Dead Sleeping Shaman (9 page)

Still only 13 days to go

The offices of the
Northern Statesman
newspaper were down Garfield Road, behind a row of other office buildings. The ivy crawling the red brick walls was dead, bronzed for the year. I went in—perky and pumped—ready to take on whatever Bill came up with, except sports, or recipes, or township meetings, or a lot of other things I didn’t know a thing about.

I said “hi” to Belinda, the receptionist, who was busy talking into her headset. She smiled and waved me back to Bill’s office.

The office looked like any editor’s office I’d ever visited. Newspapers everywhere—not only the
Northern Statesman
but the
Detroit News, New York Times
,
and others from around the country. Then there were books and current copy—all in neat piles, or spread across his desk. Every corner of the room was the repository of something. There was one half-dead, potted ivy stuck up on a file cabinet and a sad, stuffed bear sitting on a corner chair, bent over toward his toes, eyes fixed on the floor, one ear up, one ear down, with a striped tie hanging from one foot.

Bill sat in front of his computer, head tipped forward, squinting over his glasses at a story he was editing. His heavy dark glasses hung halfway down his nose. I stood for a minute then “ahemed” and took no offense as he turned toward me, adjusting the glasses with his middle finger.

“Emily Kincaid. Good to see you.” He got up, bent forward over his desk, and shook my hand. “You’re still coming for dinner Friday, right?”

He nodded and smiled, lighting up one of those almost plain faces that turn handsome when brightened by a smile.

“I’m coming,” I answered. “The three of us?”

I got the nod I wanted. He didn’t have a date. So, no little redheads there to surprise me.

“Got the story. Thanks.” He pawed through one of the stacks of papers on his desk, came up with my email, and waggled it in the air. “Going in tomorrow’s paper.”

“I’ll keep you up to date.”

“Awful thing, poor woman. Any idea who did it?”

I shook my head.

“You working with Deputy Dolly?”

“Looks like it.”

“Brent ok with that?”

I shrugged. “The woman was staying in Leetsville. It was something happening there that brought her from Toledo, and then she was murdered. So, sure, Brent wants Dolly on it. And Dolly wants me.”

Time to change the conversation. The day ahead was full as it was. “I came about the column.”

We talked about things I knew well enough to write about. I told him that could be lonely hearts, how to write a mystery, or maybe about my garden.

“That’s it.” His face lit up. “Lots of people up here garden. That’s what you write about.”

“I’m not a master gardener.”

“Doesn’t matter. Write what you know.”

“I’ll start with slugs.”

“Sure. Good enough. Soon as possible.” He looked down at the copy he was editing, dismissing me.

“Can I borrow a desk?”

He pointed to an empty office across the hall and I went off to start my new career as expert on something I thought I knew but learned I didn’t every summer when the bugs and slugs and birds and deer got the best of me.

It was a little like being back at the
Ann Arbor Times,
sitting in an office writing with voices around me, phones ringing, people walking by, some stopping to introduce themselves. More company than I’d had in a couple of years. It felt good. There was something about a “real” job—other than staying home and writing books—that made me feel legitimate again.

I took on the slugs, easily turning out 800 words on the slimy, hungry, miserable creatures that plagued my world and had to be removed by hand and dropped into a can of salt where they dissolved, to my extreme glee, which only showed the darkness in my soul.

Bill was still in his office when I finished. As I handed him the copy, he said my pay would be included in the next check. Good enough, I thought, liking the word “check” for its substantial sound. I waved good-bye and was on my way out his office door when a thought struck me.

“That murdered woman? You know, out in Deward. She came from Leetsville originally. It seems her mother disappeared when Marjory was a teenager. Would there be anything in the paper’s morgue, you think?”

“How many years ago?”

I shrugged. “Marjory was in her fifties. So, maybe thirty-five years.”

“The college’s got all the old papers on microfilm. Check there.”

I left, agreeing that I looked forward to dinner at his house and asking if I could bring anything. Unlike Jackson, who usually gave me at least half the dinner to provide, Bill said he was all set, even had a menu written out.

I couldn’t help but think, as I went out to my car, how being married to a man who planned his own dinner parties, shopped for them, and cooked was the dream every woman writer across the world must dream. Then memories of dirty socks shoved deep in sofa cushions, tops left off toothpaste, and toilet seats left up to snare an unwary woman in the middle of the night tripped through my head, and cooking fell a few notches in my list of attributes a second husband must have.

Still 13 days to go

I headed back toward
Front Street and the college. Traverse City was always one of my favorite small cities. First driving along Munson Avenue—typical resort town shops: tee shirts (with a big grizzly guarding the entrance), miniature golf with waterfalls and ponds where a galleon sits perpetually half-sunk, and then Old Mission Peninsula, a finger of land jutting into the bay, a place where people lived on little coves and along curving roads. Old Mission was where artists and writers existed among vineyards and expensive, sprawling, waterfront mansions. The artists and writers lived off-water, in charming cottages or falling-down old houses, democratically sharing the spotlight with the wealthy because Old Mission was a little like an Irish town where artists were still respected.

