Dead Floating Lovers (7 page)

One of the addresses turned out to be a topless bar on Eight Mile Road, a wide street of defunct businesses and seedy strip joints. The next was an unemployment office on Woodward Avenue. The last was a house in Hamtramck, a Polish suburb in the middle of the city. The middle-aged man at this thirties-built house with a high covered porch never heard of a Chet Wakowski. The place was a boarding house, he said. “Folks come and go.” He leaned back in his porch chair and stretched so we’d notice how bored we made him.

“You cops?” he asked, eyeing us. I shook my head hard. Dolly, in the same tee shirt she’d worn yesterday, said nothing. We left him to his ruminative leaning.

After that we had no place left to go except maybe Chet’s Mom’s in Bloomington, Indiana. Not much point in that since Elaine said he hadn’t been in touch with their mother in years, and she had warned Dolly to keep away from her.

“Can we leave now?” I asked, heading out Conant Street, hoping to hit I-75 and turn toward home.

“Utica,” Dolly said. “Last place. I just want to let Phyllis Dually know—if she even still lives there—that I’ve got no hard feelings against her.”

“Oh, Dolly.” I let my complaint stop right there.

The tiny blue house in Utica sat on what must have once been a street of nice little suburban houses. But those good days were long gone. This house sat back from a dirt road under overgrown bushes and a stand of dead maples. Any one of the trees could take out the peaked roof at the next storm. I thought the place must be deserted, but when we pulled up the weedy drive, Dolly spotted a woman sitting on the top step of the slanting porch, smoking a cigarette and watching us with a lot of squint-eyed suspicion.

“That’s her!” Dolly hopped out of the car.

The woman, in her fifties, watched as we approached, cigarette hanging from a corner of her mouth. She didn’t wave, welcome, or say a word. We walked to where she sat, her knees splayed out under a faded house dress. Nothing in her worn face moved, but she wasn’t expecting anything good out of us.

“Know who I am?” Dolly asked, from the bottom of the steps, in what for her was a merry voice.

The woman squinted one eye through her own smoke and looked Dolly up and down. She shook her head slowly.

“I’m Dolly. Remember?”

She looked Dolly over again then shook her head.

“Sure you do. Dolly Flynn. I lived here with you when I was about six—I think.”

“One of the foster kids.” The voice was flat. “Didn’t you used to send me Christmas cards?”

Dolly nodded, happier again. “That’s right. You had to turn me back to social services because there was trouble. Your husband … well … I’ll just say there was trouble.”

“Must’ve been Mike.” The woman offered nothing more. She let out a long, heavy sigh, accompanied by wisps of smoke.

“No, I think his name was Herbie.”

“Yeah. Herbie. He was a son of a bitch, too. He do something to you?”

Dolly shook her head. “Remember, I bit him on the ear, and he made you call the social worker?”

The woman looked Dolly over hard this time. “Don’t remember you. Lots of kids had to be taken back. Herbie was big trouble for me. But so was Mike, after him. And then came Daniel—he was a bastard, let me tell you. Lots of kids come through here. The girls went fast. Even some of the boys. With Daniel it was boys as well as girls. I divorced them all.”

“You cried when they took me away.” Dolly crossed her arms protectively over her chest. She looked like somebody shrinking in place. I could see the little girl being dragged off, crying.

I put a hand on Dolly’s tensed arm and for once she didn’t shrug me off. “Let’s go, Dolly,” I said, and pulled just a little.

“You sure you don’t remember me, Phyllis?”

Phyllis took a long, slow drag on her cigarette, shifted her legs around under that skirt, and shrugged.

“So many of you. I needed that damned money. Those assholes I married was forever messing it up for me. Glad I ain’t got no man in this house anymore. But then I can’t get kids either. Too bad. Things would be fine now. Might even meet somebody who was different from those others. I thought each one of them was a good man. I guess some women have trouble their whole life long finding Mr. Right.”

“Dolly,” I pulled a little harder. She stood frozen, staring up at Phyllis.

Her empty-eyed face turned to me. Her mouth dropped open a little. I felt sorry for her. She’d just had the last member of her imagined little family shot out from under her.

Dolly turned without saying a word and walked back toward the car. I let out a lot of pent-up air, trying to think of something cutting to say to the ignorant woman on the porch. But what was there to say that would hurt her? What was there left to say or do to her that hadn’t already been said or done?

We got back in the Jeep and headed north.

“I don’t see why you don’t have a cell phone.”

We’d been driving a long time. Through industrial Flint. Through Saginaw. We were just past the turnoff to Midland in Bay City—the point where I’d always thought true up-north Michigan began. From here on we would see farmland, a wavy American flag made of cement blocks, and then the woods. I breathed better when I was back among the trees, heading toward Grayling. Not only breathed better but felt an oppressive load lift from my shoulders. Probably memories of all that old stuff—the escaping when our marriage soured, when there were decisions to be made and I didn’t know I had options. All things that oppressed me disappeared when I headed north. After my dad’s funeral, I hadn’t taken I-75 up from Grand Blanc, but it didn’t matter as long as the road went north: Claire, Cadillac, Grayling—they sounded like freedom to me. And smelled like freedom when I opened the window and let in the scents of the pines and the leaf mold and the water.

