Dead Dogs and Englishmen (20 page)

They were all coming
to my house the next morning: Agent Lo, Dolly, Lucky, Brent, and Omar Winston. We didn't want to be seen together at the police station in town. Radar, built into Leetsvillians, would track us and blow our summit meeting into a crime spree everybody had to prepare for; or a terrorist threat:
Ya hear? They're tryin' to poison our water.

Whatever they came up with, it would be good for days of phone calls to Lucky and Dolly, sightings of strangers lurking about town, suspicious wrong numbers, shadows behind buildings.

I slouched out of bed at seven-thirty, immediately fell over Sorrow and hit my head against the door, opening a cut up in my hair. I stood in my washed-out nightgown, blood curling down my forehead, with a bunch of people due to arrive any moment. The most I could do was jump in the shower, get rid of the blood,
hold a wash cloth on my head until the bleeding stopped, then get dressed, towel-dry my hair—avoiding the place where a good-
sized lump would be—and glance at the mirror, telling myself I looked just fine. I am a woman of low and convenient standards. If lies were needed to get me through the day, then it was lies I told myself.

I still had time, before the others got there, to pick up my dirty underwear off the bathroom floor and stick it in the washer. I thought about maybe cooking everybody breakfast but I had no eggs and no bread so I got over it. I could have served canned fish from my new supply but … for breakfast? No. Anyway, I was saving the fish for winter. For that dark day in February when I opened my fridge and found only old pasta with a scrim of mold on top. Or a day when a blizzard pounded the house. A day my drive was blocked by ice and snow and I wasn't going anywhere. A day my plowman got the flu. A day when I really, really, really wanted to have a jar of long-dead fish to open and dig into.

Jeffrey Lo arrived first. He stopped in the doorway to squat and look into Sorrow's happy eyes as he rubbed the dog's neck and ears. I gave him a cup of coffee. He laid a clipboard on the counter, took a notebook from a jacket pocket, and settled on a stool. If he was tired from our long, terrible night, it didn't show. He was as languid, cool, and in control as usual. His “Good Morning, Emily” was warm, making me feel good about myself, my coffee, and the day ahead of all of us. I took my cup of tea out of the microwave and leaned on the counter, across from him, slowly lifting the hot cup to my lips.

He smiled one of those friendly smiles I wasn't good at interpreting. Did it mean we were making a connection? Or maybe that the coffee was good? Or did he mean it was a new day, we were both alive, and let's leave it at that. No, I told myself as I dug some not-too-white-anymore paper napkins from the pantry and set them on the counter, it was more than that and I'd have to watch myself. I didn't come to the north country to fall for anybody. Too easy, that knee-jerk response to a good-looking man. Too easy, and dishonest. What I wanted out of life wasn't another guy to screw things up for me. What I wanted was to live free, to make my own money, to chop my own wood, to rototill my own garden. I wanted to live as just a human being, not some thirty-something looking for love.

The napkins I set out were my stab at being a good hostess. My mother—as much as I could remember—was a stickler for place mats and cloth napkins and a sugar bowl and creamer, not the sugar box and milk carton. Maybe if she'd stuck around a little longer, hadn't died, at least until I'd gotten into my teens, some of that would have rubbed off on me. As it was, I just didn't get it.

“You know something, Emily?” Lo looked up. “I'd like to come back up here sometime when I'm not working. And you're not working …”

Okay. I got it. I hadn't been wrong.

“That would be nice,” I said and colored a bright pink. “Trouble is, Jeffrey, I'm really working hard at the writing. I don't have a lot of time …”

I could see the disappointment in his eyes. Too bad, I told myself. They all start like that—needy, hoping you're the one who will love them and pick up their ugly underwear and cook their meals. What I planned for the rest of my life didn't include being anybody's mommy.

“Got it,” he said. “I just thought …”

I am a sucker for sadness. Lo was sad. Maybe more at the fact of a rejection than at losing any hope he had with me.

“I know …” I began. “I've only been divorced a while. Not enough time to heal.”

“And he seems to hang around,” he said. “This Jackson Rinaldi. Can't be helping you get over him.”

I nodded and got angry because I had tears in my eyes. He understood. He really understood.
Yeah,
that buried part of my brain called out.
Sucker.

Lo was off his stool. He came to where I stood. His hand was out to touch my shoulder. I didn't know if I wanted that warm hand on me or not; all I knew was that I saw him coming and smiled at him.

“Hey! Anybody home?” Dolly burst through the side door. Behind her came Lucky. Lo was back on the other side of the counter. Before they'd all settled at the kitchen table, coffee cups in hand, Brent and Omar Winston came clunking in.

With everybody assembled, Dolly began. “I got a nurse in to stay with Cecil Hawke last night,” she said to me. “Couldn't see you stayin' at the house, the way he wanted. The guy's nuts. That whole awful party. Wouldn't stay there myself.”

