Dead Floating Lovers (11 page)

I think I was biting my lip, impressed with my own inventiveness, when I heard a loud knock and then a heavy thud, like a large object thrown at my door. It didn’t take more than seconds to scare the hell out of me. I turned, startled and well into the flight or fight response, to find a large, dark man filling the open doorway.

The man took one heavy step into the room, his wild dark hair shining with rain, his lined face fierce, black eyes narrowed and fixed on me.

Sorrow sat up under the coffee table, banging his head with a hollow thump. I expected growling, leaping. My protector should have been at this intruder’s throat. Instead Sorrow crawled slowly out from beneath the table. He was on all fours, belly dragging. With a cowardly whimper, Sorrow approached the man, who seemed taller than he really was; he seemed like a growing shadow.

It was the dark raincoat. It was the dark hair. And those arms held wide at his sides, as if he might be reaching for a gun. Then there were the eyes, intent on staring me down. With an ungraceful upward push, I was out of my chair and standing behind it so I had something between this man and me. His face was set, lined, and furious. I was afraid this could be the last face I would ever see.

Sorrow whimpered. How shameful. Even with my own gulping fear, I felt disgust for my servile dog.

I looked quickly behind the man, expecting to see splintered boards where my door had been. The door stood open, rain blowing in, but it was intact. I’d locked it. I knew I had. Locked it as I always did because of just this kind of intrusion. Like my worst nightmare, the man hovered in my private, open space, glowering at me.

Sorrow reached one paw out and tapped the man’s black boot. He slithered closer and gave the boot a lick. Oh yuck, I thought.

“What do you want!” I screamed from behind my chair. Somebody in there had to have a backbone.

He reached behind and closed the door, trapping me in with him.

I didn’t want the door closed. Let the rain come in. Let the wind blow my papers everywhere. There was something too intimate about the two of us in my own space. Not enough air. He soaked it up and left nothing for me to breathe.

“I hear you are a smart woman,” he said, his voice deep and hesitant, as if he wasn’t used to a lot of words at once. He hunched his shoulders forward, making him even larger than he looked already. “I hear you work for the newspaper. I hear you haven’t been up in our country very long. You have things to learn. Stay out of tribal matters. None of what happens to an Odawa has anything to do with you. Do you understand me?”

He glowered, even took a menacing step forward.

“You have no right … I’m calling …”

He put up one brown and very lined hand. “We want our dead woman returned. We want nothing more in the newspaper. Stay out of what you don’t understand. And tell your friend, the deputy, we will be watching her.”

“I have nothing to do with the … body.”

“You have too much to do with it. You don’t belong in what is … our business.” He shifted his weight. “She will be buried. And you will leave us alone.”

He squinted at me. “That will be the end of it.”

I quickly sensed that the words were the only threat. I stood straighter, ready to take him on. “Somebody shot her. Don’t your people care about murder?”

“We care about our people.” He put a hand behind him, on the door knob. “We will do what has to be done. It isn’t your business. Nor is it Dolly Wakowski’s business.”

“Those other bones, that man, is probably Dolly’s husband,” I said, stepping out from behind my office chair. “She has the same rights you have.”

“Let her see to her own. We care … for the woman who was from the Odawa. She must be buried.” He took a deep breath.

“I work for the newspaper. This is a story. Does the woman have a name?”

He shook his head. His voice dropped. It was almost a growl. “Stay out of our business … or something you won’t like will happen to both of you.”

He straightened his back with effort and some pain. A momentary flinch crossed his harsh, incised features. As he spoke, he turned the knob and opened the door a little more, letting rain blow in.

“Are you threatening me?” I demanded, brave now that I saw he was leaving.

He only sighed and shook his head.

“I have a job to do and I damn well intend …,” I blustered.

“What’s done is done. Don’t keep snooping where you have no business … snooping. I came to warn you, that’s all. You and the deputy. She removed something from the water. We saw her and need to know what she took away.”

I didn’t have to ask which “water” he was talking about. The room grew colder and damper from the partially opened door.

“It can mean big trouble for her … what she did.”

This wasn’t something I could deny without digging a deeper hole for both Dolly and for me. I stood motionless, taking in one deep breath after another.

