Dead Sleeping Shaman (15 page)

She nodded. “Good food. Nice people. Sally, here, is one of the inner circle, I guess you’d call it. She showed me around the campground. Nothing dangerous I could see. They took care of all the electric connections—things like that. Seems they thought I was some kind of inspector or something. I told them I only wanted a few words with the reverend, but that never happened. I mean, nice lunch and all, but the man’s really, really busy.”

Sister Sally stood there impassive. She said nothing. As it was, Dolly wasn’t saying much either. “You’re an officer of the law. You had business with him …” I began.

“It’ll happen,” Dolly said. “In due time.”

“We’ve got to get back out there, Dolly.” I pushed up from the booth. “Can I talk to you a minute? Over there?” I pointed to a far corner, near the pop dispenser.

Dolly wiped a hand across her forehead where beads of sweat had gathered. The room wasn’t that warm. “I suppose so. We don’t have a lot of time.”

She followed me to a place out of the hearing of the other women. Behind us, Sister Sally didn’t sit down, only stood where she was, and turned to keep her blank, shaded eyes on Dolly and me.

“What’s going on, Dolly? You’re not calling. I don’t know anything. And now you’re carting this … this … Mother Time around with you?”

She glared at me then looked down at her shoes. “You’re doing your thing and I’m doing mine.”

“We were supposed to work together.”

“Be dumb to stay joined at the hip. Too much to cover. I’m taking care of what I think has to be taken care of.”

“And I’m not supposed to know what that is?”

“Look, Emily, why don’t I give you a call later? Ok? I’d like to know what Marjory’s friends have to say …”

“And I’d like to know what’s going on out at the campground.”

“Pretty sincere people. This end of the world stuff could be real. I’ve been listening close and they’re onto something.”

“For God’s sakes, Dolly.” I was beyond frustration. “You’re not getting suckered into this crap, are you?”

She looked me straight in the eye, her face bunched and serious. “I’m looking into things. That’s all that’s happening.”

“Things you need to know for our investigation? Or need to know personally?”

“Maybe both,” she said, and turned to look worriedly back at where Sister Sally stood.

I took her arm and held on. “These people aren’t your family, Dolly. Don’t fall for …”

She gave me a hurt look, pulled her arm away, and went back to the booth, leaving me standing alone where I was. She tapped Sister Sally on the shoulder and led her out of the Burger King.

I wanted to run after her, shake her until the old Dolly came back. I knew I couldn’t. What I was going to do was get out to that campground with Marjory’s friends and talk to the Reverend Fritch. If he was casting spells on people like Dolly, surely Crystalline or Felicia or Sonia would know.

Friday, October 16

11 days to go

Jackson’s white Jaguar was
already in front of Bill’s house when I pulled up and parked behind him. I’d worked all day and was ready to party. I figured I wasn’t too late, maybe fifteen minutes—a fashionable time—and that was understandable, since it was raining buckets and I’d slowed down on M72, especially where the rain and wind whipped across the road by the Turtle Creek Casino.

I could see in the large front window of Bill’s little house on Eighth Street—a row house from another century with a wraparound porch; a swing; and a huge, very old oak in the front yard.

I could see Jackson inside the house, nodding in answer to something someone was saying. Bill walked past the window, a wine glass in his hand. A thin, young woman accepted the glass from him. I didn’t recognize her. No one I knew. Only a girl, really. Twenties at the most. She couldn’t be Bill’s date. At least I hoped not. Maybe a kid sister. A niece. Or—more than likely—somebody Jackson found … somewhere. Oh crap, I thought. Here comes another disaster.

I sat in my car for a minute longer, taking a few deep breaths before I went in. There had been so much happening. I couldn’t get my head around the changes in Dolly, nor this new friend of hers, Sister Sally, who sure didn’t say much but appeared to be occupying an important place in Dolly’s life. All I could attribute it to was Dolly’s desperate need for family. She’d never had anyone but a series of foster mothers—some who looked the other way as Dolly was abused; others who couldn’t handle her and returned her to Social Services as fast as they could get her there. What was left was Delores Flynn, a little girl who needed to carve a warm niche for herself somewhere. That niche had been law enforcement in Leetsville where people had to pay attention to her, where she took on the role handed to her with a desperate seriousness.

But now—family of a different sort. The stuff of cults: live among the alienated, be given pseudo-love, be made important to a cause, just like family, only there was punishment if you tried to leave. The thought of what she could be getting into gave me chills.

