Dead Dogs and Englishmen (17 page)

“Lila called him ‘Toomey.' I'm pretty sure that's what I heard …”

“Really?” His eyebrows shot up.

“It's just that an INS agent is here in town, looking into that murder I've been writing about …”

His hand fell from the door. His eyes narrowed.

“The name Toomey came up in connection with a man threatening a few of the migrant workers,” I said.

Without hesitating he shook his head. “Never heard of him …”

“But, I thought she called that man …”

“You'll have to ask Lila then, won't you?” I got a tight smile and an impatient look. He stopped a minute. “Who is this agent? The one who mentioned the man's name? Is he still up here? I just … well … I hardly think anyone having something to do with a murder would be coming to my front door.”

“Could you ask? It's important. The woman who was murdered was a Mexican emigration agent. Agent Lo—the guy here investigating—needs all the help …”

“I imagine he does.” He stopped to think a moment then spread his hands. “But you see I employ so many.”

“Would you ask Lila who the man was the other day? I mean, she'd know …”

The door closed in my face and I was left talking to myself.

Emily, I swear to
god, something awful's happened. I don't know what to do, where to turn. I'm gonna do something illegal. I got to. And I need you as a witness. Just to say why I did it, if it comes to that
…

I was into the next book about me and Dolly. I figured I had every right, like Cecil Hawke, to use what I knew. We'd lived these things, after all. If she didn't like it she could sue me. I could just see that judge asking her if this really happened, if that really happened. All of it was true enough. I took a few liberties with any fact that made me look bad, but that was all.

I sat in my studio and dreamed the long dream that begins a book. Place: with colors and smells. Character: real people with faults and beauty. A plot that arcs and falls and curves in on itself, then out again until it ends and the threads make a whole. What I tried not to think about was the blood and pain it took to write a book; the pulling word by word from my head as if I were a spider, and the web had to be perfect or else I didn't catch flies and didn't get to eat. Then the greater pain … when would I hear from Madeleine Clark? Was having her working for me in New York just another part of the delusion—that I would ever get published?

I got up because I'd depressed myself enough to shut down the writing for the day, and went to the window to check out a new spider web. Because it was daytime, she was hiding, I couldn't see my long-bodied spider, only her web. If I had to critique her work I'd say it looked a little ragged at the top, and some of her openings didn't match the openings below. Overall, it achieved what she'd set out to achieve but the symmetry was missing. A utilitarian web. Maybe only an impression of a real web. Overall I gave her a B.
This just isn't what I'm looking for, spider. Thanks for thinking of me
…

Then, Dolly called to tell me they had some news on the case and they needed me to come into the police station immediately. I didn't argue. It wasn't as though I'd gotten deeply into anything productive.

_____

At the station, Lo had gone out for a pizza and drinks by the time I got there. Dolly sat at the front desk since her little room, which used to be a closet, wouldn't hold all three of us.

“How are you feeling?” was the first thing I said since it seemed to be part of that big elephant hanging in the air between us.

“Fine.”

“So, you're due in January.”

“Who you been talking to now?”

“Your grandmother. She told me you'd been to a doctor, which I thought was smart.”

“Thanks.” She looked up at me. I couldn't see her stomach. Three months. She'd be showing soon.

“Are there maternity cop suits?”I asked.

Dolly frowned at me. “You mean uniforms?”

I nodded.

She shrugged. “I'll get bigger shirts, work out something with the pants.”

“What about winter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know, a coat. You'll be huge.”

“I'll get a bigger coat is all. Got solid boots.” She threw back her head, let out an exasperated breath of air, then slapped her hands on the desk. “You know how many years women been having babies, Emily? Every one of them got through it somehow. I'll bet they all didn't have new coats either. I'll bet they got on just fine with whatever they had …”

“Yeah, and laid down behind the plow and delivered the baby right there in the field.” I leaned toward her. “I'm here, Dolly. When the time comes … anything.”

Lo was back with the food. We ate, cleared the mess away, and got down to business.

“Dolly tell you the migrants have all left Crispin's farm?” Lo asked.

I shook my head.

Dolly muttered, “Didn't get around to it.”

