Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli - Emily Kincaid 02 - Dead Floating Lovers Read online

  Sorrow snuffled at the base of a birch tree, then hurried to the other side, then back. Doggie business required deep concentration.

  I got the pointed hoe from the garden shed and dug around the flowers. At this time of year the cultivating had to be done carefully. In my second spring up here I’d been overzealous, digging and coming up with lily bulbs with tiny sprouts, and damaging late-emerging peonies. I dug carefully then got on my hands and knees and poked around with my fingers, pulling the earth away from rose bush roots and checking around the iris to see if they’d survived the voles. After a while I sat back on my heels and let a few of the thoughts I’d been avoiding come into my head.

  How did I begin to process “wedding present” and a set of blank dog tags with a little red beer stein attached? How did I put together a philandering husband who’d fled the marriage thirteen years ago, with Dolly’s tearful “he’s my only family”? Geez! What she believed came from a place above, below, aside from everything my middle-class upbringing prepared me for. I wanted to laugh at her “wedding present” and her “family,” but there was something so painful trapped in those words. Dolly asked for so little. Who was I to judge her need? Me? Family-less Emily with only my own philandering ex to claim.

  I yanked hard at last year’s Japanese iris foliage, then got the pruning shears and cut it back.

  I wanted to call Jackson Rinaldi and tell him what had happened. He would laugh with me. I’d get my head back on straight, and feel better. He would find it ridiculous, as he’d found Dolly earlier. “The simple, you know,” he said once about Dolly, “they will inherit the earth and welcome to it.”

  “It’s the meek, Jackson.”

  “Whatever,” he had shrugged, but the idea got across to me. This was not my place. This was not my circle of Ann Arbor friends. This was not a dinner out with professors, a hot discussion of the latest book, the current political fandango; not even a snide assessment of a new reporter come to the Ann Arbor Times. This was the empty woods and lakes I’d chosen. Dolly and Crazy Harry and Eugenia. This was Native Americans and their counterculture. This was bones and history.

  I whistled to Sorrow who was reluctant to leave the hole he was digging. I put away my tools, wiped my hands along the sides of my jeans, and went out to my small writing studio under tall maples with newly unfurling leaves. Sun shone on my little peaked roof through a mass of knobby, fuzzy spring shadows. It was so unlike winter, when the shadow lines were straight pencil strokes of spare shapes and the only sound the thump of bare tree trunk against bare tree trunk.

  The size of a small garage, my writing studio was plain and undecorated, a single open room with windows looking out on a small meadow where I watched deer chase each other, and once I saw a coyote passing through, and once a mother fox with her kits. It was a good place to work and a good place to do nothing but stand at the window and look out—a thing I did a lot of, calling it “mental writing.”

  Elbows on the window sill was a terrific position, I’d found, for musing. My best stuff came from watching the meadow, and sometimes observing a spider weave a laddered web in a corner of a pane of glass, and sometimes lying on my back on my tattered futon, watching the ceiling, hoping inspiration would droppeth like “the gentle rain from heaven.”

  I pushed the door open and Sorrow clambered in with a scramble of toenails on the wood floor. He sank down to the rug with a thud and a deep sigh. He was in for a long session of tedium, ending only when the computer said “Good-bye.” Then he would leap and pant and be absurdly happy that I’d finished my boring sitting job for the day.

  I put an ani difranco CD on the stereo, bowed slightly to my painting of Flannery O’Connor, nodded to the Georgia O’Keeffe photo with Stieglitz, and snapped my fingers at the drawing of Emily Dickinson’s Amherst home. Mothers all to me. Women, like my favorite poet, Erica Weick, who held on despite what the world threw at them, their confined lives, their subversive art.

  I needed my mind focused on things other than Dolly Wakowski and old bones. I thought about the novel I wanted to write. I pictured it in my head: the scenes, the characters, the setting. My main character would be a man. Contrary to what some misguided writing books preached, I was drawn to see the world through the eyes of men. This man would be an attorney. Elderly. Just out of the hospital after his first heart attack. I could see his grimaces of pain. I could feel his chest grumbling. I could smell his cigar smoke, a brandy stink, and the mothball aroma of his worn wool jacket. I could hear the soft sigh his leather office chair made under the weight of him.

