Dead Dogs and Englishmen Read Free

choose?”
    â€œHow about ‘Millicent.’ I think it means ‘mouthy’ in Latin.”
    â€œWhat the hell kind of name is that?” Her pale blue, red-rimmed eyes went wide. The left eye wandered off a little, as if it had a mind of its own.
    Another poop skittered across her hat. I knew I should tell her to move, or I could just count the drops gently raining down on her.
    I shrugged. Maybe I even rolled my eyes. “What have you got for me? I’ll call Bill, see if it’s anything he …”
    â€œYeah, sure. Like he don’t want a murder.”
    I shook my head and worked my feet from under Sorrow’s large, warm butt, where he’d decided to plant his body. “If your person is really dead and … well … was murdered, sure I’ll go with you.”
    â€œWhat do you mean ‘if’? Unless she shot herself in the back of the head, dragged her body through high weeds with her hands and feet tied, broke down the locked door to that abandoned house over on Old Farm Road, and laid herself out inside—I’d say it’s a safe bet she’s dead, and was murdered.”
    I’d already had enough of Deputy Dolly Wakowski, who, when she finally glanced up at me, looked worse than I’d ever seen her: eyes sunken with dark half moons beneath them. She blinked hard against the bright light.
    â€œGuys from Grayling still there, doing their thing. I’m the officer in charge but the chief’s covering for me. I said I’d be right back. I’ll get you in—but no pictures of the body, ya hear?”
    I nodded. No pictures of the body.
    â€œDrive your own car,” she ordered. “I don’t wanna be stuck having to bring you back.”
    I looked longingly toward my tiny studio halfway down the hill. Any ideas of writing shifted to a far back burner.
    â€œAnd Emily …” Dolly sniffed, glanced up at me, and quickly away. “Maybe later … well … I got something I need to talk about to somebody.”
    â€œSomebody like me?”
    â€œGuess you’re my friend.” She thought awhile. “Yeah, like you. But later. Or maybe I’ll change my mind …”
    â€œWhatever, Dolly. Give me a minute.” I reached out toward her hat, making her duck. Dolly didn’t take her hat off much since she’d shaved her head to join a cult and catch a killer. The hair was still short, like a little boy’s, with thin, pink scalp showing through.
    â€œTent worm shit,” I explained, brushing off the top of her hat.
    â€œYou could’ve said.” She frowned hard, then shuddered, pulling her hat off and striking it against her knee. “Just let me stand here like that …”
    â€œBe right back,” I called over my shoulder as I turned and hurried off toward my house.
    I set Sorrow up on the screened-in porch with dog bones and water, which wouldn’t keep him busy long—he’d be out the newly repaired screen and running around the lake before I got to the top of the drive. But hope does, after all, spring eternal. Some day he’d be nicely trained. He’d be dependable. He’d be a really good dog. Just not yet.
    I stopped to call Bill Corcoran at the paper. I told him I was heading over to where a dead body had been found—so he didn’t send another reporter.
    â€œTry to get something to me as soon as you can. Tomorrow’s paper, okay?” he said, probably leaning back in his crooked desk chair and running his hand through his thick, uncombed hair the way he did, and then pushing his dark, heavy glasses up with that middle finger he sometimes left leaning against his large nose—as if to emphasize the comment.
    I grabbed my camera, notebook, keys, and purse. I was out of there, backing up the drive to where Dolly waited. We took off in a shower of gravel. Me, in my aging yellow Jeep, following behind Dolly’s patrol car with a