Dead Dancing Women (29 page)

He raised his back and shoulders then dropped them. “I don't know. Wish I did. Can't figure it out either. Wish my dogs would've got 'im that first day. Wish they woulda got him while he was burying Miz Poet. Woulda stopped it right there. But they didn't. And he didn't stop. And I just don't know who's doing it. All I know, it's not me.”

THIRTY-EIGHT

Odd, how I felt
happy, almost skipping down my drive, kicking at fallen limbs and wind-tossed leaves. Harry hadn't tried to kill me. A tremendous relief. Who did it was almost beside the point. At least it wasn't Harry.

The afternoon had turned dark while I was over at Harry's making a fool of myself. Rain and wind were predicted. Cold. Maybe some sleet thrown in to make things interesting.

I thought about the winter to come. How it would be so quiet. Snow would pile against my house walls and wind would blow, and inside I'd curl up in a quilt, in front of the fireplace, as if I lived in a cave. Across from me—and I could almost see his house in winter when the bushes and trees were completely bare—would be Harry, with his dogs, his possum stews, and his freezer filled with purloined meat.

How happy that made me. Just knowing he would still be there, wishing me no harm. I forgave him his aberrations. I forgave him—head and arm. He was still as I believed him to be—my friend, my caretaker, my goofy neighbor. How I wished the others could still be there—all the dead dancing women.

Safe in their alabaster chambers.

Emily Dickinson flew into my head the way she could when I needed to see things clearly, when I needed to sail above all things plaguing me.

Untouched by morning and untouched by noon,

Sleep the meek members of the resurrection,

Rafter of satin, and roof of stone.

How sad. Our poor women without even their own
“Rafter of satin, and roof of stone”
to comfort them. No neatly lined-up graves in Leetsville cemetery. No geranium circles around their resting places. Joslyn Henry. Ruby Poet. Mary Margaret Murphy. They'd taken such pride in their closeness to nature. Now denied a final resting place. How angry that made me.
Damn,
but I was going to find out who'd done this. Before last night, this whole thing had been a puzzle, a sad story to report. Now it was more than personal—not just me, but all women who dared to be different. All women … whew, I was on a crusade. Me. And Deputy Dolly.

I couldn't help but smile.

OK, I told myself. If not Harry—then who? If not Harry … ? Someone with something to gain. Someone with a reason to have the women gone.

Not Harry.

Not Dave Rombart and that crew of his. Poaching and peeking rights didn't seem reason enough for one murder, let alone three.

The others … Sullivan Murphy. An alcoholic. Used to be a cop. Probably the alcohol was the reason he wasn't one any longer. It was logical for him to have a uniform, and for him to be the one Eugenia saw running from the funeral home before it burst into flames. But if he'd been running from the fire—why didn't he save his mother? Too drunk? Too ashamed to admit it?

No doubt Sullivan needed money. Mother sick to death of him and needing money herself. Maybe there'd been a blowup. Maybe she did ask Ruby for money, at Sullivan's insistence. What mother wouldn't do terrible things for her children? Maybe Sullivan thought of another way to get it. Burn the funeral home and kill off his mother.

Ernie Henry. Money again? Or something more sinister. Something to do with that arrest down in Grand Rapids. Something to do with porn. Something to do with …

I kicked stone after stone then watched them fall downhill in quick, arcing bounds. Things followed their nature. The nature of a stone was to roll downhill. Leaves to fall. Dogs to bark. Human nature, too. Follow nature, I told myself. Look at the nature of the people. Something clicked in my brain. Follow nature …

A blue Dodge Dart was parked at the bottom of the drive, just behind my jeep.

I was in no mood for company, least of all in the mood for the woman I found sitting in my living room, a cup of tea in her hands, a pinky finger duly shot straight up in the air.

Amanda Poet sat across from our recuperating Dolly and a rather tired-looking Flora Coy. She looked at me and made a sad face, as if I'd interrupted a eulogy.

“Why Emily,” Amanda turned in her chair to face me. “I was hoping to see you before we left. My … well … look at you …”

I brushed at the last of the leaves clinging to my jacket and jeans. I knew my hair was a mess.