  I turned on the computer, lived through the pop-up reminders of downloads waiting, of virus scans expiring, and files I had yet to process. Irritating, especially in my current mood. I wanted immediate access. I wanted a fresh page. I wanted the ceremony of putting truly new words to paper …

  Randall Jarvis pushed his private nurse’s hand away from his wrist and fixed her with a look that could make guilty defendants squirm and intractable juries melt …

  In the middle of this—my creative throes—the phone I should have taken off the hook buzzed at me. I felt the usual tug of war between curiosity and blatant indignation. How dare anyone interrupt what is certainly the next great American novel? How insensitive. How crass. How …

  Jackson. My day was complete. He had followed me to northern Michigan, on sabbatical, writing his important tome on Chaucer’s pilgrims. Or maybe he’d come just to drive me crazy. I wasn’t sure. He was in a cottage—bigger than mine—over near Spider Lake, outside Traverse City. The sad thing was he couldn’t find anyone to transcribe his work for him. Since he took great pride in writing in long hand, as the greatest writers wrote, he saw no reason to change his winning ways now. I was the secretarial service, as I had been when we were married. Some old habits just don’t go away. I would type his work into the computer, copy the files on disk, and deliver hard copy for his astute editorial eye. For all of this I’d been presented with a tee shirt. A U of M tee shirt. A shirt high above others. With all the work I’d done for Jackson, even at ten dollars an hour, I figured it had to be worth about a thousand dollars.

  “I must see you, Emily.” It was the usual demanding, deep voice not meaning to be demanding. In fact, he would be hurt to think I ever thought such a thing of him … ever.

  “Busy working right now, Jackson. What’s it about?”

  “I need a sounding board. Some of this chapter doesn’t ring true to the ear. You know I’m trying to capture Chaucer’s insouciance.”

  “You mean over the phone? You want to read to me now?”

  “No, no. I thought I’d bring dinner in an hour or so. I’ve got more work for you to put into the computer. Maybe you could run off a copy or two. You do such beautiful work …”

  “Can’t tonight. I’ve got plans.”

  “Plans?” Snide laughter that could make my skin ripple up into crocodile hide lay just beneath the word.

  “Dinner plans. Sorry.”

  He huffed a moment. I said nothing more. “Then tomorrow. I’ll bring what I have and read you this bit …”

  “Tomorrow,” I agreed.

  “Lunch?”

  “Great.”

  “Do you have things in the house? I could pick up a loaf of bread …”

  A sigh and lunch was settled. I put down the phone and pictured poisoned mushrooms. An omelet. A soup … ah yes … who would suspect an ex-wife trapped into endlessly typing her prior husband’s manuscript, a Sisyphean task never to be completed? Who would even imagine she might hold a grudge … ?

  I liked the idea of mushroom soup but decided I’d go with morels I’d buy from Crazy Harry. He was an expert in the woods. So maybe one or two weren’t quite right … false morels weren’t easy to spot. Who could blame me? A form of Russian roulette.

  I couldn’t get back to my gentleman of the bar. He retreated behind a woodpile in my brain while I stewed over being cornered, yet again, by Jackson, the man I’d sworn to love foreve
r and ever and ever. That love lasted less than five years, unless you counted the motherly fondness I still felt for him from time to time. Who knew why? Old habits, I guessed.

  I turned off the computer and endured Sorrow’s joy. Dolly was what I planned to think about for the next few hours, until I met her at EATS. Dolly was less complicated. Dolly and her wedding present and her “family” were easier to deal with than Jackson and everything I’d left behind in Ann Arbor. Right then, if it had come to a struggle between my graduate degree, my knowledge of cheap wines, my drunken discussions of the meaning of “circumference” in Emily Dickinson, why, I’d pick Dolly and simplicity every time and feel good about myself in the process.

  The usual rusty pickups stood at individual angles in Eugenia’s rutted dirt parking lot. I recognized a few, knew the people they belonged to, and could walk in to meet Dolly without feeling like the stranger I used to be here, in the town of Leetsville, Michigan.