The city had spread out, to the south. There were malls and fast-food shops, but also tiny, family-run specialty shops and quirky restaurants like Eurostop in the old train station where I would go on a summer day to sit beside the tracks, wave to an engineer, and eat a caprese sandwich with fresh basil, fresh mozzarella, and fresh tomato slices. And there was the Dennos Museum; Old Town Playhouse; a symphony orchestra; an ice rink; many, many galleries; the Opera House; and the newest attraction, the State Theatre run by Michael Moore and a host of civic-minded citizens. Traverse City was an eclectic place where, to my surprise when I first got up here, people still smiled and talked to strangers.

Northwestern Michigan College was off Front Street, back in on winding roads lined with big, old trees. Students, wrapped in sweaters, keeping warm against the cold wind sweeping in from the bay, stood in hunched gaggles, laughing and horsing around, the way students do.

I’d done searches in the newspaper’s morgue before. This time I struck out. There was nothing in the old issues. No missing Otis. I checked a Winnie Otis from 1967 through 1971, the years I figured Marjory had to be a teenager. Nothing. If Marjory was in her fifties and her mother, Winnie, left when Marjory was anywhere from thirteen to sixteen, those had to be the years when her disappearance would have been reported. I went through page after page, issue after issue, and found nothing. And nothing in the old obits either, not that there would have been, not with her mother running off the way she had, and never coming back. But where did she run to? I sat back in my chair and rubbed my eyes. It was conceivable, even probable, the woman was still alive. Had to be in her seventies. People were easier to find now, with paper trails left every year. Maybe through a social security number, an address, credit, tax IDs—something. If I only knew the name of the man she’d run off with, I’d begin there. One of Marjory’s brothers might know his name. Arnold, the famous one, was the eldest. He would have already been in his teens when their mother left them. Surely he’d been told who she ran off with—an area tractor salesman. We had to talk to Arnold Otis soon.

I made notes. People to contact. Places to search. Maybe even in Antrim County records. A name and address for an Otis who owned property out near Deward. Or Harry—I’d go see him. He had lived right where he was, across Willow Lake Road, all his life. If anyone knew people who lived in or near Leetsville in the last sixty years, it would be Harry. A trip down Harry’s treacherous, burr- and picker-lined driveway was in order.

Dusty fall light came in the big library windows. Moving shadows fell across the hunched backs of students studying at long tables. Others sat singly, in carrels around the walls. I continued hunting, looking up names and places. I searched for Marjory Otis in the local high school news of thirty-five to forty years ago. I looked up Arnold and Paul Otis. I found two of them under
News from around Traverse City
of 1971
.
A Marjory Otis from Leetsville High School had been a candy striper. It didn’t say which hospital or nursing home she candy striped at, just that she said she found the work rewarding and hoped to be a nurse when she grew up.

Arnold had been president of the debate team. There was nothing on Paul. Not a single mention of his name. It seemed Marjory was behind Arnold by two grades, so two years younger than Arnold, which would put him at fifty-four. I wished I’d looked for Arnold in more recent papers while I was at the newspaper office. I’d have to Google him at home, though that was always a tedious job since I had only a dial-up connection.

I left the library, checked my watch, and decided to treat myself to lunch at Amical, downtown near Horizon Books and the State Theatre. It was late for lunch and I was meeting Dolly and Crystalline for dinner at five-thirty, but I was hungry. I got a table near the fireplace and ordered squash soup plus an endive salad and a glass of chardonnay, spending everything I’d made on my column that morning. I felt I was owed a treat—a kind of celebration for my “columnist” status. And hadn’t I recently stumbled over a dead body? Such things could be hard on a woman. I needed soothing and sustenance. Enough of death, and a town full of people claiming the world would end soon. I threw caution to the winds and ordered a crème brûlée for dessert.

As I drove back through town after lunch, I decided that if the Reverend Fritch had real proof the end of the world was coming on October 27, I’d go shopping. I had a feeble line of credit, but Macy’s was having a sale. Wouldn’t it be fun, if I wasn’t going to be around to pay the bill anyway, to buy everything I desperately wanted to own and never could afford? That would be a gorgeous down coverlet with thick down pillows. A lot of books I’d coveted. Maybe some big steaks. I’d invite everybody I knew over and make primavera pasta, grill the steaks, and have bottles and bottles and bottles of wonderful wines from The Blue Goat. And think of the Murdick’s fudge I could eat!

I didn’t like fur, had no use for jewelry—beyond a pair of gold hoop earrings—and didn’t want a new car. Maybe I’d buy a boat to get out on the lake—but I’d never be able to use it, so that was out of the question. As I thought about things I dreamed of having, I realized how pathetic I was. No big wants and must-haves. No big cravings. I wanted my books published and liked. I wanted nice people around me. I wanted plenty to keep my mind busy. As an American consumer, I truly sucked.

Then I got real and thought about what the end of the world might be like. I guessed lots of fire. Brimstone too, but I didn’t know what that was. And those four horsemen pounding their way down US131—there would be gnashing of teeth. There would be screaming and lamenting. The storms would be terrible, with wind bending the world in half, lightning streaking the sky; thunder crashing overhead.

One thing I knew for certain, Sorrow wasn’t going to like it.