Dead Dancing Women (25 page)

THIRTY-THREE

I tried to work
on the novel the next morning while listening to Nina Simone; that voice with all of life still throbbing in it. Sorrow lay beside my desk on his back, four feet in the air. Every once in a while he gave a subdued “Woof” and his legs made running movements. The guy was busy chasing dreams.

“Here comes the sun, little darling … ,”
Nina sang.

Ohh, the woman could see into my soul and sing healing.

That voice hurt. Sometimes too much. I switched to Satie. Nothing personal there, in his music. Oh no … just those long notes that got me down where I lived. Dragged out emotion, dark and deep and so very slow.

I turned off the music, figuring it was a day of too much imagination. Then turned off the computer, making Sorrow scramble up, thinking we were finished. I motioned for him to lie back down, that we weren't ready to go. I occupied my studio to protect it from “Jackson invasion,” but the stress was making me unhappy and nonproductive. I lay on the futon for a while in the complete silence of early October. It was my period, I figured. That's why the emotion, the melancholy. First day stuff. Cramps in my back gave me an excuse not to sit at my desk pretending to write. I felt sad about four old ladies who wanted to make the world a better place before they left it. Three of them murdered. I lay on the southwest-design cover of the futon and stretched my arms high, stiffened my body. I closed my eyes and imagined being out there in the woods, dancing around a fire. I imagined lying back on the earth and opening my eyes to the universe, wondering if I could feel at one with all of that, with a loving spirit around me, watching and smiling.

I envied Flora Coy, Ruby Poet, Mary Margaret Murphy, and Joslyn Henry. Three of them might be dead but for a little while they'd had that, what I thought of as a perfect friendship taking in everyone and everything. No jealousy. No meanness.

Their deaths grew larger than their lives had been. Larger than the way they'd died. A good revelation, though it didn't diminish my fervent desire to get the killer. It just made him less important, of only momentary interest, eclipsed, when we got him, by what the women had known.

As usual, with the strange twists my life took, and the loss of that aloneness I used to have, a car pulled down the drive, bringing me out of my reverie and out of my studio before anyone thought to join me and spoil that place, too. Sorrow, who loved company, bounced into me, getting out the door. He did his dance and barked a welcome.

Bill had come to see how I was doing, he said, after getting out of his car and patting Sorrow's head. It felt good to have Bill standing in my driveway. It was a day for a big man with a big chest and funny glasses that he pushed up his nose with his middle finger. I wanted so badly to hug him, but I stopped myself.

“I came to talk to Jackson,” he said, walking into the house behind me.

That wasn't what I needed to hear right then. Jackson wasn't supposed to fit into this equation. My equation. My job. My friend.

“Brought him some news.”

Jackson jumped up, as men always do, to shake hands. They settled on my sofa, two large, healthy male animals, while I made coffee. I did it quietly, not wanting to miss a word.

“A friend of mine, he's a pilot with Northwest up here. He's being transferred for ten months and wants to rent out his place.” Bill stopped and watched Jackson's face as he listened. “I thought you might be interested.”

Jackson nodded. “'Course I am. It's just that it might not be a good time to be leaving Emily. With this problem she's got herself into …”

“Don't worry about me,” I called from the kitchen. “We're close to the end now. I can feel it.”

“Still …”

“Anyway,” Bill pressed on. “He's got this house just outside of Traverse, on Spider Lake. Bigger than Emily's.”

That opened Jackson's eyes. He glanced toward me. Me and my matched cups and saucers, my sugar and my creamer, my little life and littler house. He smirked. “Well, hmm, that does sound like what I've been looking for.”

Bill nodded and rubbed his big hands together. “I thought it might.”

“How much does he want for it? I don't have a lot …”

Bill went on smiling. He shook his head. “Oh, no. Not a lot. He just wants somebody reliable in there. You'd be kind of watching the place for him.”

Jackson nodded slowly. “So, in a way, I'd be doing your friend a favor, right?”

