Dead Little Dolly (10 page)

SIXTEEN

I walked up Harry’s darkening driveway with picker bushes pulling at my jeans and the sound of baying hounds sending prickles up my spine.

The overgrown drive was a tunnel leading to the crooked house and the crooked doorway, and inside, there sat Delia Swanson at the kitchen table in that small room kept warm year around by the ever-present mystery stew bubbling on the stove. Delia’s round pink face and round pink mouth and round blue eyes lit up as she clapped her hands in happiness after I followed Harry in through the house and stood in the doorway, taking in the changes wrought since Harry’d announced their engagement: an African violet in a painted pot at the center of his enameled table, an iridescent blue dish hanging in a metal frame next to the back door, white ruffled curtains at the two narrow windows, and a prettily flowered dish towel hanging over the oven handle.

“We were just talking about you, Emily.” Delia rose clumsily from her straight-backed chair. “Weren’t we, Harry? Just talking about Emily.”

I hurried to hug Delia and stop her from getting up to greet me. I’d seen the look of pain on her aging face when her arthritis was on her and didn’t want any more pain today.

“Congratulations,” I said, meaning it and feeling the palpable happiness in the little house. “Harry’s told me about the wedding . . .”

“Well, yes. I heard you’re our wedding planner.” She grinned at me. “You don’t think June second’s too soon, do you? I mean, too soon after Mother passed. Some people said things to me . . .”

“You waited all this time to marry Harry so I think your life’s up to you from here on in.”

She thought hard, then nodded. “I’m over eighty, you know. Got a few years on Harry here. Who knows how much time the two of us have left? I can’t say Mother would be happy for me. She never was. But I can say I respected her wishes as long as she was here. One hundred and one. That’s a long life, I’d say. By my calculations, if I live that long, that means me and Harry’s still got twenty good years ahead of us.”

By my calculations, whatever time they had it would be well deserved. Happiness was what I wished them.

“You got an answer from Eugenia?” Harry asked. “I was at EATS the other day and she just said to talk to you.”

“She said eight dollars a head. Oh, and she can’t do it on the second. She’s got a wedding to go to. She said she can do it on the third, if that’s okay.”

He thought awhile, looked over to Delia, who only raised her eyebrows at him. He cleared his throat. “That the best she can do? Eight dollars?”

I guessed the date change didn’t bother him. “That’s hot dogs and rolls, all the condiments . . .”

“Condiments?” His eyebrows shot up.

“Catsup. Mustard. Pickles.”

“Chopped onions?” Harry asked, nodding as he spoke.

“I’ll ask.”

“Any salads?” Delia put in.

“Potato and macaroni salad, cucumbers in sour cream, chips and dip, beans and franks, and two sheet cakes. One chocolate and one white. Things like that. That’s what she said. Sounds pretty good to me.”

“I’ll make a half dozen apple pies,” Delia said.

“It’s your day,” Harry turned to protest. “I don’t want you working.”

Delia shook her head. “You don’t know a thing about women, Harry. Seeing people enjoy my apple pies will be a wonderful thing. No work at all.”

“What about dressing for the ceremony? You’ll be busy with that.”

She made a face at him. “I’ve been dressing myself for over eighty years. Think I can do it one more time and make pies, too.”

Harry looked over at me. “What do you think for drinks? Keg of beer? Too early for cider. How about iced tea? Think that’ll do?”

I told him beer and iced tea would be fine.

“No hard liquor,” he said. “Delia wouldn’t approve . . .” He glanced over to see if he was getting a go-ahead to serve anything stronger than beer.

He wasn’t. Delia shook her head. “One keg of beer’s all right. Iced tea. Maybe a fruit punch for the children.”

“We havin’ kids, too?” Harry seemed surprised.

“What’s a wedding without children?” Delia said.

“Music?” I pictured all of Leetsville tripping through the tall grasses in front of my house but “in for a penny, in for a pound,” as my father used to say.

“Sure. You got a phonograph over there? I’ll get some records.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll play music off my phone. I’ve got a speaker dock.” One of the perks of my divorce.

“What do you mean ‘off yer phone’? What’s a speaker dock?”

I sighed. “Don’t worry. I’ve got lots of music.”

“Country?”

“Sure. Country. Anything you want. Oh, and Eugenia needs a count. The number of guests.”

“Tell her to ask around for a number . . .”

“Now, Harry,” Delia spoke up. “We can’t invite just everybody.”

“Why not?”

She couldn’t answer and gave in, lifting her hands in the air and then laughing.

“Eugenia said she’d hang a sign-up sheet at EATS. Get some idea of who’s coming that way.”

“Good thinking,” Harry said. He turned to Delia. “So, how about June third, honey? Sound like a good day to tie the knot?”

Delia blushed as she nodded.

I offered to take care of setup and maybe decorate an empty arbor, if somebody had such a thing and could transport it, so they could get married under it. Harry was off to talk to Pastor Runcival and I needed to get back to my house, hoping for a phone call from Jackson. A phone call telling me something important came up, he wasn’t coming; or maybe he found solace with a more consoling lady; or his Porsche shot a piston; or he’d just received an invitation to a White House literary dinner.

