Dead Dogs and Englishmen (5 page)

“Now,” Jackson said and thumped his hands on the table. “Let's get off the past and on to the future. I must tell you about Cecil Hawke. He's writing a book on Noel Coward. You know who he is? Noel Coward, I mean.”

I nodded. Noel Coward was an English entertainer my father
had idolized, a quirk that came straight down from his own fa
ther, along with an old collection of vinyl records that had now come down to me. From the 1920s right through the 1940s, Coward had been that suave, musical gentleman in spats and white suits with short, blunt-cut blond hair, and a wispy look to him. He wrote wonderful, funny songs and acted in British musical comedies of the time and even some American films. The songs he'd written rang through our house, with my dad singing along, until I could have sung them all and not missed a word. Noel Coward: with a cut-to-the-bone sophisticated humor, probably a gay man, brittle, and witty.

“I've heard of him,” was all I was ready to give up to Jackson, who, if he'd bothered to remember anything, could have remembered me singing Coward's “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” on happier days.

“He has a doctorate from Oxford, if I'm not mistaken. Man's a genius.”

“Is he here permanently?” I asked.

“I don't know that for certain but he has established this amazing residence, with his sheep barns and all. I think he's creating a hunting preserve too. He mentioned friends from all around the world who were here for a spring turkey shoot. And, of course, this fall they're coming for deer. Mentioned riding to hounds …”

“Not fox hunting?” I was aghast.

“No, no, no.” He shook his head and clucked at me. “More a kind of geocaching on horseback. He told me about a Saudi Arabian sheik who came for one of the treasure hunts. The man's got friends everywhere.” He cupped his hand to outline the whole world. “And you'll just adore his wife, Lila Montrose-Hawke. Oh, and best of all, wait until you see his home. Gorgeous! You would never even know it was there—back in the hills north of Torch Lake. Gated. Guard on duty—all of that.”

“How'd you meet him?”

He laughed slightly, “Funny story. I was browsing in Horizon Books one afternoon. Cecil and I were looking for the same book and got to talking. After that we had a latte and he invited me to visit and view some of his Noel Coward collection. I, in turn, invited him and his sweet Lila to my cottage on Spider Lake to look over my Chaucer materials. He's interested in everything. A true scholar and yet a true raconteur. Much like a Noel Coward figure himself. You know, funny and bright, with an edge to him. A man of the world. He'll simply charm the pants off of you, Emily …”

Since that wasn't a compliment, in my book, I frowned and waited for a point to be reached.

The food came. We ate while making a few comments on the food, the wine, the weather, and then back to business.

Jackson drew a deep breath, took a quick glance at the dessert menu, stopped himself from ordering—and me from getting a crème brûlée—and went on.

“This is the part for you.” He gave me a broad, even genuine, smile. “He's looking for an editor. Someone to edit as he writes—give opinions on character, structure. Well, you know what's expected. You've done enough of it. Sort of—always the bridesmaid kind of thing.” That made him settle his chin into his neck and snicker.

“What you'll do is see if he's missing the obvious—the usual things editors do. And he pays well.” He reached across the small table and put his hand gently on mine. “I know it's been tough up here for you. I would like to help … if you'll let me.”

Being nothing if not direct, my first question, after easing my hand from his, was, “How much?”

“Fifteen hundred—and that's just for the first ten chapters.”

I leaned back and gave him an incredulous look. “Is he nuts?”

Jackson laughed. “Not crazy, Emily. Rich. He needs someone to bounce ideas off—give him some feedback. That sort of thing. He was looking for a connection with a New York editor—but I might be able to talk him into hiring you. Proximity and all of that.” He finished his wine with a single toss of his head. “Of course, I'll have my work cut out for me, convincing him, I mean. He isn't particularly impressed with the quality of those he's met up here. That's why he was so surprised to meet me. I mean—so many embrace the simple life, as you do. I'll skip over that aspect of your biography when I speak to him. We've become friends—of a sort. I'm pretty certain I can convince him. If you play things right, could mean at least a few hundred a week for you. And more, as he progresses with the book.”

A few hundred a week had the ring of pure gold to me. A few hundred a week—in the upcoming winter—would take care of my snowplowing bill, my gas bill. I did cartwheels in my head as I signaled the waitress to bring me another glass of wine.