“Crispin called Dolly so we don't think they've just gone off to another farm. He said they'd cleared out completely. The farmers are getting worried that the rest will leave, once word gets around. He thought there might have been another threat. Something happened. Not a sign of any of them and even the worker he thought was a friend didn't come to say anything.”

“So,” Dolly said. “All we've got is this name, ‘Toomey,' and that might not even be right.”

“I remembered something.” I got a couple of encouraging nods. “It's probably nothing but I'm working for a Cecil Hawke, editing a book he's writing.” I explained what I was doing so Lo was up to speed. “Well, I thought I heard the name ‘Toomey' when Jackson and I were leaving there, about a week ago.”

They looked at each other and then back to me.

“What I mean is, I saw this guy at their front door. Hawke's wife said something to him about not coming in that way. Looked like a workman. I thought that was the reason she was so unfriendly. You know, mud on his boots. She said what I took to be ‘Listen to me' or something like that. Can't quite remember. But I was thinking about it and I wondered later if she was saying the man's name instead: Toomey.”

Dolly looked skeptical. Lo nodded.

“It was just that …” I didn't know how to describe an uneasy feeling.

“Not much to go on,” Lo said.

“Yeah. Just a feeling. But the guy that owns the place is odd anyway. Nothing ordinary about him and then he's got this big Australian-type sheep ranch he doesn't really run and claims to know little about. Not even the names of the men who work for him. It just seemed …”

Agent Lo looked from Dolly to me. “We've got some information on that boot print at the crime scene. You might not be far off.” He hesitated, deferring to Dolly.

“Don't put this in the paper, Emily. Could blow the whole thing,”
she warned.

I waited. Dolly was going for effect.

“Boot sole had imbedded matter.”

“And?”

“Sheep dung.”

That took my breath away. Cecil's wasn't the only sheep farm in the north country. Lots of mixed herds—cattle, sheep, goats, even a llama and a couple alpaca farms, but so far Hawke's was the only one with a guy named Toomey connected to it.

Dolly looked hard at Lo and then at me. “Maybe I should pay a call over there to talk to your friend. Couldn't hurt. We been seein' a lot of farmers anyway. Think he'd let me take a look at his place?”

All I could do was shrug. Who knew what Cecil, or even Lila, would allow?

“And I'll start looking into this Hawke,” Lo said. ‘Where he came from. Who he is.”

“A writer,” I said. “Rich. That's all I know.”

“I'll check him out. Ask about his operation. Got to have men working for him, as you say.”

“You know what?” I turned to look straight at Dolly. “If you want to go over there, take a look around without Cecil knowing, I've got a way to get you in.”

“Sure.”

“They're having a big costume party Saturday. Lila told me to bring anybody I wanted to bring.” I had to smile. “You want to go to a party?”

She shrugged. “If it'll get me inside. I mean, without giving away why I'm there.”

“Be a lot of people. Maybe that dark guy will show up. Or maybe you can get a look around outside. See what you think.”

She frowned, making her nose twitch to one side as her lazy eye drifted off. “Costume? You mean like Halloween? I gotta wear one of those?”

“The party's based around one of Noel Coward's plays. Hawke's a Noel Coward expert. You've heard of Noel Coward?”

She shook her head, unhappy.

“Doesn't matter. Just remember the guy's got a big ego and he's a snob. When you meet him go along with everything he says. You don't have to know about Noel Coward, just pretend you do.”

“Sounds like a prick, to me.” She wasn't getting any happier, or any nicer.

‘It's a
Blithe Spirit
party. The play's from the late thirties or early forties. I'm not sure, exactly. But I know there's a séance in it. A dead wife returns. Should be a fun party and you'll meet both the Hawkes without putting them on the defensive. If you get a chance, look around outside. If I see that guy I thought Lila called Toomey, I'll let you know.”

She was still worried. “Costume, eh. You mean like going to K-Mart and …”

“I don't think so.”

“Then what kind of costume?”

“You come as your favorite character from literature. Or your favorite writer.”

Lo gave a whistle and then choked. His eyes got big but he didn't laugh. He knew Dolly already and waited to see what happened next.