Bill nodded, a little more slowly. He was onto Jackson faster than I'd ever caught his twists and turns. “I could take you in right now to see it. If you want?”

“Great.” Jackson stood, rubbing his hands together. “You want to ride in the Jag?”

“We'll take two cars.” Bill hesitated, smiling at me. “After Emily's coffee. Wouldn't want to miss that.”

They drank. They left. I was relieved. Quiet. And a sunny afternoon. I could walk. I could sit down by the lake and swear at the last of the fleeing geese. I could work … without Nina.

I didn't get to any of those things. Another car pulled down the drive, almost before I'd finished waving Bill and Jackson off. Sorrow was thrilled. Two in one day!

Sorrow didn't like Officer Brent much. The policeman got out of his car, stretching, pulling up his trousers. He looked around him, removed his big dark glasses, and smirked at Sorrow, who gave one halfhearted woof and one tepid leap in the air before slinking off, tail wrapped up between his legs.

“Emily,” Brent called out to me and made a face—as if he smelled something bad, or was bringing me more bad news. I got the strangest chill. Something about the uniform, the car, the glasses, that way big cops have of doing things slowly.

“Officer Brent,” I answered.

“I was just over to see your neighbor, Mr. Mockerman. You heard what that Rombart guy says he saw out in the woods, right?”

I agreed.

He nodded again. “Not home. All his dogs are back there. His old car's parked behind the house. But no Harry. You seen him lately?”

“Yesterday,” I said. “At the memorial. He was there for the service. He didn't stay for the lunch.”

He looked around slowly, his mine-sweeper eyes going over my garden, the house, the woods.

I invited him in. He filled the doorway, then the kitchen. He settled on one of my kitchen stools, much the way Dolly always settled. Something about packing a gun, I supposed. It required legs spread, a hand on one hip. This man was a big, big presence in my little house.

“I thought it was time I came to see you,” he said. “And since I was out here anyway …”

I poured coffee and waited.

“I have to tell you, I'm stumped. People here act friendly then they clam right up. I don't know who to believe and who not to believe. You having the same trouble?”

I shrugged. “I suppose so. They're really good, honest people. It's just that everybody's upset. Wouldn't you be? I mean, with something like this going on in your town?”

“Certainly would.” He drank his coffee slowly. He took it black, the way I imagined he would. “So, I was thinking. You know these people better than I do.”

“Yeah, me and Officer Wakowski.”

“Well, yes, her, too. People like this Harry Mockerman. I thought we should get together and talk about it. There's this supposed confession we've got now. I got word from Grayling, no fingerprints they could pinpoint on that confession letter from Mrs. Murphy. I tend to doubt it's real, don't you? I mean, what are people in town saying?”

“Forged,” I said.

“What I thought. So I guess we can discount that. What about your neighbor?”

“Harry?”

“Yeah.”

“I don't know. I really don't. It doesn't feel right to me but I guess you never know.”

“Those oil leases Mrs. Poet signed awhile back? Going to bring her some money I understand. I went in to Traverse to see her attorney. He said there's already a good sum accruing. She left a will. Everything goes to her daughter, Amanda. She'd have no reason to kill anybody. Rules her out.”

“What if she wanted everything before her mother was ready to give it to her?”

“Hmm. A possibility. But what about the others? Can you see that little woman burning down the funeral home?”

“To tell the truth, I can't see her doing that to her mother either. Maybe Joslyn Henry. I suppose anybody could strangle someone if they took them by surprise. But not the funeral home. Setting a fire?” I shook my head. “I can't quite … What do you think about Ernie Henry?”

“I had a talk with him. There was no tractor pull or small-
engine
show or anything over in Leland those days he was gone. Won't say where he really was.”

I told him what Bill had said about Ernie's arrest down in Grand Rapids.

“Prostitute, huh?” Brent chuckled, then shook his head.

“He makes frequent trips out of town. My mailman thinks he's with the CIA.”

“I'll go see him again.”

“What about the Murphys?”

