Dead Dancing Women (18 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

Jackson and Jennifer weren't
interested in Dolly, nor in the odd little woman with a fluff of white hair, pink-framed glasses with moist, frightened eyes behind them, thin lips that snapped down on her words, pink cheeks, a deep voice that sounded like it was coming up from a cave, and a merry laugh that wasn't much in evidence that morning. Flora Coy was shaking when she put her hand out to take Jackson's. Shaking when she nodded to Jennifer, who was only too thrilled when I told them about the possible house for Jackson on Torch Lake. I noticed that Jackson wasn't quite as excited. I was getting the feeling Jackson liked things just the way they were, as Dolly said. All familiar and comfortable—for him.

The three of us—me, Dolly, and Flora Coy—sat lined along my sofa, smiling, waiting for Jackson and Jennifer to find their car keys, Jackson's wallet, their shoes, a map, a piece of paper with the mythical address on it, and finally leave, with Jennifer running back in for her water bottle—in case she should dehydrate between here and there, and Jackson's hiking boots, in case they found a great trail along the way.

Finally they were gone.

Dolly got up and made all three of us a pot of tea. She knew where everything was now, very comfortable in my house. I thought how all of a sudden I had more people familiar with my life than I was.

We stayed in the living room. Dolly put the teapot, cups, cream, sugar, and a plate of cookies on my big square coffee table. She poured tea and passed cookies. What a sweet little tea party we were having.

Dolly waited until she finished her tea and cookies to tell me about the phone call she got that morning, from the state police. They were looking into her background, they told her.

“I told Brent to go right ahead. And if he finds out anything, I'd like to know. I been here for the last fifteen years. Before that it was Kalamazoo. Before that a bunch of foster homes I'm still trying to forget. Last fifteen years I haven't hardly been out of Leetsville. Nothing to find out about me.”

We sipped our tea like perfect ladies. Dolly's face was sad and closed in. There were things written there I didn't want to know about, and Flora Coy had so much on her mind I could tell she couldn't absorb any more.

After a while Dolly gave a short laugh. “Then I got a call from some nut. Phone rang right when I walked in the door, like he was watching my house. Said if the police couldn't stop me, he would. Ranted on about the corrupt police department and how Lucky is covering up for me. Somebody saw me set the fire and I'm going to pay for it. Crazy stuff like that.”

“Awful,” I said.

“Somebody actually believes I'd hurt Mary Margaret.” Dolly lowered her head.

Flora Coy reached over and patted her hand. “Nobody who knows you would think such a thing, Dolly,” the old woman said. “You've been the soul of kindness to me.”

Dolly nodded listlessly.

“I know who called Lucky about you,” I said.

Dolly's head snapped up.

“You mean the one who said they saw me coming out of the funeral home?”

I nodded. “Eugenia. She was on her way home. Fell asleep in the restaurant.”

“Eugenia said that about me?” Dolly made a face then put a hand to her mouth. “For goodness' sake. Why would Eugenia say a thing like that?”

“Don't have a clue. You know how notoriously undependable eyewitness accounts are. And how nervous everybody is. She must've seen somebody who looks like you. Or was dressed like you usually dress?”

“In a uniform?”

“Yup.”

“But, Eugenia! That's awful. I'd better have a talk with her.”

“Yeah, I think so. I mean, she was half asleep. It was dark. Something gave her the idea.”

“What if I call her? Who told you it was Eugenia? Couldn't've been the chief.”

I felt funny, ratting out Gloria and Simon. I shrugged and she caught on. She nodded and bit at her lip.

“This is getting terrible,” Flora Coy spoke up. “My friends all dead. Neighbor turned against neighbor. Everybody scared to death.”

“How about some new ideas?” I took Flora's cramped hands in mine. She looked like a mouse caught in a trap. She snapped her lips a few times, shook her head, and seemed unable to speak. Her eyes behind those pink-framed glasses were magnified. She blinked again and again.

“Any idea who could be doing this to you and your friends?” I asked, eager to move straight to a place where we could help.

“Got a couple of ideas but Dolly here says you've already been looking into them. I mean, that Pastor Runcival. He spoke out against us in church, like we were the spawn of the devil. And that man out in the woods. You shoulda seen his face when we caught him spying on us that time. Well, maybe not spying so much as waiting for us to move on so he could get back to poaching deer. Joslyn was mad as a wet hen at him. She says she caught him in her woods more than a few times. Ernie took a shot at him once—it came to that.”

