Dead Dancing Women by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page B

into the room beyond, a tiny alcove of a kitchen where a simmering enameled pot on a white gas stove sat with its lid bouncing, letting out little vents of good-smelling steam. It was a tiny room. Cluttered, like the living room, but not dirty. Everything in it was old and well used, with either a crack or a yellow patina of age. There was an old-fashioned icebox, with a pan underneath it catching slow drips from melting ice; a white metal table with two ladder-backed chairs; and a single open cupboard made of bare boards and metal uprights. The cupboard held a few dishes, a couple of cups, two pots, and a dozen or more Mason jars.
    Harry motioned for us to sit down while he went to the back door, stuck his head out, and yelled “Shut up” at his dogs, who quieted immediately with only an occasional complaining bark or two.
    Dolly nervously adjusted her gun belt back and forth, trying to get comfortable on the wooden chair with a cracked seat. “Miz Kincaid here found something pretty awful in her garbage can yesterday morning, Mr. Mockerman.” She launched into our reason for coming.
    Harry nodded a time or two without looking at her. He picked up a big spoon, went to the stove, and stirred whatever was cooking there. The smell in the room was good. Onions and herbs. He didn’t turn around, just stirred, keeping his back hunched over as he minded his pot. We waited.
    I knew Harry to be a quiet man, but not this quiet. There seemed something too still about the bent back he kept turned. Harry was afraid. That was obvious. Maybe of us or maybe any woman who dared come into his home. There’d been a professor at U of M like that, a friend of Jackson’s. Totally afraid of women, unless he met them out of doors, where he could run. God knows how he managed his classes. Poetry, for heaven’s sakes. Of course—because he was good-looking—the class was filled to overflowing with dewy-eyed sprites clutching their spit-worn Emily Dickinsons to fluttering bosoms.
    I’m a kind of spit-worn Emily Dickinson, all by myself, since I was named for her, which pretty well sealed my fate, though I married and never wrote poetry and left my father’s house when I was eighteen to go away to college. Still—I’d decided early in life that there was something tragic about me, too. I just couldn’t quite put my finger on what that tragic thing was since I always seemed so disgustingly ordinary.
    Harry stirred. We sat. Dolly sniffed from time to time.
    I figured, finally, that it was Dolly and the uniform that were getting to Harry.
    â€œI found a head, Harry,” I said as gently as I could. “Somebody put it in my garbage can.”
    â€œDon’t say.” Harry pulled his shoulders up tight to his ears. From time to time, he changed the spoon, one hand to the other, then wiped his free hand on the towel wrapped around his middle.
    Dolly cleared her throat. “You see anything up at the road yesterday?”
    Harry made a noise and stirred faster, spirals of steam rising around him, spots of liquid flying from the pot, hitting the surface of the stove with soft sizzles, hitting the towel that covered the prized suit.
    That stew did smell good. I was willing to bet he’d put some wild leeks in there, and maybe a little wild parsley. If you couldn’t say much else for Harry, you had to admit he was a good cook. My mouth was watering.
    â€œAnyway,” she said, not admitting defeat. “You know Miz Poet from town? Ruby Poet? Sure you know her, Mr. Mockerman. You grew up around here. You must know just about everybody.”
    Harry shook his head then. “Nope. Don’t know her,” he said.
    â€œCome on, Mr. Mockerman.” Dolly gave a little, insincere laugh. “After living your whole life here, on this piece of property, in this particular house not five miles out of Leetsville? Why, that’s hard to believe.”
    He shook his head again.