Even thinking about this new Dolly Flynn Wakowski made me sad. Poor uptight Dolly whose husband, Chet, had left her six months after they got married. A lot in one fairly short lifetime to get over. I knew Dolly’s intense focus on any problem. I knew her honesty. I knew she was a miserable burr at times. I knew she liked to guilt me out to make me help her on cases we worked together. I knew she could be rude, be a pain in the ass, be a bulldog, be opinionated and dictatorial. All of that. But I also knew we were friends. What I didn’t know was where the lines got drawn in our kind of friendship.

Time to go in. I couldn’t sit there all night trying to understand things that seemed to have no handles on them, no way in, and no hints as to where I might get help.

I hunted for the bottle of wine that had rolled under the seat. It was still in its brown paper bag. I seriously lacked finesse where the social niceties were concerned. Still, I gave myself credit for taking off the $11.99 IGA sticker before putting it back in the bag.

I opened the car door, got out into the pouring rain without covering my head, and ran to the big porch. I rang the bell. Before anyone answered I slipped the wine out of the brown bag and stashed the bag in a flowerpot, among dead geraniums. Bill opened the door as I shook my head to get the water out of my hair. He laughed and stepped back, out of the way, as I did when Sorrow threw raindrops in a circle around me.

Bill took the wine and admired the vineyard and the year, which pleased me since I’d picked the first white I’d come on that I could afford without looking too cheap. He took my jacket and hung it in the front closet while telling me how happy he was that I could make it. I kind of expected a kiss on the cheek, a hug, something to show I was welcomed. Instead, I got a big smile and one hand laid lightly on my back and another hand pointing to the living room where the others stood.

Bill’s living room was exactly what you would expect of a guy. No knick-knacks, no matched period pieces. There was a treadmill in a far corner, a few mismatched chairs—mostly leather—and a deep, sagging old sofa. On the walls were framed awards for editorial excellence, what must have been family pictures, and a single very good Georgia O’Keeffe.

Jackson, looking his splendid self in turtleneck sweater, well-tailored slacks, and loafers, threw his arms wide and engulfed me in a big hug and a kiss to my forehead. He held me there for longer than necessary, smiling down into my face, stirring old suspicions as to what he was up to.

Bill took my arm, turned me to the girl clutching a wine glass in both her well-manicured fingers and blinking big-lashed, Anne Hathaway eyes at me.

“Regina Oldenburg,” he said. “A friend of Jackson’s.”

Jackson moved over to push her lightly forward, his hand on the small of the young woman’s back. “My new assistant, Emily.” He beamed at me and at the young woman as if he’d just done the greatest thing.

I held my breath. News to me, that he had an assistant. And if she worked for him, why was I transcribing the Chaucer thing into computer files and burning disks for his editor? I made an unfriendly face—not at Regina Oldenburg, but at Jackson.

He threw his hands in the air. “I know. I know. After all the work you’ve done …” He snickered and wrapped an arm around the willowy Ms. Oldenburg. “But you’ve been so busy lately; I thought it was time to let you attend to your own writing. I mean, with this agent interested in your work. So, as a favor to you, I hired Regina, who was available and more than qualified to do the job.”

“Is this the surprise you called me about?” I asked, ignoring the hand Regina Oldenburg held out to me. She slowly pulled the hand back and shrugged off Jackson’s arm. I noticed the motion and quickly wondered if I was misjudging the girl. Maybe not another one of his floozies after all; the kind who thought “work” meant something you did on your back.

Jackson shook his head. “No, no. Entirely different thing. But it will involve Regina in a lot more intensive labor.”

I nodded, then smiled at Regina, looking into a very large pair of confused dark eyes. “I used to be married to Jackson,” I explained, assuming from her surprise that Jackson had said nothing. “Sorry if I’ve been rude. Jackson has a way of springing things on people …”

Behind us, Bill listened quietly. I heard Bill clear his throat.

Regina’s face reddened. “I’m sorry if …” She took a deep breath. “I told Mr. Rinaldi I wasn’t comfortable coming to a social evening with him. I think our relationship should remain one of business. If I’m not supposed to be here … I mean, if my being here is causing trouble …”

I laughed. “I’m sure you are a lovely girl, Regina. And probably the best thing to happen to me. I’ve got more than enough writing of my own, let alone keeping Jackson’s work up to date. Please, let’s forget all of this and start over.” I put out my hand. “I’m Emily Kincaid and I’m happy to meet you. Now, can I have a big glass of wine and apologize to everyone for gaffes committed and to come?”

