Dead Little Dolly (18 page)

THIRTY-ONE

I was happy to be home and to be alone.

I was happy to pour myself a glass of Pinot and settle in my faux leather recliner with a blanket pulled up to my chin against the May chill in the house.

Something was telling me this murderer we were chasing was laughing at us, dropping clues like black jellybeans and phone calls and biblical taunts while holding his sides with merriment. I’d figured out that the target, all along, had been Dolly. What better way to get at her than to hurt her baby? Then kill off the only family member she had? So—who was next? The only friend she had?

Which was me. I got up and double-checked the locks on the doors and went around making sure the window locks were in place. As it got dark, I crept, on hands and knees, pulling a curtain aside to look out, thinking I’d surprise someone sneaking toward the house.

Then I had another glass of wine and sat down to have a long talk with myself, about bravery and cowardice and real things to be afraid of. I fell asleep in my chair in the middle of the talk so I’ll never know which side I came down on, though in the morning I had a good laugh at my childish fear of the dark and got more than a little worried over the empty wine bottle. Which brought a resolution to stop consoling myself with alcohol and grow up.

Dolly called at seven thirty Monday morning. I was on my second cup of tea and thinking about a poached egg and toast.

“We’ve got the make and license out to every department in the state.”

“Great,” I said, though I figured this was old news.

“They’ll get her.”

“Unless she holes up again.”

“Could be the Norwood house, if she does. No way of knowing we’re on to her there.”

“Unless she saw ten squad cars in the drive.”

“Hey, what’s your problem this morning? I could use a little support here.”

“I’m supportive. It’s just . . . I don’t know. All this . . . stuff . . . and then Ariadne killing her boyfriend. Right now I’m not pleased with the world I’m in—where a guy like that can hurt kids, then hurt their mother—and she goes to jail.”

“Wish she’d killed him when he was hurting the kids,” she said. “But then, I never walked in her shoes. Don’t know what I’d do. Guess I’m out of the people-judging business.”

“You kidding? That’s your job. You go out of the judging business, you might as well retire.”

“Yeah, suppose so. Just maybe a little more thought behind the judging.”

Time to change the subject.

“You talk to your neighbors? I forgot to ask before. Anybody see anything when Cate was killed? Hear anything?” I asked.

“Nobody was home. Most of the women from around here go to the Kaliseum to swim in the pool. They go out to lunch and don’t get home until the afternoon. Oh, by the way, I called the hospital about Ariadne. Still the same. I’m gonna run down there and take a statement. Her doctor says she’s up to it and wants to get everything on the record.”

“You don’t need me for that.”

“Nope. Stay home and write that stuff you write. Oh, and thanks for yesterday’s story in the paper. I’m thinking that jellybean business will jog somebody’s memory. Somebody they know or maybe somebody they saw buying bags of black jellybeans.”

“I’ll keep them coming until there’s nothing left to write.”

“Good.” A long pause. “Omar came over Saturday night.”

“How’d that go?”

“Okay, I guess.” I heard a shrug in her voice. “We’re going to work something out between us.”

“That’s good for Jane.” The thought actually made me smile.

“Think so? Said his mom offered to watch Jane if I got in a bind.”

“Hope you take her up on it.”

“I’m keeping it at the back of my head.”

“Now there’s a lonely place.”

“What?” she asked as if she hadn’t heard me.

“Nothing.” I quickly moved on. “Have you ever thought about your friend Grace Humbert?”

“What do you mean: ‘thought about her.’ I go there every Mother’s Day.”

“Yeah, but, like, what would Grace do in the situation we’re in?”

“Huh?”

“You know. She suffered sneers and jibes and people’s fear of her all her life. Had to have handled it all some way.”

“What do you mean ‘fear’?”

“I saw an article about her down at the museum once.”

“Lots of newspaper articles down there. She was famous.”

“No, this was after she came back here to live. When she retired from the circus. All that hair didn’t go away. There was this little article about how the town’s people asked her not to walk the streets without a veil because she was scaring the pregnant ladies.”

“Geez. Scarin’ people.” Dolly thought awhile. “You talking about me scarin’ people? That’s why somebody’s after me or my family?”

“No. I was just thinking about Grace. What did she do when people came after her. I mean, did she ever back away from who she was?”

“How should I know?”

“Then why did you choose her as your stand-in mom?”

“Read about her. Liked her style. Figured she went through a lot and came out on top, famous in the U.S., maybe kind of wealthy, known around the world. All that with hair all over her body. Kind of like Cousin It from that old TV show. And I figured if she could do it I could sure get over whatever problems I have.”

