Dead Floating Lovers (22 page)

He didn’t come home all night. I spent a good part of the time getting up, wrapping a wool robe around myself against the cold, and standing on the side porch calling his name out toward the lake, then back toward the woods. Each time I held my breath, listening hard for his bark. Nothing.

I went back to bed, telling myself this was something dogs did. Spring, after all.

I told myself all kinds of things. I was uneasy and not happy with him. But what did I know about dogs? What did I know about people? Look how long I’d overlooked Jackson’s wandering eye, ignored every phone call from an ardent “student,” was blind to the late nights when he wasn’t in his office at the university. It was the thong in the glove box that finally got to me. Jackson claimed someone thought they could get even for a failing grade. I mulled that one over for a day or two before visiting an attorney.

Sorrow would be back, I assured myself, trying to sleep. He was fixed. When he realized he didn’t know what he was hunting for, he’d give up and come back to a full bowl of food.

At four a.m., since I was up anyway, I went to my studio and got more of Jackson’s manuscript on the computer. His editor wanted it as a single file so I kept it that way, sending only the new pages I added. I got a lot of the manuscript done and then had an hour to work on my novel presentation for the Leetsville Library.

The book was moving along fast. Writing can be such a hesitant thing—work going well and then drying up. Usually when it dried up I knew there was something wrong in the work I had already completed. I didn’t believe in writers’ block. I believed in going back and rewriting. This morning I had no problems. My elderly attorney moved fast—in and out of his gentlemen’s club where an old woman accosted him, claiming she knew who had killed Gilbert Hurley’s wife. I made the woman rather grotesque: too old for the ratty, sexy clothes she wore, yet something of the “lady” about her. My attorney was repulsed by the woman, who clutched at his sleeve, trying to get money for information.

It was a good scene. Maybe this would be the one I’d read at the library, along with a synopsis of the rest of the book. I wanted people to hear only my best. With a good reading I could get over my “loser” reputation, and they’d see me as an artist, a true writer.

I leaned back in my chair, put my hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t owe anybody an explanation, an excuse, an apology, I told myself. And I decided to stop being hard on me. I was a damned good journalist. My novels might not be selling yet but they were good, if you discounted that one unintentional rewrite of
Fatal Attraction
.

Added to this list of fine qualities, I’d been a good wife. Still was a good friend. I was capable of living alone. And, what I liked best about me was that I learned from my mistakes. Maybe that meant I was fairly intelligent. With that bunch of metaphoric gold stars pinned to my chest, I got back to work.

___

“Mister.” The old woman in a tattered skirt and torn lace blouse pulled at the sleeve of Randall Jarvis’s tweed sport coat. “Mister,” she said again, frantic as he shook her off.

“Go away,” he growled, bunching his shoulders up to his ears. The last thing he wanted was a beggar hanging on him. He had had enough trouble staying on his feet since the heart attack. If he didn’t concentrate, keep one foot plodding straight in front of the other, he could fall and die there in the gutter. The worst thing he could imagine happening, here at the end of what he thought of as an illustrious life.

“I’ve got information.” The old woman swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. Her eyes, lost in deep wrinkles, filled with child-like
glee.

“You have nothing for me, ma’am.” He tried to maneuver around her but she sprang back in front of him, agile for a woman of her age.

“Yeah? You think so? How’s about something I know on that Gilbert you’re working for?”

Randall hesitated. His client’s name had been in the paper. Probably one of those mental cases allowed to roam the streets, harassing good people.

“I’m talking about your client, Gilbert Hurley.” The woman stood directly in his path, hands planted at her waist. “I know who really done it to his wife.”

Randall’s mouth dropped open despite himself. Next would come a demand for money. He’d been through something similar before, a long time ago.

It was so good it made me shiver. The right tone. Characterization falling into place. The chapter was easy to finish, with the old woman taking Randall to a room where she brought out bloody clothes belonging to another man. The old woman swears to Randall that the DNA they would find belonged to Gilbert’s wife, Nancy.

I thought the chapter was exciting and certainly contained the heart of the novel. They would like it. A little polishing and I’d be ready for Tuesday.