I’d have settled for anything, then told myself, as I walked back out the driveway, I was being mean and all he wanted was a quiet place to come and rest before going back to the wars he faced daily in his long march toward fame and eternal renown as the writer of all writers of all time. Which wasn’t far from my own daydream.

It wasn’t until I slipped the key into the lock back at home that I remembered I’d left Sorrow inside the house and I’d been gone all day. He’d finally taught himself to lift his leg, of which I’d been very proud when we were out in the woods, but now I thought about my kitchen table legs or, even worse, the coffee table in the living room, or one of my stools at the counter.

I pushed the door open while telling myself that a little pee on the floor was a small price to pay for a friend without piles of old baggage; a friend who greeted me with face licks, when I let him; and a sorrowful, eye-rolling head in my lap when I was having a good cry over how crappy my life was.

I got a leap and a yip or two but not a drop of pee anywhere. Not a pillow chewed. Not even his water dish stepped in and flipped. Sorrow had become a gentleman. Even he seemed proud of his new status and was careful not to hit me in the chest, or knock me back against the door so that the knob left another dent in my spine.

I fed him and praised him before checking the answering machine. Two calls again. Almost getting to be a habit, this newfound popularity.

“Faith Cardoni here,” the woman’s soft voice said. “Your editor. I’m so happy to be working with you, Emily. I really like your book and think we will have a fine professional relationship. I’ve been thinking of the next book in the series. I hope you’re considering writing another and maybe another after that. We’re all excited about this project. Maybe you could call tomorrow and we’ll talk about your wonderful future with Crestleg Publishers.”

A
future.
I hadn’t dared think of such a thing in the last few years of bare subsistence.
Future.
No, no, no:
Wonderful future. More books. Happy. Excited. A fine professional relationship.

After another happy dance around the room, I let myself take out my checkbook and figure how I was going to live for the next year or two. With that ten thousand coming in, I was in good shape. Still a little money left from my dad’s estate, and a little from the divorce settlement. I had a few hundred a month coming from the newspaper. Maybe I could get some magazine work.

I told myself I was going to make it. Not a lot of space between me and the electric company and the gas company and the telephone company—if only I didn’t need a landline, but I did since I had no cell service at my house. And car insurance. There was always food, and clothes, but the Goodwill had better stuff than I could afford in the stores and I could eat as cheaply as any grad student on a ramen noodle budget.

I was going to make it. I could stay in my little cabin, on my little lake, with my big dog, and live the kind of solitary life I’d always dreamed of living.

When the phone rang I wasn’t even afraid to answer. I didn’t owe anybody anything at that moment so nobody was politely enquiring when I might send in my payment and I wouldn’t have to pretend to laugh, and lie that I’d forgotten, and I’d have it in the morning mail.

It was Dolly Wakowski.

“Didn’t you get my message? Word’s already out. Got a couple coming into the station about that SUV first thing in the morning. Say they think they might know something but they’re coming up from down below and won’t be here until ten o’clock. I think you should come on along. Maybe it’ll be your next story. Got to keep it going. Oh, and stop and pick me up first. Me and Jane’ll be ready about quarter to.”

SEVENTEEN

I called Faith Cardoni’s number in the morning and got an assistant who said she’d have Ms. Cardoni call me later that afternoon.

Next it was the trip to town, getting held up by two flocks of turkeys rumbling in the middle of the road. Two old hens were having a dispute over something and didn’t care if my car was big enough to flatten both of them, or if I was in a hurry, or if I honked until my head blew off. I sat and waited while one turned her back and walked to the side of the road, where her sister hens let her have it, sending her back to take up her quarrel again until I nosed my Jeep toward them, ready to nudge them out of the way if I had to. They gave up and, with more than a few cackles and lots of umbrage, went their separate ways.

I got to Dolly’s house just after ten, which she let me know was late. We dropped Jane off at EATS and got right over to the police station, where an older couple sat waiting on the two scarred chairs in Lucky’s office.

Well-matched, late sixties, nervous smiles for each other and for us. She had short gray hair neatly cut and styled. He wore a tan cashmere sweater and khakis. You saw their kind a lot around Petoskey and Harbor Springs. Not the ostentatious types dripping with gold necklaces and thick makeup, but more the old money of Petoskey’s Bay View. Polite people. Kind people.

People who couldn’t turn their backs on something they thought might be wrong.

That’s what they were saying to Lucky as Dolly and I walked in and were introduced.

“Probably nothing.” The woman, Janice Celrice, smiled a confident smile at us as we stood to one side of the room. “But I read that story about the baby being put in danger and haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. Awful.”

“My baby,” Dolly said.

Tears sprang to Janice Celrice’s eyes. “We’re so sorry.”

Tom Celrice put a hand out, then pulled it back. Embarrassed.

Dolly nodded, thanking them both.