“Yeah, that’s what I mean. It’s like, in the situation we’re in now, what would Grace Humbert do?”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Think about it. That woman had courage. She had a look to her like nothing was going to get in her way.”

“You think I’m going to give up because this all seems so crazy? Is that it?”

“No, of course not.”

“Then what the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” I gave in and decided I’d keep my “what would Grace do” strategy to myself.

I bundled up and took my egg and toast down to the lake to eat while the beaver harassed Sorrow and a pair of stately geese swam nearby, watching me as I huddled in a heavy sweater against the chilly morning and thought about titles for a series of books. I wanted to hang on to the “Dead” word, figuring that would keep all the books in the same place on bookstore and library shelves, then reminding myself I’d be shelved by my last name anyway. So all in the
K
s. Since I wanted to start the next book with my main character out walking around that little wild lake, I thought hard about the skull she would stumble on and, in a few minutes, I had my two titles. As if they were dropped in my lap. I went back into the house and called Faith Cardoni. I told her:
Dead Floating Lovers
and
Dead Sleeping Shaman
. She said she was thrilled and couldn’t wait to read the books. We talked about a book a year coming out and I got off the phone, suddenly hit with the real need to write a book a year and no real idea if they would make money. All I knew was that I had to give myself a fair shot at my dream.

My next call was to Bill.

“You’re sure?” he asked when I turned down the job.

“I have to give this a try.”

“I understand.” He took a long breath. “I’ll keep giving you as much freelance work as I can. I told you about the cutbacks here . . .”

“I know. And I know I’m crazy for turning this down.”

“Maybe not crazy, Emily. Maybe it’s Frost’s ‘road not taken.’”

“I hope so,” I said. “I’d like to think I’m not self-destructive.”

He laughed. “Doubt that. Oh, and don’t forget our picnic. A couple of people around here would like a shot at getting you to join us, despite what you’re telling me.”

“Let me know when. I’ll bring potato salad, for which I am justly famous.”

“Don’t bring anything. You’re my date, remember.”

I hung up not letting myself think about what Bill had said and what that meant.

Later, I put on my oldest clothes and went out to garden because I could think better out there with the worms. Sorrow sat dutifully beside me. I was congratulating him on being such a good dog, when a yellow setter came streaking through and Sorrow ran off barking, causing a commotion, until I had to stand, wipe the dirt from my knees and take off after him, up the driveway toward Willow Lake Road.

Since my drive heads straight uphill my legs gave out before I quite reached the top. I was swearing at a great rate when I finally struggled out into the road to see Sorrow standing next to Harry Mockerman, the very man I’d been avoiding for the last few days, along with any talk of his upcoming nuptials at my house, which was going to require strict concentration and days of housecleaning.

“So, how you doing there, Emily?” Harry smiled a rare smile. “See you’re still havin’ trouble controlling yer dog here.”

I shook my head. “No trouble. Somebody’s running setter. He’s got no business on my land.”

“Your land, eh? Well, now, you go show a dog a deed to property and see if he gets it.”

“Not one of your dogs, was it?” I kept a little tight anger at the back of my voice.

“Nope. Got no setters.” He let Sorrow slink over next to me, his shame apparent for all to see.

“Say, Emily, I’ve been wanting to talk to you about the wedding.”

“It’s all set.”

“Well, yes, but I was going in to see Eugenia this afternoon. Delia says I should talk to her.”

“What’s the problem?”

“We been kind of worrying about something.”

Feeling mean, I thought: Good. Maybe they would call off the whole thing and live together in sin.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Delia says I should come right out with it and tell Eugenia cucumbers in cream gives me gas.”

“Oh.” I leaned back, wide-eyed and trying not to laugh. “And that wouldn’t be good for the honeymoon.”

First he looked embarrassed and then he looked mad. “Getting old’s hell, ya know, Emily. First one part goes and then it’s another.”

I agreed, and agreed he should go talk to Eugenia about omitting cucumbers from the menu.

“The franks and beans okay?” I thought I might as well check that gassy item out before we got to the big day and had a red-faced groom.

“Fine. Just fine. Though I think, for myself, I may be skipping the beans. Just in case.”

I agreed that was a good plan and headed back home to have a close talk with some awakening lily bulbs and teach myself to be grateful that Harry’s big event was going to be held in my own scruffy outdoors.

THIRTY-TWO

I felt guilty, taking a whole day off. So I was back at the Leetsville Police Station Tuesday morning looking for Dolly and talking to Lucky because Dolly was out beyond town where kids had been knocking over garbage cans again.

