Dead Dogs and Englishmen (16 page)

Something was bothering me.
A thing I couldn't put my finger on but nagged at me, like a word that wouldn't step to the front of my brain when I wrote my stories.

Off to the north, through my French doors, heat lightning flashed and pulsed over the lake, briefly outlining the willows, the starkly bare maples, and the craggy, worm-stripped oaks. Storms had the power to unsettle me. I thought maybe that was why I couldn't sit down, couldn't just open a can of soup for dinner and read a Sue Grafton I'd picked up at a used book sale a while ago.

It was one of those hot Michigan nights when not a single breath of air moved. I heard, not far off, an animal scream. Night forces were at work. I thought maybe I was nervous about facing Cecil Hawke in the morning. What did I say to the man?
I hate your main character. Why in hell did you want to write a piece of crap like this?
How many more sadistic chapters will I have to read before you actually get to a story? How many before I grab a pen and kill off this ‘Tommy' myself ?

I watched as sideways lightning cut directly above the lake. Closer.

So, I told myself, in the morning I'd get a check for a thousand dollars from Hawke.

I looked at the stack of bills on top of my refrigerator and asked myself,
What price my soul?

The answer was easy—a thousand dollars.

_____

The rain, when it came, blew sideways but was gone fast. Not a single tree came down. Nothing flew through my windows. A wimp as Michigan storms went.

What I needed, I decided, was to be in touch with another human being. I called Jackson.

“Emily! How … eh … nice.” His bright voice signaled there was probably a woman with him. “Are you calling about my work? Have you gotten those pages done?”

“Not yet. I've been busy with Cecil's manuscript.”

“Of course. And how are you finding his writing? Amazing, I'd imagine. Certainly it will be the absolute definitive work …”

“Interesting.”

“That's all? Just ‘interesting'?”

“I really can't say anything. Remember that confidentiality contract?”

“But this is me.” He was hurt, then brought himself back to where he was and, maybe, who was with him. “But of course you wouldn't, would you? I'd hardly have recommended an editor who couldn't keep her word …”

So. There I was. Not able to talk to him about evil and madness in literature and where the lines were drawn. I fumbled with words and was about to hang up.

“Do you have your costume yet?” he went on, making conversation though I could tell his heart wasn't in it.

“For what?”

“My God, Emily! The
Blithe Spirit
party this coming Saturday. Someone from fiction that you'd love to meet, a writer, even an historical figure. You haven't forgotten.”

“Oh … that. I'll come up with something.”

“Lila's talking of nothing else …”

“Is she there with you?”

A hesitation. “I hope you're joking …”

“Please Jack. It's pretty obvious what's going on. The woman's not exactly subtle.”

“Wouldn't I be an idiot …” He stopped himself.

“Not for the first time.”

“For heaven's sakes …” He sounded much like Cecil Hawke. Probably his perfect ear for language.

“Do you think,” he changed the subject, “that you could bring my work with you to the party next Saturday? I mean—a whole week more, Emily.”

“I'll try.”

“I'll pay you …”

“Of course.”

“Well, then, don't forget to find a costume. Wait until you see mine …”

“Someone from Chaucer?”

“Ah ha! That would be the expected choice, wouldn't it? But no. I'm out to surprise.”

There are times when you just can't help but heave a big sigh. “Say good-night to Lila, Jack,” I said and hung up.

_____

Sleep wasn't easy. The air never cooled. I tried my bed but Sorrow
thought that was an invitation to join me so I went back out to the sofa. All the doors and windows were open. A fan in the kitchen
stirred dusty, damp air. I propped my feet on the sofa arm, closed my eyes, and drifted off.

A few hours later I sat up straight. My skin was clammy. A whippoorwill sang in the bare trees at the front of the house, and then moved off. Nothing stirred outside. That wasn't what had wakened me.

It was that thing going on in my head. At first I was afraid the uneasiness came from the manuscript, that I was having nightmares about a kid locked in a basement, but that didn't seem to be it. I ran everything quickly through my mind before it all disappeared.

An image.

