Dead Dogs and Englishmen (23 page)

What we came up
with was that it was best to get Courtney James out of the Leetsville area. That's where Toomey would be looking for her. I could only think of two places to take her. Jackson's or Bill's.

Unfortunately, or maybe not so unfortunately, Jack wasn't home when I called. Bill Corcoran was.

“You understand she might be the target of a really crazy killer,” I said, wanting to make sure Bill didn't go into anything with his eyes closed.

“I get it, Emily,” he said. “I'll get somebody to stay with her when I can't be here. Otherwise, she'll come to the office with me. I'll put her on your old job—doing obits or that garden column you dropped. Whatever you need.”

He stopped a minute. “To tell you the truth, I almost wish you'd come and stay too. I don't know what's happening, but two people are dead. That's something to worry about. You're there alone …”

“Got Sorrow.”

“Yeah, that's what I mean. Nothing like a dog kissing a killer to death.”

“And I've got Dolly. And Jeffrey Lo is here.”

There was a long pause before he went right on. “I'm glad of that. Hope he stays close …”

I drove Courtney into Traverse City. Since Lucky thought a yellow Jeep wasn't exactly the right car, I borrowed Eugenia's old Buick. Dolly followed us in Courtney's rental. We took care of that first, turning it in, then drove together over to Bill's. He and Courtney got on right away. Bill put a big arm around her shoulders and promised to take good care of her. I watched the two of them and kept telling myself he was twenty years older than the young woman, that he was not like Jackson, that he was a good man …

I wasn't into trust yet. Old scars cut deep.

_____

Back in Leetsville, I dropped Dolly off at the police station. It was a relief to be rid of all of them. Courtney to Traverse City. Dolly in Leetsville. Jeffrey Lo off doing his thing. I got Eugenia's car back to her and picked up mine from the parking lot. All I had left to do was get home and maybe read some more of Cecil's book, or put time into the new book I was writing. I voted for me and began working in my head: me and Dolly and what happened out at Sandy Lake where that poor Native American girl was killed and left floating on a raft. Then the brave brother and sister avenging her death.

How good it was to clear my head of Cecil and his work; of a dead Mexican agent who had tried to help her cousin; of a silly woman who wanted to be a Broadway star; and of a girl who, rightly or wrongly, thought her dead mother had been murdered.

I could think clearly as I drove home. My head was empty of all the stuff tying me into knots. I purred, raising my shoulders to my ears, and holding them there. I let myself be happy. If I got down to my writing studio. If I got in there and shut the door …

_____

I planned to unplug the phone and light a bunch of candles and put on ani diFranco, whose voice could break your heart, and move back into a place where nothing came close to touching me, except a story that was over and was safe and I could step right back into and relive any way I liked.

I drove with all the windows down and Eric Satie, after ani, blaring at me like he was the latest rock star. The end of July up in Michigan could be hot—in the nineties; or cold—down into the fifties. Today was a compromise—low seventies, breeze so soft it almost wasn't there. Sun so thick you could stick your tongue out and taste it. The last of the wild daisies made flashes of sparkling white on the hillsides. I passed a field of sunflowers—tall and bright yellow—turned toward the sun so their faces and spiked hats lined like watchers along the road.

It was one of those days I'd come to Northern Michigan for. Almost no one on the roads. Woods—where the tent worms hadn't gotten—lush and dark with beauty and mystery. And then blue water and blinding shots of light skipping across the surface; hidden roofs, crows watching me from telephone wires, and hawks sitting high on poles scanning the ground for an unsuspecting mouse to kill. All of it was there. A single afternoon of beauty and death.

What I'd first come to northwest lower Michigan for wasn't what I'd been getting lately. I was getting something else; filling a lot of gaps in my life I hadn't known were there when I first left Jackson Rinaldi and Ann Arbor. There were people up here who knew me on sight now and seemed happy about that fact. A dog that loved me unconditionally, and that I loved in return. A book written and out there somewhere in the world—maybe sitting on an editor's desk as I drove. What else? My poor, nude trees … a small fox that had moved in under my deck … turkeys that came down my drive to see if there was anything worth eating and getting the shock of their lives when Sorrow drove them off … deer that used to come into my garden but didn't now because they'd learned I wouldn't scare them away if they waited and came in September to eat all they liked while saving me winter cleanup. Maybe it wasn't much—what I had—but there was magic to it. I wondered if Lila Hawke had found any of that magic here. Or if she'd only lived inside her head, with dead dreams for company. Funny, that I could feel sorry for anybody who didn't find what they were looking for, somebody with that much money, that much opportunity. But so very blind.

