Dead Dogs and Englishmen (4 page)

Let us vote my
ex-husband the man I least wanted to see in Bill Corcoran's office when I sauntered in, notebook in one hand, roll of film in the other, proud to have scooped even Bill on this new murder.

“Got something for you …” I began, then stopped to take a deep breath when I saw Jackson, lounging in a chair across from Bill's desk.

How I rued the day I'd introduced him to Bill—the day I thought it might be nice to help Jack make friends in the north while he was up here slaving away on Chaucer's penitents, lost in Middle English. How could I have known he would become a more or less permanent fixture in my territory, with my friends— except Dolly, who despised him—and in my life?

“Emily! My sweet Emily. I was on my way out to your place.” Jack rose languorously to his feet, stretched his long body, pushed his shoulders back, and opened his arms wide to greet me.

Let's just say my knee came up slightly, aimed at his groin—just in case. An old reflex, a defense mechanism women are born with, like growing spikes on our elbows to keep guys from pulling us in too close to feel our breasts; or wearing pointed shoes for a well-placed kick when a hand went where it shouldn't go; or knowing how to roll into a ball: knees to forehead, like a hedgehog, if we have to; or that magical wishing reflex: praying hard for someone to simply go away.

Anyway, I'd convinced myself I was finally over this jerk who couldn't keep his hands off other women despite once having a charming, talented, intelligent wife who loved him dearly back at his own home.

“What are you doing here?” I let him hug me as I looked over his shoulder at Bill, his dark-framed glasses slipping down his nose, hair as wild as a raccoon's, and a wide face trying to say ‘I'm sorry.'

Jackson held me against his perfect white shirt opened a button or two, just enough to show a little of the dark chest hair. He nuzzled my cheek. I knew the smell of him: shampoo, rosemary bath gel, detergent, touch of a fresh iron, shaving lotion—all of it. Even while holding my breath, when that close to him, his scent worked into my head. The feel of that hard chest against mine brought on atavistic flutters; tiny curls of old temptation, down in an ill-used place I tried not to think about any more.

I gave in, for just a second, to the pressure of his hands on my back, then I took a deep breath and stepped away from him, leaving him to pout a little—just the smallest of pouts that I wouldn't stay there, in his arms, forever.

“What a pleasure,” Jackson gushed and backed off, his arms still wide as I stood smiling at him for reasons of my own. “I have news for you. I dropped by to see Bill a minute but …”

You couldn't help but marvel at the guy. Still the academic he'd always been: that slightly superior smile, that shrugging lift of one shoulder, that shake of his head. A good-looking man with a romantic swagger to him, even if the edges were a little worn from too many romps with willing coeds. He had that thing about him that blinds women. Some men are blessed, or cursed, with it. Nothing about looks and nothing about being young. It's just there—in the smile, or the eyes. A touch on your back. It's a kind of knowing that women fall for every time, me included. What I'd come up with, as a weapon against my inane genital flutters when I got near him, was a coded list of remembrances of things past:
A is for asshole, B is for bastard, C is for cunning, D is for devil
…

Devil was fitting, since I'd once been drawn into typing all that damned Middle English blather into a file for him, then sending the file to his publisher. I'd spent months with Chaucer's pious
characters, most of whom I'd have loved to throw into the Thames,
or any nearby river in England. And then there had been his pontificating voice if I complained:

“‘Sondry folk,' Emily. Much like your people. The real thing, don't you think?” “Perfect frame narrative, Emily.” “Something you might emulate, in one of your books, Emily.” “Father of English literature, Emily.” “Really, you know so little of literature and yet you aspire to write it” (with a shake of his perfectly coiffed, dark head).

“Whatcha got, Emily?” Bill cleared his throat and asked.

“Murder.” I turned to him fast, hoping my face wasn't red. A couple of deep breaths and I spit out the rest, “Body in an abandoned house on Old Farm Road. Could be a feud—think the woman is Mexican. But she seemed better dressed. I mean, this was no apple picker's wife.”

I took a step back toward the door.

“And a dog,” I said.

“Dog? What's the dog got to do with the murder?”

I shrugged. “We don't know …”

“By ‘we' I'm assuming it's not a royal address …” Bill frowned.

I gave him a withering look. “Me and Deputy Dolly Wakowski. We're working together.”

“Woman found outside?”

“In the house.”

“And the dog?”

“In the field behind the house. Both shot. Dolly should know soon if they were shot by the same caliber gun. Could still be a bullet in the woman's head. Or maybe in the dog. He was shot where he fell. The woman was killed elsewhere, her body dumped inside the house.”

“I'll get it in the morning paper.”

“Can I borrow one of your computers? Just came from the scene. I'll write it up.”

He nodded. “Give me a daily update, okay?”

“Lieutenant Brent said they might need help with the ID—in case they don't get anywhere.”

He nodded, and told me to use the desk across the hall from him.

Jackson, who'd settled back into Bill's plastic chair, sniffed. “Another murder, Emily? My God, you do get yourself into things.”

I didn't dare open my mouth. Bill didn't need to know that I could be churlish and vindictive. With him I cultivated an image of a woman in control; a solid reporter able to handle any story, from covering an old woman's tea cup collection to tracking the most vicious of killers. I smiled at Jackson, top lip pasted against my dry teeth.

“Actually,” he went on, “I was just telling Bill, here, I needed to talk to you.” He tented his fingers then settled them against his chest. “I may have found a job for you.”

I waited.

“A new friend of mine. Quite wealthy. And learned. British, you know. He's taken a magnificent home over beyond Torch Lake—grand vistas, a thousand acres. He's running an authentic Australian sheep station, even a kennel. I think that's what he said. But better than any of that, he is writing a book. Name's Cecil Hawke. Have you heard of him?”