A door.

Cecil Hawke's front door.

Well, no wonder—all those gargoyles and doves.

But something. Just beyond.

I lay down and drifted back to sleep.

When I next awoke, it was to voices in my head. Something was in there trying to come out. I hated nights like this. Dreams and voices and things I couldn't catch.

Gargoyles. Doves. A woman's voice. Gargoyles. Doves. A woman's angry face.

Lila.

That was what bothered me …

Of course, no wonder she was in my head. I suspected she was with my ex-husband at that moment, laughing while Jackson tickled her as he sometimes did during sex. I'd hated being tickled but Jackson thought it part of his charm to be slightly sadistic.

Sadistic …

No, something other than the manuscript.

A man's dark face.

A voice …
What are you doing at the front door? Listen here, to me. Don't you ever enter my house this way. I don't
…
”

Listen here, to me.

Odd sentence construction.

Listen here, to me
…

…
to me
…

Or was it something else and I'd heard it wrong.

To me.

To me.

Toomey.

“My dear girl.” Cecil
Hawke, dressed in a Tom Wolfe white suit with white tie, white shirt, and—of all things—white buttoned spats over white shoes, grabbed me hard in his arms at the front door and hugged until I had to push him away to get a breath. His cologne burned the air I took in.

“And what do you think of my new image?” He did a twirl, ruffling his neatly trimmed toupee. The diamond at his ear sparkled in the hall light. “A bit startling, I hope. Does it work, do you think?”

I nodded as I entered the house. Maybe it worked. A trifle overdone. Could have been Mark Twain. No, not that rugged. Tom Wolfe. Good comparison.

“But …” I thought a moment, trying to decide whether to open my mouth or not. “Weren't spats worn mostly by criminals? I mean, I think of old gangster movies. Prohibition, things like that. My dad loved those movies. George Raft? Wasn't that the guy?”

“Really? A movie gangster. Wonderful! More reason to wear them since I intend to be the best-known crime and mystery writer in this country.”

“Ah …” I widened my eyes but kept my mouth shut.

Freddy, the one-eyed, yellow dog ran up behind Cecil. I put my hand out to him then drew it back when he growled deep in his throat. Maybe he had a thing about journalists, or editors. Cecil hissed at the dog, and took a yellow ear in one hand, twisting until the dog fell over, to the floor, whining with pain.

Cecil laughed at my look. I was appalled.

“You didn't have to do …” I sputtered.

“Yes, I did. It's all he's ever known. Bad home, you see. The only thing he understands is cruelty. Dominance.” He shook his head sadly. “Terrible thing. But the truth.”

I looked around as Freddy got up, slowly, and followed us to what Cecil called the ‘morning room,' off the large front hall on the right. Paintings covered the walls here too, but again there was no theme, not even a sense of real thought behind them. More like a wholesale buy at an auction. More something to fill up space than a need to live with art.

And, again, I doubted they were originals. Probably for insurance purposes but still the house was beginning to impress me less than it had, as if it wasn't quite what it was meant to be.

A small, gate-legged table was set up in front of a pair of high, leaded windows on the far side of the room. Pens and writing pads were arranged on the table top. The tea tray stood beside the table, a delicate teapot and cups and saucers and creamer and sugar bowl waited. And, again, a plate of those inedible, and unsinkable, biscuits.

“Well, well,” he took a chair beside me, rubbing his hands together. “And what do you think so far?”

I accepted a cup of tea and turned down the biscuits. “I've marked misspellings, places where more common usage is needed …” I began talking as I pulled the papers from the envelope. I'd made a copy before bringing them back, but I wasn't going to tell Cecil. It was for continuity, I'd told myself, though something in me said I might need to cover my butt with this guy.

He threw his hands into the air, startling the nervous dog lying at his feet.

“I don't really want to know what you think about spelling and structure and all of that. At least, not at this point. Not even, really, what you think of the story. After all, what have you seen so far? Hardly enough to …”

“There does seem to be an excessive amount of violence.”

