Dead Dancing Women (27 page)

“Count your birds, Flora. Make sure they're all here. Count 'em, Flora.”

I heard her moving the cages, pulling them off her. She began to count. “Trigger. Samson. Delilah …”

“I've got it.” The switch moved and the radio came to life.

“Yeah? That you, Dolly?” A voice came at me.

“Lucky?”

“Yeah. Who's this? What are you doing on my deputy's radio?”

“It's me. Emily.”

“Emily? You shouldn't be playing games with the equipment …”

“Lucky. Somebody hit us. Threw us down into the swamp.”

“Oh, my God! Dolly with you?”

“Yes, but I think she's knocked out. She's breathing. I've got Flora Coy, too.”

“Where the hell are you? I'll get an ambulance. I'll be out …”

“You know where Double Lake Road nears Willow Lake?”

“Sure.”

“There. Down in Arnold's Swamp. The car lights are on but I'll get up to the road.”

“I'll be right there.”

Leaving the car and making my way through the cold water and up the embankment, feeling my way with my hands, touching things I didn't want to know about, wasn't easy. But neither was leaving Flora Coy behind me naming birds; and Dolly, coming to, moaning.

The ambulance got to us first. Lucky wasn't far behind. He set up portable lights while the paramedics pulled out stretchers. I crawled into the back of the ambulance as directed and sat down, my head in my hands, exhausted, dirty, wet, and shaking. They got Flora and then Dolly out of the car and into the ambulance with me. We were going to Munson Hospital in Traverse City, one of the paramedics told me. Flora screamed she couldn't leave her birds to drown. Lucky promised to rescue Flora's birds and get them to my house, then come straight into Traverse. I told Lucky where a key to the house was hidden, in case nobody was home.

“I'll see to the car, too,” Lucky said, making Dolly moan louder.

“I screwed up another one,” she said—her first coherent words—and put an arm up over her eyes, hiding.

“Well … we'll see. Have to get a look at the damage. Don't worry about that now.” Lucky leaned across the stretcher, assuring her. I knew the only thing that really terrified Dolly was the thought of patrolling backwoods two-tracks, for the rest of her life. That, and doing it on a bicycle.

THIRTY-SIX

I don't want to get out of bed …

Don't want to open my eyes …

Don't want to get up today …

Don't want people in my house …

I lay still, eyes
closed, and told myself what a sellout I was. Everything I'd come up north for, all gone. The peace. The quiet. The absolute aloneness I needed. The writing time. Gave it away. Smiled and lied that
no, I didn't mind
. Not me.

Nina's voice in my head:
“… she aches just like a woman …”

I felt sorry for myself and for my aching body. Through a shroud-like veil of self-pity, I tried to recall how I'd gotten involved in these ugly murders. The reasons came back fast enough, vividly enough. Not just Deputy Dolly, but the deaths of good people, the woman's head and arm so terribly dumped on me. “Like it or not,” I remembered my dad saying after he'd gone through a bad time when Mom died, “there are times we don't pick to live through, Emily. They pick us.” Our job, Dad told me, was to get through those times with a little courage and dignity.
“Like it or not.”

I didn't know about the dignity, but my courage was OK, if dented. There were moments from the previous evening that made me wince, memories of fear, of those sickening, grinding jolts, the seeping water, poor Dolly knocked out cold then in pain with what turned out to be a broken ankle.

They kept Dolly at the hospital overnight.

Lucky showed up in the emergency room and took down everything that had happened. Who might have hit us? Who did we think it could be? Did we hear anything?

“Just that awful jolt,” I told him. “Then another jolt and we were down in the swamp.”

I couldn't bring myself to share the terrible feeling I had about Harry—that it had been his car that hit us. Maybe I didn't want to believe he'd do something like that to me. Maybe I didn't want Lucky thinking I was as fey as the other folks in Leetsville, knowing things I couldn't know, thinking things were true that couldn't be true.

I planned, instead, to get a look at Harry's car myself. There was no way he escaped without a caved-in front fender. Not after hitting us as hard as he had. At the very least, he would have white paint all over some part of that hybrid thing he drove. I had no intention of siccing cops on Harry, not unless what I was afraid of was really true. No matter how confused I was, how suspicious of everyone, I prayed hard it wasn't Harry.

More than anything, I'd wanted to go home. Flora and I were just bruised and bumped, so they let us go, but not before Flora made sure Lucky had saved her birds, got them safely to my house.

“They're just fine, Miz Coy,” Lucky assured her.

“Phew!” She gave a long sigh, took a deep breath, then put her hand on Lucky's arm.

“And Charlie's fine, too?” she asked. Lucky dropped the tough cop stuff, got teary-eyed and nodded. His son was doing just fine, too.