I called Jackson before I left to meet Dolly in town. I told him I’d gotten a lot of his work ready and would run off a copy for him before sending anything on to the publisher.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing, Emily.” He choked up. “It’s so good to be up here with you. I guess I’d forgotten how well we fit together …”

“I know,” I stopped him.

“When you’ve got the pages ready I’ll come out and get them—if that’s all right.”

I assured him that would be fine and found myself smiling. Another date with Jackson. Maybe we would move this new thing between us along. I was ready. I had to make up my mind about my future. Sure, I would miss living in the woods. I would miss the lake. I would miss Sorrow, and Harry and Dolly and Eugenia and all the others. But I could come back. I could visit.

I grabbed my bag and camera, removed the squashed sandwich I hadn’t eaten the day before, and set the dog bones down on the side porch, for Sorrow, when he came home.

___

Dolly was on the phone when I got to the station. She waved me to a seat. Her end of the conversation was mostly “un-huh” and “hmm.” When she hung up, her first question was about Sorrow.

“Not yet.” I shook my head.

“Don’t worry. That’s how dogs are. Never wanted one myself.”

I shrugged, a little disappointed in her. I had hoped she would take Sorrow, if I decided to leave. Finding him a home was at the top of my mental list of things to do. And other things, like not possibly missing the August daisies when the hills behind my house were speckled with them. And I couldn’t miss puffball season: “slice ’em, egg ’em, coat ’em with bread crumbs, and fry ’em up in butter.” And, oh my God—there was wild strawberry season at the end of June …

“I’ll help you look for ’im after we finish in TC,” Dolly said.

I thanked her and thought maybe I would enlist Harry, too. He knew the woods and places dogs went better than any other human being.

We were well on our way down 131 before Dolly said another word. She turned her head to give me a long, pregnant look, and said, “They’re releasing Chet.”

She checked her rearview mirror, then gave a guy in a sports car the eye as he passed us on a double yellow.

“Finally,” I said. “So, did you call his sister?”

She nodded. I rolled my window down. Something in Dolly’s cars always smelled just a little funky. For a while I had thought it was her, until I noticed an array of old Burger King bags on the back seat.

“She’s coming up for the funeral. Bringing Chet’s mom too, from Bloomington.”

“They’re having the funeral and burial up here?”

“That’s what they say.” She turned on to M72, toward Traverse City, taking the turn on two wheels just because she could. “They want me to go ahead and make the plans.”

“And they’re paying?”

“Well, I suppose they’ll help. I’m his wife, you know. More my responsibility.”

“Are you crazy?” The woman could exasperate me beyond measure. “He left you years ago. You have no responsibility at all.”

We drove without speaking for a while.

“Bet they’ll stick you with the entire bill,” I said finally, keeping my voice low and disgusted.

Dolly shook her head. “Nope. Elaine said they’d help out, didn’t want the whole thing on me, and she meant it. I thought maybe a luncheon at EATS after the cemetery. I’d like to do it right. Chet didn’t go to no church so the burial will be straight from the funeral home. Sullivan said that would be no trouble.”

“You’ve been busy.” I was impressed.

“Did it all. Except the casket. Gotta pick that out. I’d like you to come with me—tomorrow morning. If that’s OK? Kinda feels creepy doing it alone.”

“They should be here to go with you,” I muttered. “The sister and mother.”

“Well, they can’t be.”

“So it’s me?”

“Yup. Looks like that’s it.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Monday. Eleven o’clock.”

I nodded. I’d be there, and if I got the opportunity to drop a few hints about money to that sister of his, I’d sure grab it.

___

The tribal police station was a low, gray stone building with spindly pines planted across the front. We went in and introduced ourselves to Detective Ray Shankwa, a tall, good-looking man in his early forties. Officer Shankwa was polite and professional, inviting us to join him at a metal desk in the corner of the large, open room. Dolly launched into the story, then told him how far we’d gotten. She brought in Lewis George and Orly Naquma and his family, including Alfred Naquma. It was Alfred’s name that brought a frown to Shankwa’s face. I threw in that I’d seen him at the casino and then again out at Dark Forest Cemetery. Dolly told him he was the man who’d been out at Sandy Lake when we first got there.