Sorrow lay prone with his nose resting on his front paws, surprisingly subdued. His eyeballs moved from me to our guest. He didn't greet me.

“I came to offer Flora the safety of my house—such as it is. I mean, with all that's happened … I've been so distraught. But it was awful of me, not thinking of this before. Mother would be so mad. Of course Flora's got to come stay with me. We'll be a comfort to each other. I just won't hear of anything else …”

“I told her we're charged with keeping Flora safe. Can't let her go.” Dolly hauled herself up straight, leg stuck out in front of her, resting on the coffee table.

“Well, yes,” Amanda said, and she looked pointedly down at Dolly's cast. “But now that you're incapacitated, I think Flora would be much better off with me, in town, where Lucky can keep an eye on us both. Don't forget, I might be in danger, too. I mean, when will any of us be safe in our beds again?”

“How'd it go?” Dolly shut out Amanda's voice and gave me a meaningful look. She snapped her head in the direction of Harry's house. Flora fixed her big myopic eyes on me.

“Fine,” I said, and I gave each a smile meant to bring them peace.

Dolly wasn't buying it.

“Was it his car?”

I shook my head, no. “He's got damage. But he hit a deer.”

“You believe him?” Dolly demanded.

Flora gave her an angry glare. “Of course she believes him. We all know Harry Mockerman wouldn't do a thing …”

“Is this about what happened to you last night?” Amanda sat up straighter. “You think it was Harry Mockerman who ran you off the road? With that what-ever-you-call-it thing he drives? Well, of course. Harry lives out here where they found Mother. Harry is very, very strange. Really, the worst of the types that live back here … well, no offense, Emily.”

I stared her to silence. At least she was nervous, even sputtering when she went on.

“I hope you've called the state police about this.”

“No need,” I said. “It wasn't Harry.”

“I don't think you should take it on yourself, miss.”

“And I don't think you've got any business coming out here to my home and …”

“Stop it!” Flora Coy stood up, hands in the air, waving at all of us. “Amanda's right. I'd be safer in town, near my own house. And who better than our own precious Ruby's daughter, Amanda, to watch out for me and my birds.”

“That's … that's … that's …” Now Dolly was sputtering. I was confused, not sure I wanted Flora out of our sight. Still—we'd been on the job last night and look what happened to all of us.

“Oh no.” Amanda set her teacup down on the floor next to her chair and put her hands to her cheeks. “The birds will have to stay here, Flora. Elvira Pederson is going to be bringing people over to show the house, prospective buyers, you know, and birds make such a mess.”

“Why, Amanda.” Flora straightened her back and stuck out her chin. “My birds make no more mess than … than I do.”

“Oh, dear.” Amanda struggled out of my rather sprung old chair and put a hand out to Flora. “Don't get mad at me, Flora. We don't want any trouble between us … not after everything. I just want you with me. These two … women … well, they aren't like us. No refinement, you know. They never would have understood mother like we do.”

It was getting to be a familiar song, this imperiousness, then contrition. I was getting mighty tired of Amanda Poet and her
better
-than-everyone airs. “'Course not, Amanda.” Flora was still angry but getting ahold of herself. “You mind keeping my birds another day or so, Emily?”

I wouldn't have denied that embarrassed face of Flora's anything. She was mad enough to bite the head off a chicken but wanted to honor Ruby Poet's memory. It wasn't her first choice of sanctuaries, being with Amanda. But I could see she was doing her duty.

“You got plenty of seed. Anyway, you two will be better off without me hanging on to you. This needs to be settled, once and for all. I hope you get whoever's doing …”

Dolly and I gave our best we-sure-will nods though I didn't like the idea of Flora being out of our sight. I tried one last time to persuade her to stay but she was adamant. She was going home with Ruby Poet's daughter.

On their way out the door, Flora was offering to clean up Ruby's garden for Amanda. Get the beds ready for winter.

“Oh, no need of that, Flora,” Amanda, hand on the little woman's back, hurrying her along, said. “It doesn't matter anymore.”

