Dead Floating Lovers (28 page)

“When I knew he’d passed out I went outside and brought a can of gas in from the shed.”

I held my breath.

“I poured the gas around his chair, where he slept. When I got to the door, I lit a match and threw it back at him. The fire caught in little rivers, circling the chair and circling my grandfather. The fire crept up his pant legs. It moved over his body. When I took my last look he was aglow with flames; struggling up from his chair. He screamed. I closed the door and slipped a tree branch through the handle so it couldn’t be opened.”

The voice stopped a moment. As if he was reliving that night, his face, illuminated by the last log I’d put on to burn, was horrified. He watched as his grandfather was consumed again, in my fire.

“I looked through the window to make sure he burned, and took great satisfaction in the pillar of fire writhing inside the house.” He put his hands on his knees and rose to his full height. “I went back three times and poured gasoline around the cabin. Three fires. When it was over I threw tobacco on the ashes and said prayers for his damned soul.

“So you see, Emily, it wasn’t my sister, Mary, or Chet Wakowski that I murdered. It was my own grandfather.”

“And Mary … ?” I pictured her poor body on that raft, in the middle of a cold, dark lake.

“You mean, did I leave her there? No. I rowed out. I tipped her body into the water. I should have brought her to shore and buried her, but I was afraid. The house was still burning. If someone saw and came back … I would be charged with murder.

“There is guilt attached to what I did to Mary, that I didn’t have the courage to bury her.”

“You were a boy.”

He made a scoffing noise. “Old enough to kill my grandfather. Not old enough to take care of my sister’s body. That’s what I owe her.”

“And that’s why you want her buried now.”

“Our people have had enough of desecration.”

“We’ve got to go into town,” I said, drawing a deep breath. “You have to tell your story to the authorities. I won’t lie to you, Alfred. You’ll probably go to prison for the murder of your grandfather.”

“I know what I have to do. I’m ready. We had to come here first.”

“We?” I looked up the path to the house. That “we” made me nervous. I didn’t know what I was dealing with.

He stood and swept sand from his pant legs. “Lewis is with me. I asked him for a half an hour to tell my story.” He stopped talking to listen.

I listened, too. There was a faint sound from up near the drive. Then a wild sound.

Barking.

More joyous barking came down the path at us and Sorrow was on me, paws on my chest, knocking me backward then licking my face. I grabbed his ears and pulled his matted face into mine. His breath was awful but how could I care about that? He was home. He was as happy to see me as I was to see him. Sorrow was back, soon snuffling around the campfire, then bounding back up the path as Lewis George made his way down to where we waited.

___

I followed Lewis George’s pickup into town. Sorrow sat beside me in the front seat. I’d put him in the back but he demanded that his body be close to mine. I drove carefully, leaning over every few minutes to rub my head against his. I never imagined how sweet it could be to be loved this completely. And how necessary, after listening to Alfred Naquma’s horrible story of life with that man. Picturing Orly burning didn’t faze me now. If ever there had been justification for a death, Alfred, only a boy, had been justified. But I was uneasy. Where had Christine been through all of this? Had she been protecting her brother for the last thirteen years? How could she live with herself, knowing Mary was at the bottom of the lake?

And, if Christine hadn’t lived with Lewis George too, then where had she gone? Was she sent away deliberately? There were so many questions left to answer. Alfred had been … what? … maybe seventeen when he killed his grandfather? Others knew, and never said a word. No one said a word.

So much Alfred hadn’t touched on.

Lewis George had apologized for taking my dog. He said he expected me to press charges against him for stealing Sorrow and was ready to pay the price. I was mad enough to do it, but Sorrow seemed none the worse for his time away from me, and he responded happily to Lewis as he might a friend. I would see, I told him, when I got to town. I would see how forgiving I felt then.

I called the chief and Dolly, giving them the word that I was bringing Alfred Naquma and Lewis George to town. At first Dolly was speechless. Then she shot questions at me. I told her she would hear the whole story when we got there, and that she should call Detective Brent, tell him what was happening.

