Dead Little Dolly (16 page)

TWENTY-SEVEN

I dropped Dolly and Jane off at their motel about seven. All I wanted to do was get home, thank Harry for letting Sorrow in and out all day, and go to bed. Emotions, with Dolly, were rarely raw and open things. She didn’t talk about much, only let her feelings simmer inside her then boil over in anger at the counter girl at Burger King, who didn’t get her change right; or the driver who forgot to turn his right turn signal off; or the poor soul (me) who had the temerity to suggest maybe we had to stop for gas.

So I was mad. She was mad. Jane was cranky and whipping up that little “Waa-Waa” into a full-out cry against riding in the car for so many hours and visiting people she didn’t recognize and having to put up with a tense mother who stayed silent hour after hour.

I let Sorrow out and then back in and noticed the answering machine signaled four missed calls. I ignored them. Being thrilled at popularity was beyond me now. All I wanted was to be left alone.

I laid down on my bed and threw an arm over my eyes until a warm, wet tongue swiped my face and I looked up into a pair of chocolate brown eyes with more love in them than most people see in a lifetime. I hugged Sorrow’s big shaggy head until even he got sick of me and pulled away to lie down, going off into one of his Doggie-Disneyland dreams that brought snuffling yips of joy.

In the morning I didn’t want to get up, though Sorrow needed to go outside before he had an accident that would sour our seemingly perfect relationship.

The message light still blinked. Four messages that made me groan. I didn’t want anyone to want me or need me or have things to say to me. I hoped for a chide from the electric company over a late payment when I pressed the playback button and wasn’t too unhappy to hear the robot voice of someone wanting to help me with my dire financial situation—if I’d only call this attorney’s office . . .

The next message was from Bill, telling me to call him first thing in the morning.

I checked my watch: six a.m. wasn’t “first thing” to most people so I figured I’d wait until nine on that one, a decent hour for Bill to get to the office. If he was pressing for an answer on the job offer I guessed I’d say no. I couldn’t give up everything I’d struggled for this long, just when I’d had a breakthrough with my writing. Maybe—later . . .

The third call was from my editor, Faith Cardoni at Crestleg Publishers. This one made my heart race. “Emily, this is Faith Cardoni. Could we talk sometime today or tomorrow? I’ll be in my office tomorrow, although it’s a Saturday. I look forward to hearing from you.”

So. It was real. I had at least one book bought and coming out sometime in the next year. But—talk to me . . .? Somehow I wasn’t expecting this to be good news. Hesitant phone calls from publishers were never good news. Maybe there was a quality in the woman’s voice, a kind of forced cheerfulness, that alarmed me. I sat at the table with a cup of Earl Grey and ran everything over in my mind. I prided myself on being able to read people, to protect myself in advance just by picking up signals. I always thought this was what women’s so-called intuition was all about: the need, because we were smaller than that other sex, to protect ourselves, to be ahead of the game.

By eight o’clock I was convinced she wanted out of the contract and was about to ship my book back to me. By nine I knew she wanted to take back the offer of the advance and would probably want me to pay for . . . I didn’t know . . . something. Maybe the whole thing was a scam. Millions of scammers hustling writers now—with the ebook explosion.
We’ll get your name out there. We’ll publish your book. We’ll handle your legal affairs. Oh, we just love your book. For fifteen thousand dollars we’ll get it into print . . .

It wasn’t until after I’d planted the flat of pansies, after I took Sorrow out into the spring woods and stumbled on a patch of white and blue and yellow violets prettier than anything in my garden, that I sank to my knees and reminded myself of real problems. Problems like Dolly’s, protecting her baby from an unknown enemy who struck whenever he felt like it; losing her grandmother to murder; living in a motel room, virtually homeless.

Real problems.

Sorrow and I went back to the house and I called Bill.

“I got a call here at the paper yesterday,” Bill said without more than a grunted hello. “Not really coherent. All I got out of it was that the police officer in Leetsville should be investigated for baby stealing. And that she was glad it happened.”

“Is that what she said? “I’m glad
it
happened?”

“That’s it. I don’t have a clue what the woman was getting at. Things like this can sure bring out the nuts.”

I thought awhile. “I’ll talk to Dolly,” I promised. “A woman? Hmmm. Didn’t get a name, did you?”

“I asked. She hung up. Probably nothing. Somebody Dolly gave a ticket to who wants to get even. Get a lot of that when a cop’s name is in the paper.”