“Sounds nuts, if you ask me,” she said. “But I guess … if I gotta go undercover.”

First she considered the idea. Then came a shake of her head. Then an ‘Ah-ha' moment.

I nodded. “Some literary character. You know any?”

She ignored me. “Got one. All I need is an old raincoat. Maybe Eugenia's got one. Or my grandmother. Cate loves dressing up …”

“Who are you going to be?”

“Columbo. You know, the guy from that TV show. I watch reruns with my grandmother. I'll be him. Can wear the raincoat right over my uniform and …”

I threw up my hands and looked to Agent Lo for help but he wasn't talking. I gave Dolly a hard look. “What part of ‘undercover' don't you get?”

She thought a while. “Guess not,” she said. “I won't go as a cop. So, okay, you help me. But no damned Snow White or Rapunzel. Nothing like that.”

I thought awhile, looked hard at her, and came up with the perfect costume.

Dolly and I parked
behind rows of cars and walked up the driveway toward where the Hawkes's trees and shrubs sparkled with winking, white lights, and the front portico was draped with bare, marquis bulbs. Dolly tripped over her skirt again and again, swearing—inappropriately, considering her costume—every time she fell on her hem.

“Grab it and hold on,” I said, tired of her grousing and carrying on about how the nun's habit she wore over her uniform was making her itch; how she was too hot—how the white wimple cut into her face, how the whole thing was way too large, and how the black veil kept falling over her eyes. One thing, then another, then another. All this after I thought I'd come up with the perfect costume. Plenty of room under all that black material, low-heeled, sturdy shoes, and veils to hide a burgeoning belly, a cop's uniform, and a gun belt. Perfect undercover outfit.

“A nun wouldn't do that. Prance around with her skirt in the air,” she said. “They're more … modest, I guess you could say.”

“A nun wouldn't be pregnant either,” I came back at her as we climbed the steps.

“What kind of nun did you say I am?” she hissed at me, peeking out from around the black veil.

“Any nun you want to be,” I whispered back and rang the bell.

“Thought I was supposed to be something from literature.”

“You are. If anybody asks tell them you're the nasty prioress from
The Canterbury Tales
. Jackson will love that one.”

“He here? Hell! You didn't say nothing … for sure I don't want to be her.”

“Okay. Try the ghostly nun from Charlotte Bronte's
Villette.”

“Never read it.”

I sighed, adjusted my black straw hat with cherries on top, grabbed my parrot-headed umbrella by the middle, spread my feet wide, hoped I didn't have sweat circles under my arms, and waited to wow Cecil with my Mary Poppins.

Nobody answered. “How about Sister Fidelma,” I said since she went on complaining that she had no idea who she was supposed to be. “She's a seventh-century nun who solved crimes. Or there's a pregnant nun in a book by one of our northern writers.”

“No thanks. I'll be that singing nun. You know, from
The Sound of Music.
That's who I'll be.”

“Then I guess we're both Julie Andrews.”

We weren't going to win prizes for originality.

I rang the bell again and was about to walk in when the door opened with a blast of overly cooled air and a stout woman in a black and white maid's uniform—frilly apron, frilly hat—stood there, bent forward at the waist, feet splayed in overrun shoes.

“I'm Edith,” she said. “Come on in now.” She stepped back and motioned toward the front hall, filled with people.

“You'll jist have to take care of yerselves, I'd say,” the young woman muttered, her face puckered into complaint. “Too many people. I wasn't expecting so many. Mrs. Hawke, well, she never said this many and I got to stay in the kitchen making those crumpled shrimp cakes what she wants me to be passing out. And I'd like to know how I'm supposed …”

She turned her back and scuttled off as fast as she could go leaving me and Dolly to close the door and find a place to stand, among the fifteen or twenty guests. We exchanged nods and smiles with other oddly dressed people, then hung to a side wall, under a faded copy of Georgia O'Keeffe's
My Last Door.
The people around us were already talking as fast as they could talk, as if they'd been at the champagne for a while.

“Would you look at this,” Dolly said and had to repeat herself over the tinny, twenties music and the clipped voice of Noel Coward singing “Mad Dogs and Englishmen.”

