Dead Dancing Women (23 page)

“I'm in town finding a black dress,” Amanda said. “I didn't have a thing I could wear tomorrow for the memorial and I want to do my mother proud.”

I admitted I was shopping. Not for a black dress, but new clothes.

“I suppose you're in the public eye, working with Dolly the way you have been. Doesn't do to appear dowdy.”

I said, no, it didn't do.

“The boys here are staying at the resort until they figure out what arrangements they're going to make about the funeral home and all. They're homeless, I guess you could say.”

I thought—the Grand Traverse Resort? Quite a swanky place to be homeless in. I could think of closer and cheaper motels they could have moved to. Including, I imagined, the home of just about anybody i
n Leetsville, since neighbor tended to neighbor there.

“My doing,” Amanda said, giving a
mea culpa
bat of her eyelashes. “I told them they'd been under enough stress as it was. Better to be away from town. Tomorrow will be hard on all of us.”

The nasty thought that there were more bars in Traverse than in Leetsville and that the Resort was awfully close to a casino, shot through my head. I hoped my face didn't show what I was thinking.

I said I'd be at the memorial, and took a table as far from the group as I could get, burying my face in a menu until Bill Corcoran arrived, looked over the restaurant, and came to sit across the table from me.

I saw his eyes move to where the Leetsville contingent sat eating their pasta, downing their wine.

“That the Murphy twins?”

I nodded. “And Amanda Poet, too. Ruby Poet's daughter.”

“What are they doing in town?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the menu and his voice down.

“Amanda's shopping for a black dress for tomorrow. The boys are staying at the resort.”

Bill's eyebrows shot up. “Guess they're counting on the insurance from the funeral home.”

I refused to be mean. I said nothing.

Bill cleared his throat and leaned across the table toward me. “You know how you asked me to see if I could come up with anything on the Murphys and Reverend Runcival?”

I nodded.

“There was a Leetsville paper up to about five years ago. When it went out of business we inherited their files, all the back issues. I put a couple people at the paper on it. They found what you would expect on the pastor. Church doings. Nothing on Amanda Poet beyond some social stuff—she attended a tea for Hillary Stroud on the occasion of her bridal shower. Things like that. But maybe something on Sullivan Murphy. There were funeral home stories. Even stuff back to when the twins played football for Leetsville High. One I thought you might be especially interested in because of what you told me happened to your friend, Officer Wakowski, the night of the fire. You know, someone saying they saw her run out of the funeral home. At least saw somebody in a police uniform.”

I frowned, waiting for him to get to the point.

“Yes?” I nudged him along.

“Seems Sullivan moved away for a while. Left Leetsville. Lived down in Saginaw. Know what he did for a living?”

“Can't imagine.” I wished he'd get on with it.

“He was a cop.”

“A cop?”

“Yeah. You know. A cop. With a uniform. Wonder where that uniform is now.”

I looked back to where Sullivan was pouring the last of their bottle of wine into his glass, then looking down the neck of the bottle, and scowling.

Me too. I wondered, and hoped, for Dolly's sake, I could find out.

THIRTY-ONE

I stood at the
back of the church trying to be inconspicuous, though I knew I never was, and never would be, inconspicuous in this village of people who'd known each other all their lives, people who could sense the “Outsider” with the backs of their heads, as if they had antennae, or the kind of intuition that warns small women of big men nearby. I wanted to see who came for the memorial and who didn't. Not that I expected any grand revelations, but there was always the chance whoever had murdered the three women would have an attack of conscience and stay home. Absence could be telling. So could a shouted confession from a guilt-ridden miscreant. But I didn't really expect it.

The Church of the Contented Flock had the plain, bare look of all country churches: vaulted, pine-paneled ceiling that came together high in the middle, like praying hands; stretching, I imagined, all the way to heaven. The windows were tall and narrow, recalling the old chapel at Greenfield Village. Spartan. Puritan. Spare. Small panes of glass, like tiny pursed mouths, let in little light or air, or much of anything to distract from the message of God the good pastor would proclaim. There were no pews in this church, only brown folding chairs—rows of them, with breaks for aisles. The altar was bare except for a tall lectern of plain pine. Flowers, in fall colors, were set in baskets across the front of the church, from the lectern to the far walls.

Up high behind the altar hung a plain, black, wooden cross. Empty. No Christ. A stark, lonely, symbol. Impressive and moving.

Eugenia Fuller, Simon, and Gloria passed me, entering together. They nodded in my direction but kept going down the center aisle, as eager as everyone to get a good seat. Doc Crimson, dressed in a Western shirt and old boots, walked in with his wife, Harriet, whom I'd never met but who seemed like a proper lady in her beige wool coat and beige oxfords. People from the Skunk were there, and the cashiers at the IGA. Harry Mockerman walked by me, resplendent in his funeral suit and black bow tie. He'd brushed his long, yellow/white hair so it laid across his scalp in rows, hit his jacket collar, and flipped skyward. His white, grizzled beard was neater than usual. Harry, I imagined, had bathed, or at least washed up, for the occasion. Gertie came in with her head freshly lacquered red despite her recent troubles. She sat at the edge of her seat like a pert redbird, turning to eye old customers, to see where they were going now that she wasn't open for business. Outrage etched her heavily made-up face every time she spotted a new “do,” as if she'd expected flat, curl-less heads, signifying a proper mourning among her friends for the burned beauty shop.