The first thing I noticed, driving along Willow Lake Road toward my drive and the long curve down to my house, was Harry's slapped-together car—part old car, part old truck, and some other parts I couldn't put a name to. It was parked at the very top of my drive, almost blocking my way in. I had to edge around the front of the mostly red truck with rust holding it together. I stopped, got out, and called to Harry, standing just a ways down the gravel. I figured he was out on one of his roadkill hunts, or maybe about to go into the woods for puffballs, if there were any this year. He turned, looking back over his shoulder at me, then waved his hands in the air, motioning for me to stay where I was, not come any closer. He walked up toward me at a rate I didn't often see Harry achieve. I parked there on the verge of the road and got out, figuring I could go down to meet him halfway. He yelled, stopping me where I stood. Harry's face was never emotional. He took life at a pretty even pace. But now his face was working, mouth going in and out, old teeth I rarely saw biting at his lip.

“Stay where you are, Emily,” he yelled as he patted the air. Out of breath, he ran toward me. “You wait right there.”

“What's going on, Harry?” I called down at him. This wasn't the man I knew—old jacket flying out behind him, feet slapping along the gravel at a great rate.

“Nothin'. Nothin' at all. I'm takin' care of it. No need fer you to go on down there …”

That was enough to send me flying toward Harry and whatever it was I could see lying on the ground.

Harry put out his arms, catching me as I drew even with him.

“What is it?” I pushed against him, then looked into his old faded, very worried eyes. I was scared to death.

He shook his head. “Nothin' for you to see, Emily. Just … well …
nothin' you'd ever want to see in your whole life.”

The dog laid out
on my gravel drive was very big, very bloody, mutilated, and dead. I stood beside the animal, looking down, and wrapped my arms around myself, trying to stop the shaking. I bowed my head. Murder—again. Cruelty. This damned, horrible evil set loose around me.

“Told ya not to look.” Harry was unhappy. Still trying to protect me, he tugged at my arm, pulling me away.

He was right. It wasn't something I ever wanted to see—except that I'd already seen one, laid out dead in that hot field. This was just as bad. The only thing good about it being that it wasn't Sorrow.

The dog was yellow. It was huge. It would have been frightening, if I'd run into it when it was alive. Somehow, dead, unable to hurt me, all I could think was:
poor thing
.

I held on to Harry, clutching at him, scared I was going to pull a Dolly and barf on his shoes.

My turn to be warned. There was no mistaking what this gutted dog meant. It was a message to me. Good thing Courtney James didn't come home with me.

“Think I saw who dumped it here,” Harry turned me carefully away from the dead animal. “A guy parked an old blue car right there at the top. He was coming up the driveway when I spotted him. Got inside his car and took off 'fore I could ask him what he was doin'.”

He didn't get a license number. “Didn't know anythin' was wrong then.”

I thought I knew what the man he'd seen looked like. “Big guy? Kind of dark?”

Harry scowled. “That's him. Kinda crazy lookin'. How come you know 'im? You mixed up in something you shouldn't be mixed up in again?”

Toomey, the ghost. The chimera haunting my imagination. He was more real now than before. Harry—my down-to-earth, steady-as-you-go friend—had seen him.

I shook my head in answer to Harry's question. I hadn't chosen to be brought into this any more than Dolly or Jeffrey had.

Harry clucked and shook his head at a great rate. “Could be bad, ya know. Heard of this kind of thing before. Leave a dead animal to warn people. Anybody doing that means business. Not real human beings at all, you see, 'cause real human beings got somethin' in their head that makes 'em know better. Hate to see you getting' into anything …”

“I don't have much of a choice.”

“Heard about them others. Dead dogs and migrant workers out to some of the farms. They was talkin' about it in EATS the other morning. Then that rich guy's wife. Think it's one of us?”

Since I wasn't thinking much of anything, all I could do was shrug and make a face.

“Somebody from around here? Hate to think such a thing.”

“Don't know, yet,” was all I could give him.

“People's pets comin' up missin'. Told you about that. Keep my shotgun right next to my back door in case I hear anybody at the
kennel, trying to get one of mine to bait those killer dogs of theirs.”

I shook my head.

I put up a hand. I'd had enough for one day; all the evil I could stand sloshing around in my brain.

“Can you help me bury him?” I asked finally.

Harry nodded. “Got a shovel in the back of the truck.”

“Could you make a kind of cross? I'll pay you. Just something … I don't know. I don't think this dog ever knew much kindness.”

Harry looked hard at me then nodded. “Got it,” he said. “No need to pay me anything. Feel just the way you're feelin'. Only thing is, if I ever get a hold a that guy what did this—well, he ain't gonna get no cross when I'm done, unless I drive it straight through his heart.”

_____

We buried the dog under maple trees that were covered with a soft, green fuzz—slowly coming back to life. The tent worms had gone from that first awful stage of eating everything they came on to the small brown moths, to the green, sticky cocoons I waged war on.

Harry got two white-painted boards from his house, sawed them to size, nailed them together and planted the cross at the head of the animal's grave. I asked him in for a sandwich when we were done but he said he was worn out. “Don't have many days this bad. Pickin' up dead stuff all the time but when it comes to a dog … well … now there you reach my limit.”

What I had to do was call Dolly and Jeffrey—fast.