“I've been thinking about Ernie,” I said. “Could he be involved? I mean, was he mad at his mother and the rest of you for your little … er … ceremonies? We don't know where he really was when his mother was killed.”

“Tractor pull,” Dolly said.

“But, we don't know.”

“State police'll look into it, I imagine.”

“Good,” I said.

Flora gave me a stunned look. “Ernie? I wouldn't think so. He could get mad. Yes, that's true. Joslyn told us about times he was mad at her for things, but it was ordinary stuff. Like she forgot to buy peanut butter. Just things like that. Nothing that would make him kill her.”

“Didn't Ernie ever leave home? Joslyn, Ruby, and Mary Margaret all had grown kids living with them. Did any of them resent it? You'd think they'd have wanted to move on.”

“Gilbert and Sullivan were gone for a while. I remember Mary Margaret wasn't too pleased when they came back home, but she got used to having them around. At least she didn't complain much; though, to tell the truth, we all knew what a trial the boys got to be. You know, nobody was keeping any of them there. Ruby got a little fed up with Amanda. The girl went to college but wouldn't get out and get a job. Kept going on how Ruby needed her there. A couple of times Ruby came right out and shook her head and said she wished the girl would get some gumption and go off on her own. Amanda wanted things—all the time. Talked about moving. Talked about a new house. Talked about taking trips. Anything she could think of to devil Ruby. But that's kids for you, I guess. Still, I never once heard Joslyn say a word against Ernie. When he'd get mad she'd just say it was because he had big plans when he was a boy but nothing ever panned out for him. Joslyn always blamed George. George was her husband. He left when Ernie was twelve years old. Left and they never heard from him again.”

I gave Dolly a look.
Never heard from him again?

“Now don't go looking like that. That's what people know, that George up and left. That's all Joslyn wanted folks around here to know of her business. She told us, in confidence, that George called a few times, from someplace out west. Didn't want to be tied down anymore, is what he told her. Wasn't coming back and had no intention of staying in touch either. So don't go getting ideas about poor Ernie. It's enough his father deserted him and now his mother's been killed so horribly. You look somewhere else for your culprit.”

Duly chastened, I switched targets. “OK, but you said Ruby and Mary Margaret were fed up with having their kids at home. Did they say anything specific? I mean, were they trying to get them out?”

“Well, I know Mary Margaret had all kinds of trouble with the boys. Sullivan's a heavy drinker, likes to party—and he's hardly a teenager. Boy's in his forties. And Gilbert, well, he's not much better, only with the gambling.”

“What happened to Mary Margaret's husband?”

“Poor man. Died young. Same with Ruby's husband. Mine, too. That's what kind of brought us all together. Our husbands were gone. I was the only one with no children. Seems like losing their father young is very hard on kids. That's what poor Ruby thought. Saw Amanda just curl up and turn into somebody who was afraid of everything.”

“I wouldn't say Amanda's afraid. She seemed very much in charge when we were there the other day. She was the one planning the funerals,” I said.

“Well, yes, I've seen it before; when the parents are finally gone the kids come out of their shell. To tell you the truth, I never saw it the way Ruby saw it, that Amanda was so weak. It was just that Ruby hoped for grandchildren. I guess they all did, and not one of 'em had a chance of having any. Funny, you would've thought one of them would have had some. Not one grandchild in the group.”

“And Gilbert and Sullivan? Would you say either one had a reason to kill their mother? Gilbert—maybe gambling debts. Has to be insurance on the funeral home.”

“But kill the others? Sounds a little far-fetched to me,” Dolly put in. “I still think we've got to look at something way out there. Somebody totally nuts.”

“You're back to my neighbor,” I said, not wanting to face it.

“Harry Mockerman?” Flora Coy looked fast from Dolly to me. “Why that's not possible. I've known Harry since we went to grade school together. He's always been what you might call an odd boy, but Harry wouldn't hurt a soul.”

“He kills everything that gets within a foot of his house,” Dolly said. “And makes soup out of 'em.”

“Well, that's just the way old-timers are up here. Most of my family lived off the woods. Our way of life. Harry can't help it if he's kind of a leftover. You know it's like the old farmers, collected junk in their yards, left one trailer and moved into another, left the old one to rot. Nobody thought anything of it until the new people started moving up here. Suddenly there was loud complaining about junk left around the old houses, and too many cars, up on jacks, rusting out. Just the clash of the old with the new. Always been like that. Always be like that.”

She smiled indulgently, not meaning to flummox any ideas ranging around in our heads, but doing a pretty good job of it.