Cecil knew how to set a mood.

Around us, moving in and out of the hall and in and out of the library was a pantheon of literary characters. Cecil had said he had friends coming in from Europe but there was no picking them out in this crowd. There were writers. I recognized a grizzled Ernest Hemingway and a smug Gertrude Stein.

A writer's dream, I thought, looking around. Beside a small side table, on which a huge bouquet of white roses teetered, was the Hunchback of Notre Dame talking to Daisy, from
The Great Gatsby.
This Daisy had bee-stung lips puckered without the frozen benefit of Botox. Her cigarette holder went high into the air as she laughed and blew smoke into the Hunchback's face, making the guy, one shoulder up to his left ear under a brown, rough wool cloak and cowl, choke. The Hunchback waved a hand and swore at Daisy to “cut that out” in what sounded like a flat midwestern accent.

The Mock Turtle from
Alice in Wonderland
walked by us, bowing
and wringing his two top feet, crying out, “Soup! Soup! Beeyootiful soup! The Evening soup. Beeyootiful soup!” He dipped
from side
to side as he cut through the crowd and disappeared into the
library.

Behind the Mock Turtle, a woman in a white mobcap and long black dress covered with a utilitarian apron sprinted to keep up. The woman carried a lighted lantern, holding it high as she called brightly to everyone she passed, “Good evening. Good evening. I'm off to the front. The boys are waiting. Poor Souls. Poor Souls.”

If I had to guess, I would have said: Florence Nightingale. More history than literature.

The crowd in the hall shifted into the library or the morning room, and then out again. It was a kaleidoscope of changing books come to life.

“Did you ever?” Dolly, stunned and a little star struck, leaned
close, talking from the side of her mouth the way wimple-
constrained nuns learned to talk.

In a far corner, a stooped woman stood scribbling on a small pad of paper. Her hair was parted in the middle. From her long black dress and lace collar I put her in the mid-1800s. Again and again she looked around at the people gathered. She was afraid, very afraid. I bet on Emily Dickinson.

“Who's that?” Dolly pointed to a sheik in full robes.

I shrugged.

“You think he's real?”

“More likely Laurence of Arabia.”

“See anything of that guy ‘Toomey'?” She lowered her voice, stuck her hands up her sleeves, and leaned closer.

I looked around. He could be any of the men. Or none of them. But tall. That was one thing that couldn't be hidden.

We stepped along the hall, smiling at other partygoers, and mingling as best we could, though Dolly hung back, taking advantage of her nun's habit to stay anonymous—in case there were Leetsvillians there who could identify her.

A stout Mark Twain with a bristling mustache walked by us, arm in arm with a woman who might have been Virginia Woolf. I began to wish for nametags.

A couple stepped up to introduce themselves as Robert Browning and Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

“Robert is so kind,” Elizabeth said, holding his arm tightly as she glanced lovingly up at him.

“
How do I love thee
…'
”
she quoted, but Bob Browning had his eye fixed on a tray of martinis the flustered maid was trying to serve, hopping back and forth while nervously apologizing to a damp, furry mole and a stately Miss Haversham—more movie version than Dickens, with the piled-high white hair and wispy wedding gown.

I was up to three Lord Byrons (I guessed) when Lila came at us, flying down the center of the hall, crying my name so that everyone turned. She was dressed as a flapper from pink silk headband to chunk-heeled, buckled shoes. Her pink voile dress was low-waisted, the bodice pleated. A white feather boa was draped down one shoulder and crossed low over her well exposed breasts. Her make-up was bright, her blond hair short, with spit curls pasted across her forehead.

“Ah, Emily. And you've brought a friend, I see.”

Dolly smiled and poked at her wimple.

“Delores Walker. Lila Hawke.” I introduced them—sort of, keeping to the fake name we'd come up with. Lila put out her hand and shook Dolly's.

“And which nun are you, dear? No, no, no. Let me guess …from Shakespeare. Now what was that nun's name?” Lila puckered her lips and forehead and thought. “Isabella, I think. Wasn't that her name? A postulant nun.
As You Like It.
No, no, no:
Measure for Measure
.” She threw her head back, arms out, staggered a little, then blinked hard as she quoted, “
With the measure you see, it will be measured of you
…”

Lila, well along into the booze, closed one eye and smiled tipsily at Dolly. “That's it, isn't it? You're Isabella.”

