Dead Little Dolly (7 page)

TEN

We skipped Ramon Valderez and headed straight back to Leetsville after Dolly took a call that there was a standoff with an armed man in the pharmacy. I stayed in town until that was over then headed toward Traverse City.

What I needed was an iPad. Something to keep in the car with me so I could write my stories and not always be looking for a computer. For now, I was going in to see Bill and use a newspaper computer.

Bill Corcoran was a good editor. Particular. He went over every word of every piece of copy and I loved seeing that he’d made few changes in mine. A matter of pride, that I got things right, and I hadn’t had a lot to be proud of lately, with money getting low and not too many prospects for gleaning cash anywhere—except that agent who had my mystery out to a couple of publishers right then and kept giving me hope for a “quick” sale.

Only now she’d had the book for six months and I didn’t know anymore what “quick” meant.

It seemed writing wasn’t going to be a fast track to anywhere. Too many writers. Too many cheap choices on Amazon. No way to break in. My agent told me not to worry about that but I couldn’t help it. Life has a way of demanding seriousness when all I wanted to do was daydream about me accepting my Pulitzer with grace and dignity—or at least that’s what the
New York Times
would say.
Grace
and
Dignity.
Two of my favorite words. Unattainable virtues no newspaper would use to describe me.

I pulled in next to the ivy-covered brick offices of the
Statesman
and gathered my notes. I was there later than I’d hoped but now I was bringing Bill two stories: an update on Dolly’s hit-and-run along with the armed guy at the drugstore. Lots of photos of him coming out with his hands in the air.

I read my scribbling—not sure about writing the “Thou Shalt Not Steal” note into the story or not. Lucky didn’t like it, but Dolly didn’t say one way or the other. She seemed willing to put everything out there, anything to get the man who hurt Jane. If ever there was a vengeful mother on the warpath, Dolly was it and I wasn’t far behind. No matter what I said about babies, I was already attached to Baby Jane.

Maybe it was from the first moment I saw that little flattened head and scrunched-up face in the hospital after Dolly delivered her and I worried about Dolly’s reaction to delivering a Martian. Maybe it was because the little head rounded out and she dropped the lobster color and turned beautiful. Maybe it was because when she saw me now she smiled a gummy smile that broke my heart. The kid was truly beautiful. Considering her parents, this was what I now thought to be the miracle of birth—that a kid could overcome some pretty unremarkable genes.

I’d stopped in at the police station but Lucky Barnard didn’t have a whole lot of new information to give me, though he said he thought both Harpy brothers were out of contention.

“The Harpy brothers are staying firmly on the straight and narrow,” he said, leaning back in his chair, yawning. “George Harpy got religion. He said to make sure I let you and Dolly know about that. Willie went to trade school. He’s got a good job. Both the guys were sorry to hear about what happened. George is praying for Jane. Said to tell Dolly everything’ll be okay.”

“Weren’t they the ones got drunk and tried to tear out the clock in the park?”

“Yeah, but they seem sincere. Saw a Bible on the kitchen table.”

“You check to see if there was a pistol in it?” I couldn’t help asking.

“Now hold on there a minute, Emily. Don’t go judging people like that. These boys trying to make something of themselves and I say go for it. Give ’em the benefit of the doubt.”

I stood with my head down, properly chastised for a few seconds before Lucky stuck a manila envelope out toward me. “Give this to Dolly,” he said. “Should’ve thought about her first. Ariadne Wilcox. Child endangerment. Think you and Dolly should get out there. That boyfriend of hers got eighteen months for burning her baby. Dolly testified at the trial that got both Ariadne’s babies taken away from her.”

“Aren’t we looking for a guy? I thought that’s what Dolly said. I mean, the car that ran into her.”

“That’s what I’m saying. The guy’s a monster. Didn’t get half enough time. Worth looking at. That man popped off everywhere, what Dolly did to his ‘family.’ That could fit with the ‘Thou Shalt Not Steal’ business. Guy like that, brain like that, could think he had a right to do whatever he wanted to do to little girls he fed and sort of clothed.”

I looked down at the file envelope in my hands. “Ariadne,” I said almost to myself. “King Minos’s daughter. Kind of like a spider. A weaver of webs.”

“Yeah, well,” Lucky, no student of mythology, said and took a minute to get his face under control. “This one’s a spider all right. She’s the one left her hopped-up boyfriend alone with her little girls. Just as evil as he is, you ask me.”

I didn’t want to think about evil like that and didn’t ask any more questions.

After a while, Lucky went on. “About that Will Friendship. Tell Dolly he’s off probation. Nobody’s seen him in more than three months.”

“Anything on the prints from the note?”

He shook his head. “Nothing so far.”

When I got into the newspaper Bill Corcoran sat behind his desk, mussed head of thick brown hair dipped down over an article he was editing, muttering to himself as he worked. I hated to interrupt, but if you didn’t interrupt Bill he’d never look up.