Ray Shankwa shook his head. “I’m very sorry if you’ve had a problem with someone from our tribe …”

Dolly pulled herself up as straight as she could get. “Not just a problem, Officer Shankwa. We’re talking about a double murder here. If one of your people is involved, well, I’d expect you to cooperate.”

Ray nodded and examined the silver pen he held between the fingers of both his dark hands. “I know the name,” he said, and looked first me and then Dolly straight in the eye. “He isn’t the kind of man to cause trouble. Still, since there is a complaint, I will find him. And talk to him.”

He snapped his mouth shut, raised his chin, and waited for us to leave.

“He’s a suspect in these two murders,” Dolly said again. “And the murders didn’t happen on the res. He’s going to have to come with me, if you find him. You understand that? We’ll need to talk to him.”

Ray shook his head. “That will be determined. It might not be my call. We have our tribal council and our own courts. There will be the sovereign power of the tribe to deal with. And that’s not given up lightly. You will have to understand that there are channels to go through.”

“Me, too,” Dolly said, a stern look on her face. “I’ve got channels. But we don’t let people get away with murder.”

Ray nodded and stood, dismissing us. “I will call you after I talk to Lewis George and Alfred Naquma.”

We were out of there in thirty seconds. There was no camaraderie or standing on ceremony once our message had been delivered.

“I wish I’d gone on out to the casino one more time. Those guys could disappear,” Dolly muttered.

“I think this officer’s a straight arrow,” I said. “He’s got his protocols the same as you have. You’ll hear from him.”

“Yeah,” she said, and got back into the patrol car. “We’ll see. I’m not giving him long. I’m turning the screws on everybody.”

My heart broke when I saw the pile of dog bones on the porch still intact. I walked through the garden calling his name, but there was no answering bark. I walked up to the road, stood at the middle of the pavement helplessly calling out for him, but got nothing in return. For a moment I thought I heard something, but the barking came from Harry’s place. His kennel dogs.

I went back to the house and sat on the low step, next to the dog bones. There was something about the quiet around me; something about the absence of an excited black-and-white dog, that tore me up. Maybe there were things more important to dogs than love and food. If he’d gone off to find those things, I wished him well, but something wouldn’t let me admit I’d let him down in any way. All that happiness and enthusiasm at the sight of me couldn’t have been a lie.

“Damn it,” I swore under my breath as I got up.

___

“I’ll come right out,” Dolly said when I called. She had offered to help me search, but still I’d been ready for a refusal. She could have had a busted mailbox to investigate. Or a speed trap to plan. I was ready to remind her I was going with her to buy a casket in the morning and this wasn’t too much to ask, but I didn’t need any of the weapons I’d come up with. Dolly was there, tearing down the drive, in twenty minutes. In that twenty minutes I got a flyer together, complete with a picture I’d taken of him recently, and ran off twenty. While we were out looking, I’d stick them up on telephone polls and hand them out to anyone we met.

___

“Well, now.” Harry scratched at his chin and stood in thought outside his little crooked house. “I’d give ’im a day or so. Spring, ya know.”

“He’s been gone two days. And he was fixed right after I got him.”

“Just ’cause he can’t do the deed don’t mean he’s forgot what it’s all about.”

He thought some more and moved his jaw back and forth. “Never saw him over here. Ya know, some dogs would be curious—I mean, all the barking. But not Sorrow. Didn’t come this way once. Good thing. I’d hate to think of him crossing Willow Lake Road by hisself.”

Me either. I didn’t like thinking of him out on a road, or caught by a coyote or a bear. I didn’t like thinking of some hunter grabbing him to use next hunting season. None of those things. I wanted Sorrow out in the woods with his nose to the ground, maybe slightly lost.

“We’d better get in the car and drive around,” Dolly said, not looking at Harry. He wouldn’t look at her either. They ignored each other and spoke only to me. Maybe a fresh ticket for his hybrid car was on both their minds, but I didn’t care right then. They were my friends, and I needed help.

