Dead Dancing Women (10 page)

“Ain't seen 'em since,” Dave said. “And I didn't have anything to do with none of them dying. Hope they don't think I did. I wouldn't hurt a fly. Never meant them old ladies any harm. It was just what they did … wasn't buckshot she died of, was it?”

I shook my head. “Not that I've heard.”

“No, of course not. People don't die of a little buckshot in the ass.”

Sharon walked me back out to my car, sharing her recipe for venison stew on the way. I promised to try it and get back to her. Just as soon as I got myself a gun and some ammunition, learned to load the gun, then to shoot the gun, obtained a hunting license and a bright red jacket, went out into the woods on a freezing November day, and shot myself a deer.

FIFTEEN

Dog was running with
his tail between his legs, looking over his shoulder at me as if I'd gone mad, which I had. I ran after him, arms flailing, screaming like a crazy person.

While I was out he'd chewed an enormous hole in the drywall of the back bedroom where I'd put him instead of out on the porch, which I thought was too cold for such a young dog. It served me right, I thought as I chased him. Now he'd done this terrible thing to the room where I was going to put my ex-husband. I wanted Jackson Rinaldi to envy me my perfect little house in my perfect little woods—just a little bit. But now my perfect house had this huge, amoeba-shaped hole in the wall of the very room where he would be staying.

I stopped running and screaming when I got out of breath and when I realized I was maddest because I would look like a failure in Jackson's eyes. Why, I asked myself, hands on my head, did I care what Jackson thought of me? Wasn't I over vying for his attention, hoping for a good grade on my hair, my intelligence, my very being?

Dog taught me I wasn't as blasé about this visit as I was pretending. Awful, knowing there were pockets of my mind harboring ideas completely at odds with the rest of me. Like having nasty demons living in my brain cells. Surely, I didn't still have hopes where Jackson Rinaldi was concerned? Some women never learned. I sighed, and apologized to Dog.

Poor Dog, he didn't understand a woman losing it over a two-bit time filler, a simple: I'm-bored-guess-I'll-chew-the-wall decision.
Geez, lady—it's a hole!
He stopped running when I stopped, and turned to look back at me, dark round eyes troubled. I fell into a heap on the floor, buried my face in my hands, and howled. All too much for me: Dog, home repairs, dead body parts, ex-
husbands
coming to visit with God-only-knew what intent. Maybe, I told myself between sobs, I was covering my feelings for him and maybe I was tired of living by myself here in the woods and tired of being a failed mystery writer everybody—and I was sure of this—just everybody for miles around made fun of. And maybe all my helpful neighbors and friends, coming to me with their obviously purloined mystery plots, weren't the naive ones after all.

I was having a good wallow when Dog decided it was safe to come over and put his face close to mine. He nuzzled my cheek. I threw my arms around him, held on, and howled all the louder. He stood very still, his body braced, and let me cry out my misery against his neck. What a friend I had in Dog. What a divine consoler. After a while I pulled back and looked him straight in the eye. His face was sad and contrite. Maybe he thought he was the sole cause of all this grief. Maybe he didn't care, but consolation was his job.

It came to me then that Dog had a name, from
The Hotel New Hampshire
, a wonderful book by John Irving. I remembered that dog so well. Best animal in literary history, I'd always thought. The dog's name had been Sorrow, and when his dead, stuffed body fell off a ship bound for Europe, the family looked back to see him floating along behind for hundreds of miles. “Sorrow floats,” someone observed.

Sorrow.

Why not?

“Sorrow.” I called him by name to see what he thought, and he licked my face. Our deal was sealed. Whatever he called himself wasn't important. He was Sorrow from then on, and with me as his housemate I thought he'd better be able to float.

It was time to get some work done before Dolly showed up. So, out to the studio to get at the mystery, or to write the Survivalist story—such as it was. Or, I could stand at the window with my elbows on the sill and stare at the glowing afternoon for a couple of hours, and listen to the trees rustling their last rustle before the leaves dropped.

It was a slow walk. The afternoon was perfect, a day of warmth and slight chill, of sun and brilliant white clouds, of blue sky. No shadow of danger. My walk led toward the meadow, golden with tall grasses, and then to my little studio—half a garage really—under a stand of old oaks, surrounded now with fallen acorns. A gray squirrel sat on my roof ridge like a dark weathervane.