It seemed there was little left to say between Dolly and me. Nothing had worked out for her—no Chet and not even that one good memory from childhood. After our abortive trip neither of us had much energy, not even for arguing.

“I said I don’t see why you don’t have a cell phone.” Dolly raised her voice, but not with the usual aggression. “You’d think, being a reporter and all, you’d need to be in touch all the time.”

“Nope,” I said, getting the feeling she had an ulterior motive. “Why don’t you have one?”

She made a derisive noise. “What for? I’ve got the police radio in my car. Got a phone at home. Hardly ever anywhere else but those two places.”

“Then that makes two of us,” I said, and fiddled with the radio knob, trying for some jazz, maybe NPR. Music or talk might fill the emptiness in the car. We hadn’t discussed any of what had happened. Dolly was uncharacteristically silent, and I didn’t want to walk where smarter people knew not to go. The radio gave me static and a cooking show.

“I’d like to make a call anyway.”

“Oh? To whom?”

“The chief. I’m going to have to tell him about Chet. There’s no getting around it—Chet must’ve been involved. Not to call his own mother in all these years. Not his sister. Nobody heard from him. That’s not like Chet at all. To tell you the truth I thought he’d be coming back to me long, long ago. You couldn’t exactly say Chet was the kind of man who could stand on his own two feet. You know, kind of a sorry soul, was what he was. But if he did this … to that girl …”

“You going to tell the chief what you stole from Sandy Lake?”

“What do you mean ‘stole’? I told you those tags were my wedding present. I was just reclaiming what’s …”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I was.”

“Why didn’t you mention making a phone call back around Bay City where there were places to stop?”

“There’s gas stations ahead.”

“Most don’t have phones anymore.”

“Phooey! When’d they stop having telephones?”

“When people all got cell phones.”

“Except you and me.”

“Yeah. Except you and me.”

“Won’t hurt to try.”

The next Shell station and convenience store had a public phone inside. Dolly got more change than she would ever use and made her call. I walked the aisles picking out things I’d buy if I were really truly skinny and could afford the calories—like Three Musketeers and trail mix loaded with M&Ms. Dolly came back from the phone busily shoving change into the pocket of her pants and frowning. She glared at me and barked, “Let’s get going.”

I let her pay for the gas and went on out to the Jeep. Something new was up. Her face didn’t hide anything. She was upset all over again. Lips pursed. Nose wrinkled up into something like a knot. This had been a rotten day for Dolly so far and, therefore, for me. I hoped it hadn’t just gotten worse.

We were back on I-75, almost to West Branch, before she finally opened her mouth.

“They found another one,” she said, half growling at me as she stared out the window at the woods.

“Another what?”

“Another skeleton. In the lake.”

“What!”

“Yup. Brought in divers. Found this one farther out, held down by a cement block with ropes tied around it.”

“So …” I needed time to think. A lot happening all at once. I would have to get ahold of Bill, call the state police, maybe get out there and take photos of something or other. But a deeper thing nagged at me. Another skeleton …

“A man,” Dolly said, voice low and sulky. “Medical examiner’s pretty sure about that. Teeth—first and second molars. And other stuff. The chief said they measure the pelvis and long bones. I kept asking ’cause they could be wrong. I’m still hoping they’re wrong.”

“You don’t think … ?”

“Who the hell else would it be? That’s why nobody’s heard from him, why he never came home. Gotta be Chet.”

“Geez, Dolly. I’m so sorry …”

“Yeah. You know what that makes me, don’t you?” Her upper teeth clamped down on her lower lip as if these were words she didn’t want to let out.

“Makes you?”

She nodded hard. “Makes me a widow.”

“Well, I guess. Sort of.”

“A widow. Barely a wife.” She shook her head. “Said he was shot in the head, too. Like the other one. Two murders. And something else. They think the first bones were Indian. An Indian girl. Pathologist’s sure about it. They got ways to figure that out.”

“Old? Maybe it’s all a mistake. Nothing to do with Chet.”

“Not new—with all the flesh gone. But not fossilized either. I’ll bet they come up with about thirteen years.”

“If she was Indian, the tribe will want her back.”

“One of the Odawa was there to see Lucky already. Says they want her immediately. Has to be reburied right away according to their religion.”

“But if it’s murder … ?”

“He told ’im. They won’t get anything back until the investigation is over.”

“Lucky say if they had any idea who did this?”

She made a noise and looked out her window. “No. Course not. He doesn’t even know it could be Chet.”

“Geez, Dolly, it’s time.”

She snapped her head around to look directly at me. Her eyes flashed something I hadn’t seen there before. Maybe this one day had finally extracted more than she could tolerate; maybe it was more of Dolly’s “family” thing; whatever she was shooting at me, I had the feeling we were back in deep shit together.

“I’ve got to think it out first. Oh God, I’ll have to call his sister. We’ll have to bury him.”

