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Jackson when he wanted something.
    I called Bill Corcoran, at the paper. At least I could pretend to be a reporter.
    “You found her?” he asked.
    “I went out there to do the ghost town thing.”
    “Oh, yeah.”
    “I’ve got photos.”
    “Of Deward?”
    “Yes. And of the body.”
    “Hmm, I don’t think so. Not the body. We’re not that kind of newspaper. Tell you what, I’ll run with whatever you email me. Save the photos. Keep checking with Lieutenant Brent. Find out who the woman was and what happened to her.”
    His voice trailed off as he leaned away from the phone. I could visualize him in his cluttered office, large head with longish straight brown hair bent over the phone, his big-framed glasses slowly riding down his wide nose, and his middle finger going up, pushing the glasses, holding them in place.
    “Looks like strangulation,” I said.
    “Um, murder. I’ll want you to stay right on it.”
    “Dolly might know who she is. They got a missing persons report this morning. Dolly thinks the description is close.”
    “Get back to me when you get the ID, and anything else you’ve got.” He hesitated. “You working with her on this one?”
    “You know Dolly. If there’s a way she can get herself, and me, involved, she’ll do it.”
    “Hasn’t worked out too badly for you,” he said, obviously not wanting misery from me. “Got a book from that last one, didn’t you? What about that business you two got into with the Indians? You writing that one?”
    “Yeah, well, haven’t sold the first one yet.”
    “You will. It’s a good book.”
    “I did hear from an agent, a woman who’s interested. I’m hoping …”
    “Great!” At last, a friend who wished me well. “Keep me in the loop. Sure hope this works for you. Still looking for more freelan-cing?”
    “Of course. Even if this agent takes me on, there’s no money until she sells it. And even then, the advance will be small. I’m not known …”
    “I’d like to talk to you when you come to town. There may be a slot here for you … nothing full time.”
    “Not obits again. That didn’t work too well.”
    “A column.”
    I thought fast.
    “What kind?”
    “We could talk about it.”
    “When? Tomorrow morning Brent wants me in Gaylord to give a formal statement. I could come after that …” Thoughts of calling Jackson with my excuse for not being home when he brought his dinner ran through my head.
    “No hurry.”
    “But …”
    “Whatever … oh, and I’d like to have both you guys over for dinner, pay back you and Jackson for your past hospitality. Maybe Friday? Seven o’clock? And Emily, sorry it took me so long. I guess, with Jackson and Ramona—well you know what happened. I’ve been holding off.”
    “Sure. That would be great.” It had been one dinner at Jackson’s, with me a reluctant hostess and Bill bringing a friend, Ramona Sheffield, a small redhead who worked at the Dennos Museum. Ramona and Jackson ended up as … well, not friends so much as … I caught Jackson and Ramona … shall we say in flagrante delicto ? Translation: while the crime is flaming hot. Water under the bridge. I even thought of Ramona fondly now. She’d saved me from making a huge mistake where Jackson was concerned.
    “I’ll call Jackson,” he said.
    “About the column …”
    “Whenever.” He hung up, dashing any hope I had of telling Jackson I would be away on important journalism business all day tomorrow.
    So, no Traverse City. No nailing down more newspaper work, which I needed desperately since the winter gas bills and plowing bills and roof shoveling bills would soon be coming in. There was money left from the divorce and from my dad’s life insurance, but it had to last. There wasn’t a single penny for anything but the barest of necessities.
    No putting Jackson off. I supposed I should vacuum the dog hair off the rug, or at least get that interesting cobweb up near the ceiling. What I did was tell myself I would