He didn’t come home all night. I spent a good part of the time getting up, wrapping a wool robe around myself against the cold, and standing on the side porch calling his name out toward the lake, then back toward the woods. Each time I held my breath, listening hard for his bark. Nothing.

I went back to bed, telling myself this was something dogs did. Spring, after all.

I told myself all kinds of things. I was uneasy and not happy with him. But what did I know about dogs? What did I know about people? Look how long I’d overlooked Jackson’s wandering eye, ignored every phone call from an ardent “student,” was blind to the late nights when he wasn’t in his office at the university. It was the thong in the glove box that finally got to me. Jackson claimed someone thought they could get even for a failing grade. I mulled that one over for a day or two before visiting an attorney.

Sorrow would be back, I assured myself, trying to sleep. He was fixed. When he realized he didn’t know what he was hunting for, he’d give up and come back to a full bowl of food.

At four a.m., since I was up anyway, I went to my studio and got more of Jackson’s manuscript on the computer. His editor wanted it as a single file so I kept it that way, sending only the new pages I added. I got a lot of the manuscript done and then had an hour to work on my novel presentation for the Leetsville Library.

The book was moving along fast. Writing can be such a hesitant thing—work going well and then drying up. Usually when it dried up I knew there was something wrong in the work I had already completed. I didn’t believe in writers’ block. I believed in going back and rewriting. This morning I had no problems. My elderly attorney moved fast—in and out of his gentlemen’s club where an old woman accosted him, claiming she knew who had killed Gilbert Hurley’s wife. I made the woman rather grotesque: too old for the ratty, sexy clothes she wore, yet something of the “lady” about her. My attorney was repulsed by the woman, who clutched at his sleeve, trying to get money for information.

It was a good scene. Maybe this would be the one I’d read at the library, along with a synopsis of the rest of the book. I wanted people to hear only my best. With a good reading I could get over my “loser” reputation, and they’d see me as an artist, a true writer.

I leaned back in my chair, put my hands behind my head, and stared at the ceiling. I didn’t owe anybody an explanation, an excuse, an apology, I told myself. And I decided to stop being hard on me. I was a damned good journalist. My novels might not be selling yet but they were good, if you discounted that one unintentional rewrite of Fatal Attraction.

Added to this list of fine qualities, I’d been a good wife. Still was a good friend. I was capable of living alone. And, what I liked best about me was that I learned from my mistakes. Maybe that meant I was fairly intelligent. With that bunch of metaphoric gold stars pinned to my chest, I got back to work.

___

“Mister.” The old woman in a tattered skirt and torn lace blouse pulled at the sleeve of Randall Jarvis’s tweed sport coat. “Mister,” she said again, frantic as he shook her off.

“Go away,” he growled, bunching his shoulders up to his ears. The last thing he wanted was a beggar hanging on him. He had had enough trouble staying on his feet since the heart attack. If he didn’t concentrate, keep one foot plodding straight in front of the other, he could fall and die there in the gutter. The worst thing he could imagine happening, here at the end of what he thought of as an illustrious life.

“I’ve got information.” The old woman swiped at her nose with the back of one hand. Her eyes, lost in deep wrinkles, filled with child-like glee.

“You have nothing for me, ma’am.” He tried to maneuver around her but she sprang back in front of him, agile for a woman of her age.

“Yeah? You think so? How’s about something I know on that Gilbert you’re working for?”

Randall hesitated. His client’s name had been in the paper. Probably one of those mental cases allowed to roam the streets, harassing good people.

“I’m talking about your client, Gilbert Hurley.” The woman stood directly in his path, hands planted at her waist. “I know who really done it to his wife.”

Randall’s mouth dropped open despite himself. Next would come a demand for money. He’d been through something similar before, a long time ago.

It was so good it made me shiver. The right tone. Characterization falling into place. The chapter was easy to finish, with the old woman taking Randall to a room where she brought out bloody clothes belonging to another man. The old woman swears to Randall that the DNA they would find belonged to Gilbert’s wife, Nancy.

I thought the chapter was exciting and certainly contained the heart of the novel. They would like it. A little polishing and I’d be ready for Tuesday.

I called Jackson before I left to meet Dolly in town. I told him I’d gotten a lot of his work ready and would run off a copy for him before sending anything on to the publisher.

“I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing, Emily.” He choked up. “It’s so good to be up here with you. I guess I’d forgotten how well we fit together …”

“I know,” I stopped him.

“When you’ve got the pages ready I’ll come out and get them—if that’s all right.”

I assured him that would be fine and found myself smiling. Another date with Jackson. Maybe we would move this new thing between us along. I was ready. I had to make up my mind about my future. Sure, I would miss living in the woods. I would miss the lake. I would miss Sorrow, and Harry and Dolly and Eugenia and all the others. But I could come back. I could visit.

I grabbed my bag and camera, removed the squashed sandwich I hadn’t eaten the day before, and set the dog bones down on the side porch, for Sorrow, when he came home.

