Dead Floating Lovers (5 page)

Jackson arrived in a shower of pebbles and dust, his white Jaguar screeching to a halt where my drive ended and the tall bracken began.

“I couldn’t wait to get here,” he enthused after leaping from his car to lean his head back, drink in the wine of my lake-washed air, then throw his arms wide and walk toward me.

With his dark hair, long slim body, that superior air, those warm arms—he had me. He always had me; the reason I moved two hundred and fifty miles away after the divorce. I didn’t want to become one of those sad, pathetic cast-off wives who hung around, waiting to pick up the leavings—should he care to drop by from time to time.

I guess I’d always been a sucker for a good-looking man with an affected laugh and an absolute belief in his own transcendence over ordinary mortals. Jackson could make my heart do stupid things and make me smile when I didn’t want to smile. He could even make me feel better about myself just by putting a hand on either of my shoulders and kissing me in the middle of my forehead. There is something about warm male lips on dry, longing, female skin.

“You’re late,” I grumbled because he always made me grumble to protect my self-respect.

“I know, but when you hear why …” He folded his arms slowly around me then smiled down as he hugged me gently to him, pulling me very close so I could feel his legs against mine. He turned me back toward my own house then followed, pushing. I let myself be pushed, though I pushed back a little.

“It was for the cause, Emily. I got so much work done this morning. An amazingly prodigious amount. No sense coming over here and then having to come right back again. So, I’ve brought you ten chapters. Can you imagine it? Ten chapters. The book is flying.”

He stopped at the door, gave me a little shove inside, then ran back to his car to retrieve the manuscript pages, all waiting for me to decipher his handwriting, type them into a file, print out a final edit, and then burn onto a CD for his publisher. He held the stack of white paper high and riffled through them. His worn, if still good-looking, face took on the triumphant look he’d once had after sex. Probably still had. Something to do with getting a woman to satisfy a need. Right now his need was for a typist.

The sun on the deck was warm, the clouds gone—as Harry had predicted. Jackson liked eating this way—
alfresco
. It reminded him of our days in Italy, he said, leaning back in the deck chair, hands behind his head.

“Remember Tuscany, Emily?”

I nodded, remembering Tuscany only too well. The days I’d spent trying to keep him out of the clutches of overheated Italian women who admired the scarf tossed casually around his throat and his pale wool cap, tipped at a jaunty angle.
Professori
they called him and virtually swooned.

He’d forgotten the bread so I produced mine, puffing with pride at my efficiency. As we ate, Jackson stopped from time to time to lift his hand from the manuscript pages on the table beside him, pick them up, and flip them at me. “Won’t take too much of your time,” he smiled, his dark eyes crinkling. “And think of the contribution to literary studies. I will, of course, acknowledge your help.”

“I’ve started a new novel,” I said, trying for a little of this bright glare of spotlight.

He set his pages down slowly and gave me a doubting smile. “Not like the last, I hope? What was that one? A new rendition of
Fatal Attraction
?”

“Mistake,” I mumbled, stuffing salad into my mouth.

He leaned back, large hands pushing his soup bowl away, and watched as white puffy clouds sailed over the lake. “I’ll be glad to take a look at whatever you have. Just to make certain … well … you don’t want to make another mistake.”

He yawned and reached for a piece of bread, took a bite, chewed thoughtfully, then added, “What about that mystery, the one about your adventures with Deputy Dolly? Anything back on it yet?”

“Yes. Very favorable,” I lied. “An agent asked to see the whole manuscript.”

“Ah,” was all he said.

“In fact, there was more than one.” I hoped my nose wasn’t growing. “Three, to be exact. I should be hearing any day now.”

He lifted an eyebrow and made a noise. “I’m sure you’ll be hearing,” was all he said.

The phone rang and Sorrow, who’d been asleep at our feet, leaped up to answer. I followed him back into the house.

It was Dolly, wanting to know if I’d come up with anything on Chet. I had to disappoint her.

“I found his mother’s address, on that old Christmas list,” she said. “We can start there.”

“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

She ignored me. “I talked to the mushroomers from Ohio. Nice old couple. Very shaken by all of this. They didn’t have anything else to add, just that they found the bones by accident. And they did call the Odawa, who don’t look kindly on anyone disturbing an old burial site. Brent said they’ve been in touch with him so maybe it
was
one of them out there. I still don’t think he saw anything, but I’d better get moving on finding Chet. We’ve got to have information fast. They’ll be demanding answers.”