“He do it?” She couldn’t help herself. “He kill his sister? What about the other guy? He do him in, too?”

“Dolly, you won’t believe … let him tell you.”

Once there and both men were turned over, I left. Dolly came out to the car with me to kiss poor Sorrow on top of his head and admonish him to be more careful who he left with in the future.

“You pressing charges against Lewis George?” she demanded of me.

I shook my head. “Go on in and listen to what they have to say. I’m not adding to that. I’ve got him back.” I patted the big head stuck out the window, long tongue drooling down the side of the Jeep.

“But there’s the law, Emily,” she frowned. “You can’t work your head around what the law says is your responsibility to press charges.”

“Yeah, sure, Dolly. You go ahead and lecture me about not breaking the law.”

I left her sputtering as she headed back into the station to tape Alfred Naquma’s confession.

___

After leaving Leetsville, I was much too elated to go home. I had Sorrow back. The bone mystery was solved. Alfred would be charged with his grandfather’s death. It was late, but I had to share my good news.

Crazy Harry would be thrilled that Sorrow was home, but it would take a few minutes to tell him, and then he’d start talking about putting in another shot of radishes. I didn’t want to be with an excitement killer.

Bill was a possibility. I’d have the story on his desk first thing in the morning—no matter what. But it was late. Bill wouldn’t be at his office, and I didn’t know where he lived. I drove toward Traverse City anyway. At Garfield I turned left and drove out of town toward Hobbs Highway, then around back roads to Jackson’s cottage.

I parked under the pines and nuzzled Sorrow’s head, assuring him I’d be right back. There were two lights on. One on the lower floor, probably in his kitchen. The other light was upstairs, in his bedroom. He could be turning in for the night. Didn’t matter. I ran to the door and knocked as hard as I could. Jackson would be happy that I had my dog back, and fascinated with the story I had to tell.

When he finally answered the door, his hair was mussed. His eyes were confused. He grabbed his robe around him and held it tight at the throat, barely covering his nude body.

I rattled the locked screen. “Let me in. I’ve got news.”

“Emily.” His voice was stern and not at all welcoming. “I was in bed.”

“So what? I got Sorrow back.”

He had the grace to smile. “Great news. I’m happy for you.”

I shook the locked door again. “You going to let me in?”

“Well …” He unlocked the door slowly.

“And I know who murdered who out at Sandy Lake.” I stepped into the house, kicked off my sandals, and did a pirouette into the living room.

As I turned, I lay my head back and looked up. A woman, pulling a robe around her body, looked down from the upstairs balcony.

Ramona Sheffield. The woman who’d come to Jackson’s dinner party with Bill.

Her mouth dropped open. My mouth dropped open. I stared at her a long time, then turned so I faced her dead on.

“Emily,” she said.

“Ramona,” I said.

It would have been funny if …

“I didn’t know you were coming …,” Jackson started to complain.

“Obviously,” I said. I think I laughed a time or two. The scene was trite, and sickening. Here I was again, the irate wife catching her husband in bed with another woman. Only I wasn’t the wife. And not so much feeling irate as feeling dumb.

“Now, Emily,” Jackson tried to put his arm around my shoulders. I shook him off fast. “We need to talk. I’ll come out in the morning.”

I made a sound somewhere between a giggle and a choke. I pursed my lips. “No you won’t. The one thing we don’t need to do is talk.”

I picked up one sandal, then found the other under a chair. I got them on and headed for the door.

“You will finish the typing for me, won’t you?” Jackson followed me out to the car.

“You know the term ‘When hell freezes over,’ Jackson?”

“Oh, please,” he said, disgusted.

At the car, I had to battle Sorrow back. He wanted out of the car so he could give Jackson a royal greeting.

“But this thing,” he motioned toward the house. “It’s not what you think at all.”

“Never is.” I rolled down the window. “Hey, maybe this one types.”

“Please, Emily. Don’t let this … well … we had something. Even you agreed.”