“You don’t know anything for sure,” I said. “Anyway, he walked out on you, Dolly. Let his sister and mother handle the funeral. They’ll want him buried down by them.”

Dolly tucked her chin into her neck. “Chet was my husband, Emily. I’ll see to him in death the way I did in life. And I’m not going to let some murdering creep get away with killing my very own husband in my very own town.”

When she sniffed I knew she was crying.

“You just watch and see if I do,” she muttered, then sniffed again. “I’ve got things to figure out first. Like who she was. Wish I’d noticed more when I saw ’em together at The Skunk. All I did was see the dog tags and get so mad I stormed out. In the morning he was gone. Clothes gone. Spurs gone. Truck gone. Hunting rifle—gone. Nothing left of him at all. Like he never existed. Just swept right out of my life. Without my dog tags, well, there was nothing but a dirty coffee cup of his in the kitchen and some hairs in the bathroom sink. Still got the coffee cup. Just the way it was. Had to wash out the bathroom sink but I kept some of those whiskers in an envelope.

“Guess we gotta know who she was,” she said, talking to herself, words half staying in her mouth. She dug a Kleenex out of her pocket and blew her nose. “Find her family. Find out if anybody knows anything. Start with missing persons from back thirteen years. That’s it. Start there.”

“Check with the Odawa. They want her back so bad, they must know who she is,” I said.

“Can’t contact the Indians. They’re gonna be all over me—when they hear for sure it’s Indian bones. Their religion’s big on burying people fast.” She took another swipe at her nose then tucked the crumpled Kleenex into my glove compartment. “Why don’t you check your newspaper morgue. Just in case something shows up from another town that looks like it could be her. We don’t even know if she’s from around Leetsville. Maybe see about Peshawbestown, the reservation. I mean just go asking about missing girls. Nothing else. Hmm … Got any other ideas?”

I shook my head and prayed for the trip to end. Whatever Dolly was going to get herself involved in, she meant we were in it together. I made a face toward the windshield and wondered what I’d ever done to make this feisty little policewoman light on me as her compatriot in crime fighting. I’d come up north for the solitude, for the quiet to write, for peace from trouble and anger and stress. What I needed most right then was to get back home, kiss Sorrow, get Deputy Dolly Wakowski out of my car, and get lost in my new book.

Or better yet, get lost in the spring woods for a while. Maybe I’d take Crazy Harry up on his offer to help me find edibles growing out there. I could learn to tell a false morel from a real one. He’d teach me the names of all those flowers lighting open spaces under the just filling out trees. The thought of it made me feel cleaner. I didn’t want to be involved with old bones, cheating husbands, murderers, awful foster mothers who didn’t remember a child who had nobody else to love. There were better places to be and I wanted, desperately, to be there.

“You don’t have to help me with anything,” Dolly said in a small voice after I’d been quiet all the way around Grayling. “If that’s what’s bothering you, I can do it alone.”

I made a noise, something like agreement but also something like: got my own work to do. She took my noncommittal sound to have another meaning.

“Thanks, Emily. I knew you’d want to be there for me.”

I made another noise, aimed at me. Too late to disagree. I sat straight and still, visions of my writing, my quiet, my garden, the woods leaping out of my head like those rats that are supposed to be the first to leave a sinking ship.

“I’ll go see the chief. Tell him everything. Then I’ll go through old missing persons’ records. You wanna see Eugenia? Ask if she ever heard about Chet and some Indian girl? If anybody knows anything, you know it will be Eugenia.”

“Tomorrow, Dolly. I’m tired. I want to get back to my house and forget dead people for a few hours.”

“Great reporter you are. When you gonna call your paper?”

“Let me handle my own business, all right?”

She shrugged. “Can’t drag your feet.” The eyes she turned on me were red-rimmed. She lowered her head fast, as if she had no right to pain.

“I need time to … heal from all of this.” I made a gesture encompassing I didn’t know what.

“Yeah, well, healing’s one thing. Getting on with life—that’s another. I’m getting on.”

One blunt hand went up and Dolly began ticking off things to do on her fingers.

Thumb: “I’ll go over to The Skunk and see if anybody remembers back that far.”

First finger: “Then—let me see—I’ll try the gun shop and the barber shop. Wish he’d been a churchgoer. No chance there.”

Middle finger: “I’ll go through all our missing persons from back awhile. Don’t expect her to be there though. I’ve been over the old cases before.

“More than anything I wish I’d raised a fuss when I saw ’em together. Be forever sorry now. Just too shocked at the sight of his dog tags around her neck. Might have saved them both if I’d raised a stink when I should’ve.”

“Yup, all your fault, Dolly.”

She turned my way. One eye wandered just far enough off center to give her a disoriented look. “Shut up,” she said, and fell to thinking and muttering all the way back to my house, and her car. She grabbed her backpack and was gone.

It was a relief to see that Sorrow had been a good boy. Only one screen busted out on the porch, one rope chewed through, one pile of poop, one water dish overturned onto the bare boards, and only one garden clog chewed to a mass of rubber worms.

I rewarded him with kisses for all that good behavior.