Dolly shook her head and was about to come out with her singing nun thing but Lila stepped back, not interested, and ready to fly. “Never mind,” she said. “Cecil will guess who you are. He's simply loving all of this. I'll tell him you're here, Emily. And Jackson too. They're in the library showing off Cecil's Noel Coward collection to everyone. And, Emily, Jackson is divine as Romeo. Wait until you see him …” Her eyes shone as she said his name, almost tasting it. I'd seen that look before and wished I didn't know what it meant.

“And here I thought he'd be the fat monk from
The Canterbury Tales
,” I said, but Lila wasn't listening. She waved and blew kisses to those around us. She twirled in place for one couple who stopped to comment on her flapper costume. She did it all so prettily, and with such charm. And with a red-hot blast of whiskey breath that had almost seared my eyebrows.

Lila brought her face close to mine. “I rather like your … is it Mary Poppins? Droll. Quaint. I was thinking of coming as Scheherazade. You know, body suit and veils and all of that, but Cecil frowned on it. He's such a prude. He said I had to be Ruth, the wife in
Blithe Spirit
. He is, after all, Charles, the husband in the play. Or maybe he's Noel himself. I never know with Cecil.”

She sailed back up the hall, stopping to talk to Macbeth and then to a short man in small, round glasses dressed as Harry Potter. She got past Humpty Dumpty with only an air kiss and punched playfully at a tall and bearded Julia Child, I guessed, in curly brown wig and flowered dress, cinched at the waist with a wide belt, and holding a large spatula in her hand.

“I'm going to find Cecil and Jackson,” I said, wanting to get my part in this charade over.

“I'll take a look around, talk to some people,” Dolly said. “If you see that guy, Toomey, come find me. In case I run into any tall, dark men I'll just say the name and see what happens.”

She shrugged, wimple and veil going up and down. “Can't hurt. And I'd like to talk to that screwy maid. If the guy works here, I'll bet you anything a maid would know his name.”

“You mean Edith?” I laughed, watching the scurrying woman spill a drink on the Cat in the Hat. “She's an actress. There's a nutty maid in
Blithe Spirit
. I think her name was Edith, too. This is getting interesting. I wonder what else they've got planned?”

I cut through the crowd, toward the library. The music was louder. I heard “Mad Dogs and Englishmen” for the fourth time.

Edith, the maid, bumped into me going through the high, carved library doorway. She juggled a tray of rather sad-looking appetizers, holding the tray out to me, then pulling it away and hurrying off before I could take one.

The two men stood at the fireplace. Though it was the middle of July and hot outside, a fire burned in the grate. Great air conditioning, I thought. The room was cold enough to grow icicles.

Cecil saw me first. He was dressed in yet another smoking jacket with a puffy white silk ascot at his throat. His toupee tonight was sparser than his others, and combed tightly to each side in distinct rows. He gestured with the unlit pipe he held in his left hand. “And here's our girl now,” he cried and put his arms out to hug me, kiss both of my cheeks, then push me back for a slow once-over. “Perfect costume. Mary Poppins. Ah yes, the Mary Poppins who came to the Bankses' home to fix things and has come to mine to fix my poor book.”

He laughed. I laughed. Jackson laughed and stepped up to take me from Cecil, hug me, and whisper, “Have you ever seen anything like this in your life? I think I recognize some of the guests. At least one writer I've seen before. Who knows what else?”

He held on longer. “Did you bring my chapters with you? I'm so ready to move ahead …”

I stepped away from him, made my face show sorrow, and spread my hands. “I forgot, Jack. Beginning of the week … I promise.”

“I hope so. After all, I was the one who got you this job. At least a little gratitude …”

I didn't get a chance to answer. Cecil called for attention, announcing that a big surprise lay ahead and he had, sadly, to leave us to go prepare.

He was gone and Jackson, looking surprisingly good in his black Romeo tights with white doublet, was off to gather everyone and move them to the hall, as Cecil asked him to do.