Dead Dogs and Englishmen Read Online Free PDF Page B

Never opens up to anybody about anything.”
    â€œComes from her background,” I said, not having to remind Eugenia that Dolly’s childhood had been a series of bad foster homes until she turned eighteen and was sent out on her own. Then a marriage to Chet Wakowski that lasted six months and the guy was gone. No family. Until the grandmother showed up—thanks to Eugenia’s constant delving into genealogy and producing relatives—wanted and unwanted—for Leetsvillians.
    â€œYeah, well. It’s time to get over all of that. You know something, Emily? If you let people come into your life, and you let ’em care about you, a responsibility is owed. That kind of caring doesn’t get turned on and turned off. Dolly’s been one of us since I can’t remember when. She’s been there for a lot of people. Mostly she’s not easy, but she takes care of the innocent ones and hunts down the others. Think she owes us just a little bit more of herself—like sittin’ down and tellin’ us things are okay, or letting us help her if they’re not.”
    â€œShe wanted to talk to me but then told me to forget it. I don’t know how to help her. She’s impossible …”
    â€œYeah, well … maybe you should just sit her down somewheres and make her tell you what’s going on.”
    I had to laugh at that one.
    â€œYou got any other ideas?” She frowned.
    â€œYou really think it’s medical?” I asked.
    She nodded. “That’s what we’re thinkin’. She’s got her job—so it ain’t financial. Got her grandmother with her—so she’s finally got some family. What the hell else could it be?”
    My turn to shrug. “Anybody talk to Cate?”
    â€œSeemed too much like intruding.”
    â€œI’ll stop by there. I haven’t seen her in a while.”
    â€œBe okay, I suppose.” She set her hand on mine as I pushed my cleaned plate away. “Would you just let us know? One way or the other—whatever it is. We’d like to stop worrying. If she don’t want help, that’s fine. But just don’t leave us hanging like this.”
    I agreed, left money on the table to cover my bill, and my usual tip, and made my way out of the restaurant.
    I drove over to Dolly’s place, a straight up-and-down, no- nonsense white house with cement steps that sat right on the sidewalk. No front yard to speak of. A two-track dirt drive with no car. She had an ochre plastic pot with one tired-looking geranium sitting on a top step and her last year’s Christmas wreath—plastic greenery with a couple of shiny pine cones—still hanging in a front window. I was going to stop but got cold feet at the last minute. If Dolly suspected I was asking questions about her, I would never hear the end of it. I drove on past the house. Another time, I told myself.

Let us vote my ex-husband the man I least wanted to see in Bill Corcoran’s office when I sauntered in, notebook in one hand, roll of film in the other, proud to have scooped even Bill on this new murder.
    â€œGot something for you …” I began, then stopped to take a deep breath when I saw Jackson, lounging in a chair across from Bill’s desk.
    How I rued the day I’d introduced him to Bill—the day I thought it might be nice to help Jack make friends in the north while he was up here slaving away on Chaucer’s penitents, lost in Middle English. How could I have known he would become a more or less permanent fixture in my territory, with my friends— except Dolly, who despised him—and in my life?
    â€œEmily! My sweet Emily. I was on my way out to your place.” Jack rose languorously to his feet, stretched his long body, pushed his shoulders back, and opened his arms wide to greet me.
    Let’s just say my knee came up slightly, aimed at his groin—just in case. An old reflex, a defense