“Still.” Dolly wasn't one to be stopped. “Was there anything from the past? Maybe it goes back to when you were all in school? Did he have a crush on any of you girls? Any of you spurn old Harry? Could he have been nursing a grudge for the last fifty years or so?”

“Harry Mockerman? And us? I'd say not. Never was a thing between any of us and Harry. Not that we didn't like him OK. He just wasn't, well, you know. I don't think Harry ever went for girls.” She waved a hand hurriedly. “Not that he went for the boys. I don't mean that, though we didn't even know about things like that in my day. Never heard of such a thing. It was just that Harry didn't seem to go for anybody. He always kept to himself. Had a lot of dogs. Lived back there since I can't remember when. Always, I'd say.”

Remembering something, I turned to Dolly. “He was here this morning, looking for me. Jennifer said an old guy in a funny suit dropped off wild leeks and wants to see me.”

Dolly nodded, then nodded again.

“Should I go over there?” I asked.

“You worried about going alone?” she asked.

I thought a minute, then shook my head. “No. I don't think so.”

“Want me to come with you?”

“You scared him last time. And anyway, we don't want to leave Flora.”

“Why don't you go on then? I'll give you, oh, say twenty minutes. If you're not back by one thirty, we'll come get you.”

I nodded, not liking to think Harry presented any danger, but still I knew that danger could hide anywhere up here now.

TWENTY-SIX

Not being a mother,
I didn't know if what I felt toward Flora Coy and Dolly was motherly instinct or not. I was wishing I could keep them right at my house, dump Jackson and “Miss Thing,” and take the two women in; keep them safe. Only, since I wasn't very good at keeping myself safe, why did I think I could take care of two wily women who were probably a lot braver than I was? Maybe I wanted them with me for just that reason. So … no motherly instinct at all, just self-protection.

I was telling myself all sorts of things, while I walked over to Harry's. I'd lied to Dolly. I was nervous about going there. Not that I suspected Harry of doing any of the terrible things that were going on, but even the woods made me nervous. A million eyes followed me. There wasn't a tree that didn't threaten. Like
The
Wizard of Oz
, when those trees threw apples at Dorothy, I had the feeling the trees were watching, and at any moment they would reach out with scaly arms and grab me.

Harry's dogs began to bark when I was halfway up his driveway, or pathway, or whatever. A true early-warning system. I'd heard his dogs when they were loose in the woods, baying after something or other, barking like
The Hound of the Baskervilles
, with enough tremolos to set the hair along my arms straight up on end.

Harry's old hybrid car was parked at the side of his house. Either he was home or out in the woods. I knocked on the front door and got no response. If he was in there, he wouldn't hear me shouting over those dogs. But then, with the dogs so loud, he had to know somebody was around.

I gave up knocking at the front door and walked to the back.

Harry leaned over a stump with a hatchet in his hand. I didn't mind the hatchet. I was relieved to see his scrawny figure in that sprung black suit. I'd had enough of finding dead people.

“Emily,” he said without so much as glancing up at me.

“Harry,” I said, mimicking his monotone.

He held a dead skunk in one hand and the hatchet in the other. He was skinning the skunk. Not a pretty sight. Something about the bloody half-bare carcass that unsettled me. I wanted a little distance between me and that dead skunk and between me and Harry with a hatchet in his hand, but it was too late. I couldn't sneak out of the clearing and come back some other day, some other week, some other eon.

“Glad to see ya, Emily,” he said, still without looking up. He was at a critical point, I could see, where the hatchet had to be used delicately, around the joints of a leg. I had to admire his skill even while wishing I didn't have to look. “You get the leeks I brought over? Good in soup. Salad. Anything you cook. Strong flavor, this time of year. Don't use too much of 'em at once.”

“Thanks Harry.” I got as close as I felt my stomach could take then stood standing on one leg, looking anywhere I could look, examining the dogs in their cages as they threw their bodies at the chicken wire. I checked out Harry's wood piles, now extending all around the clearing. He was ready for winter while I hadn't even thought about things like wood and preserves and putting plastic over my windows—all those practical things people up here knew instinctively to do. Three years and I still didn't have good sense when it came to the elements.

“That skunk's not going to stink, is it?” I asked finally, shifting my feet in the trampled weeds of Harry's yard. Like Harry, there was the smell of fresh wood and decaying leaves out there. The small, leaning buildings were picturesque, not simply old. Boards peeled, roofs slanted, doors hung crookedly—it was a fairy tale place. I thought, any minute now I'll be guessing Harry's real name.
“Rumpelstiltskin, sir.”

