paused, sighed, and took a hefty gulp of wine, surely not tasting it. She concluded, “There’s no telling what a man might do when he feels like that, and there’s no telling how long it might take him to do it.” A tear slid down her cheek. “Poor Suzie.”

“Let’s talk about something else,” said Joey, banging his empty glass on the table. “That’s all I’ve heard all week—‘Poor Suzie, poor Suzie.’ She’s dead now! What about the rest of us? What about
me?
For as long as I can remember, it’s always been ‘Suzie this, Suzie that.’ It isn’t easy, being the youngest brother.”