Dead Dancing Women (6 page)

NINE

When the phone on
my desk rang, I was grateful. Anybody—I didn't care who was on the other end of the line. Somebody to bring me out of my dark funk. I got up from the futon where I'd been lying for over an hour and picked up the phone.

“Emily?”

Oh Lord, I'd forgotten about Jackson. I should have amended my wish: anybody but Jackson Rinaldi.

“Jackson here. Emily. This is you, right?”

Jackson's voice tended to rise when he got miffed, which, with me, had been most of the time, because I tended not to play along with his latest illusion of himself. Today he was sounding terribly, terribly British.

“Yes, Jackson,” I muttered. “It's me.”

“Oh, yes, so good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“Fine. And you?” As if I gave a rat's …

“Fine, too. I saw Sylvia King the other day, and she asked for you, and I was ashamed to say I hadn't spoken to you in a while. I've been remiss in checking on you, haven't I? I mean, up there in the wilds, alone, the way you are. I'm really very sorry I haven't been in touch. I was in England for most of the summer. You recall I wrote you I was going? Went with two friends. Do you remember Wilfred and Margaret Fletcher? I don't think you knew them. They came after the divorce. Anyway, Will and Margaret and I traveled together …”

I knew of the Fletchers, all right. He in psychology and she in history. A kind of
Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf
couple. I couldn't have wished Jackson better traveling companions.
Oh, what a fun trio
, was all I could think.

Jackson went on about his trip to England and I zoned out, watching the trees outside my window do a kind of tethered dance when the wind sprang up after the quiet time. Leaves blew around in manic dances. The voice at the other end became a kind of wire-buzz, something beyond the scope of human hearing. Instead, I heard Nina Simone singing that Bob Dylan song about breaking like a little girl. What a haunting voice that woman had. Like a saw against my skin, along my nerves, diving into memory.

“Keats country, of course,” Jackson went on. “‘
When I have fears that I may cease to be; Before my pen has glean'd my teeming brain; Before high piled books, in charact'ry; Hold like rich garters the full-ripen'd grain …
'”

“That's ‘garners,' Jackson. Not ‘garters,'” I corrected him, and heard myself sigh.

“Of course. Of course. Misspoke myself.” He gave a strained laugh. “And how's your writing going? Still working on one of your little books?”

You know how sometimes your back teeth can ache? Like you're getting a long needle into your gums? That's how Jackson's condescension got to me. I knew better than to call him on it or we'd be on the phone for hours with him apologizing and going on about his own work on Chaucer and “Of course the world needs lighter work, too, Emily. Like yours. I didn't mean …”

Some circles are worn so deep into the mud you only hit bedrock. I'd struck bedrock a long time ago with Jackson.

“Anyway,” he nervously covered my long silence, “I was wondering if you might be up to a little company next weekend?”

“Who?”

“
Emily
.” He sounded hurt. “Me, of course.”

“Why?”

“Because I've missed you. Because it's about time …”

“And?” I demanded, knowing we hadn't gotten anywhere near his real reason as yet.

“Well, I'm taking a sabbatical and thought of locating up there. You always seemed to think it the best writing territory. I mean, look at Jim Harrison, after all.”

The tendency was to snap,
You're no Jim Harrison.
But I didn't.

“I'll be doing my Chaucer book and will definitely need a place where nothing goes on.”

Hmmm, I thought. This might not be that place …

“Maybe you can help me find a cottage to rent. I mean—six months or so.”

“You don't mean close to me!”

“I wouldn't camp on your doorstep, if that's what you're afraid of.” He sounded deeply hurt. My female guilt stirred.

“I'll call Saturday, from Grayling, for directions. Two-ish, OK?”

I agreed, hung up, and thought: OK, Saturday.
Two-ish.

I got down to writing but found I was doing some very nasty things to Martin Gorman. In fact, I had him falling off the wagon so hard he was out for a couple of days and when he awoke,
His head feels like a pumpkin the day after Halloween; like somebody's been carving on it, making a jack-o'-lantern out of him.

And I thought,
Yes, oh yes
. That's exactly how Mr. Gorman should be feeling. And then I wondered if I should let him live at the end of the book. Hmm. Or maybe something else. The ultimate threat. Castration. What a dandy word. Martin Gorman as eunuch. I had to stop myself before I'd drawn and quartered poor Gorman, because I'd made him look too much like Jackson. I went back to the window where I could look out on the wild leaves blowing in the wind and get the evil meanness out of my soul—yet again.