Harry looked up at me, his wizened face moving around into what I took for a grin. “Wouldn't catch me skinning 'im if I didn't get the sacs out.”

“I just don't want to be smelling like skunk for the next three months.” I think I was whining. Sounded like whining.

“Yeah, know what you mean. I got into one when I was a kid. Had to sleep outside for a few weeks before my dad let me back in the house. Then he made me take a bath in tomato juice every day. Went through a lot of tomato juice, I'll tell ya. Good way to get rid of unwanted guests though. In case you're looking for something.” He was really grinning now, pleased with himself. He'd met Jennifer, maybe Jackson, too. “But you don't need to be afraid of this guy.” He held the almost skinned skunk up by one bloody leg. “Ain't gonna do nothing. Killed 'im clean. Didn't have a chance to get his tail in the air.”

I edged away as if that dangling black and white pelt could rear up and get me, dead or not. I'd heard of bees stinging after they died. Why not a skunk spraying
post mortem
?

Because the day was chilly, Harry had a red plaid jacket on over his funeral suit. It was funny how the suit jacket hung down at the bottom and yet, on Harry, it didn't look out of place. Maybe I was beyond finding things odd up here. Or maybe I'd grown just as odd as my neighbors and friends. I looked down at my sneakers with torn toes, then at my jeans with holes at the knees.
For God's sakes
, I told myself. It was one thing to go native, but quite another to simply let myself go to hell. And with Jackson there, too. What a contrast I must be to Jennifer of the long slim legs and blond hair and lispy laugh, despite my one-colored hair and chewed lipstick.

“If you're sure.” I edged closer again.

Harry set the hatchet aside and got a knife from his jacket pocket. He switched a long blade out and went to work. The knife moved fast, scraping the inside of the hide, whisking at it, removing tiny pieces of flesh until the hide was stripped clean. I couldn't help but think how good he was with that knife. An expert. The kind of man for whom dissection of a body was probably second nature.

I shuddered and crossed my arms over my chest. I was getting like everybody else; suspecting Harry though I'd never thought he could hurt anyone. Not really. Not human beings. I guess I thought that was because human beings weren't fit for the soup pot, but here he was skinning a skunk. No soup there.

“What'll you do with the hide, Harry?” I asked.

He gave me a funny look, as if the question was a dumb one, or outside his understanding.

“What does anybody do with a skunk hide?” he said, laughing at me.

“I haven't a clue,” I said.

“Why, tan it, then I sell it to some boys in town that like 'em. I don't know what they do with 'em. Maybe just use the tail. Sold a bunch of 'em awhile back to Jake Anderson who owns the bar in town. He tacked 'em up all over the walls behind the bar. Said it's what you call a conversation piece. That's why he called it the Skunk. You know that? The bar's called that because of me? Well, you'd be surprised what people buy around here.”

I shook my head. No, I thought, I wouldn't be surprised at all.

Working expertly, Harry slid the last of the black and white pelt off. I winced and looked away as the bare, bleeding carcass fell down to lie on the stump.

“Geez, Harry.” I made a face. “How can you do stuff like that?”

He gave me an astonished look. “You mean kill a few things?”

“More than a few. It seems you've always got something simmering.”

“A man's got to live. This one's not going into a soup pot. I got my standards, you know.”

Yeah, I wanted to say. Standards that fell just short of cooking a skunk.

I turned away while Harry finished his job. I looked off at his woods, which he kept thinned, almost park-like. He'd told me once he could manage my wood lot like he did his, taking down the bad stuff, the useless stuff, for firewood, and giving strong trees, like my oaks and basswood, a place to grow tall. I'd said “no” because I still had a romantic notion of me and the woods as a thing that would grow tall and old and thick together. Now I knew better. Now I knew that Harry was right. If my woods weren't taken care of soon, some of the big trees would topple and rot where they fell. I was considering taking Harry up on his offer; have him come cull the dying trees, some of the weaker trees, some of the crowded trees, to make room for the others. I thought maybe, if he'd do the work, he could have the wood and I would have a better forest. I just hadn't gotten around to discussing it with him yet, and this murder stuff had driven it right out of my mind.

“If you ever feel the need of a good skunk hide, why, now you know where to come.” He wiped the knife clean on a rag he whipped from his jacket pocket.

I gave him a weak smile, not certain if my leg was being pulled or not. I had a sneaking suspicion it was, the way I had a sneaking suspicion a lot of people made fun of me up here.

