Dead Dancing Women (31 page)

“Found Sullivan Murphy, alive and well,” she added for our spellbound crowd. “Or what passes for alive and well with Sullivan. Found him over at the Skunk—drunk as one.”

“Poor Sullivan.” Eugenia shook her head. She moved from table to table, doling out skinny pieces of apple pie, cigarette hanging from the corner of her mouth, smoke curling up into her eyes. “Got himself a good excuse to drink now. Mother gone. Brother in jail. And all that insurance money coming to him. There'll be a lot of sorrow to drown, but with all that money, drowning it is going to get a lot easier.”

She sighed and stopped talking only long enough to give me a warning look. “No big secret why people do the things they do. Two of them had a thing going on for years. I saw 'em at Dill's in Traverse once myself. Like lovebirds. Amanda, uppity old maid the way she was, and Gilbert, a gambler—well, I didn't know which one to feel sorriest for. All of it's human nature, ya know. Take my Great Aunt Lizzie Borden, out there …”

EPILOGUE

I burned the sage
and wafted the smoke to all four corners of the room, then the ceiling, then the floor—for all the compass directions, the heavens, and the earth. I did a dancing circle with it, to cover any direction I'd neglected. I hoped for a complete wipeout: Jackson gone, voice and spirit.

After he'd read that morning's newspaper
,
with my story in it, he'd called to say how happy he was that it was all over for me, and to say how wonderful his new place was, how spacious. “Too bad you don't have something this nice, Emily. Away from all those …”

I'd gotten off the phone pretty fast, promising I'd try to get around to editing any pages he sent me—when I took a hiatus from my own work. That left him sputtering about his time being of the essence, and me leaping in air, singing a little Nina Simone, puzzling Sorrow who watched me with his head cocked, tongue hanging out.

All my morning euphoria ended with a thud when I sat down at my desk and began going over the chapters of my book. I looked at my main character—a writer. My detective—the alcoholic who thinks the writer is the murderer, but falls in love with her. I read where I had him fall off the wagon, become a suspect himself …

Faces danced before my eyes: Sharon Stone, Michael Douglas.

Oh no …

Basic Instinct!

How could I be so dumb!

All over again …

What an idiot! Wasn't I ever going to get it right?

I got up and stamped my way around the room. I took a slap at my computer as I passed, then at the funny painted head I'd picked up in Santa Fe. I stood over Sorrow, giving him a slant-eyed look, warning him not to say a word. He lifted his head, opened one eye briefly, and went back to sleep.

Here I was. Still a failed mystery writer, though now one with an aptly named dog—Sorrow. Sorrow floats …

Does it ever! Floats and follows right along behind and chews up ex-husband's shoes, as if on command.

Back to basics, I told myself firmly, with no inkling of irony.

Write what you know. Every writing teacher's mantra.

But what did I know? Just the trees. My garden. Sorrow.

I sat back down at my desk and began to type:

Something in the shivering trees. I could feel it overhead, and around me in the woods; and in the late September air with needles of cold at its heart. Autumn. Prelude to death, I'd always thought. Death of my garden, of the trees, the animals, ferns, grasses, the last of the purple knapweed clinging to sheltered places on the hills of my home. All of that …

At my feet, Sorrow sighed a deep doggy sigh, and settled in for the winter ahead.

About the Author

Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli is a creative writing instructor at Northwestern Michigan College. She is the author of novels, short stories, articles, and essays. Her work has appeared in numerous publications and anthologies.

Author photo by Karen Youker.