One thing I can never figure is the smell in all police stations, old or new. I don’t care where it is or how big it is, they all have a distinct scent to them. Today I figured it out: wet leather. Not a bad smell, but something you don’t always expect, especially on a dry, warm day when the sun’s shining and the temperature is hovering around sixty-five.

Lucky sat behind the front desk taking calls from other departments and fending off anything that smacked of another garbage can complaint.

“Heard from France.” He leaned back between calls, arms behind his head.

“They find her?”

He shook his head hard. “Not a sign of her. The department head I spoke to said they did everything, checked immigration, checked her name, even ran her through their wanted lists. Nothing. If she’s still going by that name, she’s not in France.”

I was puzzled. “Cate told me directly that her daughter was in France.”

He shrugged and spread his hands wide. “Who knows?”

“Let me call Bill. He asked a friend to look for her, too.”

“Hope he’s got better luck.”

But Bill had nothing. “My buddy was going to go to the police until I told him you’d already covered that. He says he used all his usual tricks and even called religious leaders he knew, asking them to help. You know, that ‘cult’ business. Nothing. Anywhere. You sure this woman exists, Emily?”

I thanked him and got off the phone to tell Lucky. We gave each other the same odd look. I didn’t want to say anything but Lucky wasn’t as shy.

“You think she’s really over there or is this some story Cate made up?”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. Protecting Dolly.”

“From what?”

“Who knows? Maybe she just wanted to hand her a mother—dead or alive.”

“Makes no sense . . .”

We were deep into figuring out the mind of a dead woman when Dolly came in dragging two juveniles by the backs of their hoodies.

“Can I put these two in your office, Lucky? I already called their parents. They’re on their way over. Somebody’s got a lot of garbage to clean up. I told their parents to bring shovels.”

“It wasn’t me . . .” one of the struggling teenagers grumbled.

“Yeah,” Dolly sneered down at him. “You always go around with a garbage can lid in your hands?”

“He did it,” the other boy complained loudly. “I was only watching.”

“Take ’em in back,” Lucky said. “If they get off their chairs, handcuff them together.”

“Sure thing.” Dolly led the boys down a side hall, back to Lucky’s office.

He gave me a smile, the kind of smile only people who know Deputy Dolly Wakowski give each other.

“So?” She came back grinning and brushing off her uniform pants. “What else is new?”

Lucky and I looked at each other. Neither one of us wanted to tell her the news.

“What’s going on?”

“Heard back from France,” Lucky said.

“Good,” she said. “About time. How do I get ahold of the woman?”

“Seems you can’t. The French authorities can’t find her.”

She nodded a couple of times then turned to me. “What about Bill? He have any luck?”

I shook my head. “No woman by that name anywhere in France, unless she’s hiding from the authorities, or changed her name. Maybe she got married.”

She thought awhile. “Think Cate was lying?”

We fell over ourselves mumbling and coming up with denials.

“You sure you told ’em Audrey Delores Thomas, or even Audrey Delores Flynn?” she said.

“Gave ’em both,” Lucky said.

“Hmmp. So she doesn’t exist. What was Cate talking about then? Why’d she have to lie?”

Nobody said anything.

After a while, Dolly drew in a deep breath, let it out, and looked over at me.

“You know what?” she asked.

I shook my head: nope, I had no ideas, no help, no how.

“It’s about that jellybean thing. Like some kind of sign, don’t you think? I mean, somebody knew Cate would know what it meant when she heard we found three bags of ’em in the SUV. Then we got one dropped in the house after he or she kills Cate. Maybe a sign to me. This whole thing is nuts. I can’t put my finger on anything . . .”

I clucked, or something, showing my concern and at the same time relieved to have the missing mother business behind us.

“You want to come with me, Emily?” She turned to me. “Got a call from Martie Sinclair out on River Road. Said maybe a friend of hers can help us. Said maybe this friend drove Cate places. They knew each other from garden club.”

“What’s the friend’s name? Can’t we go see her directly?”

She shook her head. “She won’t give me the name until she talks to us first. Got it in her head she might be getting her friend in trouble.”

“Sure, I’ll go with you.”

We were on the way out the door when Dolly stopped, turned, and looked hard at Lucky.

“So, Cate lied. Looks like I never had a mother after all.”

“Everybody has a mother,” Lucky said, his look fierce.

“Not me,” she said. “And if this Audrey person is really my mother and maybe she gave me away and never got in touch with Cate the rest of her life, well, then I hate her more than any person should hate another person.”

On that happy note we went out to Dolly’s car as a van filled with angry parents pulled to a jerking stop in front of the police station. A man got out and yelled at Dolly. He shook his fist as Dolly saluted him and we drove off.