I promised another story that afternoon, one about the cousin and a little bit about the search for Audrey Delores. Dolly and I had agreed I could start telling how she was hunting for Cate Thomas’s daughter and print all that was known about her whereabouts.

Then I had to call the state police for anything on the forensics. I needed a quote.

First—Faith Cardoni. Saturday morning. I wasn’t sure I’d really reach her.

“Oh, Emily.” She answered herself. “I wanted to talk to you about the next books in your ‘Dead’ series.”

I took a long, deep breath, and waited. No rejection. No chiding me for even thinking my work was good enough to publish. She was talking about more books.

“I’ll need the next two titles right away. I want to get the contract drawn up and out to you. If you could get back to me by Monday or Tuesday—we’ll get it all sewed up.”

I promised. Of course I promised. No idea of what the next books would be about. No titles. No plots—well, one. No new characters. But—sure, Faith, I’ll get you titles. “How about Tuesday?” I said.

I celebrated alone again because I didn’t dare call Jackson, who would probably be reduced to tears, and not Dolly—who had deeper things to think about, and not Bill, and not any of the friends I’d left behind in Ann Arbor and hadn’t heard from in months.

Me and Sorrow. A whoopee and a couple of jumps in circles, then a cup of tea, and a punch to the answering machine. One last message yet to listen to.

There was silence at first. A deep breath. A woman’s voice came on: “Rockabye baby . . .” the voice sang. More silence. A long, slow chuckle.

Then nothing.

TWENTY-EIGHT

She shook her head over her cup of coffee. “I stole somebody’s baby? What the heck! You think it was the same woman called you, called Bill?”

“Unless everybody’s going nuts.”

“You get the number from your call log?”

I nodded. “Bill, too. Same number.”

We sat across from each other in her tiny office. I nodded and handed her the piece of paper with the number on it.

She frowned hard. “I’ll check right away. Bill said the woman claimed I stole somebody’s baby, eh? Whose baby? Sure not Jane. Got the stretch marks to prove I produced her myself.”

“No clue. She hung up on him. Didn’t give a name.”

“And that was all? That I should be investigated for baby stealing?” She thought awhile. “Don’t people know by now that their phone numbers are left right there on the call log?”

“Unless they buy one of those disposable things. Then we wouldn’t know.”

“But you and Bill got numbers.”

She bit at her lower lip as she reached out and automatically rocked Jane in her car seat set on the desk. Soon Jane was jumping with the rocking. I reached over and stopped Dolly’s nervous hand.

“Think it’s that Ariadne Wilcox?” she asked. “You know the one. We went to see her and her boyfriend, the guy that abused her kids.”

I shook my head. “She seemed abused herself, if you ask me. This woman was taunting—like, ‘I’m glad it happened.’”

“She knows you’re working with me, from your stories. That’s why she called you. Means somebody local, don’t you think?”

I shook my head. “Could be anybody.”

“Well, I say we get back out to that spider lady’s house and face her down.”

“If it’s her, I’d say her boyfriend made her do it. He’s the cruel one. That poor soul—not enough to lose her little girls, but did you notice the black eye on her?”

Dolly nodded. “I told her she’d be better off putting a gun to the guy’s head instead of giving up her kids.”

“You think she could’ve murdered Cate?”

That stopped Dolly. She shook her head from side to side. “Not Ariadne. But him. Yeah. You know what, I’m bringing him in for questioning. Maybe her, too. See if she’ll give him up.”

“Why don’t you trace this number first?” I waved the paper at her. “See who it belongs to.”

“Okay. Good idea. Then we’ll know.”

“What about that key?” I reminded her.

“Took it to the bank in Kalkaska. Lisa there said it’s definitely a safe-deposit key, just not one of theirs. Guess I’ll have to take it around to some other towns. But how’d Cate get anywhere? She didn’t have a car for the last couple of months. That one she came to town in lost an axle. I never took her to a bank. But she was always bumming rides from people.”

“From whom?”

“Whom?” Her face broke into a wide smile.

“I’m educated, remember.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not sure who gave her rides. You know people around here. You need something they’re there to help.” She thought awhile. “Why don’t we ask Eugenia? She knows just about everything going on in town.”

“Okay. But to start with why don’t I call this phone number and see who answers?”

“Worth a try. Then I’ll trace it.”

“Not many public phones around anymore . . .”