I started the car, pushing Sorrow out of the front seat and into the back. I backed out of his drive and headed toward home.

___

The trip to Willow Lake was one long stream of four letter words after another. It was interesting, after a while, to see how many I could think of and how loud I could say them. Then I went into a tear-filled rant during which I struck the steering wheel with my fists. After that I told myself how lucky I was. I had been so willing to give up everything I’d come to love. When, I wondered, had I lost my mind?

At that turn in my emotional upheaval I gave a loud “Hmmph” and laughed. Sorrow, probably thinking me certifiable, stayed away. He hugged the back of the seat, pretending to be invisible.

At home, I got a pad of paper and wrote down everything I hated about Jackson Rinaldi. It was a refresher course. Before long I was laughing at my list which included: unfaithful, arrogant, stupid, bad writer, losing his hair at the back, lousy cook, selfish lover, crappy editor, moles on his butt …

When I couldn’t get beyond those moles that formed the constellation Orion, I gave up and went to bed.

Sorrow slept with me all night. Far more dependable company than what I’d sought on Spider Lake. I thought his long, warm body a great improvement over Jackson, whose hairless legs twitched and kicked. I slept like a dead lion until morning.

The next day was soft and sweet smelling. After I e-mailed my story to Bill, I took my tea on the front deck, going in only when the phone rang. The first call was from Jackson, who launched into a stuttering apology.

“Guess what?” I said, my cheery voice clearly a surprise to him. Even his “hello” had contained contrition. “I am glad this happened now rather than later.”

“But it won’t happen again,” he pleaded. “Never, I promise you, Emily. This was just …”

“‘An opportunity.’” I finished his line for him.

“Don’t be bitter.” Now came the hurt voice. I could have charted the trajectory of the call. Next would come the slightest of hints that it was all my fault.

“Bitter is not what I am. I am so grateful. You snapped me right out of a delusion I suffered from. I’m not going anywhere. I’m not marrying you again, and I’m not going back to Ann Arbor.”

“Don’t …” Uh-oh—I’d gotten the sequence wrong. His voice fell into something close to tears. “I counted on us being friends, not necessarily remarrying. You could get a condo. I have mine. We could work out something mutually …”

“Ah yes. ‘Mutually beneficial.’ Like … what do they call it …‘friends with benefits’? Tell you what, you come on up here and see me anytime. Bring all the women you want. We’ll be such good friends. Don’t think another thing about it. Probably more my fault than yours …”

“Yes.” He was happier. “If only you’d called first this wouldn’t have …”

I hung up.

The phone rang again. It was Dolly, angry that she’d been calling me and calling me and all she got for her trouble was a busy signal. I had no intention of telling her what had happened last night but she seemed to smell it anyway.

“Jackson, huh? Bastard. Told you so.”

“And how are you this bright and cheerful morning,” I said, hoping to piss her off and shut her up.

“Bill called me. He’s coming out to see you and couldn’t get ahold of you.”

“What did he say?” I demanded, angry at the conspiring behind my back.

“He didn’t tell me anything. I just figured it out.”

“What’s he want out here anyway? I got my story in.”

“Don’t know. He’ll be there soon. Thought I’d warn you in case you’re running around with no clothes on, beating your breasts and tearing at your hair.”

“Yeah. That’s me.”

“I’m not going to say ‘I told you so.’ I’m not like that.”

“You already did.”

“Oh …,” Dolly said. “I got one more thing to say. I found Christine Naquma, Alfred’s sister. Told her what happened and she’s flying in this afternoon from Colorado. Doesn’t look like we’ve got the right story yet.”

“That’s what I thought. He wanted her kept out of it too bad. Where’d they take him?”

“He’s still here. Got him in a cell.”

“You heard his story,” I said.

“Yeah, what he wanted to tell me.”

“You think there’s more?”