I looked at Bill. He shook his head.

“Me either,” I said. “What's the job?”

He got up from his chair, unfolding slowly. “Well, for that part you'll have to go to dinner with me. I won't say a word unless it is over a glass of merlot …”

Bill stood, obviously wanting both of us out of his office. “Great idea. Why don't you two go off somewhere and talk this over.” He pushed up at his heavy glasses, giving me a get-this-guy-out-of-here look. “Just do the story first, okay?”

I nodded, pulled my notebook from my purse, then stopped a minute as Jackson waited patiently, eyebrows raised in expectation.

“Amical?” I suggested, meaning the restaurant down on Front Street, past the State Theatre. “I won't be long. A few phone calls, get the story done. I'll see you in … oh, maybe thirty minutes. Is that all right? You're buying, right?”

Jackson nodded. “Of course. Not that the divorce left me with much …” He gave Bill a conspiratorial smile. A two-guys-together kind of thing. “I'll see you there.”

I called Dolly.

“Looks like the dog and woman were shot with the same kind of gun, but not where we found them,” she said. “Dog was. Not the woman. Dug a bullet out of the ground under the dog and the pathologist got one out of the woman. Both were brought to that abandoned house. Woman dead when she got there. Dog killed out in the field. Can't figure why. Same kind of up-close shot. Back of the head. Dog's got other wounds on him. Woman's Mexican, all right. I'm on my way out now to talk to some of the farmers around here who hire Mexican workers. No photo though—you saw her face. Gold cross around her neck. Nothing else.”

“Any fingerprints in the house?”

“All kinds. Most won't do us any good. Too many transients. Too many local kids. But go ahead and call Brent. Could be something new from the lab—least a time of death.” She stopped to take a deep breath. “And Emily, just want you to know, that dog's being sent down to the Michigan State University Vet School in Lansing. One of the state boys is taking it down soon as they're through with it up here. Wants what they call a necropsy done. That's an autopsy on an animal. The vet school does 'em long as one of us brings the body in. Brent wants to get an idea of the condition of the dog—stuff like that. But you go ahead and call 'im. He'll fill you in on anything I missed.”

Brent had more on time of death. Post mortem lividity, temperature, lack of rigor—all led to at least three days dead, maybe four. The body was found by a couple of teenage boys looking in the windows of the old house, probably with the intention of breaking in. “Said they were only curious and weren't going to do any more than take a look. Either way, it doesn't matter,” Brent said. “Nothing to do with the murder.”

I had all I was going to get, typed up the story, and e-mailed it over to Bill. On the way out I waved, though he did little more than glance up from copy he was editing and give me a distracted smile. I forgot to ask about other assignments.

_____

Front Street teemed with tourists: straw hats, dark glasses, plaid shorts, and the smell of coconut suntan lotion. The tee-shirt shops were booming, as was the fudge shop. The Cherry Stop, where they sold products produced by our local cherry growers, had a full house.

At Amical, near the State Theatre with its brightly lighted marquee, and just down from Horizon Books, people sat at outdoor tables having drinks. Jan Romanoff from
Northern Pines Magazine
was at one of the small, wrought-iron tables on the front patio. She called out, “Emily! How are you doing?”

I stopped to talk to her for a minute, asking if she had any stories I might take on. She told me to keep in touch. “There's a possibility of a story on turkeys, for the Thanksgiving issue—if you're interested.” She leaned her blond head on one fist and looked up at me. “Or—since I need that, like, tomorrow—how about something on a new ski lodge?”

I told her I'd be in touch—probably work on the ski lodge story since I didn't feel like sitting in the woods, in a blind, waiting for turkeys to wander by. Been there. Done that.

I went into the coolly dark restaurant and stood just inside the door as my eyes adjusted.

The restaurant wasn't full yet. Early for dinner. At the wooden tables lined down one side of the long room, a few intrepid shoppers rested, bags at their feet, iced teas and salads on the white tablecloths in front of them. A young couple held hands across their table. An older couple sat at the tall back windows, the man, obviously Italian, engaged in lively conversation with his plump wife.

Jackson called out from a table back by the dead fireplace. He paused his deep discussion with a willowy waitress and stood to greet me. This time I got a slight peck on the cheek but no hug. When the waitress, with a Trudy nametag on her chest, came back I ordered a glass of pinot grigio and sighed at the thought of resting after a very full day.

“And how is Regina?” I asked brightly, happily returning to the thought that he was soon to marry the typist/researcher who had recently taken my place working on his book with him. His falling face made me want to groan.
Oh, no, not again
…

“It just isn't going to happen,” he said and knocked back half of his merlot, while giving me one of his more sorrowful looks.

“So sorry.” I liked Regina. She was young and tough. She would have kept Jackson in his place; no nonsense. “What happened?”

He shrugged. “Probably the age difference.”

“Yeah,” I said, enjoying myself a little too much. “Like—what is it? Twenty years?”

“And her father raised some objections.” Insults had a way of sliding right off Jackson's back.

“Too bad. I liked her. At least this one was intelligent. And funny.” The sad thought struck me that maybe she'd already quit her job, that this whole business was to get me as his unpaid typist—yet again. “She's still with you, isn't she?”

“Who knows for how long?” He lifted both shoulders and dropped them slowly. “As you might imagine, things are a bit … well … strained, you might say.”

I wanted to groan but Trudy was back and Jackson, into impressing the babes mode, asked about the preparation of just about everything on the menu. I ordered chicken and settled for another glass of wine.