Dolly was mad, because I'd already buried the dog. Lo was madder that Toomey had turned his attention to me.

“Got to get you out of there, Emily,” was his first reaction. “This has gone way beyond some migrant worker grudge. Where the hell are the dogs coming from? Nobody notices … I don't get it.”

He took a long breath, maybe to clear his mind of the dead animal I'd described. “Listen, why don't you come into Kalkaska and stay at the motel where I'm staying.”

“Can't leave Sorrow.”

He thought a while. “Then why don't I come stay there until this is over? You shouldn't be alone. This Toomey guy's heard about Courtney James being at the funeral. He's letting you know he's around.”

All kinds of things flew through my head. “If you don't mind … just until … I mean, I like the idea of you coming out here.”

There was a slight pause from his end. “Tonight. I've got some things to take care of first. That ranch really bothers me. Where the hell else would Toomey be holing up? It's like he doesn't exist unless somebody's dead. Think I'll start with Hawke. See if he'll talk to me, explain why in hell he's lying about knowing Toomey?”

“Be careful,” I warned. “They're both crazy. If what Courtney told us is true, that's maybe three people Cecil or Toomey's murdered. Nothing's going to stop them from killing you.”

“Yes, there is. Me. I gotta be there tonight to keep an eye on you, remember? Think I'd miss that? Could be the best part of this whole mess.”

When I hung up I took a look at the house around me. The only live thing there was Sorrow, sitting up, pink tongue hanging from his jowls, waiting for something exciting to happen—like a long walk where he could run and sniff the grass.

I told myself I wasn't going to be spooked by anyone, but I was lying. I wasn't only spooked, I started figuring places where I could hide if he got in my house. I planned on the best window to leap from, should I hear a noise. A window where I wouldn't break a leg and be a sitting duck.

I checked the locks on all the doors and pulled the curtains across the front windows, even though it was still light. I didn't want anyone standing between the house and the lake and looking in at me. Or anyone getting in a boat and spying on me. Or
hiding down in the tall reeds, then sneaking up the path at me.
Or anyone coming at me from any direction.

I worked myself up into such a state I thought about going into Traverse City, and buying a gun. Then I thought how much I didn't know about firing a gun and decided I would wait until I'd gotten a few pointers, maybe found a range where I could learn to shoot, and then I'd bring a gun into my house … or not.

When the phone rang I fell over myself getting to the desk. I hoped it was Jeffrey and he was on his way. I had a list of groceries for him to pick up in town so I didn't have to go out to my car and get on the road. I was thinking of a salad with chicken and a nice pinot grigio—or whatever he wanted to drink—and maybe some eggs for breakfast. But thinking of breakfast made my face turn warm because I knew asking Jeffrey to pick up eggs wouldn't ever be a simple request, with nothing read into it.

“Emily?” The voice went high. If accusation and greeting and misery and hope could ever be gotten into the same voice, Cecil'd achieved it. “I'd hoped you would call. At least to see how I was getting through this terrible time.”

Mea culpa.
“I didn't want to bother you,” I told him.

“You'd never be a bother, dear. I'm so alone here at the moment. I was wondering if you could come over. You've finished the chapters I gave you, haven't you? I have more. I've been working so terribly hard. It's the only thing … my grief, and all … to keep my mind off of … poor, dear Lila.”

“I can't right now.” Nobody was going to get me out of my house and into the dark. Maybe in the morning. And maybe after I finished reading the work I'd lied to him about, saying I'd read it all. And maybe after I got to Leetsville and saw Dolly. Find out where everything stood. But first there was Jeffrey. In a way, I thought, Jeffrey and I were actually taking care of each other. A good thing. And he would be here soon.

“Someone threw a dead dog on my drive today. I'm really not up to …”

“Terrible! Just terrible. Poor, dear Emily.”

“Somebody's warning me to stay away from everything that's been going on.”

“But what could that be?” he asked. “Oh, you mean that dead Mexican woman. But surely no one would be after you.”

I almost brought up Courtney James, but decided against it.

“What about tomorrow morning? I could get there about eleven? Would that be all right?”

He gave a disappointed mewl. “If that's all I can have of you, then yes, of course. I'll see you at eleven. And maybe you'd like to have a look around the ranch? Tomorrow's a big day here. An annual rite you'll find interesting. But I won't spoil it for you. Come. Bring back the chapters you have, will you? I really wouldn't want them to get into the hands of anyone else. I mean, especially now. Your local … constabulary … might misconstrue my work. You understand. I know you do. And will honor our agreement …” He paused, waiting for me to answer. I made a noise in my throat and agreed to nothing.

“Good. I'll have more work for you. And another check. We will sit, have lunch, talk. Make a glorious day of it. Doesn't that sound wonderful?”

He didn't wait for my next throat-clearing answer.

Making ‘a day of it' with Cecil Hawke sounded as appetizing as the day I'd just been through. But maybe a day with Cecil Hawke was exactly what was needed.