Dead Dogs and Englishmen (7 page)

“Storm tonight,” were the
first words out of Harry's mouth as he turned off my hose, rolled it into a coil, and stored it under the faucet. “Still, we're going fishing in the morning, Emily. 'Less it's raining hard.”

I stood in among my canna lilies, surrounded by phlox and hostas. Jackson stood beside me, hands crossed at his crotch, one finger impatiently tapping the other hand as he waited for Harry to leave.

“Probably not tomorrow,” he said to Harry. “I've got a job lined
up for Emily. The appointment with the gentleman is for tomorrow afternoon.”

Harry shook his head and leaned back stretching his neck to look up at the darkening sky, as if for patience. “Tomorrow's when I'm going, if she wants to come along. Guess you'll just have to choose, Emily.” Harry smiled one of his rare, tight smiles.

Jackson leaned back on the heels of his very expensive deck shoes and laughed. “I'm afraid she really has no choice. The man who wants to employ her isn't the patient sort. I don't think …”

I looked from one to the other of my bristling bantam roosters and put up a hand.

“I'm going fishing with you, Harry. That's just what I need. This other thing might not come through, but a jar of fish is a jar of fish.”

“You're kidding.” Jackson gave me a disbelieving look.

I shook my head. “Please set it up for the day after tomorrow. Just explain that I had a previous engagement.”

“Maybe I should tell him you're too busy and don't need the money …”

“Don't be a jerk. I promised Harry I'd go fishing with him. He's going to teach me to can fish for next winter. I'm not turning my back on him just 'cause something else came along.”

“Well … well …”

“If your man needs my help, I'm sure he can wait.”

Jack shrugged and gave up. “I left a few of my chapters inside.” He motioned toward the house. “On the counter. Whenever you can get to them … maybe this weekend?”

I made a face at him. “I'll call. And I'll get you a bill.”

He closed his eyes and threw his head back as if pleading for patience from some place outside of him. He turned and walked to his car.

“You seem out of sorts,” Harry commented after Jack was gone. “Heard about that dead woman over to Old Farm Road. And a dog too, eh? I got an idea about that. Don't like to say too much.”

He gave me a smile—this one with a bit of a gleam to his eye—and walked off the other way, around my fading vegetable garden and toward the drive and his home. He stopped once to call back at me, “See you at six-thirty a.m. You be ready. Take your car, if that's all right. Otherwise that friend of yours'll be chasing me 'cause I got no license on mine. And we got no fishing licenses either, so I'll pick the spot where we go in. That all right with you?” He frowned and added, “Unless it rains. I ain't standing in water with water coming down on my head.”

I nodded—if it rained I was not going to get my fish and I wouldn't get the job either. I hadn't thought about licenses—cars or fishing. If we got caught I could be fined. My name would be in the newspaper.

I sighed. That's the chance you take when you've got a friend like Harry Mockerman. The rest—well—like Scarlett, I'd think about that tomorrow.

For the next few hours I picked tent worm cocoons off my house, my tool bench, my work gloves, and the statue of a little girl holding a rose behind her back that I'd brought with me from Ann Arbor. The cocoons were everywhere—this next stage of the awful creatures' life cycle. I poked them, peeled them from where they had been stuck on, and dropped them into the can of gasoline I carried around the garden with me. I thought about Dolly and this situation she'd gotten herself into and had now dropped in my lap. Then I thought about Jackson. When the can was filled with cocoons, I threw a match in, lighting the gas. I watched them burn with deep and evil pleasure.

_____

When it was almost dark I called Sorrow from a foxhole he had his nose stuck into and went inside to find my message light blinking. Couldn't be Dolly—I didn't expect to hear from her for a while. Maybe Bill, with an assignment. Maybe one of the magazine editors. I could use the money in case this book editing thing didn't come through. I needed some new jeans without holes at the knees and back pockets. If I didn't cut back on the mashed potatoes at EATS I was going to move up to a bigger size. That's what I was thinking about as I pushed the play button: a bigger behind.

A woman's voice said, “Emily, this is Madeleine Clark. I finished going over your material and love your changes. The novel works beautifully now—those poor elderly women. Awful thing that they couldn't be left alone to enjoy their small pleasures out in the woods. Could you please call me? We've got to talk before I begin sending the book out …”

There was a slight hesitation as if she waited for me to pick up, then a sigh and the phone went dead.