Officer Brent stood inside one of the double doorways to the hall, watching the townspeople troop in. He looked at me once, his round eyes under that unibrow like icy marbles.

The folding chairs filled quickly. As far as I could tell, everybody in town was there, along with people I'd never seen before, all greeting each other in subdued, church voices; plumped up in their best Sunday dress; whispering and waving. They craned their necks, one to the other, sharing the latest “Have you heard?”

The four chief mourners passed me on their way down to seats in the front row. Amanda led the procession, trailing Eau du Bois and black chiffon. Sullivan, his back wide and straining under his dark, wool jacket, gave me a glassy-eyed look. His red eyes flicked over me then ahead, down the aisle. A faint trail of Jack Daniels wafted past in his wake, as if he'd splashed on a jigger after shaving.

Gilbert was in his best funeral director's outfit of dark suit and white shirt, incongruously opened at the neck to show his many gold necklaces—probably gotten with all that gambling money, though word was he didn't have much luck, for all of his practice. When he turned in my direction, his round face was hard and mean, dark, small eyes sweeping over me then back. He nodded, settled his head down into his neckless body, and left his eyes on me a fraction too long for comfort.

Ernie Henry came in behind the Murphys, looking uncomfortable in his baggy, blue suit with no oily rag hanging from a back pocket. He tucked his head down and scurried to catch up with the others, down to the front row.

Amanda took her seat beside the men, then perched at the edge of her chair, body turned to the congregation to take nervous stock of the growing crowd. She waved to someone just entering the church and pointed to a pair of empty chairs; she directed another couple to seats at the side. There was managing to be done here; a single-minded lurch out of her chair, a flutter of a finger, and a sail up the aisle, hem of her black dress in hand, every once in a while stopping to dab at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief.

Amanda'd certainly found herself a dress in Traverse City. There must not have been much left in Macy's funeral collection. This one was sheer black chiffon. Not quite right for the occasion, I snottily judged. Maybe for a back alley tryst. Maybe for swishing into a cocktail party. Maybe for a second act entrance.

I gave up being nasty about Amanda and watched her work the crowd instead.

She exuded thrill—of attention, of being dressed in her new outfit. Amanda Poet was obviously a woman unchained. Her hair had been poufed—not by Gertie, but in Traverse City. It wasn't sprayed to the full, upstanding glory Gertie would have achieved, but still poufed to a size no normal head of hair should ever aspire to. And blonder, if I wasn't mistaken. But then who was I to cast the first stone, with my single-colored brown glory?

Dolly, when she joined me at the back of the church, wore a black pantsuit that looked suspiciously like a uniform. She carried a large purse. I would have bet anything there was a .38 in there since she swore it never left her side. Flora Coy was tight behind her, fluttering, handkerchief to her nose, eyes red-rimmed and nervous.

“They don't like that I'm here,” Dolly leaned toward me and whispered.

I tightened my lips and scowled indiscriminately at the people around us.

“They're all giving me the eye,” she said.

“I've never known Leetsvillians to be so mean.” Flora Coy hugged in close, standing taller than normal in her black, heeled shoes. She wore a plain black dress with a plain jacket. A lovely cameo hung at her puckered neck. She, or Dolly, had fixed her hair, but she didn't seem to have her heart in looking nice, or looking anything, here at the funeral of all her oldest friends.

“Everybody's afraid of everybody,” I said, soothing.

Dolly shrugged and tried to look smaller, hugging the wall in a very un-Dolly-like attempt to disappear. I felt bad. If I could have, I'd have liked to puff up my chest and stand in front of her.

“Everybody from Fuller's is here. Harry Mockerman's here.” I leaned close so she could hear me above the crowd noise that resembled the low rumble of approaching thunder. “I saw Amanda snub him, too. Only one I haven't seen is Dave Rombart. His wife, Sharon, came. She told me she was representing her husband. Show they aren't the monsters the town thinks they are.”

“She tell you they're selling out?” she whispered from the corner of her mouth.

I shook my head. “Didn't say a word.”

“They are. Heard they got big, handmade for-sale signs everywhere around their wire fences.”

“Guess they don't feel welcome anymore.”

“Know the feeling,” Dolly said, and she gave me a quick, rueful smile.

“The chief's here,” she added. “He'll be directing traffic after the service.” She cleared her throat. “Usually that's my job.”

We agreed to sit on opposite sides of the church, keeping our eyes open in case someone screamed out a confession and made a break for it. Flora, who'd been visiting with neighbors, took a chair beside Dolly in a show of support. When the Reverend Runcival entered from a side door, Amanda quickly took her seat, signaling the others to face forward and stop talking.

The room grew warm. Too many close-packed bodies. Too little air, after the doors were closed. I had to take a few deep breaths to keep myself seated. I was too used to space, and fresh, almost potable, air and no people around me. I settled back as the pastor greeted his flock and all the visitors. I let myself imagine sitting on the bench in front of my writing studio, in full sunshine, listening to the rustling of small animals in the bracken around me. I let myself imagine a world where nobody killed anybody on purpose and people weren't cruel to each other and everybody got along.

