I tried to call Dolly, but I couldn’t raise her. Chief Barnard, always affable but business-like, answered at the Leetsville station.

“Not here. Want me to find her?” the chief asked in his deep, brusk voice. I didn’t want any red lights going off. No citizens listening to their police radios, wondering what was happening. I told him it wasn’t important, that I’d be seeing her in an hour, at EATS.

“This thing with the bones is really growing,” he said. “Getting calls from out-of-state newspapers.” His tone implied a man with time on his hands to talk. “You heard Dolly thinks the second skeleton found is that husband of hers, who ran off awhile back?”

“I heard,” I said, adding nothing. I didn’t know what Dolly had told him so far and didn’t want to step on any toes. There was still the evidence-tampering issue to get out of the way. She would have to tell the chief soon. Very soon.

“Anyone from the Odawa been in touch?” I asked.

“Had a call. Just asking when the bones would be released. Some guy from their council. No trouble. Nice guy.”

“Really?” I said, not sure I should mention my visitor to Chief Barnard before talking to Dolly. I felt out of my depth here. I didn’t have a clue who to trust.

“Hmm,” the chief said, hesitating. “You having any trouble?”

“No. No.” I took the easiest path. I’d tell Dolly, let her take it from there.

“How’s Charlie doing?” I asked, getting off the subject of bones and back to small talk about his sick son. In towns the size of Leetsville you didn’t want to appear too much in a hurry. That got you a reputation of being impressed with yourself. For a reporter, a rep like that didn’t help as I went around asking questions and digging up information. One chief, back in Ann Arbor, could put his feet up on his desk; clasp his hands behind his head; and settle in for an hour’s talk about Ann Arbor, the country, and right on out to the state of the world. Experienced reporters learned quickly to smile and back off with a wave, maybe a look of regret. New reporters got stuck listening. The thing was, those new reporters began getting stories from him first, and he was always in to take their calls. So, something to be said for good manners.

“Fine,” Lucky said. Charlie had been operated on a few months before, a touch-and-go time for Barnard and his wife, Frances. Dolly took over the station then and did a great job. He wasn’t holding the string of police cars she had smashed against her, at the moment. The last one happened when we’d been forced down into Arnold’s Swamp near my house. Dolly had been injured and the chief was just happy to get her back in one piece. There’d been a détente between them ever since and Dolly swore she was being extra careful how she drove.

“Well, thanks anyway,” I said, and got off the phone.

I had to find her but since she patrolled most of the back roads and could be up any two-track on a poacher call or down a logging road on a marijuana plant hunt, I’d have to wait until she got to EATS.

___

I thought I could go in quietly, make my way through the smoke undetected, and grab a shadowed corner booth to wait for Dolly. What I didn’t know was that word had gotten around town that Deputy Dolly’s husband was dead, found out to Sandy Lake all these years after he’d disappeared, right along with the bones of his girlfriend.

That was what circled in EATS when I walked in. I heard the whispers and caught the looks. You could almost smell the pity in the air, and the curiosity. If they didn’t have Dolly to console, I’d be the substitute until she got there.

I nodded to Flora Coy, the sad bird lady who’d lost most of her childhood friends to a couple of killers last fall. She sat at a round table in the middle of the room, along with John Ripple, who trapped beaver and sold their pelts for a living.

When I’d first arrived in the north, I’d thought it behooved me to get rid of the beaver in Willow Lake. He was taking down the aspen—one by one. I loved the aspen. Especially the quaking variety that turned up their leaves and shook like a hundred rattles.

I’d been introduced to John Ripple at that time. When I told him what I wanted to do—live trap the animal and take him to some other lake—he’d chewed at his white mustache and said he, maybe, had a trap just like that. We met early the next morning. I got the big green trap out of the back of his pickup, into my trunk, got it home, and down to the lake. John hadn’t mentioned anything about bait so I figured the beaver would walk on in out of curiosity. I would then remove him to another wild lake, and that would be that.

Day after day and no beaver in the trap. Out at the growing, conical, mud and stick house, the beaver worked steadily, even when I sat on my dock giving him the mean eye. After a while I figured bait was in order so I threw in a couple handfuls of Cheerios. Nothing. I added some peanut butter another morning. Still nothing. After three weeks I gave up and took the trap back to John. He never laughed, though a few days later he told me he had a surefire way to kill off the mosquitoes I complained about.

“Hang a side of beef from a tree,” he started, lips dead straight. “Hit ’em with a board when they land, one little bugger at a time.” Only the quivering of his shaggy white mustache showed he was having the city girl on.