“They'll get the insurance, eventually. Their mom didn't claim she was setting fire to the place. If it turns out she did do it, murder the other women, well, still, the fire could've been an accident. Couldn't begin to tell you—though they're still calling the fire suspicious in nature,” he said. “I wouldn't put anything past either one of the Murphy men. Dumb-shit bunch—those two. One's a drunk and the other one's a gambler. You never know. Probably both need money. But what reason would they have to kill all the women? Their mother, I could see. Get her insurance. Fire insurance—as long as everything's OK. But not the others. No reason at all.”

I nodded, agreeing.

“Could there have been another will?” I asked. “I mean, Ruby Poet. Maybe she made a new will and left Amanda out.”

“Why? Then we're right back to: could Amanda Poet have done any of this?”

“Geez,” I said. “Everybody's guilty and everybody's innocent. What do you think of one of Dave Rombart's guys? You know Harry had some things to say about them.”

He nodded. “Again, we're right back to: why all three women?”

“Maybe he was mad at all of them, for siccing the cops on him. You never know with nut cases like Dave.”

We both shrugged.

“That business about Dolly running out of the funeral home. You know that's not true, don't you?” I asked.

He made a face. “Figured it wasn't her.”

“I found out that Sullivan Murphy used to be a cop. Down in Saginaw.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“No time. Then I had other things …”

“So, maybe it was Sullivan ran out when the funeral home burned. Killed his mother. Figured if he was seen, Dolly'd be blamed.”

“Brings us right back to: why the other women?”

“Hey, but, this is an interesting development.” He perked right up. “If we solve one of these we'll solve them all. You watch. I think we should go talk to Sullivan. How about you?”

“I already mentioned the uniform to him and he got furious.”

“Let's see if he does the same with me. You want to go along?”

“Me? A reporter?” I snickered.

“You won't be reporting things until the right time. I've learned that about you. I think I can trust you.”

“I'll call Dolly.”

Officer Brent made a face. “She's off the case.”

“Not really,” I said.

He shrugged. “What the hell.”

I made the phone calls. First to Dolly, who said she'd wait for us to pick her up, though she was puzzled what I'd be doing with Officer Brent. I called the Grand Traverse Resort. The Murphys had checked out. I called Lucky Barnard to see if he knew where the Murphys might have gone. He said he'd just passed the two of them, over at the funeral home, picking through the wreckage and throwing things into Gilbert's hearse and Sullivan's rented van. We had our target, me, Dolly, and Officer Brent. I climbed into yet another police car as if this was my new life's path, and we were off to town.

THIRTY-FOUR

Like a good nanny,
Dolly had Flora in tow when they met us a block from the funeral home, where Officer Brent parked his car. They'd walked over from Oak Street. “I'm not leaving her for a minute,” Dolly said, and she held the woman, white hair flying, pink glasses fogged from exertion, by the hand, as if she were a child. Flora, maybe still in shock, said nothing. She didn't greet me or Officer Brent, nor even smile. It was as though her eyes, who she was, all that spirit, had stopped being with the latest death of a good friend.

Gilbert and Sullivan Murphy were both at the ruins of the funeral home when we got down there. Gilbert, squat, rounded shoulders slumped, leaned against the family hearse not doing much of anything, though he was wearing a painter's hat and gloves, both still very white and clean. Sullivan was moving fallen boards and blackened furniture; grunting and stumbling as he threw things back to the sidewalk. He had a dirty rag wrapped around his head, filthy gloves on his hands. The smell of wet burned wood was strong. In places, wisps of smoke or ash curled upward as Sullivan moved a board, lifted the frame of what had been an overstuffed chair, or pulled away a burned wooden rectangle that might have held a painting.

The men saw us coming. Sullivan put a hand to his back and stretched. He scowled and said something to Gilbert, who didn't look around.

Flora stopped when we stood in front of the ruin. She put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear,” she said, near tears. “That's where they all were … cremated.” She shook off Dolly's grip and turned her back to the men and the building.

“Tough job,” Dolly said when we joined the Murphys, who squinted up at us then looked away. Sullivan nodded to Officer Brent and made noises that sounded like a greeting.

