Dead Floating Lovers (10 page)

Sorrow scrambled across the wood floor toward me, nails scraping like iron spikes over the boards. No wonder my floors were so worn. He was going to have to go to the vet for a manicure. I didn’t have the guts to trim those nails myself. He was a squirmy dog and big enough to knock me over. I could just imagine the bloodshed if I had a pair of nail scissors in one hand and a big black-and-white, uneasy dog under the other arm. A trip to the vet was in order.

I braced myself against the doorway and let Sorrow leap in the air in front of me. He was getting much better about not jumping on people and, in the seven months I’d had him, had only knocked me over twice. I clung to every sign of improvement in Sorrow’s behavior. It hadn’t taken long to learn to love this truly ugly animal with fur of all lengths, long head, skinny legs, Raggedy Andy eyes, and an enormous tail that swept anything in its path like a scythe.

When I’d patted and hugged and talked enough baby talk to turn my own stomach, he settled down and gave my hand a couple of sloppy licks. Odd, how I used to look forward to Jackson’s practiced kisses and now adored a drooling, lopsided dog.

My answering machine blipped two missed calls. A big day for me: two human beings needing to talk to me.

The first was from Detective Brent.

I dialed the number he left and asked for him.

I thought he sounded pleased to hear my voice. “How ya doing, Emily?”

A big breakthrough: the first time he called me by name and the first time he’d cared how I was. Something had to be wrong.

“I heard you sent Bill, at the paper, a couple of photos of the bones,” I jumped right in, keeping my voice pleasant.

“Figured it wouldn’t hurt anything at this point. And we need help finding who these two people were. Alerting the general public can only be a good thing. I know what Dolly thinks …”

“Anything else for me? ID that second one?”

“Not yet. Got a pen?”

“Of course,” I scoffed. As if a good reporter would make a call to the police for information and not have a pen.

I rummaged quickly through the papers on the desk then looked around on the floor. No pens. My purse was far enough away so I had to stretch to reach it. I pulled the phone cord, then sat on the floor and tried to catch the strap of my purse with one toe. A few inches short. I pulled the phone until it hung over the side of the desk, snagged my purse, and got a pen.

Brent was saying, “I’ve got everything here that I can give you at this point. If you’ve got questions, better hold them until I get a full report.”

“Ready,” I said. And was.

“First set of bones. Female. Native American. Five foot two. About nineteen years old. Bones weren’t in the water that long, so no old Indian burial. Maybe ten years, forensics says. They’ve gone down to Lansing. Might pinpoint time of death with more accuracy. Could be a couple of years either side of that. What Graying told us, it has something to do with ossification. Doesn’t matter, but the pathologist said they were still in good condition. No wave action on Sandy Lake to toss the bones around. That’s why they were still together and in pretty good condition. Well, except for the bullet holes.”

“Anything on the gun that killed them? Caliber?”

“Hard to tell. Hole’s not large. Hand gun. No weapon found on the lake bottom. Nothing else found with her. The guy’s another story. Old rotten boots. Belt buckle. Got some nail heads like for decorating a jeans jacket. No jacket found though.”

I wrote everything down. I’d take a look at what I had and digest it later.

“Deputy Wakowski seems to think it could be the guy who ran out on her thirteen years ago, as you said. Fits, but we’re not sure yet. She brought some hair samples and she called his sister, down near Detroit, for dental records. Sister’s checking into a family dentist they used to have. She’ll call Dolly back. The bones are male. That much fits. Five foot nine. Dolly says that’s about how tall her ex was. Twenties. Dolly said he was a soldier but the army’s got nothing on a Chester Wakowski.”

“I think the army was a … er … fabrication to impress Dolly. His sister kind of ruled out military service. Dolly’s checking all the missing person files around there for the girl.” I forged ahead. “I checked the newspaper morgue today.”

“You two going to contact the people?” he asked.

I hesitated. He hadn’t liked me and Dolly getting involved last time we’d all worked on the same case. But there was something hopeful in his voice.

“As I told Dolly,” he went on, “we’re shorthanded right now. It would be a help. Just the preliminary information, you understand. We’ll take over if you find anything …”

“Sure. As long as I’m free to write up what we find.”

“After you run it by me.”

This was a deal breaker. I wasn’t into censorship. “I find it, I’ll bring it to you. But I’m going to give the paper anything that won’t mess up the investigation. I’ll bet Dolly will be able to tell me what has to stay confidential and what can get out there to the public.”

“Deputy Wakowski’s not in charge and … ”

“Oops, somebody’s at my door. Gotta go. I’ll call tomorrow to see if you’ve got a positive ID on the second skeleton.”

“Now, just a minute …”

“Bye. Nice talking to you.”

I hung up fast. The old “somebody’s at the door” thing always worked. Who could challenge it?

Now, to that second call.

Jackson.

“I hear I’m invited to a dinner party at your house this Thursday?” I started with no “hellos” when Jackson answered, giving his usual hurried welcome as if he had been incredibly busy and a little annoyed at being disturbed

“I called this morning but you didn’t answer. Thursday. About seven. People up here eat much earlier than I’m used to. I suppose it’s all this fresh air. Or maybe a lack of restaurants that stay open later than nine.”

“What can I bring?” I cut in before we got tied in knots over people up here doing other than Jackson believed proper. “A date?” I couldn’t help the little dig. There was this nagging idea at the back of my mind that Jackson knew full well he was interfering in my life by asking Bill to bring a woman with him. If Bill had said he didn’t have anyone to bring, Jackson would know one thing about him. But now he knew another thing. That he wasn’t a serious threat. Though to what, I couldn’t imagine.