I nodded to Flora and John. Flora gave me a pleasant, benign smile and blinked her small eyes behind thick lenses in big pink plastic frames.

Seated at another table was Gertie, the town beauty shop owner. Not long ago her shop burned down and all the women in town went into Traverse City to have their hair done. Until the shop got rebuilt and Gertie was back as the arbiter of style in Leetsville, the women had looked almost natural. No big beehives. No “do’s” lacquered to remain immobile for at least a week. Now everyone had returned to high style and Gertie sat in the middle of the restaurant talking in whispers to Sullivan Murphy, who owned the newly built funeral home over on the corner of Griffith and Mitchell Streets.

Anna Scovil, the town librarian I’d been avoiding, sat by herself in the first of the line of red Formica booths. I nodded and turned sideways to sneak past her. She caught me, clamping one hand around my wrist, and pulled me down close.

“We all feel so bad about Dolly,” she whispered. “These are truly terrible times.”

I nodded and tried to wrest my wrist from her hand. The woman was tenacious.

“Before I lose you again …” She looked around to see if anyone was watching. “I’m planning this very special Night at the Library. It’ll be a fundraiser, Emily. To buy new books. Now, what I’ve got in mind is to have readings by local celebrities.”

Her breath was warm against my skin, almost moist. She smelled faintly of liver and onions. “I hear you’re into a new novel, and I would love to have you come by, share some of your work with an audience. I’ve kind of built the program around you.”

She smiled and poked at her hair. The hair didn’t move. Considering how mine flew at the slightest breeze, I thought Gertie’s obvious skill almost otherworldly.

“Well,” I began, thinking as fast as I could. “I’m no celebrity …”

“Now,” Anna patted at my captive hand, “neither are the other writers who’ll be reading with you.”

Her eyebrows shot up and I got a wide smile. “I’ve already talked Ronald Williams into reading from his family history. Publishing it himself at some Universal place. He knows all about the Internet. Said he’d come. The only thing I’ve got to do is give him a limit on how much of it he can read. Man riffles the manuscript at anybody who’ll listen—like he was selling French postcards or something.” She frowned, then brightened. “Not that it isn’t interesting. I’m sure he could draw a crowd all by himself.”

I nodded. OK. Me and Ronald Williams. A truly nice guy but one of those gung-ho genealogists, like Eugenia, who kept coming up with one more boring relative after another.

“And,” Anna went on, “there is Winnie Lorbach. I haven’t asked yet, but she’s been putting a book on lady’s slippers together for the last fifteen years. I’ll bet she’s got fascinating information to share. Probably a lot of pictures, too. You know, you and Winnie might want to have a talk with Ronald, see how to do it. What’s the sense of sending your work out and getting it back? He says he knows how to get anybody’s book published and it costs almost nothing. Except for the books you have to buy. And, of course, his book will be a little expensive for a paperback. Still, at least you’d have a book in your hand. Think of the postage you’d save. I’ve heard money’s a little tight for you right now so you might want to give it some thought.”

I agreed and got away, fuming that somehow my lack of funds was making the rounds of the town gossips. I wasn’t used to other people knowing, or caring, about my business.

I got a little farther along when an elderly gentleman stopped me to whisper something about a murder. “Might be you could get a book out of it. Saw it last night on Matlock. Thought of you right away. Bet you could sell this one and get yourself some money.”

I thanked him, put my head down, and made for a shadowed booth in the far corner. I slid across the red plastic, and buried my face in a menu.

The talk around me moved from whispers to the usual low level of conversation and laughter. Gloria, who was also my mailman’s girlfriend, hurried over to slide a cup of tea across the table at me then kneel on the opposite banquette, settling herself in for a talk.

“Figured you’d want something fast,” she said. Her pretty face drew into a frown as she nodded at the white tea cup and silver pot of hot water. “We’re all so sorry about poor Dolly. You know anything about the … eh … arrangements?”

“Arrangements for what?”

“The funeral, of course. We’re a little afraid of asking Dolly. You know, because of how she is about her privacy.”

“Nothing planned yet, Gloria. The pathologist in Lansing’s got the … eh … body. I’m sure you’ll know as soon as something’s taken care of.”

Gloria looked behind her, at the table where Sullivan Murphy sat watching us. “It’s just that Sullivan has to make arrangements. You understand. Dolly maybe should at least go talk to him.”

I nodded. “When the time is right, Gloria. Please tell Sullivan some things can’t be rushed.”

“Oh, and Sullivan told me to tell you that he’s looking for somebody to keep the books at the funeral parlor. Now that his mom’s passed and his brother’s in prison, he could use some help. Might be a job in it for you.”

