Dead Dancing Women (22 page)

THIRTY

Dolly was staying the
night at Flora's house. Flora refused to leave her birds alone again.

“Just look what happened,” she'd demanded. Neither of us could disagree.

And there were the police to handle. Then the cleanup. I was happy to get away after Eugenia and the women from the restaurant arrived with their buckets and bags, alerted by their usual extra sense.

Dolly and Flora couldn't be in better hands.

All I wanted to do when I got back home was sleep. Jackson's car was in the drive. I smiled as I walked in and peeled off my sneakers, but it was written there on Jackson's face, my rudeness to his girlfriend, my audacity, the ever-lengthening litany of my sins against him. A big, sinking boulder hit my stomach. I smiled again—hoping to avoid the worst of it. I thought my sheepish grin, after a day as rough as mine had been, the height of gentility.

“I took her to her parents' house,” he said to me through a fog. I watched his lips move. I knew words were coming out. I just couldn't hear them. I nodded and nodded again. All I could think about was moving the few extra feet from my living room, where he sat stiff-kneed on the sofa, to my bedroom. Sorrow understood. He leaned into my legs and made odd, burping sounds. I thought them sympathetic noises, sleepy noises.

I blinked a few times at Jackson, whose face was drawn and earnest, and, if I wasn't mistaken, more than a little accusatory. I backed away because I couldn't take accusation, nor guilt, right then. I kept backing through the kitchen, my smile firmly in place. I backed all the way down the hall and through my door to my bed with Sorrow nipping at my bare feet.

Six sad parakeets chirped in my head as I fell across my bed and pulled the white fuzzy comforter to my chin. Sorrow leaped on the bed and settled with his head on the other pillow. I remember smiling at him as I fell asleep. I think he smiled back.

In the morning, when I awoke, the house was still. I thought for a minute I was alone. I lay wallowing in the thought:
alone.
Maybe I'd pissed Jackson off and didn't remember. Maybe I'd said something terrible when I got back the night before. I was almost hoping. I'd had all I could take of shame for a while.

Jackson sneezed. He was in his room, talking on his cell phone in a low monotone. I groaned and rolled over, burying my head under my pillow. Sorrow, thrilled to see I was awake, landed on my back and bit at my hair until I got up.

The woman who stared back at me from the bathroom mirror looked awful. What a pathetic human being. Kind of brown hair standing on end or laid flat against her head. Eyes puffy and red. I yawned at my image just to see how truly ugly I could get, then said the hell with it, peed, washed what I could reach comfortably, and went out to smile a bleary smile at Jackson, no doubt reminding him why infidelity had been a necessary option to our union.

I made coffee for Jackson, a pot of tea for me, and some toast. My body didn't feel like moving and cooking, and my mouth didn't want to talk, but when you have a guest you move, you cook, you talk, and then you stand still, teacup in hand, or lean against the refrigerator, paste a smile on your face, and nod every once in a while as your company drones on and on and on.

Poor Jennifer. I'd hurt her feelings. Jackson said he knew he should leave, too, but seeing I'd gotten myself into the middle of this murder mess, well, he didn't think it right of him to leave right then. And since I was so involved with this Dolly person, well, I wasn't, after all, using my studio and he would just as soon set up his work out there, out of my way, where he could begin his book and be there to see to my safety at the same time.

“I'll be working in the studio this morning,” I said. I watched a look of hurt shock move across his face. “I'm almost finished with the mystery I'm writing.”

“Mystery?” That might have been a sneer around his lips. I hoped not. “Why, how … eh … enterprising of you, Emily. I had no idea you wanted to write fiction.”

“Really? Hmm … seems I mentioned it a few dozen times.”

“Well, then, what about this? You work in your studio now, and I'll work out there when you're not around.”

“What about finding a place of your own?”

“I will. That's what I want. It's just that there is nothing suitable available.”

“I'm sure there must be … we'll look in the paper today.”