“Friends,” the pastor, in a rusty black suit, hair unmoved, face bland, greeted the crowd. “Parishioners.” He nodded to the anointed ones. “Bereaved.” He bowed to the four family members in the front row.

“This is a sad occasion. A very sad occasion. Evil has infiltrated our sleepy little town. Evil has descended with a terrible vengeance. We're here today, huddled together to witness the fruits of that evil. Death visited on the foremost among us. Three women who harmed no one. Joslyn Henry, dearest mother of Ernie Henry. Ruby Poet, beloved mother of our dear sister, Amanda Poet. Mary Margaret Murphy, loving mother of Sullivan and Gilbert Murphy.”

He went on for half an hour, only once taking a swipe at the dancing women for “their misguided beliefs.” An admirable job, I thought. I'd been to many funerals where the priest, the rabbi, the minister hadn't known the deceased and filled the vacuum with words of sorrow for humanity, the plight of Man without God, giving a generic speech for poor strayed souls who hadn't been to church enough to be known. Like me.

When Pastor Runcival called on friends who would like to speak of the departed, a line of townspeople formed, coming to the front to stand with their hands folded, heads bowed, to share memories of the women in halting, tear-filled tribute. Some had funny things to tell. Some gave their memories in odd, self-conscious language. Some of the recollections were trivial: Mary Margaret coming into the shop to have her hair done and forgetting the hairpiece she wanted tucked in; Ruby Poet's favorite kind of pie; Joslyn Henry's taste in library books. They were all dear people wanting their voices added to the accolades being sent heavenward. Around me people sniffed and snuffled and dragged hankies from pockets and purses. I had trouble keeping my own eyes dry. Though I'd barely known any of the women, I saw, through the memories of their friends, women who'd lived quiet, helpful lives. Women who'd given a neighbor shelter when she was afraid of a storm. Women who took in a child running away for fear of a parent's wrath. Women who taught night school parenting classes at the high school, who planted petunias down the main road of town every early summer, women who loved their gardens and shared their flowers with passersby, who taught little ones the names of the flowers they'd picked. These were women respected for their kindness, their knowledge, their love of beauty in a not-so-
beautiful
place. Women who in no way deserved the deaths they'd been condemned to suffer.

At the end of the service Pastor Runcival invited everyone down to the church basement for light refreshments. Cake and coffee. Amanda, in the front row, struggled to her feet quickly, catching her dress in the folding chair, frowning. She yanked her dress loose with an impatient, unladylike jerk to the fragile material then reached out for Gilbert Murphy's hand to steady herself. She threw her arms into the air and called out, “PLEASE, EVERYONE!” As she spoke, she motioned for the other three to stand with her.

We all craned our necks around the heads of those in front of us.

“Ernie, Gilbert, Sullivan, and I would like to thank you for coming to support us in this, our hour of supreme desolation.” She smirked at the gathering, straightened her shoulders, sniffed, and added, “The pastor was a little shy about the refreshments. To fully honor our mothers, we've planned a full buffet lunch for everyone. You're all invited to break bread with us in the dining hall downstairs. Don't be shy. We want to meet and thank each of you personally for your flowers and for coming here today.”

I thought I saw a look of pain cross Ernie's face at the mention of an expensive full buffet, but I could have been wrong.

The line snaked out of the church proper, through the hall, around to the head of the basement stairs. Harry Mockerman and Sharon Rombart were the only ones I saw slip out the front doors without going for the buffet lunch. I imagined this was far too many people, in too tight a space, for Harry, and understood how he felt. With Sharon, I figured she'd accomplished what she'd come to do and was needed back in the woods to skin a squirrel, or grind some grain, or whatever she did for her brother survivors.

Dolly joined me and we fell in with the others, some talking to us, others pushing along, talking to family members. If I could have bet, I'd have said there were a lot of people here who didn't even know the dead women. This was the biggest thing to hit Leets­ville ever. I didn't imagine anyone within forty miles was about to miss it.

The chief mourners made an informal receiving line at the bottom of the stairs. The three men stood beyond and behind Amanda, nodding, making a comment here or there, but it was Amanda who carried the day, accepting condolences, thanking people for coming, directing them to the next line—for the buffet, and encouraging them to taste the macaroni and cheese she'd had made with three cheeses, a Martha Stewart recipe.

Flora Coy drew her own circle of friends and neighbors around her. She was safe for the moment.

I made sure I stood with Dolly all the way down the stairs and through the receiving line so people would have to snub me, too, if they were going to be mean to Dolly. Flora and Eugenia made sure to stand with us, and Simon and Gloria. Eugenia kept repeating, in a loud voice, how she'd never understand how she mistook Dolly for the person running out of the funeral home that night. “An awful mistake,” she said again and again, eyeing the people around us, making certain they heard and would repeat what she'd said. At one point she leaned in close and apologized again to Dolly. “It was that damned police uniform. Who else would be wearing one, do you think? Sure wasn't Lucky Barnard.”