“Violence?” He snorted and looked out the bay window. When he turned back his face was bright red. “Did you think I was writing a cozy? That my work would be nothing but hearts and flowers?”

“No, I only meant …”

“Violence,” he repeated under his breath as he thumped his tea cup down on the cart.

“Do you want to know what I really think, or just flattery?” I asked, certain my face was as red as his. “I mean, I've done the spell check but any computer could do that for you. I've made notes for better sentence structure in a few places. I've made suggestions for additional description—more character development. What I think, personally, about your work doesn't have to come into it.”

He sighed, then put his hands to his head. “No, no, no … I mean, that's all wonderful, and of course I want to take advantage of your great editorial skills. But first and foremost there's something of higher importance here, isn't there? I mean, what I want most from you, Emily.” He reached over to rub my knee, then pat it. I pulled my legs away. “What I want are your feelings as you read. I want to know when you feel sick and when you decide you want to kill my protagonist. After all, everyone has a breaking point.” He stuck out a small pink tongue, licked at his bottom lip, then snaked it back into his mouth. “I need to know how my work provokes you.”

His almost white eyebrows went up, blue eyes flew wide. At his chin, his fingers moved like little snakes. “Most of all, I want to know … do I repulse you?”

Did I dare say:
Yes, you creep? You repulse me down to where I live
.

I didn't. I sat higher in my chair and moved my legs even further
from his reach. “I don't censor things I edit, Cecil. My opinion of the work itself—if you mean a judgment, or if you are testing my morality—I don't think that's the issue.”

He frowned. “So you refuse to have an opinion? Are you saying you can't put yourself in an acquisition editor's seat and judge whether the reading public can stomach my work?”

I was confused. Did he want an opinion of its chances in the marketplace?

He went on. “How can I know if I'm achieving what I set out to do if I can't rely on people I pay to tell me the truth?” He stressed the ‘I pay' part hard enough to remind me I was doing a job here, not pleasing myself.

“In that case … I guess I'd say there's probably a market for this kind of psychological mystery …”

“Just ‘a market'? Not best-seller material? People ate up Hannibal Lecter. Pun intended,” he added, smiling. “But you haven't read enough yet, have you? I'm asking an impossible thing. Of course, you must read on. But this time, along with the edits, please take notes on what you feel as you read. I need that …” He cleared his throat. “And you've remembered to mention my work to no one. I really don't care to have your reactions watered down by the opinions of others. Nor to have my ideas stolen.”

I was about to reassure him, once again, that I was a professional and didn't discuss a client's work when Lila swept into the room in a strapless red cotton dress that looked like it was held up by nothing but a prayer. She hurried to us, bent to gather me in her arms, hug me, and pull up a Queen Anne chair as she chattered about something I didn't catch because my mind was still on getting things straight with Cecil.

“Darling!” She leaned back to stare, open-mouthed, at Cecil, tea cup just below her bottom lip. “You look extraordinary this morning. Is this a new look you intend to keep?”

“I thought …” He patted at the front of his white suit.

“Ice cream vendor?” She looked at me to see if I found her remark funny.

“No, dear,” Cecil smiled slowly. “World chic, I would call it.”

She shook her head and snickered. “But my dear, dear Cecil. It's been done. Like wearing all black—done to death. Why not lime? Or red—now there's a color for you. And why bother? Who will care? You aren't exactly world reknowned, you know. Unless there were appearances to make, real people to impress …” She smirked at me. “No slight to you intended, Emily.

“Why wear a costume at all?” Lila went on, sticking her chin out as if in challenge.

I watched as Cecil's eyes narrowed to empty slits. “We all have our costumes, don't we, dear?” He stressed the ‘dear' and spoke through tight lips. “And our masks?”

Lila's face hardened. She looked her age as she set her cup carefully on the tea tray and got up. “All I meant is that if you're assuming
a literary posture, please get yourself a cape to swing at book signings, or wear all purple. You could look pope-like—at least add a little gold. A look of your own, dear.” She stood beside him, leaning down to give him a hug while pushing her breast briefly into his face. “Would you have people think your writing's only a cheap copy, like your outfit?”

