Dead Floating Lovers (26 page)

I thought Elaine would apologize or insist Dolly take the check. She looked at Mildred, who looked back at her. Both were well pleased. Elaine picked up the check and tucked it back in her purse with no fuss.

“Guess I’ll go get some of this food, since I’m paying.” Dolly put her hands behind her head and stretched hard, an odd movement in her black-and-white feminine dress. She made to get out of her chair but hesitated a minute.

“I figured you two would be going right back home,” she lied to the women. “No place in town for you. My house way too small …”

They sputtered and stammered and assured Dolly they were leaving right after lunch.

Dolly said, “Good,” got up, swaggered a little, and made her way toward what was left of the buffet. She stopped to talk to table after table of friends and never came back to sit with us, not even when Mildred and Elaine got up to leave, waving half-heartedly in Dolly’s direction.

Bill’s GPS said we were in front of the address we hunted for. I saw nothing. The machine urged us to turn, then sounded disappointed as she ordered us to go back. We did. The unpaved road we were on had no houses. There was thick forest on either side; no lights and no driveways leading into anything.

“Has to be the wrong address,” Bill said, stopping in the middle of the road to look hard to the left and then to the right, furiously pushing his glasses up his nose.

“Would they have dared to give Detective Brent the wrong address?” I wondered.

“Be a dumb thing to do,” Bill shrugged and moved the car a few yards, searching the side of the road again.

It was getting dark. The woods around us were deep and already murky as night. Somewhere, in the trees, a bird sang a nesting song, a kind of warning to the other birds. A stand of pines on one side gave that sigh they give at dusk, just before the wind dies completely. Twenty yards ahead of us a doe and her twin fawns stepped out to look around and then leap to the other side, babies tripping over their own feet.

Bill looked at me. I looked at him. “Pretty isolated place,” he said.

We were out beyond Peshawbestown, down a road that connected to a smaller road and then deep into the woods.

“The GPS says the address is here. Why aren’t we seeing anything?” I said.

“Want to get out and walk it? Maybe we’re just not looking at things right.”

I agreed. We left the car at the side of the dirt. He walked one way. I walked the other.

The empty road, the deep shadows in the trees, the quiet—it gave me the chills. I wrapped my arms around myself and walked slowly, glad for Bill close by. It was a good thing I hadn’t been stupid enough to come out looking for the men alone. Getting Sorrow back was about all I had on my mind, but becoming another floating dead body wasn’t high on my list of other things to do.

“Hey,” Bill called, “think I found a drive.” I hurried to where he pointed to a grassy opening between trees. No mailbox. No name. And so narrow we’d driven by twice without seeing it.

“I’ll get the car,” he said, and loped back to where the car was parked. He drove up and turned in the opening between the trees.

We left the car pulled in off the road and started up the almost invisible driveway. Bill had brought a flashlight. It wasn’t very big and not very powerful, but it illuminated enough to keep us from falling over downed limbs and into deep ruts. I took Bill’s arm and stayed close to his side.

Just when we were about to give up and turn back, we stepped into a wide clearing. The moon, just rising, lighted the edges of leaves, lighted the grass and the eaves of a small house.

Bill’s flash picked up a huge, round fire pit in the middle of the wide clearing. At its center, a triangular stand of peeled logs held a cooking pot. The fire was long dead. The grass in the clearing was tall. In the light of Bill’s flash we could see the narrow house with twin gables, but not a light, or sign of a human being, anywhere.

“Sorrow!” I called and heard my voice echo around us. “Sorrow!”

“Sorrow!” Bill called too. We stood still and listened. For a moment I thought I heard a bark, but it was more like a sound inside my head.

“Should we knock?” I whispered. Having given away that we were here, I felt exposed.

“Might as well. No car. No lights. Still, let’s knock. If he’s in there at least it will give him something to think about.”

Nobody answered though Bill pounded hard, first at the front door and then at the back door. We waited, knocked again, and then Bill shone his light around the back clearing. Another opening in the trees, only wider than out on the road. This was the entrance. In the clearing Bill picked out where a car usually parked, where the weeds were worn down. A footpath, trampled to bare earth, led up to the house.

“You want to go?” Bill asked after we stood still awhile, listening and hoping maybe we’d hear a car pulling in or somebody talking or see a light go on in the house.

I nodded, uneasy about trespassing, as we were, here in the dark.

We picked our way carefully back around the house and out to the car.

“You got the next address?”