I dialed the number. The phone rang on and on. Not even an answering machine. I hung up and gave the number to Dolly.

“So what’s next?” I asked.

“Let’s talk to Eugenia about anybody giving rides to Cate. Then I’m heading out to do something about that Ariadne Wilcox and Jerome Ordway . . .”

“And trace that number.”

She nodded as she started to get up. “Yeah. So? You coming with me?”

“You’ve got the patrol car now. Why don’t I talk to Eugenia while you go back to the station and trace that number. After that we’ll see about Ariadne and the jerk.”

We had a plan that almost felt like progress.

Eugenia was taping new numbers over some of the prices on her big wall menu. She looked down from her ladder and smiled.

“You ready for the wedding? Got about a hundred signed up already. I think some of them just want to see where you live. Some like a good party. Some are really happy for Harry and Delia.”

She climbed down to lean in close. “And some of the old biddies are shocked the wedding’s so soon. What with Delia’s mom barely cold in her grave. I asked a couple of ’em if they thought she was pregnant.”

“Geez,” was all I could think to say.

“My word exactly.” Eugenia nodded with a knowing look in her eye. “There’s some people got nothing better to do.”

She leaned back. “You ready for all of this? Sure hope it doesn’t rain. I never been out to your place but you better have plenty of room.”

I wanted to groan. “I have lots of room in the front, between my house and the lake. We could put up tables. I just don’t know where to get them. If it rains—well, I can fit a hundred in my house. That’s if they all stand and don’t move.”

Eugenia waved a hand at me. “I talked to that Reverend Runcival from that Contented Flock church. Said they got plenty of tables and chairs. And a truck to bring them in. He’s doing the ceremony so it has to be in the afternoon after morning services. Sunday, you know. He said to make it around two o’clock. You tell Harry it was on the third?”

“All set,” I assured her, then went on to list other things I was only then beginning to think about. “How about tablecloths? Napkins? Serving dishes? Serving pieces? Coffee urn? Cups? Glasses?” I started counting on my fingers. Not even possible!

“What the heck have I done, Eugenia?” My mouth hung open. “There’s no way I can do an event like this one’s shaping up to be.”

Eugenia patted my back a few times. “Sure you can. I got everything. Jake and the guys from the Skunk will cart it out and back. I just need a few plugs for the coffeepots. Some running water. I’ve got extension cords. And don’t worry, Emily, if things aren’t perfect, nobody cares. We just like to get together. Especially at some new place.”

She patted me again. “You’ll do fine. Just be there to point out a flat place on your property and me and my helpers will do the rest.”

“You’ll need a barbecue for all those hot dogs.” I was almost wailing.

She shook her head. “Got a big one on wheels we’ll be bringing.”

“For eight dollars a head?” I knew this was impossible and getting worse.

Eugenia laughed hard. “Some things in life you just gotta do. Can’t look at the money. Kind of like a present from me and my waitresses. Jake and the boys, too. You’re doing flowers, right?”

I nodded, thinking I’d go home and take a look at the daffodils. Maybe my early roses would be out. At least I’d have buds.

“Got room for a bower? They can stand under it for the ceremony. The reverend said he’s got a member of his flock has an old rose arbor she’s not using anymore.”

I nodded. Sure. A wedding arch. Bouquets of flowers. Room for tables and chairs and a rolling barbecue cart. Why not? The grasses in front of the house weren’t too tall yet. Area down to the lake was flat enough. If all they needed was room—I had plenty.

With plans in place, we went on to other things.

“What’s going on with Cate’s murder?” Eugenia asked as if she’d been waiting for the right moment.

I shook my head. “All kinds of things. Dolly and I went through Cate’s stuff back at the house. We came up with a safe-deposit key but we don’t know which bank it might belong to.”

“You ask at the bank in Kalkaska?”

I nodded. “Dolly did. It’s not from there. Some other bank.”

“What’s Dolly think could be in it? Not like Cate was rich or anything.”

I shrugged. “At this point we just need something. She ever tell you about her past? Where she came from?”

“All I know is where I got ahold of her. Down near Ypsilanti, if I remember right. She said she’d only been there a few months. Seemed she was moving around a lot but always in Michigan. Different towns.”

“That’s what I thought from the few times we talked.”

“And she mentioned that daughter of hers, Dolly’s mom. The one over there in France. I don’t think she ever visited her though. Think she would have mentioned going to France.”