Sorrow trotted beside me, not running off, but keeping up a good little black and white pace. Inside, he settled at my feet while I made phone calls to Gaylord and then to the newspaper.

“Hey Emily, I'm coming to see you this weekend,” Bill Corcoran greeted me. “Kind of like to take a look around myself.”

Bill's voice was overly cheerful. I thought about letting him come out, then remembered I had Jackson for the weekend—or however long he was staying.

“I'm having company, Bill.”

“That's good. Very good. Glad you won't be alone. Still, I'd like to take a drive over, maybe Sunday afternoon. If you're there, fine. If not, well, I'll just feel better.”

“Why?”

“Just will. I don't know ‘why.' Just … better.”

“Then come on out. But Bill, call first, OK? I'll take you around myself. Show you the important parts, like where my garbage can sat.”

He agreed he would call. I figured it would be an early warning, though why I was worried about Bill visiting while Jackson was there, I hadn't a clue.

“Stay with the story, Emily. Unless you feel threatened in any way. I mean, with all those body parts turning up.”

“I'll stay with it. Interviewed a Survivalist guy today, who says he saw them dancing in the woods—all the women.”

“Go see the others then. Go after it from that way.”

“I'm working pretty closely with Deputy Dolly Wakowski. The state police are in charge but she thinks together we'll have more luck getting people in town to talk.”

“She might be right. Still, be careful. I take it nobody knows much of anything yet.”

I promised follow-ups as soon as I had information.

Because of Sorrow's wild morning, and because I knew inside repairs were beyond Crazy Harry's capability, I had to find a handyman in town who would come out and fix my wall. The only one listed in the local phone book had an answering machine that let me know “John” would be away all week hunting squirrel, try him next week. I decided I'd see about moving the furniture around in the room, maybe I could pull the dresser across the hole.

I gave up housekeeping thoughts and went back to work on
Creative Murder
, the working title of my novel.

Sorrow stayed settled by the little green fireplace while I got back to writing. I felt confident that, with Sorrow at my feet, I'd turn out superior work. He wasn't going to be just a dog. He would be my muse, my good luck talisman. Sorrow could carry the gloom in my life while I was free to soar.

I made progress and was feeling good about it when I saw Dolly's car zip down the hill, pass the studio, and come to a gravel-throwing stop by my house. I turned off my computer. Sorrow and I went out to greet her. Me, with grace and decorum. Sorrow, with huge leaps and jumps and yelps of joy. Dolly fended off the leaping dog, then grabbed him in a bear hug that calmed him, or scared him.

I made tea for both of us, because it was the thing to do in the late afternoon. Jackson had always loved a proper English high tea, cucumber sandwiches with the crust trimmed off, and little cakes, and pots and pots of tea. I was thinking I'd have to get into town and buy some cakes, or something besides a grocery store sponge cake, then I thought I'd rather put Jackson's arrival out of my head. I'd rather plan no menus, have nothing in the house.

I'll think about that tomorrow
, I told myself with proper Southern inflection.

Dolly had more important things than tea parties on her mind.

“Didn't get much out of Mary Margaret or Flora Coy.” She blew at the hot tea and settled her elbows on the counter after moving her gun belt around so it didn't catch on the arm of the stool. “Flora Coy wouldn't say a word. Wrote out that she had laryngitis, though I'm not convinced that's what was wrong with her. The woman looked really nervous. And in a big hurry to get me out of her house. Just like Miz Henry. Mary Margaret Murphy, too. Didn't have much to say and usually you can't stop that one from talking. Most people avoid Mary Margaret for that. Not because she's the town undertaker, but for her talking and talking and talking. Something's up with all of them. I'll tell you, Emily, I sure wish I knew what it was. I'd like to ask Miz Henry about that business at Amanda's yesterday, too. You get anything from Pastor Runcival?”

“Not much. He preached against what he called their ‘Druidic' rites in the woods. Said parishioners had come to him complaining. That's why he preached that sermon. Kind of outing the ladies. He wouldn't tell me who'd complained. What was that you asked Amanda? About who inherited? Gloria and Simon were saying something about Mrs. Poet renting out family land. Oil leases. Sounds as if there could be money. That's always a motive for murder.”