He reached down to tap the whimpering Sorrow’s head. “We’ll find out. Then we will go to her superior.” One of his deeper, chest-clearing breaths. “She’ll be charged with removing evidence from a crime scene. Trust what I say, we will have her job.”

He stepped toward me, away from the door, his hand out, holding a folded slip of paper. “My number,” he said, putting the paper into my reluctant hand. “Dolly Wakowski has to tell us what she took from Sandy Lake. Then it is over. No more stories.”

He bent and whispered to Sorrow, then stood, turned, opened the door fully, and went out. The door shut behind him with a soft catch of the latch.

I grabbed on to the brown chair with both hands, folding forward, shaking and feeling sick with fright now that he had left. When I could stand again, I went outside to look up my drive. No one there. I looked down toward my house, lost in clouds of mist and light rays. No one. Not a car. Not a tall man walking.

The lock on the door was intact. I tried it a couple of times—closing and opening. It seemed to work, maybe with a little play in it. I’d have to get Harry Mockerman over to look. There was no feeling safe anywhere now. Whoever the man was, he’d shown he could get to me.

I could drop the whole thing the way the man wanted me too. But I wouldn’t. If anything, I had to step up the pressure. Maybe I would write about an elderly tribe member who tried to intimidate the press. Maybe I would write about a tribe of Indians bent on covering up old murders. I was damned angry by that time and ready to take him on.

The only thing I could think to do right then was get into town and find Dolly.

I walked the shamed Sorrow back to the house. He sensed my disgust and anger and followed slowly behind, head hanging low, tail between his legs. There was no answer for how he’d let me down. Something between my dog and the man that I didn’t understand. The man was a stranger, and I was the woman who loved and cared for this animal. Another severe case of perfidy in my life.

I tried to call Dolly, but I couldn’t raise her. Chief Barnard, always affable but business-like, answered at the Leetsville station.

“Not here. Want me to find her?” the chief asked in his deep, brusk voice. I didn’t want any red lights going off. No citizens listening to their police radios, wondering what was happening. I told him it wasn’t important, that I’d be seeing her in an hour, at EATS.

“This thing with the bones is really growing,” he said. “Getting calls from out-of-state newspapers.” His tone implied a man with time on his hands to talk. “You heard Dolly thinks the second skeleton found is that husband of hers, who ran off awhile back?”

“I heard,” I said, adding nothing. I didn’t know what Dolly had told him so far and didn’t want to step on any toes. There was still the evidence-tampering issue to get out of the way. She would have to tell the chief soon. Very soon.

“Anyone from the Odawa been in touch?” I asked.

“Had a call. Just asking when the bones would be released. Some guy from their council. No trouble. Nice guy.”

“Really?” I said, not sure I should mention my visitor to Chief Barnard before talking to Dolly. I felt out of my depth here. I didn’t have a clue who to trust.

“Hmm,” the chief said, hesitating. “You having any trouble?”

“No. No.” I took the easiest path. I’d tell Dolly, let her take it from there.

“How’s Charlie doing?” I asked, getting off the subject of bones and back to small talk about his sick son. In towns the size of Leetsville you didn’t want to appear too much in a hurry. That got you a reputation of being impressed with yourself. For a reporter, a rep like that didn’t help as I went around asking questions and digging up information. One chief, back in Ann Arbor, could put his feet up on his desk; clasp his hands behind his head; and settle in for an hour’s talk about Ann Arbor, the country, and right on out to the state of the world. Experienced reporters learned quickly to smile and back off with a wave, maybe a look of regret. New reporters got stuck listening. The thing was, those new reporters began getting stories from him first, and he was always in to take their calls. So, something to be said for good manners.

“Fine,” Lucky said. Charlie had been operated on a few months before, a touch-and-go time for Barnard and his wife, Frances. Dolly took over the station then and did a great job. He wasn’t holding the string of police cars she had smashed against her, at the moment. The last one happened when we’d been forced down into Arnold’s Swamp near my house. Dolly had been injured and the chief was just happy to get her back in one piece. There’d been a détente between them ever since and Dolly swore she was being extra careful how she drove.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said, and got off the phone.

I had to find her but since she patrolled most of the back roads and could be up any two-track on a poacher call or down a logging road on a marijuana plant hunt, I’d have to wait until she got to EATS.