When he'd finished with the knife and put it back in his pocket, he pinned the hide to a board to dry, then pulled the board up off the ground. “Keeps the dogs and things away from it,” he said. I followed him to his shed where he got a big ax, ran a wet finger over the blade, set a log up on another log and began whacking away, making himself some kindling.

“Thanks again for the leeks,” I said between whacks. “I'll make a stew one of these days and have you over.”

“'preciate that.” He looked sidewise at me, grinning. “But not while you got all that company. Don't understand people needing other people hanging around.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?”

He shrugged. “Just came over to see how you was doing. I heard about all the stuff happening. The fire last night.” He shook his head. “Another poor old woman. Heard you was all upset.”

“Of course,” I said. “Who isn't?”

“Not the fire. I'm talking about the other things. Those things you found. Seemed like it would be right up your alley, being a writer. That's what I told Simon the other day but he said all this was doing everybody in. What with Joslyn Henry. Now Mary Margaret. Fire get those boys of hers?”

“Nope. Almost got Sullivan but he got out a back window.”

“Too bad,” he said. “If poor Mary Margaret had to get caught in it, a shame to have those boys of hers profit. Terrible shame. This whole thing. Can't imagine what's happening around here.”

“You mean profit from the funeral home?”

“Insurance. Those boys won't be unhappy they come into some money. Life insurance. Building insurance.” Harry shook his head. “Money's what does it to people. Makes 'em terrible.”

“You hear anything else being said around town?” I moved closer and leaned against a tree, out of range of the flying bits of wood.

He stopped midair and gave me a look. “I don't pass on stories, Emily. If that's what you want.”

“I'm here because you said you wanted to see me.”

He nodded once, then again. He gave a log a powerful whack, sending shreds of tree sailing. “I got two things on my mind.”

“What two things, Harry?”

“First I was thinking maybe you need protection over there to your house. The way things are going now, and with you putting yourself right into the middle of it, well, I was thinking … I got this tent I could put up in your front yard. Bring a few of my dogs over. You know, kind of camp out and watch things.”

“Why Harry, that's very nice of you.”

He reddened and lowered his head so I couldn't see his face. “Just using common sense. Seems to be in short supply around here.”

“I've got a dog,” I said, not following who was the one without common sense.

His head snapped up. “Thought so. About time. I was thinking of giving you one of mine, but I just couldn't make up my mind which one didn't belong. Came to the conclusion there wasn't a one of them I could get rid of.”

I looked again at the panting faces behind the chicken wire fence keeping them from me, and was grateful for their master's indecision.

“You like him—yer dog? Kinda cute. Saw him this morning. But, Emily, he's only a pup.” Harry scowled and shook his head. “What in hell good's a pup to you right now? Shoulda got yerself a grown dog.”

“Sorrow's friendly. He barks.”

“You don't want 'im too friendly. Take my dogs, here. Tear a leg off you unless I tell 'em ‘NO.'”

“I don't want Sorrow biting anybody.”

Harry shook his head again and set his ax down.

“Whatever pleases you,” he said.

“Was there anything else?” I leaned away from the tree, stretching, figuring I'd better get back quick or Dolly and Flora would arrive with guns blazing.

He hesitated. “You know those state police were over here to see me? A couple of times so far.”

“I knew they were interviewing people around here. In town, too. Anybody who knew Joslyn Henry, or Ruby Poet. Now they'll be looking into Mary Margaret's death.”

“That's everybody,” he said. “They been here too much. Seems to me they should be over to those Survivalist folks. Strange things going on back there. I seen it with my own eyes. I been hunting these woods since I was born. Not going to stop now just 'cause they put up signs and point guns at a man. That goes two ways, ya know. The gun pointing. Seems to me the police should be looking into them a lot closer. I know some things …”

“What things, Harry?”

“Well, just things. Like I seen that Rombart guy in Joslyn's woods, watching when the women were out there at their fire pit. Silly old women. Dancing around. Flowers in their hair. Singing songs. More than one time I asked Ruby Poet what in hell they thought they were doing. That's what got her mad at me, not what they're saying, that I wanted too much for my firewood. I told her they were damned stupid, flitting around the fire the way they was. Ruby said they were sick and tired of men spying on them and I said it wasn't spying, just that I was always out there. She blew right up and said to stay off Joslyn's property and she was going to have a talk with Ernie and Joslyn. That's what our argument was about. Thought you should know the truth and maybe put a bug in that state policeman's ear about looking more at that Dave Rombart. I'd put my money on them. I think they're trying to take over this whole North Country. Maybe start a war on the government, turn this place into a battleground. Maybe that's why they're killing off people.”