“Think it’s better to comb the woods than be driving around,” Harry said, grunting the words.

“Nope,” Dolly said, still without looking at him. “Car’s best. We’ll drive wherever we can and call his name. We’ll hand out flyers to anybody we see.”

“Better to look in the woods first,” Harry said again, digging his heels into the dirt. “That’s what the dog knows.”

“Why don’t we start off in the car?” I said, hoping Harry wouldn’t get mad. “I’ve been out in the woods, as far as I could walk. If I could get these flyers out …”

Harry made a face at me but shrugged his shoulders. “Whatever you say. You don’t need me along in that car. Tell you what I’ll do. Me and my dogs will get out in the woods and see if we come up with him. Coulda gotten hurt somehow. Dogs’ll find ’im.”

Since it was the smartest idea I’d heard, and it was best to keep these two separated, that’s what we did. Harry was off before we walked all the way back to Willow Lake Road. Dolly and I jumped in the Jeep and started driving down Willow Lake Road, then up every two-track we came to. Everywhere we went, we called, “Sorrow! Sorrow!” and stopped to nail flyers to telephone poles. At any minute I expected to see that shaggy black-and-white body come leaping happily out of the woods.

We stopped cars and asked if the drivers had seen him and left them with flyers. Everybody we talked to assured us they’d be on the lookout and would certainly call if they found him. One man, in an old blue pickup, said his bitch just had a litter and I was welcome to however many I wanted, if I needed a dog.

For two hours we roamed the woods roads. No dog.

“Why don’t we go into town and put up a flyer at the IGA, the gas station, maybe at EATS, even over to The Skunk. Wouldn’t hurt to get people looking across the area,” Dolly said.

Since I couldn’t come up with a better idea, we headed to town in our separate vehicles.

Dolly took care of the gas station and the bar. I took the IGA and, to cover everything, Gertie’s Shoppe de Beaute and the barber shop. Everyone was concerned. They said they would keep an eye out for the dog and assured me he would come back. They told me not to worry. “Hard to lose a dog from a good home,” Bob, the barber, said.

We met at the restaurant. Dolly had a poster in her hands and the hammer she’d taken from the back of her patrol car. In the dim vestibule, there hung a new flyer with a gold star. I almost groaned. I was tired of that little game. From then on I was going to ignore Eugenia’s family. All those outlaws might interest her, but I was bored with the whole drawn-out joke.

I pointed to a place next to the cigarette machine for Dolly to hang the poster. Lots of folks came in for cigarettes. They’d see Sorrow and maybe someone, from somewhere, would recognize him and would call me.

Dolly took a small nail from her shirt pocket and hammered the flyer up on the wall.

I was ready to go on in and grab dinner. Since it was Friday night, it could be anything. Some big sweet surprise. I’d been having dreams of pot roast with tiny carrots and gravy. There are times, though, when you get particularly hungry and almost anything sounds good. Except meatloaf.

I opened the door to enter the restaurant but Dolly didn’t follow. When I turned back to see what was keeping her, she was standing in front of Eugenia’s new relative, looking up, frowning and reading fast.

“See this?” She poked a finger toward the paper. “See what Eugenia’s gone and done?”

I stepped back beside her and read the paper. “Dolly Wakowski’s Birth Certificate” it read.

Uh-oh,
I thought, smelling a big pile of trouble ahead.

Dolly yanked the paper down off the wall. “What in hell does she think she’s doing? I’m supposed to fall for …” She read slowly, her finger tracing the lines.

“October 3, 1974,” she read aloud to me. “She’s got that part right. I probably told her.”

She chewed at her bottom lip and frowned as she moved on, carefully going over every filled-in place on the certificate. “Says my mother’s name was Audrey Thomas. The Thomas name sounds familiar.” She read on. “She was seventeen.” She looked up at me.

“You think this could be real?” Her face was awash with different emotions.

I shrugged. “Why would she put it up there if it weren’t? Eugenia’s not a cruel woman.”