In the dome light, I checked the paper Dolly had given me. Two addresses. No name attached to either. I didn’t know if we’d just visited Alfred Naquma or Lewis George. And didn’t know who the next one might be.

Bill programmed the GPS with the new address and we set off the way we’d come in, back up the dirt road and out to M22. At the stop sign, we made a left and kept heading north. The road where we were told to turn was about a mile or more down. We turned and soon there was a gong and the GPS said we were there.

Lights this time. A yard of lights. Lights on in a big log house. We walked quietly onto the wide, covered porch. Bill knocked as I stood back.

The door opened and Alfred Naquma filled the open space, blocking out the light behind him. He made a huge, dark silhouette.

“Yes?” he said to Bill.

Bill introduced himself, said he was from the
Northern Statesman
, then put up his hands as Alfred began to close the door.

I stepped from behind Bill. “Mr. Naquma, I need to talk to you. Not for the paper. Someone’s taken my dog. I’m getting phone calls. I’m being threatened. If you know anything about this, or where my dog is, I have to know.”

There was a moment of surprise, and then of hesitation. Alfred stepped back from the door. I thought he was going to slam it in our faces. Instead, he held it open, inviting us to enter.

The room we walked into was large, with a soaring, cedar-lined ceiling. Pendant lights hung on long cords, down over built-in leather sofas. The effect was of softness with a touch of gold. Native American rugs covered the floors and a tapestry depicting a buffalo hunt covered two walls. The place was beautiful.

He motioned for us to sit on one of the dark leather sofas, then took a chair, leaned forward, and set his hands between his knees. His head was down, hair hanging forward over his shoulders. He looked like a defeated man.

“What is this about your dog?” He looked up after taking a deep, sad breath.

“Someone took him. They’ve been calling my house saying I’ll get him back when your sister’s bones are returned or when I stop looking into the murders. Things like that. The last call, I heard Sorrow barking. If your people are doing this, I want you to ask them to return him. I can’t do anything to help you get your sister’s bones returned. I am in no position …”

“That Detective Brent said something about a dog. I thought it was a trick.”

I shook my head. “No trick.”

“Did you know the voice? The one on the phone?”

I nodded. “Your friend, Lewis George. He came to my house once and almost mesmerized Sorrow. I can only imagine he thought it would be easy to take my dog and get whatever you want from me.”

“If it is because you don’t want publicity about what happened there at Sandy Lake,” Bill said gruffly, sitting at the edge of the sofa as if he planned to be out of there soon, “Emily’s still going to keep writing the stories. If she doesn’t write them, I will.”

“I wouldn’t expect her to stop. I think … well … let me look into what’s happened.” He stood up. Our signal to leave. I wasn’t quite ready.

“Why would your people protect you?” I asked. “Mary and Orly and Christine were their people, too. I would imagine they’d be clamoring for you to be put in prison, if you had anything to do with the murders. Is it because you have some position at the casino? Do you always threaten people who cross you?”

I was plenty angry but Alfred Naquma looked at me in a way I hoped I’d never be looked at again. The back of my neck was yelling, “Run!”

He said nothing. He walked to the door. With his face blank and his dark eyes like stone, he said, “I hope you don’t think your dog is here.”

I was slow to shake my head, then looked beyond him and yelled out, “SORROW!”

No answering bark. I waited a few seconds, and then agreed that Sorrow probably wasn’t there.

“I will be in touch,” he said, holding the door for us, “very soon.”

On our way to Traverse City, where I had left the Jeep, I assured Bill that I wouldn’t hold back on any of the story.

“I didn’t think you would,” he said over a k.d. lang CD he’d put in for the ride to town. “And I’ve got something to offer you. Not much. But something. We need an obit writer—in a couple of weeks. Won’t be full-time but I can throw in stories for the Sunday sections. Human interest stuff. At least you’ll have a pretty steady income. With your other work … I mean, just until one of your books sells.”

I thanked him, and said I would begin reading the obits immediately, for the style.

“Nothing too creative,” he warned.

I agreed to tone down the fiction. “I’m thinking real estate, too. Could I do that, do you think?”

“Don’t see why not. With everything, you could make it. Might be busy in summer. But then there are the long winters to write.”

As we drove into the parking lot of the newspaper, I reached over and touched Bill’s hand on the wheel. It seemed only fair to warn him things might change.

“I really appreciate how you’re helping,” I said. “The only thing in the way is that I may be going back to Ann Arbor.”

