Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli Page A

workers. See if they can help. He’s got one guy been with him a long time. Said if anybody knows anything, this guy will.”
    She clapped her hat back on her head and slid off her stool.
    â€œCan I get dressed first?” I let the sarcasm drip.
    â€œYou better. Hard-working people up here will think you’re a nut case—going around like that.”
    â€œYou know something?” I didn’t wait for her answer. “You are the biggest mood killer I’ve ever known.”
    â€œYeah, well, sure, I guess …”
    I was dressed. Sorrow, tired from his long swim, seemed happy enough to rest on the screened porch. We were out of there, headed back over to Leetsville, then on toward Elk Rapids, to see this farmer who wanted to help in the investigation of a woman and dog I had almost put out of my mind.

The farm was one of those going concerns that dot the rolling Michigan landscape: silos and many barns, and a yard filled with big green and yellow equipment. The man’s potato fields stretched over one hill and up another as far as I could see. Rolling slowly through his endless fields were huge watering machines, tracking back and forth among the rows.
    â€œHe won’t be in the house,” Dolly said when we pulled up a circular drive beneath dying Lombardy poplars and parked in front of a red barn with wide double doors. “Unless he’s having lunch …”
    One of the barn doors slid open and a tall, thin man in blue overalls, plaid short-sleeved shirt, and straw hat came out, waving us over to him. He had that farmer look: lined face; narrow eyes lost in folds of wrinkles; shoulders, in stained overalls, drawn halfway up to his ears. He could have been in his late thirties or his early sixties. Or no age. Farmers—after a few years—took on the eternal sense of the soil. They plant food crops and harvest food crops. They talk food crops and weather. Endless dialogue of an ancient brotherhood.
    â€œDeputy.” He nodded to Dolly then turned to me, dark eyebrows shooting up.
    I introduced myself and told him I was with the newspaper, covering the story.
    â€œJoshua Sutter,” he said, dipping his head and fixing me with a pair of very sharp blue eyes. We shook hands.
    â€œTerrible thing you got goin’ on there.” He turned back to Dolly. “Like to help, if I can. Might as well go over to where my workers live. One of ’em been with me years now. He knows all the yearly pickers up here. If anybody can help you, I’d say Miguel’s the one. He’s probably back at the house where he lives, having his dinner. Get in the truck.” He motioned toward a red extended-cab pickup. “No sense taking two vehicles.”
    In the truck, I rolled down my window; the air inside thick with the smell of oil. The man revved the motor, ground the truck into gear, and we were off—out behind the barn, around a couple more huge gray outbuildings, and on to a barely visible track leading through the fields back to a far tree line. We bumped along through the fields, a rough ride made endurable by the fresh air blowing through the cab.
    Mr. Sutter made no small talk, only kept his eyes focused on the road, swearing under his breath when he swerved to avoid a covey of partridge he stirred up.
    A row of identical, small white houses, more rustic cabins than houses, stood in a line beneath a stand of tall oaks. Wet clothes hung on sagging lines from the houses to poles in the grassless yards.
    â€œTalked to him earlier,” Joshua said as he pulled in, parked, and turned off the motor. “Miguel Hernandez, one of my best workers—comes every year. Said he doesn’t think he knows this dead woman of yours. Said he hasn’t heard about any trouble among the migrant workers, like maybe a husband and wife fighting. Not that many of ’em come yet—not ’til harvest time. But, like Miguel, who helps me with the