I looked out at Jackson and the sheaf of papers settled securely beside him. His eyebrows went up in expectation of me getting off the phone quickly so as not to miss a single bon mot of his. I weighed things in my mind: Chaucer? Dolly? Hmm …

“OK, look, I’ll go with you,” I said into the phone while smiling and nodding through the open French doors at Jackson.

“Er … thanks, Emily. I really mean it. Tomorrow morning. I’m going to Gertie’s salon this afternoon. Wait’ll you see my new hair color. If I’m going to see Chet Wakowski, I want him to regret the day he left me. I’ll be there about nine. If that’s OK. And Emily, get Jackson out of there. I know you, Emily. No character at all. Don’t even think about going to bed with him.”

“Why … I … you …”

She hung up laughing as I sputtered.

I lied to Jackson—that I had to get into town, that Dolly and I were working on another case. I gathered his papers, went back into the living room, and set them on the big desk in the corner.

“Well, if you have to go … And my work? When do you think … ?”

“Soon. As soon as I can get to it.” I hurried him along.

“Oh … then, well, dinner at my place next time. I want to cook for you, the way I used to. Something simple, but wonderful. And Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio.”

That alone would have done it.

He came closer. I stood with my arms down. Were we going to shake hands? Perhaps pat each other on the back? Jackson put a hand on each of my shoulders and pulled me toward him. He bent just a little while my breath first held, then shook. It had been a long, long time.

He kissed first my forehead, then kissed me full and hard on the mouth. He was so good at this stuff. Why had I forgotten? I wanted to curse my weak knees when he let go. I’d forgotten the power he had over me. Like turning on a switch somewhere inside, I not only got turned on but lit up and more than a bit needy.

“See you in a few days,” he whispered down at me, smiling a too-knowing smile. He stepped away fast, leaving me with a silent,
aw shit …
rolling around in my pathetic brain.

All I could do was nod. Nothing much really changed between us. I was so easy, I told myself, as I watched him back his Jaguar out of my drive. Dolly was right about me. A person of no character at all.

We were on our way to Detroit, me and Dolly, though our leave taking wasn’t without stress. First, I had to find Harry to come feed and water Sorrow, and let him out a few times a day. He wasn’t home when I went across Willow Lake Road to his crooked little house, down an overgrown and picker-treacherous drive. His dogs, back in their kennel behind a high chainlink fence, barked and snarled and tried to run me off the property.

It must have been all the noise the dogs made, for Harry soon ambled into his clearing dragging a long mesh bag of morels behind him.

“Sure,” Harry said. “I’ll take care a yer dog. You do the same for me someday.”

I’d eyed his snarling, leaping kennel of animals and hoped it would never come to that. “What neighbor won’t do a favor for t’other, I’d like to know?” he asked.

So I left it there, deciding I’d worry about feeding Harry’s dogs the day he ever went somewhere. Since, as far as I knew, Harry had not left his house for more than a few hours in his whole sixty-some years on earth, I figured the odds were on my side.

Second, I had to get over my amazement at the dye job Gertie of Gertie’s Shoppe de Beaute had given Dolly. Her hair resembled striped mattress ticking. It was still a dirty brown, but with stripes of some shade of blond she called “Topaz Triumph.” She took off her hat and bent her head down to show me. I told her to keep her hat on and then she was mad at me.

Next, we had the “who’s going to drive” struggle.

“Not you,” I said as I loaded the back of the Jeep with my overnight bag and her backpack. She made a face, crossed her arms over her chest, and tapped one foot against the gravel. Dolly was in jeans and a sweatshirt with LAW ENFORCEMENT—YA GOTTA LOVE US across the back. One of the few times I’d seen her out of uniform.

“My car,” I said. “I drive.” Memories of wild trips with siren blaring were too seared into my brain. I wasn’t going to let her pilot my yellow Jeep. We would travel the speed limit, or maybe a few miles over, but this wasn’t going to become one of Dolly’s trips from hell.

“I’m the professional.” She’d planted her body like a tree stump.

“My car,” I repeated, got in on the driver’s side, stuck the key in the lock, and started the motor. I buckled the seat belt then leaned down to grin at Dolly.

“You can’t drive the whole way. Maybe just the first hour. I’ll take over after that,” she said.

I shook my head, as stubborn as she could be. “I drive. You’re crazy behind the wheel.”

She looked off toward the lake, then up at the clear sky, then down again at me. “You’ll get tired. You’ll be begging.”

“Yeah,” I said, and revved the motor.

With slow dignity, Dolly got in and settled beside me. She gave me a look that said a lot and pulled the seat belt across her body.

“Hope you’re not going to be a big pain in the ass through the
whole
trip,” she said, as if we were off on an adventure and I hadn’t been coerced into going with her on what was probably going to be a big wild goose chase, producing nothing, and proving unnecessary in the end.