___

I thought I could go in quietly, make my way through the smoke undetected, and grab a shadowed corner booth to wait for Dolly. What I didn’t know was that word had gotten around town that Deputy Dolly’s husband was dead, found out to Sandy Lake all these years after he’d disappeared, right along with the bones of his girlfriend.

That was what circled in EATS when I walked in. I heard the whispers and caught the looks. You could almost smell the pity in the air, and the curiosity. If they didn’t have Dolly to console, I’d be the substitute until she got there.

I nodded to Flora Coy, the sad bird lady who’d lost most of her childhood friends to a couple of killers last fall. She sat at a round table in the middle of the room, along with John Ripple, who trapped beaver and sold their pelts for a living.

When I’d first arrived in the north, I’d thought it behooved me to get rid of the beaver in Willow Lake. He was taking down the aspen—one by one. I loved the aspen. Especially the quaking variety that turned up their leaves and shook like a hundred rattles.

I’d been introduced to John Ripple at that time. When I told him what I wanted to do—live trap the animal and take him to some other lake—he’d chewed at his white mustache and said he, maybe, had a trap just like that. We met early the next morning. I got the big green trap out of the back of his pickup, into my trunk, got it home, and down to the lake. John hadn’t mentioned anything about bait so I figured the beaver would walk on in out of curiosity. I would then remove him to another wild lake, and that would be that.

Day after day and no beaver in the trap. Out at the growing, conical, mud and stick house, the beaver worked steadily, even when I sat on my dock giving him the mean eye. After a while I figured bait was in order so I threw in a couple handfuls of Cheerios. Nothing. I added some peanut butter another morning. Still nothing. After three weeks I gave up and took the trap back to John. He never laughed, though a few days later he told me he had a surefire way to kill off the mosquitoes I complained about.

“Hang a side of beef from a tree,” he started, lips dead straight. “Hit ’em with a board when they land, one little bugger at a time.” Only the quivering of his shaggy white mustache showed he was having the city girl on.

I nodded to Flora and John. Flora gave me a pleasant, benign smile and blinked her small eyes behind thick lenses in big pink plastic frames.

Seated at another table was Gertie, the town beauty shop owner. Not long ago her shop burned down and all the women in town went into Traverse City to have their hair done. Until the shop got rebuilt and Gertie was back as the arbiter of style in Leetsville, the women had looked almost natural. No big beehives. No “do’s” lacquered to remain immobile for at least a week. Now everyone had returned to high style and Gertie sat in the middle of the restaurant talking in whispers to Sullivan Murphy, who owned the newly built funeral home over on the corner of Griffith and Mitchell Streets.

Anna Scovil, the town librarian I’d been avoiding, sat by herself in the first of the line of red Formica booths. I nodded and turned sideways to sneak past her. She caught me, clamping one hand around my wrist, and pulled me down close.

“We all feel so bad about Dolly,” she whispered. “These are truly terrible times.”

I nodded and tried to wrest my wrist from her hand. The woman was tenacious.

“Before I lose you again …” She looked around to see if anyone was watching. “I’m planning this very special Night at the Library. It’ll be a fundraiser, Emily. To buy new books. Now, what I’ve got in mind is to have readings by local celebrities.”

Her breath was warm against my skin, almost moist. She smelled faintly of liver and onions. “I hear you’re into a new novel, and I would love to have you come by, share some of your work with an audience. I’ve kind of built the program around you.”

She smiled and poked at her hair. The hair didn’t move. Considering how mine flew at the slightest breeze, I thought Gertie’s obvious skill almost otherworldly.

“Well,” I began, thinking as fast as I could. “I’m no celebrity …”

“Now,” Anna patted at my captive hand, “neither are the other writers who’ll be reading with you.”

Her eyebrows shot up and I got a wide smile. “I’ve already talked Ronald Williams into reading from his family history. Publishing it himself at some Universal place. He knows all about the Internet. Said he’d come. The only thing I’ve got to do is give him a limit on how much of it he can read. Man riffles the manuscript at anybody who’ll listen—like he was selling French postcards or something.” She frowned, then brightened. “Not that it isn’t interesting. I’m sure he could draw a crowd all by himself.”

I nodded. OK. Me and Ronald Williams. A truly nice guy but one of those gung-ho genealogists, like Eugenia, who kept coming up with one more boring relative after another.