“You should really acquaint yourself with Noel Coward's work. He has a tendency to quote the man constantly. Not to the point of annoyance, mind you, but he will expect a certain level of knowledge and intelligence …”

Yeah. Sure—keeping my temper under control. “I know Coward's work. Read
Blithe Spirit
, among others, in college. I've even seen some of his old movies—in college. Modern English Literature, I think. I did graduate from college, Jackson. You do remember? I, too, have a degree in English Literature and Language from U of M?”

He ignored me. “I'll tell him, being a writer yourself, you'll bring a fresh eye to his book. Just think, Emily, you'll be working on a book that will probably be the ultimate work on Coward.”

What could I do but sigh? There are people so oblivious, so lost within their own head—Jackson could wear me down to the point I just gave up. “Have you mentioned me to him at all? I mean, tell the truth, Jack.”

He gave one of those smiles that would have made me melt in the old days. “He wondered what brought me up here. I told him my ex-wife, Emily, thought this was the perfect place to write. The quiet and all.”

“So he knows nothing else about me?”

“I may have mentioned journalist. And that you were attempting to write fiction. His first question to me was whether you thought you were an intelligent woman. Wasn't that odd?”

I thought about that one.

“Cecil Hawke is a bit of an—I guess you might call him an
eccentric.”

“Did he really say ‘does she think she's an intelligent woman'?
I don't get it. And if I do think so, is that supposed to be the mark of a big ego?”

“I wouldn't worry. He's British, you know. They sometimes have a funny way of putting things.”

“But what did you say to him?”

“I said of course you thought you were intelligent, and so did I.” Jack waved a hand as if chasing the subject from his head. “But, let me call him. Maybe we can get out there in a day or two.”

“Jackson.” I needed to know everything I was getting into. “What did you tell him about our divorce? Not the usual BS, right?”

He frowned hard at me. “If you mean how you took almost all my money, sold our home, left me practically destitute … I may have …”

“We shared equally, Jack.”

“If you say so.”

“So he thinks I'm a woman with a big ego, a money grabber … but he wants me to edit his book. Am I getting it right?”

“Lots of money,” he reminded me.

I took a deep breath. As long as it didn't mean working with Jackson. Maybe I would make enough money to keep me out of the hole for a while. I had a checking account and a savings account. The checking account took care of my present. The savings account was for the future. Both were getting leaner as the months passed.

“The money will be appreciated,” I acknowledged, smiling a tight smile.

He shrugged. “Who else would I think of? There is one more thing.” He gave me another smile meant to melt the hardest of hearts. “I hate to mention this, but … well … I wasn't quite honest with you. Regina is leaving this week. I think it was her father's idea. I might … well … perhaps I'll need your help with my manuscript again. Just until I find someone, you understand.”

He slipped his eyes away from mine to watch as a very young blond in tight shorts came in, waved to a man by the back windows, and wiggled her way through the tables.

He cleared his throat, thought a minute, and came back to me. “I wouldn't expect you to do research, just some typing. Maybe get some of my new work to the publisher for approval …”

I hesitated a long moment. “But Jack, think of what I could have charged you for all the work I've done so far.”

He made a face. It was close to the aggravated face I'd seen from time to time when we were married. “Don't you think you owe me at least this much?”

“Owe?”

If I hadn't seen Jackson as my pipeline to a fifteen-hundred-dollar job I would have let his last remark send me straight out to the street. But there was no turning my nose up at real money. Not me, who dug wild leeks and hunted mushrooms for frozen soups. Not a woman with a dryer down to its last tumble and sheets on my bed so threadbare as to be almost transparent.

I nodded, then nodded again. The nod changed to a head shake, and a sad look on my face. “But Jackson, let's be realistic. You see the kind of money I can command …”

“Don't be funny,” he growled and stood.

“I'm not being funny. If you'll agree to pay me hourly. At least minimum wage. Don't you think that would be fair? How about ten dollars an hour?”

“Is that really the minimum wage?” He stuck his nose in the air and sniffed, turning to see if anyone was watching.

“Yup,” I lied, crossing my fingers beneath the table. Sometimes lies can be such fun. “Ten dollars an hour.”

“Well, I suppose … that's never been our … way …”

I gave my best sad smile. “Business. It's only business. And I seem to be in the editing business.”