“Saving whatever we can,” Sullivan offered, halfheartedly, his eyes with their usual watery, disconnected look. I couldn't decide if Sullivan was always drunk or if he was one of those people who just looked that way. I didn't pick up the scent of Jack Daniels, so maybe he was only tired, or sad. I'd give him that—a profound reason for sadness.

“We're moving on pretty quick,” Sullivan said, turning to look at the destroyed house, pillars across the porch hanging at acute angles, not a part of anything. “Too many memories here. If we rebuild, it won't be in Leetsville, I'll tell you.”

Officer Brent shook his head slowly. “I wouldn't be too quick to move if I were you, Mr. Murphy. We've got three murders here, and a case of arson.” He motioned toward the house.

“Nothing to do with us,” Gilbert muttered from behind.

Officer Brent turned on him, taken aback a minute. “Your mother was murdered, sir.”

Gilbert shrugged. “Won't bring her back to find out who did it.”

“You don't want to know who did this to your family?” He let incredulity creep into his voice.

“Of course we do.” Sullivan turned on his brother, a touch of disgust surfacing.

“All we've got left us is the insurance money,” Gilbert went on, lifting his chin as a way of pointing at the life they'd lost. “Nothing's going to bring back my mother.”

We all nodded. True enough.

“Your insurance agent tell you it could be awhile?” Brent asked.

“Said something. Because it's a suspicious fire. And he said something about that letter. That maybe Mother set the fire. Never heard of such a thing,” Gilbert said, his face mottled by anger. “We're getting a lawyer.”

“You can't profit from arson. Not one you set yourself, or a member of your family. They won't be paying off too soon.”

“She didn't send that letter,” Sullivan said, and he wiped a dirty sleeve across his nose, leaving a streak of soot on his right cheek.

“That's for sure,” Gilbert said.

“Lab's checking for fingerprints. Should know soon if she did.”

“What do you mean, ‘fingerprints'? How can a letter have ‘fingerprints' on it?” Gilbert scoffed. “Anybody could have touched that thing.”

Brent shrugged and left it at that. He had other things on his mind and turned back to Sullivan. “About that police uniform, Mr. Murphy. Whoever set the fire was seen running out of here by Eugenia Fuller. I hear you were on the police force, down in Saginaw.”

“Yeah. So what?” Sullivan growled. “Years ago. Who the hell knows what happened to my old uniforms? Probably in there.” He gestured behind him. “Burned with everything else. You worried about a police uniform, you just talk to Dolly here. I know what Eugenia said.”

Beside him, Gilbert was still shaking his head and scoffing, “Fingerprints. Yeah, sure.”

Dolly said nothing.

“Mind if we look through your stuff in the van?” Brent asked.

Sullivan made a face. “Why the hell should I care? Got nothing but whatever clothes I bought since the fire. There's some stuff I found here. Not much left. I sure as hell don't have anything to hide. Though, come to think of it … maybe I should call that lawyer. I don't trust you …”

He looked from Officer Brent to Dolly to me.

“You guys may be trying to protect the deputy.” He narrowed his red-shot eyes at us and shook his head. “Yeah. Don't be too fast touching that van …”

“Don't let 'em do anything, Sullie.” Gilbert stomped around behind his brother, agitated. “'Cause a them we won't get the money right away. I don't want to be hanging around. No reason.”

“Yeah,” Sullivan growled at Officer Brent then included the rest of us.

Officer Brent shrugged and walked away. As if remembering something, he turned back to me and Dolly. “You two wait here. I'm going to make a call and get a search warrant for that van. Don't let these men out of your sight.”

We nodded seriously. I doubted Officer Brent had any way of getting a search warrant issued with nothing to go on but suspicion. No judge would fall for it and nobody was going to give him a warrant over the phone. Sullivan said nothing. He swore and paced the sidewalk, faster, working himself into a sweat.

