Later, happily wrapped in a lucky afghan out in my studio behind the house, I poked at the manuscript for a few hours, taking a “the” out here and putting a “the” in there. Nothing moved very far. I couldn’t tell if the novel was so bad, or so good, that it didn’t need changes. What I really needed was luck, and distance, maybe a new perspective … maybe a new book.

Over the last four years, since moving up north and trying to make it on my own, I’d learned to say prayers to whoever was listening when things didn’t go my way. I said them to the four corners of the earth. I said them toward the heavens and to my dead parents. I burned incense and listened to my lucky music: which could be k.d. lang, or Ani DiFranco. Today it was lavender incense and k.d. lang’s Watershed album, the album that got me through last winter. Even in early fall, her music translates into hope. “I Dream of Spring …” As if dreaming ever really changed anything.

Sorrow collapsed to the floor with one of those huge groans dogs can give. I was meditating when the phone rang. Usually I don’t answer at the studio, but what I was doing wasn’t writing. Or much of anything else.

“I got a little more from Brent.” It was Dolly. “No defensive wounds beyond a couple of broken nails. Maybe surprised from behind, strangled right there. No drag marks. Anyway, Brent said there was nothing on the back of her skirt. Everything was pretty clean for somebody laid out on the ground. Techs took tire prints. Found a set that probably wasn’t from your Jeep. More likely her car since she drove herself up from Toledo. Car has to be somewhere. But how the heck did she get out there? And not liking the place, the question is ‘Why?’”

I grabbed a pen and wrote down what she was telling me. “Time of death?”

“Early Monday, maybe late Sunday. Nothing on stomach contents yet but the post mortem lividity, temperature, and rigor point to some time between midnight and seven a.m.” Dolly sounded tired.

“Where do we start?” I asked.

“Me and Lucky spent all morning going over things. Seems like the preacher’s got to be first—since she came here with some beef about him. Get an alibi and then talk to people in his group. Got to get a hold of this brother of hers, Arnold Otis, the famous one who’s running for senator. Whether he likes it or not, that’s his sister who was killed out there.” She stopped as if reading down a list. “Then the women in her shamanic group—Crystalline thinks they might know something that would help. They’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

“Wasn’t there another brother? Crystalline mentioned three children …”

“Yup, name of Paul. Maybe Arnold Otis can help locate him. Brent’s put that Sergeant Winston on it. You know, the one you didn’t like much. Seems like a good guy to me,” she said, knowing her assessment of that officious cop would enrage me. “Brent said for us to keep going and he’d fill in with whatever forensics came up with. They’re taking toxicology samples but he doesn’t think she was poisoned. Pretty obvious what happened. He said to tell you to talk to Officer Winston from here on in. He’ll have everything you need.”

“Yeah, sure,” I muttered under my breath, then changed the subject. “How’s Crystalline doing?”

“Not bad. Good thing her friends’ll be here in the morning. They all want to be with Marjory. Crystalline’s meeting us at Eugenia’s at five-thirty, then going with us to the revival at the campground.”

“Are they all fortune tellers, these women?”

“Ooh, don’t say that to Crystalline. They’re shamans and healers, not fortune tellers. From what Crystalline said, they take their work serious. Study for years, some of ’em, like Marjory. Crystalline says one of ’em, who’s coming up, can get in touch with the dead. They’re hoping to talk to Marjory. Wouldn’t that make our job a lot easier if they could?”

“I’ll see you at EATS. If we can’t talk to that preacher, ’cause of his revival, we’ll go back in the morning. After that we’ll talk to Marjory’s two friends, see if she said anything different to them, or if they know why she came here. Maybe even who might want to kill her.”

“And then the brother? The one we know of for sure. Lucky called a number he found for him and is waiting for a callback. Somebody’s got to break the news.”

“What about that aunt and uncle? You ever heard of them?” I asked.

“Nope. I asked Lucky but he said the names didn’t ring a bell.”

“We’ll check phone books and I’ll go over and ask Harry. Harry’s lived here forever.”

“Hmmph,” Dolly said. She wasn’t a fan of Harry. That car of his didn’t have a license and Harry was known (but never proven) to hunt in whichever season he found his freezer empty.

Dolly’s call meant stopping the edit and writing a follow-up story for the newspaper. I emailed it to Bill, along with a note that I would be in town later to see him. Writing time was up.

The incense had burned away. The CD stopped. I wasn’t going to get the manuscript together today. There would be no cover letter. Tomorrow would be soon enough, I told myself. Or maybe the next day. The longer I put off sending my work to the agent, the longer I put off rejection.

The phone rang as I got ready to leave the studio. Feeling a little psychic myself—expecting Jackson to call—I let it ring. I took Sorrow back to the house, and left an unhappy dog behind me as I drove off to Traverse City and my new part-time job as a local columnist.