“What brought this on?” he asked, pulling his hand from under mine.

“Jackson and I …”

“Oh …” He looked confused. “So … maybe back to the
Ann Arbor Times,
eh?”

“I haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well, whatever you decide, I wish you luck. Keep in touch. I’ll keep the obits open awhile.”

I promised I’d let him know as soon as anything was decided, got in the Jeep, and drove to Kalkaska where I stopped for three bags of chocolate chip cookies for library night before going home.

The library was packed with people. Librarians from surrounding towns were there for this very special event, along with most Leetsvillians. I had arrived early, store-bought bags of chocolate chip cookies in hand. The cookies got only a minor look of consternation from Anna Scovil before being removed from the bag and piled in an orderly manner on a cut-glass plate.

Coffee and tea were ready in tall silver urns, with sugar and cream beside them. The cups weren’t Styrofoam, but an assortment of china cups Anna must have scrounged from everyone in town.

The charge was three dollars each to get in for the evening—including coffee, tea, and cookies. Not a bad deal, I thought, and smiled at those assembled, tea cups in their hands.

I nodded to people who nodded formally back at me. Evidently this was a state occasion and therefore everyone was dignified, dressed in their best, and prepared to sit through family history, lady’s slippers, and whatever it was I’d come up with.

Gertie had put in a busy day. Most of the women’s heads were pouffed and sprayed. The gentlemen had trimmed their beards and even the long-haired men from The Skunk had their hair slicked back and stuck behind their ears.

Once every seat was taken, Anna clapped her hands and introduced Ronald Williams, who stepped forward to polite applause and slapped an enormous manuscript on the desk Anna had provided for the readers. I wondered if anyone else in the room felt like groaning, but I remembered Anna had warned him. Twenty minutes. I hoped she was going to check her watch and keep him honest.

“The Parkinsons came to this area in 1856 …,” he began, stretching his long neck out of the white shirt collar that didn’t fit him. He spoke in a monotone that only got worse as he picked up page after page and read to us: dates, names of places in the East his mother’s people had come from. Then we were on to the Williamses—his father’s family—back to when they first came to Leetsville and how they knew the John Leets family who’d settled here first.

I sat at attention, keeping a bright look of interest pasted on my face. About the time Dolly finally got there, taking a standing position against the wall among the travel books, I began to fade. I checked my watch and saw Ronald Williams had fifteen minutes to go.

He read on. The Williamses started a farm.

Ten minutes to go. Joshua Williams opened a tackle shop in Leetsville.

Ronald’s voice droned through the next two years of minutes from the church society.

Eight minutes. We learned how the one-room school got started—not early teachers or even other students, only a list of Williamses who went there.

Five minutes. I zoned out. There was a titter of laughter. Something I’d missed. A joke. He was looking over the audience, a wide grin on his face. He wiped it away and went back to reading.

Four.

Three.

Two.

One. I looked over at Anna. Surely she would pop out of her chair and move on to lady’s slipper slides before everyone fell sound asleep. I’d already heard a heavy snore coming from behind me.

Ronald read on. Anna sat with her hands in her lap, in her front-row seat, a look of rapt attention on her face.

“Twenty minutes is up.” Someone called out behind me. Maybe the snorer had popped awake and checked his watch.

Others added murmurs of polite agreement.

Anna Scovil rose, cheeks red, and approached Ronald, who hadn’t heard a thing. She touched his forearm, then shook it. He frowned as he looked first at the hand on his page-turning arm, then up at Anna. “Your time is up, I’m afraid,” she said, smiling, but not letting go of him.

“Well, I’m just getting to the part …” He pointed one long, crooked finger down at the page he’d been reading. “I know everybody’ll be interested in when the Williams’ barn burned down.”

“Oh, I’m sure it’s all interesting,” Anna said, but sighed. “We have other people waiting to speak, however. Maybe another time.”

Ronald wasn’t about to give up that easily. One of his hands folded around the edge of the table and held on. Anna, in a smart move, let go of his arm and began to clap. Everyone joined in, clapping loudly. There were a few bravos. Ronald could do nothing but take a bow, gather his worn manuscript, and go back to his seat.

Winnie Lorbach and Anna set up the slide projector, asking people to move to one side or the other so everyone could see the screen pulled down at the front. Winnie snapped a tray filled with slides into the machine, got the control in hand, and waved an imperious hand at Dolly to hit the light switch beside her.