The thermometer attached to the outside of the window said thirty-nine degrees. It looked as though the benign part of fall was almost over. Next came the first blasts of winter—maybe even a little snow. And then a few warm days before the real cold settled in with a vengeance. Ice storms. Snow piled up over the window sills. I hugged myself and shivered, though the little gas fireplace in the room behind me kept me fairly warm.

Over the last week, I'd heard predictions in town of a bad winter, snow, ice, wind that would howl and curse every human being in its path. Thinking of the predictions depressed me even more than Jackson and Martin Gorman did. Each year in autumn I made myself miserable worrying about the electricity going out and me freezing to death; or ice on the drive so I couldn't get to buy food—and me starving to death. I thought of long dark days, seeing nobody, hearing from nobody, me going crazy. I stood there and felt sorry for myself. Poor me—all alone. Jackson coming to visit. Dead heads in my garbage cans. Could life get any worse?

Emily Dickinson knew it …

There's a certain slant of light,

on winter afternoons,

That oppresses, like the weight

of cathedral tunes …

Oh yes—that
certain slant of light.
Cathedral tunes …

And Jackson Rinaldi.

Truly oppressive.

I took a really deep sigh, one that could be the beginning of a series of sighs. I thought thoughts Dolly had planted—about growing old alone, becoming like Mrs. Henry, tending my flowers, watching soap operas, speculating about the weather, reacting with fear to strangers. Then I thought of my Brazilian friend, Erica Weick's, poem:

As it stands,

I do not wish to have a nation in me

no more.

As it stands,

I do not wish to be a city

(urban legends to soothe me)

no more.

Brick on brick I wish for open ended walls

to meet the breeze on swaying grasses,

in open fields

the sweat and speed of common labor,

the piercing thought of thought in common,

the common bond

the common beat of human heart.

And given that I will then create

a nation of one with my surroundings …

Her words often roamed around in my head. She was so right. “
… a nation of one …
”

Something so much deeper than Jackson or the newspaper. Something atavistic. What is it really that can drive a woman away from others? Maybe a low tolerance for disappointment. Maybe a need to think without interruption. Sometimes living like a rock isn't a bad thing. Three years now of rock living and still I hadn't had my fill. I was where I needed to be. Maybe in the next few years, when my money got low. Maybe then.

But not yet. “
I do not wish to be a city … no more.
”

How I missed friends like Erica, since I'd moved up here and she had moved to Maryland; but how I would miss this place, should I ever have to leave.

Back up at the house, while my omelet formed in the pan, a glass of wine sat waiting, and my slice of nutty bread, from Bay Bakery in Traverse City, rested on a pink place mat on the counter, I put on Mozart's
Requiem
. Long, slow, mordant music. Perfect for my mood.

I sat at the counter and ate to the “Kyrie.” On to the “Sequentia,” as I sat on the couch with a second glass of wine. “Offertorium.” “Sanctus.” “Benedictus.” Third glass. “Agnus Dei.” “Communio.” Fourth glass.

After that I must have closed my eyes for a minute or two because it was 3 a.m. by the kitchen wall clock when I awoke. There was a noise on my porch, a scuffling, a thud—as if something had been thrown at my door. Then nothing.

It took a few seconds to locate where the noise came from, then another few minutes to get up and walk straight. I flipped on the porch light and looked out. Nothing, though I thought I saw a figure scuttling off behind my car. An animal. Dark was the time of the animals—when they wandered close to houses looking for food. But not a time when they knocked, I told myself as I carefully opened the door. I was going to step outside, holler at whoever or whatever was in the drive, and chase them off. Maybe a bear, I warned myself, not opening the door too far. Maybe a raccoon—those guys were bold enough to knock.

I was looking for something small and furry when I glanced down at the porch. Something alive and hungry, at the least. I didn't expect what I saw. I didn't expect a long, naked arm with the hand turned up, cupped and begging.

TEN

My house was full
of cops. More people than I'd ever had in there, like a party I didn't want to throw. Local cops. State cops. The sheriff. Even Dolly came when the chief called her because, he said, he thought I might need a woman around after what had been happening to me.

It wasn't a “Dolly” kind of woman I felt the need of right then. More a mother, a nurturer, I was wanting. Some calm soul who would put her arms around me and say,
Don't worry, dear. Everything's going to be all right
. Somebody who would pat my back and commiserate with me, then turn to all the big, insensitive men and ask them to,
Please, have some consideration here.

But I got Dolly, who growled, in that thin voice of hers, about getting out of bed in the middle of the night to come hold my hand just because I found another body part, and she didn't see that it mattered all that much anyway, because hadn't I already discovered a head in my garbage can and, was it only her, or did it seem I either attracted strange objects to me, or maybe I was mixed up in this in some way I didn't realize? Which irritated me. I forgot to be feminine and distraught and afraid, so maybe her form of consoling was better for me after all.