“Good idea.” He went to stand at the large front window with his back to me. His back looked wide, and comforting. I had to admit it was good to have a strong male essence in the house. Not that Sorrow didn't do his job just fine—but having Jackson there was like knowing I had someone who could wield an ax, if necessary, or pick up a gun and kill an intruder instantly. He was male and could beat his chest, if he wanted to, and swing from a tree, and rescue me as I swooned.

I stopped myself. He wasn't there to protect me.
I
was there to protect me. And he wasn't going to get his hands on my studio. I'd have to be careful, watchful, or I'd come home one afternoon and find my things sitting in the sun outside the door with Jackson fully ensconced inside.

I called Dolly at Flora Coy's house. She was busy helping Flora figure out what was missing. She wanted to know if I was coming in to help.

“Not today,” I said. “I've got to write this morning. Get a story in.”

Her disappointed “Oh” didn't change my mind. I needed time away from Dolly, from Flora Coy, from Jackson, from just about everybody in my life at the moment.

“I'll see you tomorrow, at the memorial,” I said and then hung up before I could hear how we had work to do and there was no time to lose and what in hell did I think I was doing, leaving her in the lurch like this?

Or something close to all of that.

My morning was wonderful. Maybe it was because I could sense Jackson salivating in the house, wanting to get his hands on my studio. Or maybe because I finally had a couple of hours to think. Whatever it was, the novel moved along brilliantly. The first thing I had to do was knock Martin Gorman, my protagonist, off the wagon. I got him roaring, soaring drunk and then I had him feel sorry for himself and suspicious of Catherine Martel, the writer who may or may not be the murderer he's after. I really screwed up Martin's life. A great couple of scenes. I had him fall off a stool in a sleazy bar, then run his car off the road. A cop he knew, a buddy of his, pulled up and yelled at him for being so stupid as to start drinking again. I really let Martin have it …

Then I wondered if Martin was my substitute for Jackson again. I liked the writing so much I told myself I didn't care. If Jackson was my depraved muse, than so be it. I was going to take good writing wherever I could get it.

When I got back up to the house, Jackson had spread his books and papers across the kitchen counter. He made one listless move to collect them. I told him it was fine, just fine, if he wanted to leave his things there until he found a house. As I made lunch for us, he spread the newspaper over his books and searched the Houses for Rent columns. I kept my fingers crossed but soon he was shaking his head and commenting on how little there was to choose from in the way of rentals.

“Must be because it's off-season,” he said.

I agreed and made a mental note to put “House for Jackson” at the top of my list of things to see to. After lunch, I washed the dishes, changed into town clothes, ran off a copy of the Survivalist story, and headed into Traverse City.

Jan Romanoff sat at her neat desk in the offices of
Northern Pines Magazine.
She looked over the tops of her half-glasses and waved me to a chair. “What in hell's happening out there in Leetsville?” she demanded in her lady editor, probing voice. “I've been reading about the carnage you folks are caught up in. You found a head in your garbage can? Geez, girl, I thought it was quiet back in the woods.”

I smiled the brightest smile I could come up with. Now I would forever be known as the girl with a head in her garbage can. I wasn't going to mention the arm. Notoriety wasn't my thing.

“Bad,” I said in my best Clint Eastwood voice. I shook my head.

“Well, I'd say.” She could see I wasn't in the mood to discuss atrocities at the moment. At least, not anything beyond the Survivalists.

“That your story?” She reached for my manuscript, then gave it a cursory glance. “How many words?”

“About 1200. That enough? They aren't exactly a scintillating group.”

“Figured. Got photographs?”

I handed her the roll of film and left with an assignment on a llama farm.

I still had to get over to the
Northern Statesman
offices to see Bill and hoped I didn't have to run a gauntlet of curiosity there, too.

I was greeted with no interest whatsoever. Ever since they redid the offices and sealed the workers from the public after an incident at a paper farther north where an angry reader shot up the place, it was like walking into any office building anywhere. No immediate excitement of breaking news. No overworked reporters following leads in whispered phone calls. Only a receptionist and a waiting area with stock, off-the-showroom-floor chairs for guests.