I took a deep breath, holding on to the edge of the desk, gulping a couple of times. Madeleine Clark wanted to represent me. I had an agent. What did she want to talk about? Probably if I had any thoughts about publishers. Maybe if I had any thoughts of a second book. I'd heard that always got a publisher's attention.

I dialed the number she'd left. A woman, who must have been Madeleine Clark's assistant, said Ms. Clark was gone for the day. I left my name and promised to call in the morning. I hung up and took a deep breath.

Tomorrow then. Early. What time did agents get into their offices? No earlier than ten, I was certain.

Okay. So ten o'clock.

Oh, no! I'm fishing in the morning.

Okay, okay, okay—when we get back.

Well, after we can the fish. Then. Shouldn't be too late.

She'll think I'm not excited, that I'm not a professional writer.

Oh no, she'll probably want to scrap the whole thing.

Okay. Right after fishing, before we start canning.

I'll call her then.

Maybe we won't catch any fish and I won't have to worry about canning.

I'll starve next winter.

Yuck. I probably wouldn't eat canned fish anyway.

I heard the roll of thunder off to the west. From the sound of it, the storm was close. I smiled. It was like someone clapping for me, or a cheer from heaven, or fireworks to celebrate.

All I had was my no-longer-frozen turkey dinner to microwave. A glass of wine. A couple of extra Milk Bones for Sorrow.

A grand celebration for my dog and me.

Until the electricity went off, thunder shook the house, lightning scored the sky like crazy strobe lights, and Sorrow and I went off to sit in the bathtub until it was over.

All the storm did
was clear the sticky air. The morning was hot. I picked Harry up at six-thirty sharp. He stood outside his crooked house waiting with two fly-fishing rods, a cooler, a slouch hat with flies hooked to the brim, and a pair of waders for me, folded and sitting on the cooler. I took one look at him, in his fishing hat and dark green waders, and knew I'd made the right choice. If it cost me that editing job—so be it. The day ahead, fishing with Harry, would be priceless.

_____

Quiet fishing rivers running through close trees and steep banks have a smell all their own, and a presence. It was very much as though Harry and I intruded, being where the water rushed on, leaving behind the feel and odor of coolness. There was a sense of something—a watching thing, or a sentient breath-h
olding—as we stepped into the current, waders up to our arm
pits, lines flicking out and back through the thick air, the tiny splash of contact, and then out again and behind us. Over and over.

I sensed mustiness beneath the clean scent of early morning dew and the feel of heavy damp on my skin. I'd had a few fly-fishing lessons so could pull in my line and send it arcing out beside me, but not the way Harry did. He was good—the rod and line a part of his arms and hands, his body knowing how to swivel gracefully as he cast.

I wasn't into the spirit of the rod and line and fly. For some guys it was a kind of religion. For me it was a matter of not twisting my line so it fell with a thud a few feet from where I stood. Or not catching it in the trees behind me. Or not catching a fly in my own backside. I worried that the slippery rocks beneath my feet would upend me, or that I'd step into a deep hole. Then, as I teetered on the rocks, I worried about catching a fish that required quick movement landing me face down in the fast water.

I moved carefully out into the river and found a flat rock to stand on. I planted my feet and felt secure. Harry kept walking from shore to shore, doing a zigzag through the water, casting and recasting. There was a lot to be said for a fly-fisherman who knew what he was doing and a lot to be said for a woman who knew her limitations. Harry was precise, even stylish, in the slow arc of his arm, the dark suit coat he wore under his waders taking nothing from belonging to the river. With ballet-like movement his line snapped beside him to curve overhead and land exactly where he wanted it to land. I couldn't help but admire a guy who knew what he was doing. But then Harry, as rough as he was, had this side of him in the wilds that was pure artistry. That was one thing I'd learned since coming up to the woods: art comes in all forms, sometimes without an easy manner or nice clothes but still with a deep knowing.

Harry moved further downstream. I stayed where I was, figuring the fish would come to me as fast as Harry would stumble on one.