“And my hair does too look good. I don’t care what you say. You just got no taste. No taste at all.”

“Hmph,” I answered, and we were off.

A flock of turkeys greeted us near the end of Willow Lake Road. Mating season got interesting in spring. Robins swooped, orioles dived, hawks sailed, sparrows and chickadees and goldfinches acted silly and coy. The deer got stupid and couldn’t tell a Ford van from a doe, becoming sad hood ornaments and costing drivers lots of money. Tom turkeys stood along the side of the road with their tails spread like peacocks, trying to attract females more interested in the new grass beside the road than strutting males. And humans? Well, there wasn’t a season on human stupidity.

Along M72 the trees were in the little leaf stage that quickly turns to heavily burdened branches hanging to the ground. Always something special about spring, about the first warm wind, the first warm day when I dared take off my heavy jacket, or strip down to a turtleneck sweater. We had about forty miles to go to get over to I-75, the main artery splitting Michigan’s lower peninsula in half—east side from west side. I took the shortcut around by the Grayling National Guard base and we were on our way to Detroit.

It was noon when we got to Saginaw. We stopped for lunch at a McDonald’s, then had our second fight over who was going to drive.

My car. I drove.

The plan was to stop somewhere outside Detroit and find a cheap motel. From there we could start making phone calls and looking over city maps. We got down close to Detroit by two o’clock, found an Econo Lodge, and took one room with twin beds.

Dinner later was at a nearby Burger King. We picked up an area map at a Barnes & Noble, and went back to our room. Dolly wanted to show me her old Christmas list and a paper Chet left behind, which turned out to be a couple of addresses on a dirty, lined scrap. No names. Just addresses.

I took a shower and got into my tacky pjs and floppy slippers. Dolly was in the bathroom a long time and came out in a camouflage nightgown with camouflage slippers to match.

“Hope I don’t have to find you in the middle of the night,” I groused. “I mean, in case there’s a fire or anything. Between the camo and that dye job, you fade right into the shadows.”

“Hmph,” she said right back at me.

“You remember any of those addresses? I mean, who they belonged to?”

She shook her head and spread the map on the floor, then lay down on her stomach, legs bent into the air. She began tracing Detroit streets with her finger. “Never knew any of his people from Detroit. We weren’t married that long.”

“How long, Dolly?”

“Oh, maybe six months.”

“Six months! He left you after six months! And you feel you owe him … ?”

Her hand was up, stopping me. “Still makes him family.”

“Dolly, how many foster homes were you in altogether?”

“Ten.”

“Did you ever know your mother or your father? Any family?”

She wrinkled her nose and sniffed. “Nope. That don’t mean I don’t have one or the other. Just that I don’t know where they are.”

“You ever look? All these years?”

“Why? Never looked for me.” She picked at a red cuticle around her thumb, then bit it and spit out the piece of flesh. “Doesn’t it seem it’s their job? I mean, to come looking for me?”

She thought awhile. “There is one woman I’d like to see in Detroit. If we have the time. She was the best foster mother I ever had. Phyllis Dually. Maybe I was six. Six and a half. Something like that. Seems I remember …” I looked away from Dolly’s sad face. “I send her a Christmas card every year so I’ve got her address. Lives in Utica. East side. Just outside Detroit. If we have the time, and we’re not too far from there …”

“Was she your last foster mother?”

Dolly shook her head. “Somewhere in the middle.”

“Why’d they take you away from her?”

“She couldn’t handle me. I was a troublemaker. Real pain in the ass. But I didn’t want to leave that one. Truly sorry.”

“Why go see her?”

“Well, it wasn’t really her. It was her husband. Mean son of a bitch, if you will excuse my French. He made her get rid of me ’cause I bit his ear hard.”

“Oh come on, ‘bit his ear’?”

“He … eh … was … one of those too friendly types. Even then, I knew I had to fight him. She understood, Phyllis did. She knew. But what could she do? No money. No place to go. So it was me. I went.”

“And you want to see her?”

She picked at the little speckles in the motel carpeting. “I think she kinda loved me. Be nice to see her. I’ve got some happy memories …”

Rutting around in Dolly’s past was painful. I thought I could see why she considered Chet “family.” Why she had fond memories of a woman who didn’t protect her. There was a glimpse here into a world I could only imagine. I could go along with her. It cost me nothing.

We spent the next hour finding addresses on our map and marking them with big
X
s.

When we had our plan for the next morning in place, she put on the small TV. I got out a book to read but soon gave up because an old
Matlock
was on, and it was on loud.