“We’re looking for her, too. Lucky contacted the French police. My editor at the paper is checking with a friend of his, a journalist who lives in Paris.”

“Poor Dolly. I know she doesn’t really want to meet the woman. Giving her to the state the way she did.”

“Still, Cate was Audrey’s mother. She should know.”

I let Eugenia think awhile then asked, “What we need to find is the bank that key goes to. Dolly says she never took her anywhere to do any banking. Do you know if anybody here in town did? I mean, was there somebody she asked for a ride?”

Eugenia thought awhile. “Well, Flora Coy mentioned going places with Cate. I hated to think of it, not with the thickness of those glasses on Flora. Shouldn’t even be driving, you ask me. And . . . let me see. I think Antigone Jones picked her up here a couple of times. Going to Traverse, if I remember right.” She thought a minute. “No, maybe not Traverse. You want me to ask?”

“If you see Antigone Jones, ask. I don’t know her. I’ll go talk to Flora. It’s kind of important, finding the bank she used. Tell people, okay? We need to know who took her to a bank, any town around here.”

I called Dolly from the car on my way over to Flora Coy’s house.

“We traced that telephone number,” she said, then turned from the phone to talk to someone in her office. Then she was back. “Kind of a dead end. It’s the number of a summer home over in Norwood. The place belongs to a downstate doctor. I just got off the phone with her. She hasn’t been up in a couple of months. Keeps the phone on because she comes when she can and needs to stay in touch. Cell service out there is kind of spotty. The state police are on their way over to take a look at the house. Somebody got in somehow. Could still be there. I’m just hoping it can be this easy.”

“Me, too. Still, just because a woman’s making ugly phone calls doesn’t mean she’s the killer. You know how people latch on to stories like this.”

“Yeah, well, we’ll see. Let ’em get there and take a look around. That doctor said she’ll come up as soon as she can to see if anything’s stolen. But not until next week at the earliest. One thing, though, she said she keeps a car out there. White Volkswagen Passat. The key is in the house. She wanted to make sure that’s still there. Nothing else of any value. I got the license number for the car.”

• • •

Flora Coy lived in a pretty little house almost as quirky as Flora, herself. Windflowers and daffodils and purple hyacinths stuck up everywhere behind a white picket fence. No flower beds. Just a riot of flowers. Banners flew around the house, some stuck in trees, some attached to porch pillars, some hung in windows—all happy banners wishing people well; admonishing everyone to embrace spring; banners with Easter bunnies; banners with bright flowers, one banner—maybe the national flag of the gardener—sported a seed packet and a hoe.

Flora opened the door and seemed happy to see me, inviting me in and offering tea, which I turned down since I had other places to get to. The house was filled with birds in cages that hung and sat everywhere. It was a house filled with birdsong. A little tough to talk in, especially with Flora hard of hearing, but I finally got across what I wanted to know—about Cate and trips to a bank. Flora thought awhile then shook her head. “I only took Cate to market with me,” she said. “Never anywhere out of town. I don’t like driving much. You talk to Antigone Jones?”

I said Eugenia had mentioned her.

“You try Tiggy. Saw the two of them together more than one time.”

I thanked Flora and was out to my car, ears ringing with a hundred tweets and trills.

I headed home to write the story of our search for anyone who might have driven Cate Thomas anywhere in the last few months and to shut a couple of windows I’d left open. The sky was almost black off to the west. A storm was coming.

• • •

As I drove down to my house the rain hit hard and then settled into to a steady drizzle. I closed my two bedroom windows just in time and let Sorrow out.

Later, with a wet and smelly Sorrow leaping around me, I called Dolly. I told her Flora never took Cate to a bank.

“Both Eugenia and Flora mentioned Antigone Jones. Do you know her?”

“Yup. I’ll give her a call.” She hesitated a long minute. “Heard from the state guys. Looks like somebody broke in, out at that house in Norwood. They’re taking fingerprints. Can’t figure it. Norwood. That’s way the heck over there by the big lake. Nice homes. Quiet. I’ll bet they haven’t had a break-in in the last twenty years.”

“Do you think we should get out there?”

“I was thinking . . . maybe. Not my jurisdiction but we have this reciprocal agreement. You know, between all the departments up here. They’d let me take a look around.”

“Especially with the murder.”

“Yes, I suppose.” She was distracted, as if she didn’t quite hear what I was saying.