Lucky said, “They’ve been telling me about a woman they gave a ride to. They met her outside a gas station down in Grand Rapids. She said her car broke down and she had to get up to Elk Rapids. That was Saturday morning. Then they read about the SUV being stolen there that afternoon . . .”

“As I said, probably nothing,” Tom said. “Just that we decided we couldn’t let it go. Only because it’s so unusual for anything like that to happen in Elk Rapids—that’s where we have a summer home. We dropped her off right at the middle of town. I offered to take her to her house but she said no, town center was fine. It seemed to both Janice and me that she would have had us drop her off at her home since she didn’t have a car and had just taken that long trip. Seemed odd.”

“Odd enough to bother us afterward,” Janice said and nodded.

“What’d she look like, this woman?” Dolly asked.

The couple exchanged a glance. Janice shrugged. “Sort of, well, very quiet. Hardly said a word the whole way up. I’d say somewhere in her fifties. Not very well dressed. Kind of sad, I’d guess you could say.”

“What made you give her a ride?”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “She needed help. Very upset about her car breaking down. For a while, at first, I thought she was going to ask for money, but it never came up. It was more . . . well, something else.”

“I did ask her what she did—I mean for a living, since I hadn’t seen her around Elk Rapids before,” Janice said. “You know what a small town it is. She said she sometimes worked at the market there.”

“But then she said she was having some kind of family trouble. I took that to mean a husband but she was silent after that,” the man added.

“Shame to say, Tom and I did pity her. We just wanted to help. A middle-aged woman, stuck down there in Grand Rapids . . .”

“What was she doing there?” Dolly asked.

“Something about seeing a doctor,” Janice said. “She did look as if she could be sick. I wouldn’t have offered a ride otherwise. We’re probably way off base here. She had faded blond hair. About shoulder-length. She tied it back with a black scarf. Can you think of anything else, Tom?”

He thought awhile. “Had on a kind of shapeless red sweater and black slacks. Think she had a blue or black purse. That right?” He turned to his wife. She nodded.

“And a name?” Dolly pressed. “She give you a name?”

“I never caught it,” Janice said. “She mumbled. I didn’t like to ask her to repeat it ’cause, to tell the truth, I’m a little hard of hearing.”

“And where did you drop her off in Elk Rapids?”

“That’s the thing,” Tom said. “We dropped her off on the main street, right near where that car was taken. Still”—he gave a small laugh—“I’m sure she wasn’t a car thief . . .”

“What makes you think a woman couldn’t do that?” Dolly demanded, eyes narrowing.

Lucky stepped in. “What the deputy means,” he quickly said, “is that it’s not hard to steal a car. The guy left his keys in it, you know.”

Tom shook his head. “No, I didn’t know. Careless. Still, in Elk Rapids . . . well, you don’t expect . . .”

“Was it a woman who hit your car?” Janice turned to Dolly, sympathy in her voice and in her eyes.

Dolly shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t see who it was. Could be either one. I thought a man just because of how violent it was, but that doesn’t mean anything.”

“I hope she wasn’t that person,” Janice said. “I don’t really think she could have been. More . . . You know, not the violent type. More the type to have violence done to her. I’m really sorry if we helped cause . . . well, I’d hate to think we were instrumental in what happened to you . . . in any way.”

Dolly smiled finally. “Nothing’s your fault. Like me being out at the cemetery. If I hadn’t gone or if I didn’t bring my baby with me . . .”

“But she’s all right?” Janice asked and Dolly nodded then mumbled thanks, again, for her concern.

Tom stood and helped his wife to her feet.

“If we can do anything . . .” Janice said.

“Don’t hesitate to call us. You have our information,” Tom added.

They left.

“You think there’s anything to it?” Lucky looked to Dolly.

She made a face. “Probably not. Still, I’ll go back out to Elk Rapids, see if I can find her.”

“You don’t have a name,” I put in as I made notes on what we’d learned.

“Got a description. Said she worked at the market. Only one out there that I know of. Plenty to go on. You want to come with me?” She was talking to me.

“I’ve got cleaning . . .”

“Crap. That ex of yours isn’t coming up, is he? That’s the only time you clean.”

“I have other friends.”

“Yeah, sure.”

Lucky said she could take the patrol car. He planned to stay in the office and get paperwork done.

Dolly turned to face me. “Jackson be gone by Monday?”

I didn’t feel I had to answer anything but nodded anyway. “Sunday morning.”

“Might need a ride into Traverse Monday morning. Jane’s got an appointment with the pediatrician. Just to check her out, make sure everything’s still okay.”

“Call me,” I said, and hurried out before I got the usual lecture on letting an old and dusty ex-husband walk in and out of my life and mess up who I thought I was, and then getting my head all mixed up over whether I should have ever left because the life I led now was a lot harder . . .

And on and on until I’d tell her to mind her own business and storm out, even as I suspected she was telling me a few hard truths, and I’d admit to myself I had no idea why Jackson and I were still so easily connected. Over and over, I’d asked myself, was this the way love went? Or was it just a bad habit neither of us could break?