I flicked my line sideways, getting the hang of it in my wrists and shoulders and feeling pretty good about how professional I looked out there, up to my hips in cheap green waders. I was beginning to smile a smug smile as something took my hook and ran with it. The pole slid out of my hands and sailed off down river, smacking the water and bobbing under and up until it got to where Harry stood. He reached down in one easy movement and grabbed the pole, holding it in one hand as he held his in the other. He pushed a gloved finger hard on the line and hung on.

I left my flat rock without a thought to my own safety—now that I was embarrassed—and made my way through treacherous water until I stood beside him. I grabbed his fishing pole so he could concentrate on mine, pulling back hard again and again until a shimmering sucker broke the surface and leaped about in the air. It was gray and big, with the look of a carp to it. Harry grinned at me, then waded in to shore to release the hook and string the fish. I wobbled along behind him, watching how he pulled the fish carefully from the hook and strung it through the gills.

When he'd finished and I was pretty sure I could do that much—if not really catch them—he turned his faded eyes, lost in a network of wrinkles, to me. “Why don't you sit on the bank awhile and rest yourself. I'll catch a few more of these boys and we'll get on home.”

I happily sat on the high bank, hugging my arms across my chest. I was dressed for heat in only a worn muscle shirt and shorts under my damp and mushy waders. I hadn't remembered about river water. Always a sliver of ice buried in a river. That sliver of ice made me think of the dead dog Dolly and I had found. So still and empty. Not dog-like any more. What kind of person shot a dog in the head? What kind of icy human being felt nothing for an animal in his or her care? Or was so removed from feeling as to look down into a pair of hopeful brown eyes, then put the gun to the back of the creature's head and pull the trigger. All I could see was Sorrow looking up at me, tongue out, eyebrows going up and down as he waited to see what I wanted to do next, how he could please me, how we could discover an old bear's den together. Sorrow was all about the present. All about laughing without laughter. Even more than one man killing another, the thought of a man deliberately hurting a child or an animal drove me insane.

By the time Harry had what he called “a decent catch,” I was shivering and beyond caring if I had jars of fish standing on my pantry shelves on not. Thank God, I told myself as I helped pack the fish into a cooler, for the IGA. I'd get through the winter and up the hill of April; maybe with a book contract under my belt. Maybe there was a nice, fat advance in my future. Why worry about a few dead fish when, happily, I had a future of possibility?

_____

I dropped Harry and the fish off at his driveway and drove down to my house to let Sorrow out and call Madeleine Clark. Thoughts bounced through my head—what I needed to say, how I needed to sound, how cool and blasé I needed to be.

There were two calls waiting on my answering machine. I hoped one of them was from Dolly. She'd been on my mind. I was worried about her. There were questions I wanted to ask: had she been to a doctor? Did she have a due date? Was she feeling okay? I remembered that green face when we found the dead dog. Her telling me her secret was like being sand-bagged. I was left with a load of my own feelings, that I wasn't allowed to talk to her about and I couldn't tell anybody else. No advice—if I had any. No helping. How did you befriend a woman like that?

And how was I going to work with her? Would she still want me in on this new investigation? Would she leave law enforcement altogether and drop me? My selfishness came galloping right over the edge of my concern. After all, I had stories for the paper to think about. I couldn't get close to the investigations without her. I pushed the button to hear the calls. The first was Jackson.

“Well,” he began. “Despite the fact you made a very stupid decision—I mean, fishing instead of getting the good position I offered—I've arranged a meeting with Cecil Hawke and his wife, Lila Montrose-Hawke, tomorrow afternoon. Lila suggested we make it threeish, teatime. Cecil will have work ready for you. A test of your ability—to see if you're up to his standards. This isn't an insult, Emily—I know how touchy you can get. It's only good business. The man is a consummate professional, just as Noel Coward was. One of those cool, but droll, Englishmen. I know you two will get along beautifully.

“I'll pick you up at two-thirty. That should give us plenty of time to get there. We wouldn't want to be exactly on time, would we? Puts people off. So, ta-ta. See you tomorrow.”

The next call came on with a male voice, hesitant. No one I knew
.

“Eh, Emily Kincaid. I read the news about the woman being murdered and might know something, or have an idea anyways. My name's George Sandini. Got a farm out west of Petoskey. There's a worker here who's been with me for years. He's a citizen even though he's a Mexican. I don't know for sure but it seems to me something's going on. This guy's really nervous. I asked him about … well … why don't you give me a call? If you come on out maybe he'll talk to you … eh …”

George Sandini left a number so I called him back. He picked up after a couple of rings and agreed to meet me at his place later. What I had to do then was call Dolly. It would be my way of getting around this big elephant in our friendship. I wouldn't say a thing, nor ask a question, unless she brought it up herself. She was right about one thing—none of my business. Her life was her life.