Bill was summoned and came to greet me, giving me a big hug, which sent the receptionist's eyebrows soaring. We went back to his office—more what you would expect from a newsman, papers everywhere, stacks of books, file folders, notes.

“Get rid of the ex yet?” was his first question. Refreshing.

I laughed. “I got the girlfriend out. She hit my dog and I blew up.”

“Don't blame you.” He pushed his glasses up his nose and chuckled deep in the back of his throat. “Now if only Jackson would do something equally despicable.” He scratched at his chin. “He didn't find a place?”

“Still looking,” I said.

“Here.” He got out of his chair and grabbed a paper from a pile on the file cabinet behind him. “Tomorrow's rentals. If there's nothing there I'll see what I can come up with. Anything new on the story?”

“Not since the break-in at Flora Coy's.” I'd called that in already.

“You talk to Gaylord? See if they've got anything?”

I shook my head. My mind had been on the novel. I forgot I should've been following up, maybe doing a few interviews.

“Call now.” He motioned toward his phone.

I took care of that, being told that Officer Brent would return my call as soon as he was free. Our story had hit the national news. He was probably being besieged by networks and papers from across the country.

“I've got something I found for you,” Bill said, and he pushed a paper across the desk at me. “It's on Ernie Henry. You know he was picked up last year in Grand Rapids?”

I shook my head. No one had mentioned anything bad about Ernie.

“Lewd and lascivious. Busted in a prostitution sweep.”

“You mean his tractor pulls and his small-engine shows … ?”

Bill smiled sheepishly. “Looks like it. I don't know if this has any bearing …”

I shrugged, disappointed in Ernie. “Everything does, I imagine. You think I should tell Brent?”

“Up to you. Don't know if it has a thing to do with what's happening out there. I don't see how, do you?”

I shook my head. I was beginning to know more about my Leets­ville neighbors than I wanted to know, or felt I should know. “More pathetic than ominous, don't you think? You find anything else?”

“No, but I can look up the others if you want me to.”

I thought awhile, not sure I should. Then I figured I didn't start this mess and what was happening transcended mere good manners.

“How about Gilbert and Sullivan Murphy? Could you see what they've been up to? And if by any chance there's anything on the Reverend Runcival of the Church of the Contented Flock, I'd like that, too.”

“The Murphys are the funeral home twins? It was their mother who died in the fire, right? OK. Are you staying in town awhile?”

I was going to shop. Give myself an afternoon off.

“How about an early dinner?”

Sounded good to me. We agreed on La Cuisine Amical down by the State Theater. Five o'clock. Early dinner.

I bought new jeans at a downtown store, and a smashing velour top in iris blue. I bought new tennis shoes at Plamondon Shoes on Front Street. I'd throw out the old ones with the holes in the toes when I got home. I bought nice-smelling soap for my bathroom and did girly things all afternoon. Still I arrived early at the restaurant, but I wasn't the only early diner. As if I was being haunted by nasty spirits from a past I was trying to forget for a single day, the Murphy boys and Amanda Poet were at the last table along the wall.

The Murphy boys sat with their backs to me. Amanda saw me as I walked in. At first she looked anything but happy. She leaned forward and said something to the Murphys, who turned to stare over their shoulders. She raised a hand in greeting and broke into a wide smile.

“Yoo-hoo, Emily.”

Reluctantly, I walked back, near the fireplace, greeting the trio.

“What are you doing in town today?” Amanda asked brightly.

“Turning in a story.” I nodded to the twins, noting they weren't any happier to see me than I to see them.

“Aren't you the busy writer. Got a finger in every pie, I guess, hmm?”

I smiled then remembered I hadn't seen the Murphys since their mother's death. I hadn't said how sorry I was about the fire, and their mom. I told them now, almost choking at the thought of the last time I saw Mary Margaret, standing on the porch of the funeral home, waving to me and Dolly.

The boy's faces darkened. Gilbert glowered. Sullivan looked as if he might cry. I thought I caught the faintest whiff of alcohol drifting off him, like cheap cologne.