I stared at her. Was I being bribed by Sullivan Murphy to make sure he got Dolly’s business? I looked over at him, a big man with a gruff face. He raised a paw of a hand in the air and waved. The smile he gave me wasn’t pretty. More feral.

“I don’t know bookkeeping,” I said from somewhere deep in my throat.

“Doesn’t matter. Just add some stuff up and send out bills. I guess that’s about all Sullivan would expect.”

I felt anger bubbling in my chest. “Why does everybody think I need money?”

Gloria colored at my tone. “Now Emily. Just some things said, I guess. You know how we are, kind of watch and pick up on our neighbor’s troubles.”

“I don’t have any troubles, Gloria. I’m fine.”

She seemed about to argue, then gave a little cough into her balled fist, stood, and straightened her short blue uniform skirt. “Just passing on news of a job, Emily. Hope I didn’t make you mad or anything.”

Next to pick her way over through the miasma of the nonsmoking section was Eugenia. At first she had a look of sadness on her wide face. When she got to my booth and slid in, she put a hand over her mouth as she leaned across to taunt me. “Didn’t find her, did ya? Old Etta out there. Knew you wouldn’t. Real proud I am of that old auntie.”

“Old auntie, my foot. Ellen Liddy Watson. Hung for running her own ranch. Men didn’t like a woman sticking her nose into their cattle business. She was no outlaw, just a woman who got in the way. Certainly she’s no relation to you. And her husband was named ‘Pickell.’ I found it all, Eugenia. Nothing’s that hard to find anymore. It’s all there on the Internet.”

“Where the hell you think I get them from?” she hissed across the table, her multiplicity of chins bobbing just above the table.

“Probably everybody knows those outlaws aren’t related to you. People here are just too nice to say anything.”

“Unlike you, you mean. Nobody else in Leetsville ugly enough to point it out.” She settled back in the booth, her hands thumping a loud bump on the table. “Guess I should give it up. Still, I like doing that kind of genealogical research. Fun to poke around in the past.”

“Start on somebody else.”

She shrugged. “Who? Most of us in town known each other and our families from as far back as people go. I mean, we all grew up here.”

“Except me. You’d do me a big favor if you got it spread around that I’m doing just fine. I don’t need them looking for jobs and I don’t need plots for books. I don’t mean to be ungracious …”

“Yes, you do. And let me say right here, not everything’s about you, Emily.” Eugenia got up slowly, bending in close to make sure I heard her. There were things I knew Eugenia might help me with and I didn’t want her pissed off at me, like the rest of the town would soon be. I put my hand on one of hers.

“Please, I’m sorry if I seem … well … huffy.”

“Hmph.” Eugenia shook off my hand and looked around at the others watching us.

“There’s been a lot happening,” I went on. “I had a visitor, out at my house. He kind of upset me.”

Her face settled into kinder wrinkles. “When this happen?” she demanded, still not smiling.

“Little while ago.”

“Who was it?”

“I don’t know. Definitely a Native American.”

“Scare you?”

I nodded.

“Hmph,” she said again. “They’re good people. If they get upset with any of us from time to time, well, you can’t blame ’em, can you? I mean, every time I go to one of the casinos and lose, I don’t even get mad. Just a way of paying reparations for this land we’re all sitting on that was theirs before we got here. What’d this guy say he wanted?”

“It’s about the other set of bones. They’re Indian. Female. They want them back for burial.”

Eugenia shrugged and stood. “Only ones I ever knew from around here was an old guy and his kids, lived out of town somewhere. Long time ago, that was. Didn’t like him much. Didn’t see the kids hardly ever.”

“Lived where?”

Eugenia shrugged. “Somewhere out in the woods. He wasn’t the kind you got friendly with. Still, they never bothered anybody here in town. Got along, as far as I heard. So, what’s this man think you can do? Tell him to go see that Brent guy in Gaylord. More luck with him. He want you to write something in the paper? That what it was about?”

I shook my head, sorry I’d mentioned him.

She got up and walked away only to turn abruptly and lean back toward me. “What do you think about me doing Dolly’s family?”

“Doing what to them?”

“You know, doing some genealogical research on ’em.”

“She doesn’t have anybody, remember.”

“Heard she’s got a sister-in-law now.”

“Chet’s family,” I said.

“Feel bad for her. There’s got to be somebody. She didn’t pop out of a pumpkin.”

“Better ask Dolly,” I said, then held my breath along with everybody else in EATS as Dolly walked in, head down, and made directly for me.