I could collect Dolly in the morning, I was told. She didn't take to the idea of me and Flora leaving without her, but the doctor didn't fool around. She gave Dolly a shot and in a few minutes Dolly was out cold, snoring, with a tiny smile coming and going across her face, as if she'd sailed off to a very happy Neverland.

I flipped over in bed, my nose touching something cold and wet. I forced my eyes open to find Sorrow with his head on the pillow next to mine, eyes closed. He gave a snort and his jowls rippled. Sound asleep. I pulled my nose away and thought “yuck” though I didn't say it. His eyes shot wide at my movement. He lifted his head, reared up, and stared at me as if I had a colossal nerve, bothering him like that. Didn't take more than a shove to get him down to the floor and on his feet, leaping with joy. Unlike me, he was happy that it was morning, that we were alive, that it was time to eat.

I narrowed my eyes, meaning to instill guilt in the brazen dog; a little shame for sharing my bed. He had the good grace to look slightly shamefaced, but joy knocked guilt right off his radar screen. He leaped up, stepped on my chest, then off again before I could swat him. He hit the floor and stood there yipping at me. Time to run outside, time to pee, time to see who'd done what to his property overnight, time to get going, time to …

Dogs have a full agenda.

Oh, but I ached. I sat up and put my head in my hands. There was immediate pain in my neck and across my shoulders. Whiplash, I thought, and pictured the neck brace they should have given me at the hospital. If I ever got my hands on whoever did this to us I would … but I couldn't come up with anything dire enough. It was too early for devices of torture to dance in my head.

Someone, other than me, was up. I heard them—him or her—out in the kitchen. Flora. I groaned again. An early bird. And speaking of birds, I heard twittering and singing that wasn't just inside my head. Six parakeets to face that morning. And Dolly to face. I had to go into Traverse and pick her up at Munson by noon. Bring her back and wait on her until she was OK to go to her own house. And take care of Flora Coy until it was safe to take her home—with all her birds.

Take care of Jackson, unless—here I put my hands together and rolled my eyes heavenward—unless he liked the place Bill found for him.

And another thing I hadn't let myself think about—Harry. I had to get over there and take a look at his car. If yet one more rustic I'd learned to trust and like turned out to be lethal—well, I wanted it over, once and for all. I wanted him behind bars. I wanted him put away forever. Him and his Trojan Horse possum stews.

First, some sort of breakfast. Then Dolly. Then I'd see about Harry Mockerman.

I had a plan for the day though I would rather have had none.

Dolly looked much the worse for wear. She was sitting at the side of her hospital bed when we got into town to retrieve her. A black eye had developed overnight. She sat hunched forward, crutches half pushed up under her arms. Her cast ankle stuck straight out as she examined it, maybe for a way to crack it open.

“They taught me how to use these damn things.” She waved the crutches at Flora and me. “But I still bounce all over and land on the cast, which they told me not to do, at least until later. They had to redo it this morning. Something about the other one being only temporary. When this one hardens I'll be able to walk on it. Which I told them had better happen because I was going to be walking on it anyway.”

“I'm glad to see you too, Dolly.” I smiled and greeted her. Flora clucked and looked sad. Dolly glowered like a kid about to tear the room apart.

“They get who did it?” she demanded.

I shook my head. I'd called Lucky but they didn't have much to go on except dark paint, black, on the back of the white squad car.

“Hmm … black. Could be anybody? They check cars in town?”

“Lucky said he was doing everything he could.”

“What about Brent? He must be on it, too.”

I nodded. “I called him and he said they were going out today to look at your car. Had it towed into town.”

“I'll find 'im. The bastard who did this to us.”

Flora gave a cluck of disapproval.

Dolly looked at her but didn't apologize or look very sorry for her language. She was beyond niceties. Dolly was fuming.

“You're coming to my house to stay. You want to swing by yours first? Get whatever you need?”

I got grudging agreement. A nurse came in and handed Dolly her release papers. The nurse looked relieved and left the room without a goodbye or a have a nice day or even a
get that crazy woman the hell out of here.

All the way back to Leetsville, Dolly complained about having to keep her leg up, about the pain, about being hampered at a time she most needed speed. “Lucky say much about the squad car?” she asked after a while, looking at me sideways. “I'll bet he's mad. All that's left is the two-tracks back in the woods after this. Maybe I won't even have a job.”

“He didn't say,” I told her. “But don't worry about Lucky, Dolly. He's on our side.”

“Yeah,” was all she said. When I turned her way, she was sunken in on herself with un-Dolly-like misery.

At her house she got the hang of the crutches and swung her body up the walk, then up the steps, and through the front door. Flora got a ham Dolly wanted us to take out of her refrigerator. “Might as well use it up,” she said, holding a carton of milk to her nose, sniffing, making a face and putting the carton back on the shelf.