“We don't want trouble.” Gilbert had his hand on his brother's arm. His face was skewed up, eyes blinking fast. “Maybe you should let them go ahead, Sullie. You've got nothing in there, have you? Nothing you don't want the police to find?”

Sullivan stopped pacing to frown at his brother. “What do you mean? What would I have? What have I got left?” He swept an arm out to include the burned building.

Sullivan thought a minute then called after the slowly retreating Officer Brent.

“Go on and look!” he yelled. “I got nothing to hide. Go right ahead and search all you want to.”

Brent was back—he hadn't gone far.

“Hurry it up,” Sullivan said, chin stuck out at Brent. “And you better not damage one damn thing or I'm suing you, all of you, personally.”

Officer Brent went to the van and began lifting out boxes, opening them, poking through the contents, closing the box and setting it aside on the curb. Dolly and I stayed where we were. I had no official standing here and I was well aware of it. Dolly let Officer Brent do the job while she kept an eye on the Murphys.

Brent went through ten or twelve boxes, then bags of clothes. He found nothing. He searched the front of the car, feeling under the seats. I watched him hesitate, leaning over, his hand half under the front seat. When he straightened, he pulled something dark out. He unfolded whatever it was on the front seat, refolded it, picked it up and walked over, cradling it in his arms.

Gilbert watched him. Sullivan's eyes bugged out of his head.

“What's that?” Sullivan demanded.

“Uniform.” Officer Brent seemed deep in thought. He bit at his bottom lip.

“What kind of uniform?” Sullivan demanded. “I didn't have any uniform in there.”

“Police uniform, from the look of it.” He stretched the cloth open to show an insignia on the shoulder. Saginaw Police. “Looks a little singed. You forget you put it there?”

“I didn't put it there or anywhere. I don't know where it came from … ,” Sullivan sputtered then ground to a halt. He looked very serious. His shoulders hunched forward. He licked at his lips.

“Maybe it would be best if we talked about this over at the station. We can go here, over to see Lucky Barnard, or you can come with me into Gaylord.”

“What the hell … !” Sullivan backed away. “What's a uniform prove? I'm not going anywhere. This is a frame-up. You're trying to pin this …”

“Why hide the uniform?” Brent asked.

Sullivan sputtered. “I didn't know it was … Nothing to do with me.”

Gilbert watched his brother.

“Hey Gilbert.” Sullivan turned to him, hands out. “You know I didn't do anything like …”

Gilbert shook his head again and again.

“You, too, Gilbert.” Officer Brent called and gestured. “I think it's time we all went in and had a good long talk.”

We went back to Flora's house. She seemed to gather strength from the physical exercise while Dolly and I wilted the more we talked about what was wrong with the Murphys as murderers and the more we realized our job wasn't finished.

The light on Flora's answering machine blinked three times. Three calls. Flora frowned at it and backed off. “I'm not answering that thing ever again, I know it'll bring me no good,” she said, flapping her hands as if to keep the devil away.

Dolly punched the button that brought a tirade of abuse. The same high-pitched woman's voice, screaming obscenities, then, “Your fuckin' friend the cop did this, old woman. And you know it. Murdered three of our best people. You better watch out—idol worshipper. You hear?”

All three calls. Same woman's voice. Same abuse.

Flora backed up to the sofa and sat down, face buried in her hands.

Dolly scrolled through the numbers on the caller ID the police had installed for Flora's safety. “One number.” She read it off. “Familiar?” she said.

“It should be,” Flora said, sniffing, hands down, anger written across her elderly face. “That's the Church of the Contented Flock. They're the ones been calling me.”

“It's not the pastor,” I said. “This is a woman.”

“Bet he put 'er up to it,” Flora said. “Why don't you get over there, Dolly? Find out who's doing this.”

I looked hard at Dolly. “You think the pastor's involved?”

Dolly shrugged. “I'm not thinking anything anymore. Sure not Sullivan Murphy's voice though. Could be anybody, I guess. Maybe the pastor's behind it all. If so, then he's just nuts, and that's as good a reason as insurance money to kill people.”