“Dolly's not available,” Chief Barnard's wife, manning the switchboard at the police station, said. I asked Frances to send Dolly out to my house or over to Harry's by about three o'clock. “Tell her it's about the murder. Got another farmer who thinks he's got something for us.”

Then it was finally time to call Madeleine Clark. I pulled her number off my computer and sat for just a minute with the phone in my hand. I made a list of questions I needed to ask, and then decided to forget the questions and be grateful she was willing to take me on, hopefully sell my book, and get me out of my financial mess so I could live a long and happy life back in my woods, on my little lake, with the crows in residence in the front oak trees, the fox under my deck, skunk under my shed, and Bob, the bear, visiting now and then to savage my garbage cans.

I already knew her voice when she picked up on her end, in New York.

“Emily Kincaid. Yes, I'm so excited. I'm having lunch with Bernard Long, an editor at Simon and Schuster, next week and plan to pitch your book to him. Do you have anything against Simon and Schuster? I mean, I want to sell your book, certainly, but I don't want to tread on any of your feelings about where you'd like to be placed.”

I assured her that Simon and Schuster would be great but didn't get much more in.

“I love your work. What a quaint place you live in. I'm assuming you do live there …”

“Yes, I live here,” I said, swallowing hard at the thought of how she might be changing my life.

“Then I'll be in touch by the end of next week.” She stopped, put her hand over the phone, and said something muffled to a person in her office. She came back on. “And keep in mind that whomever we sell your book to might want a series. That would be the way to go with this. Like Sue Grafton, you know, get people to meet your characters and like them.”

“Paperback or hard cover?” I managed to get in.

“Oh, paperback, I imagine. The business is truly tough—what with the economic climate. You'll probably be on Kindle and whatever else they come up with. Such a volatile business, Emily. But paperback makes your work more accessible. Until you get known—maybe then. Let's take it one step at a time. I'll make the most advantageous sale I can—though, to be honest, the advance won't be large. We'll hope to make money on sales. That's what I want to get into your contract. Perhaps advertising dollars or something new and creative. Book tours have fizzled, even for the big writers, so I intend to be reasonable with any editor I deal with. Don't worry, Emily. You're in good hands.”

She was gone and I had a week to wait. I knew better than to imagine things would happen that fast, still, as I got Sorrow corralled back on the screened porch and drove up my drive to get over to Harry's for my canning lesson, I hoped.

_____

“Here's what ya do,” Harry said, standing at his white enameled kitchen table with a large knife in his hands. The apron he wore over his funeral suit was bloody, but his hands were immaculate. “I skinned, boned, and filleted the fish. When you do it at home, ya skin it with a sharp knife. But don't scale it first. What ya do next is cut it into two-inch chunks. Then ya wash it good. See here?” He tipped a large bowl of fish chunks toward me. “That's what ya want. You go ahead get those jars cleaned and set here on this dish towel.” He nodded to where the jars stood on the drain board. “I'll teach you the rest after that.”

I washed the jars in hot soapy water, then rinsed them at his
single, deep sink and set them upside down to dry as he instructed
. When they were dry, Harry taught me how to pack in the fish, within two inches of the top. There wasn't much talk as we made a brine of water, salt, apple cider vinegar, and catsup.

“That's the secret ingredient,” Harry told me, his voice lowered to a secret-sharing level. “Catsup makes it taste like salmon when you open the jar. Best thing you ever ate. Well, next to salmon itself.”

I had my doubts but followed his instructions: packing jars, pouring in the boiling brine to within two inches of the top, then setting the jars into a low simmering canning pot and, finally, out of the hot water to sit on more dish cloths until the lids snapped down tight.

He was telling me to store the jars upside down in my pantry and how the fish could be eaten in about ten days or kept for the whole year, when his dogs, out in his makeshift kennel, began to bark their long, howling barks. We looked at each other. Harry didn't get much company—partially because of those fierce dogs—but something, or someone, was out there.