She interrupted herself with a sigh. “I've got to be off.”

“Hmmm … Late for church?” Cecil asked, his narrow eyebrows raised.

She threw back her head and laughed. I could see the red inside of her mouth, not a pretty sight against her white skin, white teeth, and red, red lips. She turned to me.

“Emily, I hope you're as excited as I am about our party. You haven't forgotten, have you? This Saturday. Have you decided on a costume yet? Cecil and I are keeping our costumes a secret. We want to surprise our guests. And so many are coming—all corners of the world. Cecil has friends everywhere.” She flung a hand dramatically over her head. “Just everywhere.”

“Mine's a secret too,” I hedged since I had no costume.

“And remember, invite anyone you like. I'll leave it to you who might be an addition to our party. There will be a séance. Don't forget to mention that to your friends. A real séance. We will have our own Madame Arcati, just as in Coward's
Blithe Spirit.
Won't this be the most amazing event to ever happen here in your precious north country?”

She clasped her hands at her chest, turned, and flew out of the room.

Silence followed her. Lila was quite a show. The two of them were a play in themselves. I was outclassed here, out-thought, and left almost speechless.

Cecil offered more tea. I shook my head. He went back to his expectations of me as his editor. Maybe what he wanted wasn't unreasonable—I was to be a story editor as well as a copy editor. I could do that.

“Cecil,” I leaned just a little toward him. “I have to ask you a question.”

“You mean about my hand.” He held the hand with the missing knuckle in the air. “You still think I'm the boy in the novel?” He laughed. “Of course not, Emily. All writers, as you well know, use their lives for grist; for color and background. I liked the idea of the boy losing part of a finger to a dog. Later in the book … well, you'll see why it was necessary to set this up early.” He tapped the fingers of both his hands together.

I tried to find a way to sympathize with Cecil Hawke but I found him unsettling. When I was at the paper, in Ann Arbor, one crazy man with a nutty book he'd self-published demanded that I review his novel, even resorting to dire threats about my immortal soul when I explained it wasn't possible, that I wasn't a book reviewer. I sicced that one on our Arts and Entertainment editor and backed off.

With this guy there was no pulling away. I wasn't sure I even wanted to. If nothing else, the man was interesting. One of those: I'm dying to see what happens next, kind of things.

Back at the front door with a check for two thousand dollars in my purse and the next ten chapters in my hands, I stopped to make nice, figuring the man needed it. Freddy had followed along behind. When I turned I ran into his muzzle. I pulled away fast, not wanting to be the cause of more growling and more punishing. When I didn't try to touch him, he nuzzled my hand. At first I didn't move a finger, not wanting to come up with one or two fewer than I'd had before. He nuzzled my hand again and I patted his head. The dog stood there beside me, as if mesmerized. I patted him again, then left my hand there, on his wide head, until Cecil saw and ordered the dog away.

He gave me a reproving look. “I wouldn't do that, Emily. He's not a lap dog, you know.”

I stepped out to the porch, looked him up and down, then smiled. “Personally, I like your white suit, Cecil,” I said, causing his face to light up.

“I'm so glad, Emily. I knew we'd get along famously. You're really very intelligent, aren't you?”

I remembered then what I'd wanted to ask before I left. Just that nagging thing. Probably silly, but Dolly and Lo and I couldn't afford to pass up any idea at this point.

“There is one other thing …” I put my hand out to stop the door from closing in my face. “The last time I was here there was a man standing …” I pointed to the porch.

“Yes, and … ?”

“Do you know who that was?”

He shrugged and looked at me oddly. “Could have been anyone.”

“Lila didn't seem to like him.”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Then he is one among many. Lila adores detesting her friends.”

“He wasn't a guest, I don't think. A tall, dark man in what looked like work clothes. Maybe he takes care of your sheep. Don't you hire men for that?”

He hesitated a moment. “Of course I do. Can you really see me mucking out the barns or whatever they do out there?”

I agreed. I didn't see him as a shepherd. He stepped back, meaning to close the door.