I admired her walls of pictures. Just as she'd said, all kinds of pictures. Many of them good-looking men. More like a rogue's gallery than decoration. But then, this was Dolly's house.

I noticed her answering machine blinking. Many calls.

“Want me to see what's there?” I asked, pointing to the machine.

“Probably more people thinking I torched the funeral home,” she said. “But go ahead, if you have to.”

The callers were townspeople who'd heard about the accident and were calling to leave good wishes for her to get well soon, to get better. One guy said, “Get those murderin' bastards, Deputy Dolly. The whole town's behind you.”

Eugenia Fuller called, and so did just about everybody else. By the time I'd run through the messages, Dolly was beaming. “Well, what do you know,” she said, leaning back hard on her crutches. “Suddenly I'm Joan of Arc instead of Lizzie Borden.”

“Lizzie used an ax,” I said.

She shrugged. “Well, whatever …”

“I told you people in this town are good people,” Flora said as she bundled Dolly's clothes into a black garbage bag, twisted the top, and held it out for me to carry.

I took the bag and slung it over my shoulder. Flora carried the canned ham. We were off.

By mid-afternoon Dolly was ensconced on my sofa. Flora watched a soap opera on my miniscule TV, her chair brought up directly in front of it, one hand to her ear so she could hear over our talking. I sat with a teacup in hand and my feet up on my coffee table.

Dolly had insisted we pick up her uniform at the cleaners before leaving Leetsville. When we got to my house, she had to put on that jacket. The pants wouldn't pull up over the cast so she stayed in the sweatpants I'd taken to the hospital. Even without the pants, Dolly said she felt more on duty.

Jackson went in and out of the house, packing his stuff into the Jag. A welcome sight.

“Loved your friend's place,” he'd said first thing that morning, eyes clear and happy again. “Bigger than this. And a wonderful room for writing. Huge windows. Great desk. You'll have to drive over, Emily. Come for a visit. I insist on buying you dinner in town one night—when you've finished with … eh … when your friends go home.”

I smiled and said how pleased I was for him. I said I knew he'd be able to write so much better in a more congenial atmosphere.

“Well, that's true,” he stopped, suitcase in hand, and smiled a crocodile smile. “I never imagined, when you said you lived out in the woods, how much company you'd have, how awfully busy this house was.”

“Not usually,” I almost growled.

“Not that it isn't wonderful.” His bright, insincere smile fell on each of us, one after the other.

“Of course,” I said.

“This place I've found will be so much better for my work.”

“I'm sure.” I ground my teeth together. Flora made a face at me. Dolly glared.

“I'll acknowledge you in the book, you know. For all your help.” He stood in the doorway, screen door open. He was back to being Jackson: tight black tee shirt, jeans, a white scarf tied at his throat. Today he was something between a matador and a gondola driver.

“I've done nothing, Jackson.” I smiled ever so sweetly.

He looked unsure, as if I'd convinced him of my negligible contribution to his oeuvre.

“Well, I'll see that you are at least mentioned.” He nodded again and again, convincing himself he could do that much without compromising his academic integrity.

I smiled—well, moved my lips up—and wondered how one goes about snapping one's teeth. Since I was afraid he might find a reason to stay longer, that a twinge of conscience might strike him, that he would never get in his car and go, I followed him out to the studio where he packed all his books and papers and notes and CDs. He'd taken the disks out of my CD player and knocked over another stack as he gathered his. He apologized but didn't stoop to pick them up. He apologized again for the coffee cups and paper napkins and sandwich ends he'd left in my trash basket. Then he stopped, smiled sheepishly, and held his arms wide. This was the big moment. His grand finale. He would give me a continental kiss—one to each cheek, and be gone.

I steeled my back and let myself be hugged, then kissed—not twice, but three times—as I glanced over my beloved studio. Have to get his spirit out by smudging the place with sage, I told myself. Maybe find a local shaman to do some drumming. Might take a priest—and an exorcism. Anything, I thought. Anything was worth a try.

Jackson was almost gone. He made a last promise to keep in touch, to take me out for a wonderful dinner as soon as he'd settled in. I helped him carry his bags and briefcase from my studio. As a final thought, with one leg in his car and one on the ground, he leaned out and said, “Maybe what I can do is send you chapters as I finish them. Let you do a line edit.” He gave a short laugh. “After that I can mention your contribution without either of us feeling it wasn't warranted.” With that I received a final flip of his hand—a wave, I think. He shut the car door, and was gone.

I waved and waved and waved until he disappeared from the drive. I waved on, listening to the receding sound of his motor up on Willow Lake Road. I waved some more then looked down at Sorrow who sat looking up at me, tongue hanging from the side of his mouth. I smiled a new, wide smile. Sorrow smiled right back.