I turned to Bill and shrugged. He put his arm around me and leaned down to whisper, “Jackson didn’t say a word about bringing anyone or I would have …”

“Welcome to my world,” I whispered back, took the wine he handed me, and offered to help in the kitchen.

Dinner was very good, and so very easy—after that uncomfortable beginning. Bill had prepared breaded veal in a white wine sauce, pasta primavera, a spinach salad, and wonderful bruschetta with a homemade spread of tomatoes, olive oil, garlic, and hot peppers. Talk was lively and fun and the more wine we drank, the livelier it got.

Regina, it turned out, was from an old Traverse City family, knew everybody in town. Her father, William Oslow Oldenburg had been mayor at one time and was still active in local politics. I asked if her parents had ever mentioned Arnold Otis, the man running for the state senate from a downstate district.

“He grew up in Leetsville. Kind of a local boy,” I said.

Regina screwed her face up, thinking, then shook her head. “I could ask them, if it’s important.”

“It kind of is,” I said. “I’d like to know what his reputation is like. I’m looking into … something.” I wrote my phone number on a piece of paper Bill supplied and handed it to her.

She’d taken a chair across from Jackson at the table but paid him little attention. I noticed and decided I could like this young woman and wish her well. I thought maybe a little warning to Jackson might even be in order. I was getting the feeling Regina was more than a match for him and that maybe he’d better watch his Ps and Qs, along with other parts of his anatomy she might break if he got out of line.

“Now, as to my surprise.” Jackson demanded the attention of all. He grinned at me and lifted his glass. “As I told you, Emily, I have something big in mind. It comes under the heading of ‘if you can’t beat ’em, join ’em’.”

I waited, knowing whatever he had in mind wasn’t an altruistic gesture to improve the world at large.

“I have been asked repeatedly to expand my horizons.” He pushed back his chair and got to his feet, then leaned forward, planting both hands beside his plate and looking at each of us around the table, one after another. “What I’m saying is that this is the announcement that I am officially leaving teaching at the University of Michigan. I plan to write full time.”

I think I gasped. At least I made a noise close to a gasp.

“I know, Emily. But you needn’t be afraid I’ll starve to death. I have my academic books out there and they sell well. For years people have been telling me that I’m wasting my talents writing only deep tomes based on years of research. I’ve been told to lighten up, take a less stringent and intellectual view of the world, and begin to write more popular books; more mass market things.”

I waited to hear what these “mass market things” were going to be, though I had a suspicion, which drove me to empty my third glass of wine in one huge slug.

“So.” He rubbed his hands together and turned a bright smile on everyone at the table. “What I’m planning is a mystery.” He bowed and nodded as if there had been wild acclaim. “I have been working on the plot and will soon have a working outline.”

I must have said something under my breath, or my face showed my disgust.

“Now, Emily. It’s a wide field and I think a male, academic voice is exactly what’s needed in the genre, don’t you?”

I shook my head but said nothing.

“And, since you will now be working with a very credible agent, I thought …”

“Jackson,” I interrupted. “I just sent the manuscript off. She may hate it.”

He shrugged. “What I thought was, I might call and have a word with her. What I have to offer is something which has never been attempted before …”

“Do you read mysteries?” I couldn’t help but ask.

He made a face and slid back down into his chair. “They aren’t exactly … well … you understand, the level of intelligence it takes …”

“My level?”

“No, no. But, you see, that’s what I’ll bring to my novel. Intelligence. Depth and breadth of knowledge. It will begin in a university town …”

“You will not call the agent.” I slowly rose and laid my napkin properly beside my plate.

Jackson threw back his head and laughed. No one said a word. “Of course, it is simply to feel her out on the academic mystery.”

“No,” I said again then stood very tall and pushed back my chair. “You will not call the agent.”

I walked over to Bill, certain my face was bright red, and thanked him for a wonderful dinner. I stopped at Regina’s chair and told her to give me a call if I could explain anything I’d done with Jackson’s manuscript in the past, or if she learned anything about Arnold Otis. With a look of relief, Regina said she would ask her parents when she got home that night. She added that she would certainly give me a call if she had any trouble with the manuscript.

At an unhurried pace, I went out to the front hall, retrieved my still damp jacket from the closet, opened the door to the porch where I picked up the brown paper bag I’d stashed, and ran through the pouring rain to my car, a little drunk, a lot mad, and more than all of that, a little embarrassed over the whole damned thing.