  There was Anna Scovil’s red truck. Anna was the town librarian and forever sidled up to me, the local “writer,” to whisper the name of a new book in my ear, savoring the words and keeping them from the uneducated, the rest of the Leetsvillians. Recently she’d been mouthing the words A Thousand Splendid Suns at me from across the room, glancing quickly around to make sure nobody saw. We were in the know, the two of us. Anna did a good job of protecting her books. Even all checked out and ready to go, Anna could give you a powerful tug of war if she felt you unworthy. Fortunately, because I was one of those who came from far away, and was blessed with what she called “a gift,” I could get a novel of somewhat recent vintage, or something for my research, with only a worried frown on Anna’s long face, with only one irritated punch to her upswept hair that didn’t move when poked.

  In the musty vestibule of EATS hung a new genealogical chart; another of Eugenia’s mythical family. I’d found her out last fall, after researching a few of her so-called relatives. I still didn’t understand why Eugenia claimed hung or shot outlaws as next of kin. Maybe for the notoriety. Maybe for the sympathy kind-hearted Leetsvillians gave her. Who knew? There they all still hung. Some, possibly the worst among them, with big gold, stick-on stars attached. I told Eugenia I knew what she was doing but she went on hugging the fearsome mystique of the killers and rustlers and train robbers around her like a big hairy rug.

  This one looked … hmm … I stood on tiptoes to make out the wide sheet of paper, actually two sheets taped together. A photo of a tough-looking lady hung on one side with text on the other. No gold star. Maybe somebody Eugenia didn’t hold in high regard. Maybe she was running out of dead outlaws. The woman looked ordinary enough in the old, grainy photo—dark hair up, unsmiling face staring at the camera as if it were the worst of her enemies. The paper beside the photo read: Ellen Liddy Watson. Not a name I knew. I’d look her up later, when I got back home.

  I went in the restaurant and cut my way through Eugenia’s nonsmoking section. There was no use hoping to breathe clear air in EATS. Eugenia didn’t like the state dictating what people could and couldn’t do in her place. She put up a dozen “Nonsmoking” signs and ashtrays on every table.

  Eugenia stood behind her glass counter filled with cigars, candy bars, and beef jerky. She nodded, gave me a nervous smile, and shrugged her wide shoulders a couple of times. Eugenia was a pillow of a woman. Soft breasts stretched out way beyond her chin and shoulders, and around to her sides. A pouf of bright yellow, curly hair sat piled loosely on top of her head, then left to cascade down her back. There was something motherly about her, but even larger than that. If there was a person in Leetsville who needed to eat, couldn’t afford a meal, required help by spreading the word for canned goods or clothes—after a fire or job loss or that time a tornado came through town—that person was big-hearted Eugenia. Maybe she had an opinion on everything and everyone in Leetsville, but when it came to helping or listening there was no one kinder.

  Eugenia stood with her arms crossed, waiting for my snide comment on her new relative. “Don’t know her,” I called over. “But I will.”

  She threw her head back and laughed hard. I think I’d become her main target, fooling me. I was just as determined to figure out who this new one was. Not just a game between us, but a real tussle for who was smartest in all of Leetsville.

  I spotted Dolly in a corner booth, hat on the red Formica tabletop, brown hair bearing the indentation of her hat, a kind of ring-around-the-head which did nothing for Dolly’s worn-out look. I cut through the tables, all with mismatched wooden chairs. I said hello to pixyish Gloria, my favorite waitress. Anna Scovil clutched at my denim jacket, as I tried to get past her, pulling me down close so she could whisper in my ear.

  “I’ve got a simply wonderful idea. We’ve got to talk,” Anna said in her librarian’s hushed voice. She moved her eyes right, then left, taking note of anyone watching. “Come into the library this week. It is very important.”

  I smiled, nodded, promised I’d do my best, and had to look purposefully at the hand holding me in place before she said “Oh, sorry” and let me go.