Lieutenant Brent drew his single, long, black eyebrow together and nodded toward me. “What's your relationship with the man?” he asked.

I explained the editing job I was doing; the visits to his home. “I don't know if that'll continue now. Maybe he won't want to stay
here in the United States. Lila was American. Used to be an
actress, or wanted to be one. Seemed like, according to her, Cecil stood in her way. I think that's what was behind their fighting and baiting each other. I'm just giving you my impression, but that wasn't a happy marriage.”

“Two murders here,” Jeffrey put in. “They don't seem to have any connection between them but this ‘Toomey' guy. The migrants gave us the name, and you think you saw him at Hawke's farm. Not much but it's a link.”

“I got pretty close to him at the party,” Dolly said. “When I said the name to the dark guy by the kitchen he ran like a skunk with his tail on fire.”

“Hawke says he doesn't know anybody named ‘Toomey,'” Brent said. “I interviewed him later. Got the same things he told Dolly.”

We were at an impasse.

“So, what do we have?” Lo asked.

“I been checking anywhere I can think to check,” Lucky put in. “Dolly's been doing the usual—license, birth, census, police records. Hunting for a ‘Toomey.'”

Omar Winston cleared his throat. “Emily might have gotten information we can't get any other way if she'd stayed there at the house last night. You know, something about the wife's family, people to contact.”

“Yeah, put her in with a guy who could be a murderer. Real smart, Omar,” Dolly came back fast.

Omar looked to Dolly, his face reddening as that place beneath his left eye ticked.

“Hawke said she didn't have any family. Maybe a cousin out in Oregon. That's all,” Dolly went on.

She looked over at Brent. “Think the bullet they got out of the body will help?”

Brent shrugged. “Who knows? Didn't find a gun. Killer took off with it. A big window was open. Big enough for a guy to get through. But no footprints under the window. No fingerprints anywhere. Nothing. Guy had to be wearing gloves. Nobody saw any
thing …”

“It was dark in the room,” Dolly said.

“We know it wasn't Hawke who shot his wife,” Jeffrey said. “He was out in plain sight when the shot was heard. Everybody agrees on that. Toomey was at the party and Toomey's the one the migrant workers said was threatening them. Why was he threatening them? Somebody's got to know something. When we find out what Toomey's afraid of, why he has to keep people quiet, then we'll know what this whole thing's about.”

“So,” Dolly said, “what we've got here are two murders with one single link: Toomey. If you ask me, the next thing is to find those workers. Somebody knows something and I'll bet anything it's that Carlos Munoz.”

Dolly turned to Brent and the others. “I want to know about the dead dogs. What in hell's that all about? Can't stand this case. Feels dirty, just talking about it. We got that first murder—the one Lo here is most interested in. Not robbery. Not rape. She wasn't killed where we found her. And she's related to one of the workers, a guy whose whole family has disappeared. So what we've got is this Toomey, who's connected to both the migrant workers and the Hawke farm or ranch or whatever it is. We've got one dead woman connected to the migrants and another connected to the Hawke place. One connection between the women—Toomey.”

“I gotta get a look at that farm of Hawke's,” Jeffrey said, rising from his chair, picking up his coffee cup and taking it to the sink. “I asked Hawke but he refused to have me on the property. Either there's something to hide or he's just that kind of guy. The way he seems, I'm betting he's just that kind of guy. I don't have the authority … not up here.” He shrugged. “I'm going to get an order but he says he'll fight it. Don't know what's next …”

“How about the funeral,” I offered. “I'll be going to that.”

“We can't intrude on a man's grief,” Omar smacked his straight-
line lips together as he chided me.

“Emily's right,” Dolly countered. “She can be there. She's the guy's friend, or employee—or something. I'd say that was next. See who turns up. We'll all be somewhere out there. You won't be alone,” she turned to me.

I thanked her, shot Omar a gotcha look, and was about to pick up the remains of the coffee when the door opened and a frayed and startled Jackson Rinaldi walked in.

I'd never seen Jackson
so rumpled. He wore a tee shirt with sweat stains under the arms, bed hair, no socks, wrinkled pants. You couldn't help but feel sorry for the guy. This wasn't something he would ever have asked for. A romp in the hay, to him, was like another man's game of golf. He didn't expect much to come of any of his flings, certainly not murder.

“I didn't mean …” Jackson backed toward the door when he saw the police power gathered in my kitchen.

I waved him in, explaining we were just trying to figure where to go next with the investigation.

Everyone nodded to him as he entered hesitantly and sat down on my desk chair, in a far corner of the living room. He nodded back, tried to smile, but ordinary good manners were beyond him.

Dolly gave him a long look. “You weren't in the hall when we heard the gunshot.”

“I told you I got out of there after he started in on me.”

“Out to your car, right?” The color was slowly draining from Dolly's face, her pale eyes were big. Something going on with her that had nothing to do with Jack. I thought I knew what was happening but, for her sake, hoped I was wrong. After all, it was morning. She was pregnant. And turning pretty green at the moment.