“I'd say somebody was pulling an awful joke on you,” Lucky Barnard said when he was back in my living room, assuring me the “thing” was gone from my side porch. “Except that the other … er … part belonged to Miz Poet, I'd think for sure it was some sicko digging up graves. But we know it's not that.”

“You don't think this is a sicko?” I demanded, incredulous.

“The chief didn't mean that exactly.” Dolly stuck her two cents in. She was dressed in her full, ill-fitting uniform although it was now about 4 a.m. I could visualize her leaping out of bed when she got the call and into her police uniform—standing in the corner—then flying out her door.

“No, Emily, what I was saying was it looks like somebody's targeting you for a reason. Beyond me. You know anybody up here who might have it in for you?”

“Me and Ruby Poet?”

“Well, she's dead. You're still alive,” he said.

Oh, nice encouraging thought.

“Usually I hear about feuds back here in the woods.” Dolly shook her head. “Never heard of anybody didn't like Emily.”

She sucked at her bottom lip and thought some more. I smiled, grateful for this much—to know I wasn't generally known as a
pariah.

“Er, Emily …” The chief rubbed his hands together, very uncomfortable. “We heard back from the coroner. I don't like even saying this right now—with what's happened to you here tonight—but I think I've got to. If you write it in the paper, well, that's up to you. I suppose you have to. Anyway, Channel 9 and 10's been on it already.”

I waited, curled up at one end of my sofa, covered with an afghan because I'd been shivering and shaking since the gruesome discovery on my porch. I sensed more bad news was coming and looked over to Dolly who sat across from me, head down, hands clasped between her knees.

“It seems that the idea I had, you know, about Miz Poet maybe being found in the woods by an animal, after wandering off and dying? Well, I wasn't completely right on that one.”

“We know that.” I frowned at him. “No animal put the damned thing in my garbage can.”

“Well, yes, that's true.” The man stretched his neck, trying to make himself comfortable enough to deliver his next bad news. “Anyway, the coroner said there were teeth marks in the skin. Something—a coyote maybe—dug it up 'cause there's evidence of burial. But, well, this is the hard part. Though he can't tell the cause of death—so maybe it's still natural causes—well, it seems the head itself was cut from the body with what he thinks was a saw. Definite saw marks on the spinal column. Couldn't tell anything from the skin itself—too decayed …”

I put up my hand. I had all the details I could tolerate.

He shrugged. “Won't know about the arm until the coroner looks it over. Their lab will do fingerprints—if they can. Don't imagine it's anybody else's but Miz Poet's. Seems parts of her are going to keep turning up.”

“This is crazy,” I said. I was scared out of my mind. “A maniac killer's running around out there and now he's focused on me.”

“Well,” Chief Barnard lowered his voice, tucked his chin into his shirt collar, and gave me a direct and earnest look. “Deputy Wakowski, here, is going to stay with you the rest of tonight. She'll go on staying as long as you need her.”

“Until I can sell my house and leave, you mean,” I said.

“Emily.” Dolly reached down and patted me on one covered knee in what I took to be the height of commiseration. “We're going to get whoever's doing this, and find out what really happened to Ruby Poet.”

“I hope nobody thinks I had anything to do with her death.” The thought struck me that even I'd be somewhat suspicious of me by now.

“Of course not. Not at all.” Maybe Dolly was just a little too soothing.

I nodded, inexplicably grateful for her offer to stay. I definitely didn't want to be left alone and vulnerable to another noise at my door, another present left, maybe in my shed or in my car.

Dolly saw the chief and the other men out the door to their cars. I was alone after that, with every light in the house on, plus the radio and the TV—which was only buzzing, and all the shades and blinds and drapes pulled tight across the windows.

Dolly walked back in and the house was suddenly much too quiet. Her heavy boots echoed across my wood floor. She clanked as I'd never noticed her clanking. But the noise and clanking were good things—meant shit-kicking boots and a gun. If I was going to remain cowering on the sofa—as I had every intention of doing—somebody had better be on duty.

“You want coffee or something?” Dolly stood halfway between the living room and the kitchen, obviously uncomfortable now that she was out of her police role and into that of caretaker or, God forbid, friend.

I thought tea would be the thing and, wanting to save myself the effort of explaining where everything was, got up and made tea for both of us. I brought out a package of Mama Ida's biscotti. Even tragedy and fear called for some form of sugar. Dolly settled herself on a stool with only a little fine-tuning of her holster. Her plain face was blank. There was plenty going on behind it.