Dolly gave me a pained look. “Like I don't know a motive for murder when I see one,” she said. “There's been talk in town for the last six months about Miz Poet and some property that's been in her family for like a hundred years or more. Maybe she made some money from Shell Oil, selling off her oil and mineral rights, or leasing them, or something. Most of the property around here, the rights were sold off years ago. Shell Oil could come in anywhere almost and drill without anybody having a thing to say. But not on this property Miz Poet owned. It looks as if there's something there. Don't know what she got. What kind of money we're talking. Could be, if they bring in oil, Amanda stands to make a good bit. So much per barrel, is what I heard. Depends on the deal her mother struck. But that's all gossip anyway. Don't know anything for certain. Still, even the smell of money sometimes stirs people to do things they wouldn't have thought up otherwise.”

Dolly stretched her neck a little. “I was thinking there'd have to be a will. Everybody knows about probate. Nobody up here is stupid, you know. I'm sure Ruby Poet knew how to take care of her assets. The first thing you look for in an investigation is who benefits. You knew that didn't you? Hmm … You've got a lot to learn, Emily. Lucky for you we've hooked up. I'll make a mystery writer out of you yet.”

“Should we go back and see this Mrs. Coy?” I asked. “Maybe together. Anyway, I'd like to talk to her. Bill wants me to follow the story. Keep on it.”

“Couldn't hurt. Guess we'll save Miz Henry for later.”

I tied Sorrow to the wall on the side porch with a long piece of clothesline, and we were ready to go. Off again, this time in Dolly's police car, which smelled like an old house that'd been closed up for about twenty years, with a dead body inside.

Mrs. Coy's farmhouse was on Oak Street, two blocks down from Main. At one time it must have stood alone, in the middle of large fields. Leetsville had grown around it until now there were houses lined up and down both sides of Oak. The house could've used a coat of white paint. The front porch leaned a little to the left. Still, it had the feeling of a home somebody loved. Cement flower pots lined the steps though now they held only dead flowers. There were neatly curved and turned flower beds across both sides of the front. Another gardener, I thought, and began to wonder if gardening was a killing offense up here.

When Mrs. Coy opened her door, her eyes did a literal bulge behind pink framed glasses, at the sight of Dolly back so soon. Obviously, we weren't going to be welcomed guests.

Flora Coy was a small woman with white sprightly hair curled, or frizzed, around her face. The thick lenses in her glasses magnified her eyes and gave her a startled look.

“Hello Mrs. Coy.” Dolly bent at the waist, obsequious, not like Dolly.

The little woman frowned and pointed to her throat—her laryngitis, she was telling us.

“I know,” Dolly said. “I just wanted to bring my friend, Emily Kincaid, over to see you. She's with the
Northern Statesman
, kind of following up on Miz Poet's death. We thought maybe there was something you'd like everybody to know. I mean about Miz Poet, about your women's group. Things like that.”

The woman's face didn't move. Her thin lips were pursed. She wasn't pleased to see us and nothing Dolly said was going to change that fact. Dolly stepped into the house, backing Mrs. Coy into her living room.

Grudgingly, Mrs. Coy motioned to the sofa, indicating we should sit. She took a rocking chair, with what looked like one of Ruby Poet's crocheted Afghans over the back and sat with her legs crossed at the a
nkles, hands holding each other in her lap.

From somewhere back in the house I heard a bird clock cheeping, except it didn't stop. It kept on peeping and calling. I figured Mrs. Coy had the real thing. Live birds.

“I know you can't talk,” Dolly began, then stopped and looked at me.

“Officer Wakowski, here, is worried about you.” I stepped into a kind of good cop/bad cop routine. “She thinks you're not talking because you're afraid of something. We'd like very much to help. I know it must be awful, losing a friend like Ruby Poet, but if there's anything you could tell us, could lead to who did this to her—well, please …”

The woman frowned and pointed to her throat.

“You can't say a word?” I asked. “Not even croak out a yes or no?”

She shook her head.

“Could you write down what you want us to know about Ruby? Anything that might help in the murder investigation,” Dolly said.

At the word “murder” Mrs. Coy grimaced and seemed to shrink, her shoulders slumping, back bent.

I fumbled in my purse for my notebook, then held it out to her, along with a pen. She took both, but only held them in her lap. After a while she started to write, then held the notebook up for us to see.