___

Dolly was on the phone when I got to the station. She waved me to a seat. Her end of the conversation was mostly “un-huh” and “hmm.” When she hung up, her first question was about Sorrow.

“Not yet.” I shook my head.

“Don’t worry. That’s how dogs are. Never wanted one myself.”

I shrugged, a little disappointed in her. I had hoped she would take Sorrow, if I decided to leave. Finding him a home was at the top of my mental list of things to do. And other things, like not possibly missing the August daisies when the hills behind my house were speckled with them. And I couldn’t miss puffball season: “slice ’em, egg ’em, coat ’em with bread crumbs, and fry ’em up in butter.” And, oh my God—there was wild strawberry season at the end of June …

“I’ll help you look for ’im after we finish in TC,” Dolly said.

I thanked her and thought maybe I would enlist Harry, too. He knew the woods and places dogs went better than any other human being.

We were well on our way down 131 before Dolly said another word. She turned her head to give me a long, pregnant look, and said, “They’re releasing Chet.”

She checked her rearview mirror, then gave a guy in a sports car the eye as he passed us on a double yellow.

“Finally,” I said. “So, did you call his sister?”

She nodded. I rolled my window down. Something in Dolly’s cars always smelled just a little funky. For a while I had thought it was her, until I noticed an array of old Burger King bags on the back seat.

“She’s coming up for the funeral. Bringing Chet’s mom too, from Bloomington.”

“They’re having the funeral and burial up here?”

“That’s what they say.” She turned on to M72, toward Traverse City, taking the turn on two wheels just because she could. “They want me to go ahead and make the plans.”

“And they’re paying?”

“Well, I suppose they’ll help. I’m his wife, you know. More my responsibility.”

“Are you crazy?” The woman could exasperate me beyond measure. “He left you years ago. You have no responsibility at all.”

We drove without speaking for a while.

“Bet they’ll stick you with the entire bill,” I said finally, keeping my voice low and disgusted.

Dolly shook her head. “Nope. Elaine said they’d help out, didn’t want the whole thing on me, and she meant it. I thought maybe a luncheon at EATS after the cemetery. I’d like to do it right. Chet didn’t go to no church so the burial will be straight from the funeral home. Sullivan said that would be no trouble.”

“You’ve been busy.” I was impressed.

“Did it all. Except the casket. Gotta pick that out. I’d like you to come with me—tomorrow morning. If that’s OK? Kinda feels creepy doing it alone.”

“They should be here to go with you,” I muttered. “The sister and mother.”

“Well, they can’t be.”

“So it’s me?”

“Yup. Looks like that’s it.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Monday. Eleven o’clock.”

I nodded. I’d be there, and if I got the opportunity to drop a few hints about money to that sister of his, I’d sure grab it.

___

The tribal police station was a low, gray stone building with spindly pines planted across the front. We went in and introduced ourselves to Detective Ray Shankwa, a tall, good-looking man in his early forties. Officer Shankwa was polite and professional, inviting us to join him at a metal desk in the corner of the large, open room. Dolly launched into the story, then told him how far we’d gotten. She brought in Lewis George and Orly Naquma and his family, including Alfred Naquma. It was Alfred’s name that brought a frown to Shankwa’s face. I threw in that I’d seen him at the casino and then again out at Dark Forest Cemetery. Dolly told him he was the man who’d been out at Sandy Lake when we first got there.

Ray Shankwa shook his head. “I’m very sorry if you’ve had a problem with someone from our tribe …”

Dolly pulled herself up as straight as she could get. “Not just a problem, Officer Shankwa. We’re talking about a double murder here. If one of your people is involved, well, I’d expect you to cooperate.”

Ray nodded and examined the silver pen he held between the fingers of both his dark hands. “I know the name,” he said, and looked first me and then Dolly straight in the eye. “He isn’t the kind of man to cause trouble. Still, since there is a complaint, I will find him. And talk to him.”

He snapped his mouth shut, raised his chin, and waited for us to leave.

“He’s a suspect in these two murders,” Dolly said again. “And the murders didn’t happen on the res. He’s going to have to come with me, if you find him. You understand that? We’ll need to talk to him.”

Ray shook his head. “That will be determined. It might not be my call. We have our tribal council and our own courts. There will be the sovereign power of the tribe to deal with. And that’s not given up lightly. You will have to understand that there are channels to go through.”

“Me, too,” Dolly said, a stern look on her face. “I’ve got channels. But we don’t let people get away with murder.”

Ray nodded and stood, dismissing us. “I will call you after I talk to Lewis George and Alfred Naquma.”

We were out of there in thirty seconds. There was no camaraderie or standing on ceremony once our message had been delivered.

“I wish I’d gone on out to the casino one more time. Those guys could disappear,” Dolly muttered.

“I think this officer’s a straight arrow,” I said. “He’s got his protocols the same as you have. You’ll hear from him.”

“Yeah,” she said, and got back into the patrol car. “We’ll see. I’m not giving him long. I’m turning the screws on everybody.”