“That's as far as I got. When I heard the gunshot I went back in. I wasn't sure that's what it was, but it was loud. I was worried about … well, about Emily. After what he did to me, I wouldn't put anything past that man.”

“You didn't see nobody coming out the front door or from around the side of the house, right?” Dolly licked at her bottom lip.

He shook his head at her. “I was parked down the drive. Anyone could have run into the woods. I wouldn't see them unless they went right past me.”

Dolly nodded, hesitated, and took a deep breath. “You don't own a gun, do you?”

Jackson agreed. No gun.

“I'll find out if you're lying, ya know.” Her heart wasn't into threats. Her voice was weak. She stopped to take a few deep breaths.

They all made ruminative sounds. A lot of hard thinking was going on as Dolly edged out of the living room, toward the hall leading back to my two bedrooms. And the bathroom—which was where she went, double-time, slamming the door behind her.

There was an embarrassed silence in the room of all men, and me.

Dolly was in there throwing up. I tried to think of something to say to cover the sound of her morning sickness but nothing would have done it. The men listened and gave each other sick looks.

“She okay?” Omar finally asked but she was back, out of the bathroom, wiping her mouth with one of my towels, and looking around as if she dared one person to say a word. Nobody did.

Soon, everybody but my sorrowful ex left. He stayed to share his misery.

“I'm leaving here,” he said. “This country isn't safe for civilized people. Even this man, whom I thought was an intellectual, why, you saw how he turned on me.” Jackson's face folded into creases. He looked tired, and much older, as if he'd learned a terrible lesson and would maybe change.

“Back to Ann Arbor?” I asked, hoping he meant to return to teaching Medieval Studies or English Literature at the University of Michigan.

“Of course.” He gave me an impatient look. “I can write there as well as here. I won't have you to help me …”

I smiled a sad and benign smile.
Woe is me
… I was making fun but inside I felt a hole opening. He wasn't much, but he was all I had up here, where I would probably always be a stranger. Jackson had been my one touch with home—or as much of a home as I had anywhere before coming to my cabin in the woods.

He moved to where I sat and took my hand. I expected something along the lines of what I'd been thinking. That we were finally at that place where our marriage was over, the emotional divorce final. All he said was, “The police don't actually suspect me, do they? You know I'd never have anything to do with such a thing. Murder! My God! I'm not a savage, after all. You don't believe I was actually going to run away with her, do you, Emily? I mean …”

“Maybe she thought so. That could have put something into motion.”

He blew that off. “I could see suicide. But the woman was murdered. There had to be someone else. Maybe another lover.” He thought a minute, then seemed to like that thought. “I'll bet you anything that's it. Another lover. Another man she was running off with. Get them to look, will you? I mean, you're all I have, Emily. You could help …”

Of course I would help, I assured him. I knew him better than anyone. He might be weak. He might be a snob. He might be a lot of unpleasant things, but Jackson wasn't a murderer.

My offer to help relieved him of a lot of worry. He became more like the old, self-assured Jack.

“Maybe I should call Cecil,” he said. “Tell him what I've come up with. Maybe we could still be friends, after all.”

He was beyond help. I took a last shot at reality. “I don't think that's a good idea, Jack. If you ask me, I'd call this one dead in the water.”

He looked disappointed but kissed my cheek and went off in his white Jaguar to find solace someplace else.

_____

I spent the rest of the morning writing a story for the paper. When the phone rang, close to noon, I knew who it was going to be and hesitated to answer.

Cecil Hawke.

“Why did you leave me, Emily?” His normally high voice was deep and accusing. “I told you I needed you. We have work to do.”

“Cecil. I don't think …”

“Actually, I have been working on my book. It calms my nerves.
But that's not what I need you for right now. It's about Lila. I need your help.”

“And … what can I do … ?” I asked, hoping the answer was ‘nothing at all.'

“Why, the funeral, of course. I have to make arrangements. There has to be a funeral. As the writer said:
Attention must be paid
. I can't possibly do it alone. I thought you'd know that immediately. Very simple. Lila has no real family and this was her home. So it will be up here. You're a native. You can advise me.”

“Cecil. I'm not a native. I'm your editor. I don't think it's my place to …”

“Of course it is. You're a woman. You knew Lila. You understand. Women always understand death. Isn't that what you all deal in? I mean, caring for babies and old people and such.”

I hesitated, thinking of my nonexistent babies and my father's lingering death from which I was absent, living in Ann Arbor, married to Jackson, who didn't want me away from him for more than a day at a time.

The ever-negligent, ever-guilty daughter.

Cecil went on. “And, I'll give you more chapters of my book. I worked all morning. I think you'll be happily surprised with the quality …”

His wife murdered not twenty-four hours ago and he was able to write fiction. A better writer than I, I told myself. Maybe not much of a human being, but a dedicated writer.

Out of a mixture of old guilt and curiosity, I agreed to help him make funeral arrangements.