As it was, I startled him, the middle finger of his left hand flying to hold his horn-rimmed glasses in place, or push them up on his head. He always took a minute or two to focus, then he’d place you, then break out a wide, warm smile that never failed to make my day.

“So, Emily.” He leaned back in his creaking chair. “How’s your friend doing? Baby okay?”

“Fine. Hairline fracture. It’s all here in my story.”

“I’m happy for her. Hope she doesn’t take that baby out with her anymore.”

I shrugged then shook my fistful of notes at him. “I need to use one of your computers.”

That arranged quickly, I occupied an empty office and got to work.

I put in the “Thou Shalt Not Steal” bit after all. If the lead on the article featured that—and I was sure it would—a lot of people would be drawn to the story and not pass right over it. What I figured was that Dolly and Lucky needed all the help they could get right them and I was a conduit to the public. Somebody always knew something that could help.

As I was leaving, Bill called me back into his office to say the newspaper was throwing a picnic for the employees, plus stringers like me. He assured me it would be fun. He’d let me know the date. Fun wasn’t what I was interested in right then but I promised I’d make it if I could, and for that I got a funny look, as if maybe he’d asked me for a date and I’d missed it completely.

After I stopped at the library to pick up a book on caring for babies and was on my way home, I told myself to stop reading things into looks and offers. A picnic was a picnic was a picnic and nothing else. By the time I pulled down my drive, I’d gotten over worrying about Bill’s feelings and decided the look I got from Bill was because I forgotten to say I’d bring the potato salad.

ELEVEN

A couple days later, with not much happening in Dolly’s case and me milking old facts for a daily story, I came home to a note tacked to my screen door:

GOT THE WEDDING PLANNED YET?

Under the single question were numbers. One through three had lines drawn through them. Four stood alone. That meant Harry had been over four times for an answer while I was gone. If I hadn’t returned when I did, who knows how many times he’d be visiting in that vehicle of his or walking up his drive and down mine to see me.

I’d have to call Eugenia for a menu and a price.

So many complications. I wanted to sigh and pack it all in.

When I walked in the door Sorrow came bounding across the living room to greet me—which shouldn’t have happened since I’d closed him out on the screened porch, but there he was and there was the porch door wide open. My amazing Houdini of a dog.

And then he piddled his happiness on my hall rug, which called for a bucket, and a scrub brush, and a rag, and me down on my knees, swearing and scrubbing as Sorrow stupidly stuck his nose in my ear.

But who can get mad at anybody so happy to see you? I sat back and scratched his ears and patted his black shaggy head and talked baby talk to him because I figured I was always going to be one of those women who maybe should have had a baby but got a dog instead.

At least it wasn’t a dozen cats.

Yet.

I poured myself a full glass of Pinot Grigio and ambled down to the lake to sit and watch the loons dive then make bets with myself as to where they would surface. A fun game for the end of an uneventful day.

For a while I tried to think about nothing but Sorrow barking at the beaver and the beaver slapping the water hard with his tail, neither one of them settling anything with their aggression. And that led me to think of Middle East wars where one side slapped a tail and then the other and they all grumbled for a hundred years until one slapped a tail again.

And that led me back to Dolly, who was slapping her tail in every direction she could think to slap in.

So wearying, seeing Dolly Wakowski turned inward, and churned up and mad and thoughtful but maybe not thinking at her best. This wasn’t the Dolly I used to know, before Baby Jane. All I could think about as I set my empty glass at the edge of the dock was what a strange metamorphosis motherhood brought on some women. Like, all of a sudden they stopped thinking about themselves completely and there’s this new person with needs; a being depending on them for life. Dolly would die before letting anything happen to Jane. Not only die, but first launch her body like a missile to protect that tiny, kind of boring, person. I liked the kid all right. But give my life for her? I’d have to think about that one.

I sat down beside my empty glass and stuck my bare feet into the water, creating circles moving off into the growing darkness. It was getting cold, though the day had been a warm one. After a time of stillness, tiny fish came over to take a look at my skinny feet until I wiggled a toe. Another great game.

I wasn’t thinking about much of anything so there was room for other worries to slip in and Jackson came to mind. I had to call him. He wasn’t one to be ignored for long. One day there would be a barrage of calls, or he might come zipping down my drive in a hail of gravel, angry with me for making him worry.

All of that got me up off the dock with a shiver, a wave to the angry beaver and the dispersing loons, and then back into the house to face the dreaded answering machine.

I hit the play button and hoped against hope it wasn’t somebody wanting to sell me a cemetery plot, which on more than one occasion had ruined a perfectly good day.

“Emily, this is Madeleine Clark . . .”

My heart sped up. It was my agent. Agents only called when there was something important to say. Rejections came by mail or email. This was a phone call . . .

“We have an offer. Please call as soon as possible. I would like to discuss this with you . . . eh . . . well . . . Call me. I’m staying late.”

No time for the second call. I dialed Madeleine Clark’s
number and held my breath until she came on the line.

“Emily! Isn’t this exciting? Our first deal together.”

“Yes,” I choked out. “Exciting.”