I carried Flora's things out to the car. When I came back in Dolly and I exchanged a look.

“Wonder if we should've done that,” she said, glowering as the expected rain started hitting my front windows.

I shook my head. “Something's making me very uncomfortable.”

“Me too.”

“But it's not our choice. Flora's a grown woman.” I busied myself in the kitchen, washing teacups and thinking about a sandwich. Maybe a ham and Swiss sandwich out in my studio—which I still had to smudge with sage to get Jackson's spirit out of there.

I thought about a sandwich, my novel, about the quiet out in my own place.

Maybe a nap on the futon. Maybe I'd take a walk in the rain. Dark was coming earlier now. How much time did I have left? Hmm … I considered the existential element of that question.

“Maybe I should get back to town, too,” Dolly said from the sofa.

“And who's going to take care of you?” I demanded, the way people do when they really like the idea but know they're only being selfish.

“I don't need taking care of. My ankle's broken, not my head. I can get around good enough …”

“Don't be a jerk.” I slammed the last cupboard door.

Fuming, Dolly struggled up at the edge of the sofa and grabbed her crutches. “I don't need to hang around here and be called names.”

“Yeah, you can go back to town and be called names there.” Now
I
was mad. I wasn't looking for a fight with this chicken-little woman, just trying to do the right thing.

“What in hell does that mean?” She hung on her crutches and glowered in my direction.

“Oh … nothing.” I waved a hand at her and made for the bathroom where I closed the door and sat on the toilet, muttering until I'd calmed down, could put on a smile, and go back out to face the wounded dragon.

The phone rang, flushing me out of the bathroom. It was Bill. I'd called my story in earlier. He wanted some clarification. And he was worried about me—which was good to hear. I assured him I was fine and would get back to him that afternoon.

Dolly was at the sink, jacket on, gun belt strapped over her sweatpants. She ran cold water into a glass then downed a pill I knew was for pain.

Guilt. Awful thing about living alone for a few years. You forget other people have feelings, too.

“You'll have to drive me in,” she said, back turned, head down. “Don't have a car.”

“And you won't have one in town either. How are you going to get around? And how will we ever finish this thing if you're in Leetsville and I'm out here?”

“Lucky'll think of something.” She turned. “Look. I'm the professional police officer here. I shouldn't have asked you to get into this in the first place. Big mistake. Put your life in jeopardy, along with Flora Coy's. Now I'm going after who did this full-throttle. I believe you—it's not Harry. It's sure no outsider. What I need to do is sit down where it's quiet, which sure as hell isn't this place. And I want to see what we've got.”

“That's what I've been doing—in my head. Going over what's been happening. And I keep coming back to human nature. I think we've got to follow nature …”

“And that means … what?”

“You know … who could kill so easily? Who would know how to dispose of a body? Think about who would be able to cut up …”

Dolly's mouth fell open. “And who would always need money? A gambler. And who supposedly wasn't home when the funeral parlor went up in flames—with his brother and mother inside?”

“And who drives a big black car?”

“And who could get his hands on his brother's police uniform?”

“And who might come up with a harebrained scheme to kill his mother's friends, to cover up the real target?”

“And who's going to get at least half the insurance money—unless he gets Sullivan first?”

“Gilbert!” We shouted simultaneously.

“I gotta call Lucky.” Dolly lurched to the phone. She dialed, listened, then slammed the receiver down. “Nobody answering.” She shook her head. “Let's just get in there.”

I agreed, then stopped. “You think Flora and Amanda are all right?”

Dolly shrugged. “We'll go warn them. But first I've got to find Lucky. And we've got to get to Sullivan. Didn't somebody say they checked out of the resort? Damn! I wish I had my patrol car. I wish I had my radio. I wish I wasn't on these friggin' crutches.” She thumped them hard on the floor, making the startled Sorrow leap up, bark, turn over his water bowl, and pee at the same time.

“That's three wishes. You're finished,” I said, pushing her out the door, ignoring my overexcited dog, and leaving all that mess behind me.