“My dad’s name was Harold Flynn. For goodness’ sakes. I’ve always liked that name: Harold. He was thirty-one. Uh-oh. Maybe I’m getting an idea of why she abandoned me. Harold was a lot older than she was.

“Look here. Down here. These are my baby footprints. See?”

“Where were you born?”

“Detroit. Just the way I always thought. Woman’s Hospital, it says here. One thing it doesn’t say was if they was married or not. They gave me his name. Hers is different. Still …”

“I wouldn’t worry about that, Dolly. Kids come into the world all different ways. Turns out the same.”

“Yeah, well, unless they aren’t really wanted. Then it’s always different for those kids.”

All I could do was nod.

Dolly read the paper over and over, looking up to share each new detail with me. There weren’t many, mostly printed words of the stock birth certificate, but this was the first time she’d seen her own. I couldn’t imagine how she’d gotten into school without a birth certificate, how she’d registered to vote—so many things I imagined a birth certificate was necessary to obtain. Maybe it worked differently with an abandoned kid. Maybe abandoned kids were given a pass in our society.

“Can we go in?” I finally asked.

She nodded. “I want to know that this is bona fide and not something Eugenia came up with on her own.”

Inside the restaurant, Eugenia waited behind her counter. I think the whole restaurant was waiting. A suspicious hush fell as we walked in.

“Where’d you get this?” Dolly demanded, waving the certificate over her head as she advanced on Eugenia.

Eugenia looked at the paper Dolly held, then at the hammer in her other hand. “You just be careful here now, Dolly. I did some careful work with my genealogy websites. Don’t you go attacking me.”

“Is this really my birth certificate?” Dolly demanded.

“Date’s right, isn’t it?” Eugenia demanded back.

Dolly looked it over again to make sure. She nodded.

“Place right?”

Dolly nodded.

“Then the rest is right, too.”

“That’s who my mother and father were?”

“Got to be. It’s all there. Not hard to find.”

“Got anything else?”

Eugenia shook her head. “Not yet. I’m looking.”

“Do you know if they’re alive?”

Eugenia shook her head. “That’s all, so far.”

Dolly glanced around at the eyes pinned on the three of us. “Couldn’t you just give me the stuff? Why do you have to hang it up like that. Seems, if you want to do me a favor you could …”

Eugenia shrugged and pushed her big blond hair back over her shoulder. “I might want to go into the business of looking up folks. You’re good advertising, Dolly. Yours is all for free.”

Dolly scowled. “Next time give me a call. I’ll get in here fast and get it down off that wall.”

“That’s not nice. I’m doing you a service. The least you can do is go along …”

Dolly waved a dismissive hand, folded the paper, and forced it into one of her pants pockets. She walked away with me behind her.

“And you put that back up there when you leave, you hear?” Eugenia called after us, not giving an inch.

Everybody in the restaurant listened to this burgeoning battle of the Titans. Flora Coy leaned over to whisper to Anna Scovil. Sullivan Murphy half rose as if he might have to pull these two apart. Gertie folded her arms across her chest, and watched with her faded blue eyes narrowed and her mouth tight and wrinkly. I could tell people were choosing up sides and there would be weeks of debate ahead.

Dolly stopped in front of our usual booth and turned to face her rapt audience. Raising her voice, she called, “Funeral for Chet is on Monday. Eleven o’clock at Sullivan’s. You can ask Sullivan, there, if you want details. You’re all invited. Lunch’ll be back here after the burial. Pass the word along.”

Eugenia, at the front, pasted on a smile, and spouted. “Going to have a full buffet with salads and roast beef, and fried chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, broccoli, and little tarts for dessert. Don’t miss it.”

She turned back to Dolly and yelled across the space between them, “I would think, Miss Dolly Flynn Wakowski, you’d show a little gratitude for all my work. At least you know you got somebody. Or at least you had somebody. That’s something.”

“I already got somebody,” Dolly called back without lifting her head from the menu. “I’m burying him on Monday.”

Low conversation started up. Leetsvillians gave each other sheepish smiles and shrugs. A few rolled their eyes at me when I glanced around the room. Some smiled and nodded. The rest just went on eating … meatloaf.