“It’s from Crestleg Publishers. Your editor’s name is Faith Cardoni. She had to go out of town but will be in touch as soon as we’ve got the contract signed. She has a few changes she’d like you to consider . . .”

So much at once: I had an editor with a name. I had a publishing house that wanted to bring out my novel. And . . . oh, oh . . . the editor wanted changes.

“They’re new to mystery publishing, but looking solid, I’d say. Very, very solid. I think this will be a good career move for you . . .”

How could I help but think:
Any career move would be good for me!

“It isn’t a lot of money . . .”

Here came reality.

“Standard royalties. A ten-thousand-dollar advance. Half on acceptance and half on publication. Advances are lower these days, you understand.”

I nodded, realized she couldn’t see me, and croaked out, “Sure. Sounds fine.”

The rest was how good she thought the book was and that she hoped I’d get right to work on the next one and a final congratulations, a promise to get the contract to me as soon as she got it, and then good-bye.

I danced in circles around the house with Sorrow leaping beside me, wanting to be a part of whatever this grand celebration might be.

There was a knock at the door and I happily answered to find Harry standing on my tiny porch, his heavy eyebrows drawn together.

“Come in! Come in!” I opened the door wide. “Oh, Harry, I just heard from my literary agent. My book is sold!”

I could hardly stop myself from leaping up and down again, then reaching out to take his gnarled hands in mine and do a jig.

Harry leaned back and eyed me coldly. “This is my fifth time over to see you.”

Feeling a sudden rush of ice over my skin, I stopped still and blinked at him. “I was in town.”

“Yeah, figured. But, you know, I asked Delia to marry me and she said yes and now all that’s holding up the works is you.”

“Yes, but . . .” I was going to try again to make somebody happy for me. “It’s hard to think right now. This is such good news! I’ve been working . . . so . . .”

“You mean me and Delia. Yeah, I think so, too. Good news. Be great for both of us. Figure I could stay at her house during the winter. You know my house gets cold.”

I gave up. “I’ll call Eugenia. She was talking about a picnic, maybe hot dogs and things like that. Over at Delia’s house.”

“Can’t be there. Delia says she’d feel like she was rubbing her mother’s nose in it. You know, getting married so soon after the woman died.”

“Can’t be at your house. Those dogs . . .”

“I know. Thought about here. You got plenty of room.”

“Not for the whole town.”
Appalled wasn’t a strong enough word for what I felt.

He shrugged and started for the door. “This’ll do fine. I’m paying for the food. And you tell Eugenia hot dogs are okay, but I got that freezer full of meat.”

“I told her,” I said, then added, meanly, “She said she wasn’t cooking meat with tire tread on it.”

He was still sputtering when he stepped out to the porch and I shut the door behind him.

That left me one phone message to check.

I figured I was running fifty-fifty when I heard Jackson’s voice and wished I’d taken a hammer to the machine before answering. All I wanted was maybe ten minutes to celebrate. And somebody to celebrate with.

I got Jackson Rinaldi.

“Terrible, Emily. Just terrible. My book:
On the Way to Canterbury: The Days and Hours of Chaucer’s Pilgrims
,
has been panned in the
New York Times
. Can you imagine? I mean, a scathing review by a cretin from Yale who knows nothing, absolutely nothing about Chaucer or his pilgrims. I’m devastated, nonetheless. I have to come see you this weekend. I’m pleading. I promise not to bring anyone with me. It will be me, alone, along with my sad and bleeding ego. Please call me back immediately. We have to talk. You know how long I’ve worked. This is the book to end all books on Chaucer, but there’s such jealousy in academia. Such pettiness. Listen to this . . . he calls the book ‘unreticulated, without coherent structure.’ Can you imagine? ‘Unreticulated!’ Doesn’t that mean without lines or something? He’s a fool. A total fool. If I could get my hands on him . . . Oh, Lord . . . I don’t know where to turn. You have to let me come up there and stay a few days. There’s no one else . . . and you know I still love you best . . . Well, call me. Immediately.”

I felt my joy turn to nails in my bloodstream and rip their rusty way into my heart. I thought I heard happiness hit the floor behind me with a loud thunk. Jackson. Miserable. It would be cruel of me to tell him my good news. It would be cruel to tell him he couldn’t run to my cabin to hide.

And my news, if I dared tell him, would be,
“Nice. Popular literature, after all.”

Maybe it was the mothering thing going on inside of me, or just the habit of Jackson. I called him back and thankfully got his machine to “tsk, tsk” into and tell him I’d be happy to have him come tomorrow night and leave on Sunday morning, limiting the visit to one long Saturday, which, in itself, was a step forward for me—the limiting, not the mothering bit.

I hung up and thought about my good news and his bad news. I gave a sudden snicker, a fist pump, and then a single click of my heels as I jumped in the air, along with Sorrow, my very best friend.

Loved me best, huh. Out of how big a field, Jackson?

Come on, Jackson. Come see me.

I decided to save my news until he was there in person.