Jackson ignored my dig.

“Hmm, well, let’s see. I’ll be working all day so there won’t be a lot of time to prepare. I think I’ll cook out on the barbecue. Steaks? Hamburgers? That way I’ll be free until the last minute.” He stopped to think. “Could you make the salad?”

“Sure. No trouble.”

“And maybe you could pick up something for dessert. It doesn’t matter what. Ice cream would be all right, though a pie from Grand Traverse Pie Company would be splendid. Simply splendid.”

“That all?”

“If you’re going to be in town, how about a good bread? Would you be going by the Bay Bakery? Whole grain, I suppose.”

I was silent long enough to make him think I was writing everything down. I wrote nothing.

“And yes, a bottle of white wine. Maybe a red, if you feel like it.” He went on, enumerating my gifts.

“Uh-huh.” I rolled my eyes and waited.

“I think I’ll grill some asparagus, too. If you’re going by Cherry Street Market, could you pick some up? They’ve got the best and I rarely get over that far.”

“And the meat? Do you think you’ll have time to pick that up?” I asked, wanting to laugh.

“Now that you mention …”

“Forget it. If I’d wanted to give a dinner party, I’d have given it here.”

“Oh, dear. Sorry. Am I asking too much?” Here was the hurt little boy voice. Nasty me.

“I’ll bring everything but the meat. You can drag yourself into town as well as I can.”

“Of course, Emily. Didn’t mean to make you so angry.”

“I’m not angry,” I snarled between clenched teeth, then knew how I sounded and that he’d gotten to me again—for all the wrong reasons. “Really, I’m not angry, Jackson. I’m just tired. A lot of work lately. And my new novel …”

“Yes, well another of those mysteries of yours, I suppose. They do take time, don’t they?”

I didn’t answer. No more pissing contests over whose work was more important. I’d learned at least that much in the months Jackson had been up here.

“And, Emily. If you have my chapters done …”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll bring what I have.”

“But I need all of them.”

“Certainly,” I said, “I’ll bring what I have. See you Thursday. I’ll get there a little early. ’Bout six thirty.”

I hung up before he could protest again how he needed all his work run off, send me on more errands, or ask for charcoal and lighter. And a match.

There’s only one way I knew to get antiseptically clean—inside and out. That was to work at something. I needed to clear my head of all the voices. I needed my studio and anything I could get done out there.

Dark clouds had rolled in over the lake as I’d returned phone calls. A spring rain was on the way. There was no yellow to the clouds so there wouldn’t be wind. I didn’t hear thunder in the distance. Nothing to fear. I’d get a little wet.

I put on an old yellow slicker and started out to my studio with Sorrow, looking unhappy, dragging along behind. He didn’t like rain and would sometimes bite at it, yipping when he couldn’t chase it away. Although he was a water dog, leaping high off the dock into the lake to chase a duck or goose or tangle with the beaver, he resented getting wet when it wasn’t of his own choosing.

I intended to finish Jackson’s work. That’s what I had decided. Get him off my back and give him no reason to think badly of me. I was nothing, if not dependable.

The first rain drops fell softly, pattering on the forest floor around me. Then a little harder. I stuck Jackson’s manuscript sheets under the thick plastic of my slicker as rain ran down my face and off my shoulders. Sorrow loped in circles, snuffling the ground for his own reasons then turning to look at the sky, highly annoyed. I leaned my head back and opened my mouth to accept the rain. It cooled the insides of my cheeks and ran on my tongue, making me a part of everything again.

The thought struck me that one day I would be the same as those two found in Sandy Lake. Bones. All my frantic needs and small conceits—gone. All those things I’d thought necessary to do for others—so I could think well of myself—they’d be gone, too. What really mattered was this small time in the woods. I wiped my cheeks and looked at my glistening hand covered with dampness that would never come again, never gleam with just these droplets. And I would never be the same person standing out under the newly greening trees, among proud white trilliums, under just this dark sky. Something buried in that fact I hadn’t the capacity to grasp. The one thing I did understand was that I was alone. Ultimately, no matter how many friends I made up here, how many men might come into my life—I was alone. At that moment, with no Indian standing in the drive waiting for me, no police detective threatening me, and nobody watching or ordering me to do this or that—it didn’t seem to be a bad thing.

I called to Sorrow and went to my studio, shook off the slicker and hung it in my metal cupboard to drip dry, then carefully locked the door behind me. I always locked the door. Not to keep anyone out. More symbolic than that. I was locking myself in with my writing. I was defending my mind against outside intrusions. A locked door was the ultimate barricade.

Sorrow shook himself violently and settled to the rug under the coffee table. He groaned, stretched, and was soon snoring, as the slightly chilly room filled with the smell of wet dog.

I decided that I wasn’t going to call anyone. I wasn’t going to do work for Jackson after all. I wasn’t going to think about bones and missing girls. I was going to write my novel. Maybe it wouldn’t be the next great thing, but it would be a way of offering my mind—through my characters. If I was lucky I would take it down into the realm of the unconscious and tap into something meaningful to others. If I wasn’t that good after all, at least I could entertain. My form of clowning. Be a court jester. A magician.
“Come here, little girl. Let me show you wonders …”

I was soon well into moving my elderly lawyer into a new case:
A young man came to the office. The lawyer, too old and slow to avoid the disturbance, agreed to listen to him. It was a hopeless case. Cut and dried. A case that was not winnable. Yet, at his age, what was there left, he’d asked himself, but hopeless causes? He would take the case, he told the man. He would look at all the facts and then defend the young man against a charge of murdering his wife.