I set the teapot between us, along with the only matching cups and saucers I had. My mother's china had taken a beating the night I told Jackson to go screw himself (instead of his eighteen-year-old student), and threw most of it at his head, fortunately missing with these few cups and saucers.

I poured. Dolly lifted her cup and sipped delicately, little finger in the air, which I found ludicrous considering the hardware she was packing and the big metal badge stuck on her dumpy chest.

“Ya know, Emily.” She looked up slyly. “I sure wish you liked me better. Ya know, trusted me more.”

“I like you, Dolly,” I lied. “I've been under a big strain here. If I'm not wildly friendly, well …”

“Nah, I think it's those three tickets I gave you.”

“Well … ,” I said.

“You probably think I should've given you a warning. At least the first time.”

I shrugged and sipped at the tea, happy to hide behind a wisp of steam.

“Yes,” I finally said. “You should've. At least the first time. You are a little overbearing, you know.”

I expected an angry comeback. Dolly sipped her tea. She said nothing, just sat there, a small woman pretending to be a big woman.

Since I was shivering, despite the hot tea, I went over and got the Christmas afghan, with Father Christmas on it, and wrapped myself up again. The kind of cold I felt sank right into my bones. Nothing to do with temperature. My house was plenty warm. More to do with the places fear could burrow.

“Are you married, Dolly?” I asked, from my afghan nest, realizing I'd spent an entire day with her and knew nothing about her life.

“No, I'm not.” She shook her head. “Was once. When I was nineteen. Lasted a few months and he was gone. Never did hear where he got to. I think we're still married, unless there's a statute of limitations or something. Wouldn't know him if I saw him tomorrow. How about you?”

“Was once.”

“That's what I heard,” she said. “To some professor at U of M who cheated on you with his students. Sounds like a lousy bastard.”

Hmm, I thought. Some kind of special intelligence gathering system up here. I tried to recall anybody I'd told this much to and couldn't. Maybe Simon had divined all this information from my mail. Maybe the garbage guy—from my garbage. Maybe some old friend, coming through town, had confided in everybody at Fuller's EATS. Amazing, I thought, not in resentment, but in awe. It was like living among the fairies. Life among the Little Folk. I would have hummed something from
Finian's Rainbow
if I knew any of the music.

“He's coming to visit this weekend,” I said before I knew I was going to say anything.

“Why?” She turned toward me and made a face. “You're divorced, right?”

I nodded. “He's looking for a place up here in the woods. Something isolated, alone, to rent. He's taking a sabbatical to write a book.”

“Geez. You're all writing books. Is that all you people know how to do?”

I let that go. “If you know of somebody willing to rent …”

“Why're you helping him?”

I shrugged. “He didn't give me a chance to think.”

“Probably how he got you to marry him.” Dolly laughed. Her shoulders kept shaking after the laughter stopped. She turned and gave me the eye. “You should do something about your hair. You don't want him to think you let yourself go to seed.”

“As if I cared.”

“Sure, you care. If my ex came back tomorrow I'd want him to see something special, make him sorry for what he left behind.”

“That's you.”

“Naw, that's every woman.”

“I'm not going to go nuts fixing myself up for …”

“I went to beauty school for a while.”

Well, this news knocked me back a few feet. Dolly? Beauty school? Not three words I would have thought to put together.

“I'll fix your hair for you, and show you a few makeup tips.”

It was my turn to give her a look, like: Who's kidding who here?

“You know,” she went on. “What the chief said, about me staying here with you awhile? That's not a bad idea. If he can't work it so I'm off patrol, well still, I could be here a lot of the time, and we could go on doing the investigating we've been doing. Get to the bottom of this so you're not afraid.”

I narrowed my eyes and looked hard at Deputy Dolly. Did I want to spend a lot of time with her? Did I want her around at all? Did I need someone here with me when Jackson came to visit? Hmm.

“And you know what else?” Dolly was perking up, sitting straighter. Her light eyes were wide open as if she'd been struck by a perfect thought. “Get yourself a dog. If you had a dog nobody'd dare bother you. Trust me. Creeps don't like barking dogs. Everybody up here in the woods keeps at least one of 'em. Look at old Harry. He must have a dozen dogs back there. Don't see anybody fooling with him.”

First positive idea I'd heard. A dog. A sweet little black and white face leaped into my head. Simon's puppy. Perfect. The little guy would have a home. I'd be safe.

With Deputy Dolly and a puppy, who'd dare come after me?