Winnie was a good photographer. One by one, different varieties of lady’s slippers moved past on the screen. I’d never seen the beauty there, myself, but with Winnie describing them and pointing out differences and telling us where they grew and how they grew and what treasures they were, I thought I’d take another look when mine bloomed, next spring. Maybe I’d take some photographs.

Her presentation was smooth and interesting. She put up the slide that announced “The End” at fifteen minutes, not even using her allotted time. Dolly turned the lights on and people put up their hands to share stories of their own lady’s slipper finds. A couple stood to show a few photos of lady’s slippers they had taken and get pointers from Winnie.

Everyone was awake, but Anna Scovil stood to say there would be a break before Emily Kincaid read from a work in progress. She offered more coffee, cookies, tea.

“And don’t anyone leave yet,” she warned as chairs scraped back and people talked. “I’m sure you are all looking forward to hearing Emily.”

Dolly came over and took the empty seat next to me. I told her about my trip out to see the two men in Peshawbestown. “Bill went along. We found Alfred Naquma, even got inside. I’m not sure he knows what Lewis George is doing. I came away confused. Maybe Lewis George is the one they’re all protecting. This keeps going in circles. I feel like a dog chasing my own tail. I’m getting nowhere.”

“I think I got something on Christine Naquma.” She leaned close and whispered in my ear. “That old woman Lena Smith put me on to? She’s a great aunt or something like that. A relative, anyway, to Christine’s mother. Not one good word to say about Orly. Called him a mean drunk who destroyed his own family.”

“Whew.” It was so good to hear one of us had learned something. “Any idea where Christine is?”

“The old woman knows how to contact her. Belongs to a group of dancers in Colorado, she said. Guess they’re well known and travel to powwows around the country. She called somebody while I was there and whoever she talked to said Christine was dancing in the West and she would find her.”

“Great.” I congratulated Dolly as people filed back through the rows of seats and a large woman stood waiting for Dolly to get out of her seat.

Anna introduced me once everyone settled down, calling me the town celebrity, their very own novelist, and also a journalist known to everyone in Michigan. Over the applause for that out-of-proportion introduction, I gathered my pages together and went to stand at the table, pages too far down in front of me to be seen. I gave them the synopsis of the book I’d put together, taking them through the surprise ending that I assured them would astound the reader. There was a murmur and Flora Coy, in the second row, turned around to look at people behind her. She mouthed words at somebody. I read, bending to see, as Ronald had. I squinted, filled in words I couldn’t quite make out and read what I figured had to be a pretty exciting part …

“Mister.” The old woman in tattered skirt and torn lace blouse pulled at the sleeve of Randall Jarvis’s tweed sport coat. “Mister,” she said again, frantic as he shook her off.

“Go away,” he growled, bunching his shoulders up to his ears. The last thing he wanted was a beggar hanging on him. He had had enough trouble staying on his feet since the heart attack. If he didn’t concentrate, keep one foot plodding straight in front of the other, he might fall and die there in the gutter. The worst thing he could imagine happening at the end of what he thought of as an illustrious life.

I read for a while, looking up to smile—as all good public speakers must learn to do.

I figured I was close to my ten minutes when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned to find Flora Coy standing beside me, her eyelids fluttering behind her large, pink-framed glasses. I gave her a perturbed look and kept on reading. She tapped again.

“What is it, Flora?” I hissed at her.

She leaned very close and whispered, “
Witness for the Prosecution
.”

My mouth dropped open. I gulped a couple of times. The words she’d said ran circles in my brain.
Witness for the Prosecution
,
Witness for the Prosecution
,
Witness for the Prosecution
…

I knew that title. But from where?

“The movie, dear,” Flora bent to my ear. “I thought I’d better stop you. Others recognized the plot …”

I groaned. Tyrone Power. Marlene Dietrich—both the cool woman and the old tart. Charles Laughton—oh my God. My aging barrister. How far had I fallen that I didn’t recognize an Agatha Christie plot? What a complete fool I had made of myself.

I looked at the faces in front of me. Most were sad. No one looked back. They stared at the floor or up at the pressed tin ceiling.

I couldn’t move. I stood immobilized with my hand over my mouth until Anna hurried over to nervously thank me for my presentation. There was polite applause. Anna invited everyone to finish the cookies, have another cup of coffee, and come back often to the library where new books would be appearing soon, thanks to their generous contributions. I gathered my papers and left the building.