“Sure is. I guessed it right away. Wants his sister kept out too bad. And that Lewis George … the way he bit at his lip when Alfred talked, I could see him bursting to tell me something. Geez, I was afraid he was going to have a heart attack right there. He doesn’t want Alfred going to jail. They argued more than one time in their own language. Brent’s having the ashes of the cabin sifted for bones; maybe a gun. Christine’s coming to the station when she gets to town. I want to see them together and hear her side of things. Could be that after all this time she wants to tell the truth about what her brother did out there. Let’s hear ’em both and then decide who’s lying and who’s telling the truth. You’re coming in, aren’t you? You’ve been in it since the beginning …” She stopped to draw a long breath.

I sensed there was more.

“Hey, by the way,” she added. “Ha ha. I told you so.”

She hung up before I could think of a comeback.

The phone rang again. A very busy morning.

“Emily? This is Ramona Sheffield. Please don’t hang up …”

Since I had no such intention, it was easy to get the upper hand by letting her talk.

“I didn’t know you and Jackson were working out your difficulties. He never said …”

“He wouldn’t. And they weren’t ‘difficulties.’ We are divorced. He’s free …”

“Please forgive me for any part I’ve had in this … problem.”

“You’re forgiven, Ramona. He’s done this too many times for me to hold grudges against the women.”

Putting her in with a long line of Jackson’s “women” hurt her, I could tell, but I wasn’t feeling big enough to care.

“I don’t know what came over me …”

“I do. A Jaguar. A line of crap. A good-looking face. Rapt attention turned your way until he’s had you in bed a few times. And on and on.”

“You’re probably right.” Her voice was low and pained. “I’d hoped we could be friends, Emily. Bill speaks highly of you.”

We agreed we probably wouldn’t be friends, but still she asked me to stay in touch and assured me she wouldn’t be out to see Jackson ever again. That much felt good.

I was dressed and busy doing laundry when Bill arrived in his SUV. Sorrow, thrilled at the thought of early company, was out the screen door before I could unhook it, leaving screening to flap behind him.

Bill climbed from his car and stretched his thick body one way and then the other before sticking a hand in the air to greet me.

“Ramona called,” he started after I invited him in. “I heard what happened last night and I felt awful. I should have said something when you mentioned remarrying Jackson and going back downstate. Ramona told me last week that she and Jackson were ‘dating.’ It’s just hard to be the one … I’m not in the habit of carrying tales. Then, last night. I might have spared you all that and I feel bad that I didn’t.”

I shrugged. We settled down on the brown couch.

“Big night,” I said.

“Got the story this morning. I see you’ve got Sorrow back. Alfred Naquma is in jail. My guess is he’ll be bound over for trial.”

“Who knows?” was all I said.

His newsman’s nose shot immediately into the air. “Something new come up since last night?”

I shrugged. “Could be.”

“You’ll get it right to me?”

I nodded.

“Tribe taking over? Is that it? They’re pretty protective of their own, all that sovereign nation business.”

“We’ll see.”

“If a jurisdictional battle is shaping up, it’ll be tough. The murders didn’t happen on the reservation. The old man left or was kicked off years before.”

“I’ll let you know.”

When he left he looked worried. There was an awkward moment after I thanked him for coming to console me. He pushed his glasses up his nose and rested his hands on my shoulders.

“So you’ll be staying up here after all? That’s good. That’s very good news. And don’t forget the obits. I meant the offer.”

I nodded. He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. Not exactly a declaration of love, but a sweet gesture. I waited a minute, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him back.

“I’ll try to throw as much work as possible your way,” he said, climbing back into his Explorer. “What about a column? Your garden’s beautiful. Write about that. Once a month, a Sunday feature article.”

“I’m no master gardener.”

“Not what I’m looking for. Need somebody who just loves gardening. Get that across.”

We agreed. Soon I’d be a columnist and an obit writer and who knew what else he’d assign? With a few more articles for magazines, maybe I could make it financially. There was still real estate to consider. Wouldn’t hurt to get licensed. And if I listened to Dolly, I could always sell chocolate underwear.

What a full life I had ahead of me.