  I slid into the booth across from Dolly and picked up the thick, sticky menu laying on the table. Though I knew it by heart, it didn’t hurt to hope that one day Eugenia would replace her tough sirloin with a piece of fish. Or maybe there would be a fresh bread pudding with a dash of cinnamon rather than glutinous cherry pie in a cardboard crust.

  “Detective Brent wanted to know where I got to. Why I wasn’t waiting out there for them,” Dolly whispered across the table at me, barely moving her lips. “I told him I had to go back to the office, get ahold of Lucky. I said I wanted him out there with me but I couldn’t find ’im. Hope Brent doesn’t start asking any more questions.” She frowned hard at the menu laid flat in front of her.

  I studied my salad choices: Salad Bar with cheese ball; Quarter Head of Lettuce with Thousand Island dressing; Tossed Side Salad with those hard little balls of cherry tomato you couldn’t get your teeth into. When Gloria came tripping up to take our order, her blond head waggling, her tennis shoes sticking to the tile floor, I ordered the meatloaf special with mashed potatoes and canned gravy and canned corn on the side. Dolly ordered the same thing. It was easier to order the special. I think Eugenia dished it up ahead of time and popped each plate into the microwave to be served in breath-holding minutes, sometimes little more than five minutes from order to customer. You just couldn’t complain about the service in EATS.

  “Anybody ask about the bones?” I murmured at Dolly, keeping my head down and mouth covered. No matter what she said, EATS wasn’t the best place for secret meetings, nor sharing private information. It wasn’t just that the townspeople knew everything that was going on; I’d begun to think they all read lips.

  She shook her head. “Stop worrying.”

  I looked at the people seated around the smoky room; at Gloria, standing off to one side gossiping with a couple of old farmers; at Eugenia, whose big eyes traveled back and forth, watching everything and everyone. Usually they were ahead of the news. Not today. I supposed Dolly had stayed off the radio and maybe Detective Brent hadn’t appeared at the station yet to talk to Lucky Barnard.

  “Got some information though,” Dolly spoke through clenched teeth. “Doc Stevenson, the coroner, said he thought the skull belonged to a woman. Something about the way a woman’s skull is formed. Wouldn’t say anything else except it was murder. Gun shot. Small caliber.”

  I nodded. I’d seen it.

  “Bones went to Gaylord, or on down to Lansing by now. They need to find out what they can about her, and when she died. Bones should say something, but maybe not a whole lot.”

  I nodded. “Certainly when she died. If she’s recent or pretty old. With a gun, can’t be ancient. I’ll call in the morning, get it all from Brent.”

  Gloria brought out steaming plates and dropped them in front of us. Six minutes. Not a record, but still very good. I ordered hot tea. Dolly stuck with a glass of water.

/>   “You’ve got to help me some more,” she said, though her head was bent over her plate. I couldn’t see her face.

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard right. Help her? Hadn’t I already implicated myself in some pretty serious evidence tampering?

  “I gotta find Chet.” She glanced up over her meatloaf, eyes red-rimmed and blurry. “This is going to get bad. The tags were his. He was out there. I don’t know what happened. He was never the killer type, but I’m gonna have to bring him in.”

  “You wouldn’t protect him, would you?”

  She made a face, shook her head, and lost a few kernels of corn from her fork. “Still, I’d like to be the one to do it. He’s my husband, Emily. That means something to me. Blood’s thicker than water, you know.”

  “He left you thirteen years ago. And he’s not blood. If he were … well … that would be a whole other story.”

  She shrugged and cut her meatloaf into tiny bits. I stabbed mine and marveled at the way it fell apart, just like the stuff I spooned out of a can for Sorrow.

  “You don’t look at things like I do.”

  I nodded. True enough.

  “Anyway, he’s got people down in Detroit. Went to high school at Pershing High. Friends, too. If those bones belong to the woman he ran off with, then where’d he go? I need to find out what happened.”

  “So, you going down to Detroit?”

  She shrugged. “That’s where you come in.”

  I waited, almost scared. Something about a serious and fixated Dolly left me with a chill running up and down my back.

  “Department of Motor Vehicles don’t have anything on him. Never renewed his license. At least not in Michigan. Found nothing else. Like he just disappeared.”