“And,” Anna went on, “there is Winnie Lorbach. I haven’t asked yet, but she’s been putting a book on lady’s slippers together for the last fifteen years. I’ll bet she’s got fascinating information to share. Probably a lot of pictures, too. You know, you and Winnie might want to have a talk with Ronald, see how to do it. What’s the sense of sending your work out and getting it back? He says he knows how to get anybody’s book published and it costs almost nothing. Except for the books you have to buy. And, of course, his book will be a little expensive for a paperback. Still, at least you’d have a book in your hand. Think of the postage you’d save. I’ve heard money’s a little tight for you right now so you might want to give it some thought.”

I agreed and got away, fuming that somehow my lack of funds was making the rounds of the town gossips. I wasn’t used to other people knowing, or caring, about my business.

I got a little farther along when an elderly gentleman stopped me to whisper something about a murder. “Might be you could get a book out of it. Saw it last night on
Matlock
. Thought of you right away. Bet you could sell this one and get yourself some money.”

I thanked him, put my head down, and made for a shadowed booth in the far corner. I slid across the red plastic, and buried my face in a menu.

The talk around me moved from whispers to the usual low level of conversation and laughter. Gloria, who was also my mailman’s girlfriend, hurried over to slide a cup of tea across the table at me then kneel on the opposite banquette, settling herself in for a talk.

“Figured you’d want something fast,” she said. Her pretty face drew into a frown as she nodded at the white tea cup and silver pot of hot water. “We’re all so sorry about poor Dolly. You know anything about the … eh … arrangements?”

“Arrangements for what?”

“The funeral, of course. We’re a little afraid of asking Dolly. You know, because of how she is about her privacy.”

“Nothing planned yet, Gloria. The pathologist in Lansing’s got the … eh … body. I’m sure you’ll know as soon as something’s taken care of.”

Gloria looked behind her, at the table where Sullivan Murphy sat watching us. “It’s just that Sullivan has to make arrangements. You understand. Dolly maybe should at least go talk to him.”

I nodded. “When the time is right, Gloria. Please tell Sullivan some things can’t be rushed.”

“Oh, and Sullivan told me to tell you that he’s looking for somebody to keep the books at the funeral parlor. Now that his mom’s passed and his brother’s in prison, he could use some help. Might be a job in it for you.”

I stared at her. Was I being bribed by Sullivan Murphy to make sure he got Dolly’s business? I looked over at him, a big man with a gruff face. He raised a paw of a hand in the air and waved. The smile he gave me wasn’t pretty. More feral.

“I don’t know bookkeeping,” I said from somewhere deep in my throat.

“Doesn’t matter. Just add some stuff up and send out bills. I guess that’s about all Sullivan would expect.”

I felt anger bubbling in my chest. “Why does everybody think I need money?”

Gloria colored at my tone. “Now Emily. Just some things said, I guess. You know how we are, kind of watch and pick up on our neighbor’s troubles.”

“I don’t have any troubles, Gloria. I’m fine.”

She seemed about to argue, then gave a little cough into her balled fist, stood, and straightened her short blue uniform skirt. “Just passing on news of a job, Emily. Hope I didn’t make you mad or anything.”

Next to pick her way over through the miasma of the nonsmoking section was Eugenia. At first she had a look of sadness on her wide face. When she got to my booth and slid in, she put a hand over her mouth as she leaned across to taunt me. “Didn’t find her, did ya? Old Etta out there. Knew you wouldn’t. Real proud I am of that old auntie.”

“Old auntie, my foot. Ellen Liddy Watson. Hung for running her own ranch. Men didn’t like a woman sticking her nose into their cattle business. She was no outlaw, just a woman who got in the way. Certainly she’s no relation to you. And her husband was named ‘Pickell.’ I found it all, Eugenia. Nothing’s that hard to find anymore. It’s all there on the Internet.”

“Where the hell you think I get them from?” she hissed across the table, her multiplicity of chins bobbing just above the table.

“Probably everybody knows those outlaws aren’t related to you. People here are just too nice to say anything.”

“Unlike you, you mean. Nobody else in Leetsville ugly enough to point it out.” She settled back in the booth, her hands thumping a loud bump on the table. “Guess I should give it up. Still, I like doing that kind of genealogical research. Fun to poke around in the past.”