“Thanks to me,” he groused.

“I'm so appreciative. Will you let me know when I can meet this Cecil Hawke?” I stood, starting toward the door as he signed for the tab and tucked his credit card back into his wallet.

“This isn't quite what I had in mind …”

I hurried back and planted a big, wet kiss on his right cheek. “Oh, Jackson, I just know you wouldn't want to take advantage of me.”

“Emily …”

I was gone out the door, dancing through the crowd on Front Street, and over the Boardman River bridge with a huge “YES” bouncing in my head.

A morning swim in
Willow Lake made me feel clean again. The dead woman, the dead dog, and then my ex at the pinnacle of yesterday left me in a funk. Dolly, on top of that, deepened my funk. The best thing for times like that was being alone in my lake, floating on my back, watching the high white clouds move slowly against a raw blue sky.

Sorrow, paddling beside me, long stick in his mouth, made me laugh. He gave me light moments. He gave me a kind of spiritual freedom I got from no one else. Not from dead women and not from dead dogs. Not from a closed-mouth friend in trouble. And not from an arrogant ex-husband; no matter that he might be my road to financial stability—at least for a couple of months.

I flipped over and swam awhile, for the exercise, then turned on my back again, sunshine beating against my face and outlining red veins on the inside of my eyelids. I moved my arms enough to keep me afloat, kicking my feet when necessary. Another part of living up north, I told myself as I wallowed in cold and warmth; exquisite freedom of mind and body. As good as sloughing off an old skin—these minutes of peace with my new world and with my dog. The aloneness that had plagued me for years—even when I was married, and certainly when I first moved up to this place—was a gift now that I knew the difference between being lonely and being by myself. One cried out for other people to make me feel alive. The other meant just being me—wearing what I pleased, eating what I pleased (maybe cereal for dinner) whenever I pleased, going to bed when I wanted to go to bed, planning my own day, thinking and thinking and thinking, and when I got tired of thinking going out to find company so I wouldn't be alone.

A cranky beaver, as irate as ever, slapped his tail on the far side of the lake, over by his growing, conical house. He didn't need to worry—I wasn't out to hurt even the least of the creatures. I'd stood up to Jackson. I was in imminent danger of being fairly solvent soon. I was going to be all right. I patted the water, then dripped shining drops from my long fingers on to my face—cool paths to my ears. I touched my tongue to my upper lip—water and my own salt.

“Emily! Hey, Emily!”

Dolly
. There isn't a groan deep enough for what I felt right then.

She stood on the end of my dock waving me in. Sorrow, always the first to respond to company, headed back to shake a greeting as Dolly yelled and brushed water from her uniform.

I swam in slowly, struggling out of my half-asleep place. I hoisted myself up to the dock, grabbed a towel, and buried my not-too-happy face in it. I took plenty of time to dry off, then turned to Dolly, who waited impatiently.

“Called you again. I don't know why in hell you even have a telephone if you won't answer it …”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” I wrapped the towel around me, and whistled to Sorrow, who was headed back around the lake to give that beaver a last ‘woof' or two.

She followed me up the sandy path, through the bowing ferns, to the house. Then into the house and on to a seat at my kitchen island, hardware clanking, boots planted on the narrow rungs of the stool. She grabbed her hat off and ran a hand over all that new growth of hair.

“Got a farmer who might know the dead woman. Thought you'd
like to go out with me.”

“Now?”

“You doin' a story or not?”

“Well, I guess …”

“Then let's get going. The guy's waiting for us. He said he'd talk to some of his migrant workers. See if they can help. He's got one guy been with him a long time. Said if anybody knows anything, this guy will.”

She clapped her hat back on her head and slid off her stool.

“Can I get dressed first?” I let the sarcasm drip.

“You better. Hard-working people up here will think you're a nut case—going around like that.”

“You know something?” I didn't wait for her answer. “You are the biggest mood killer I've ever known.”

“Yeah, well, sure, I guess …”

I was dressed. Sorrow, tired from his long swim, seemed happy enough to rest on the screened porch. We were out of there, headed back over to Leetsville, then on toward Elk Rapids, to see this farmer who wanted to help in the investigation of a woman and dog I had almost put out of my mind.