Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

about the gold cross the dead woman wore?” I asked, on the chance gossip had gotten around to Harry.
    â€œHeard. Don’t mean nothin’ to me.”
    â€œYou want to get moving?” Dolly was impatient. “We got an hour trip ahead of us.”
    On the way out to her car, I filled her in on what George Sandini had said.
    â€œSo, he thinks something’s going on too. Good thing his worker’s a citizen. Won’t be runnin’ back to Mexico. That’s a break,” she said, then leaved a deep sigh.
    I looked sideways at her. She had the gray look of someone who was suddenly very tired. “You doing all right?”
    She said nothing. Okay, I was back out of her twisted loop. Fine with me. I didn’t need Dolly’s kind of trouble. I’d help find a murderer. Break the story to cement my place at the Northern Statesman .That’s what I had to think about.
    But more than anything, Dolly or no Dolly, I wanted to find the guy who could so savagely kill a dog.

Dolly kept her beloved siren off. The car was quiet. I sniffed and stared out my side window as she kept her eyes straight ahead. We got to Leetsville and she sped on up 131.
    I took my reporter’s notebook from my shoulder bag and began making notes. I wondered if immigration would have to be called in. What it sounded like to me was a dispute between the migrant workers coming in from Mexico. Maybe some kind of turf war. I didn’t know enough about the process to make any guesses, but since that’s all we had so far I was thinking the whole thing should be turned over to the government.
    â€œID the victim yet?” I turned to ask, keeping my face blank.
    She shook her head. “Ran her through every site we know. Nothing. Lansing’s got the body. They’re asking the FBI to take a look at the prints. Who knows? This looks bigger than just what’s happenin’ here. Could be some kind of shakedown ring, getting money from Mexican workers, or from illegals. Maybe they’re bringing illegals into the country and demanding money not to turn them in afterward.” Her voice was the same stiff voice she used to talk to strangers. “You ever heard of ‘coyotes’?”
    â€œYou mean the guys who bring illegals across the border for a price?”
    â€œYeah. Like that. I been looking it up. Those guys don’t play around. If that’s the problem …” She hesitated. “Got a preliminary on the necropsy Lansing’s doing.”
    I waited, figuring I shouldn’t have to beg for information.
    â€œOld injuries on the dogs,” she said finally.
    â€œWhat’s that mean?”
    Dolly shrugged. “I don’t know. Just said old injuries.”
    â€œFrom what?”
    She double shrugged. “Could be abuse, they said. Could be the dog was used in dog fights.”
    â€œDog fights.” I didn’t buy that one. Not in my peaceful Northern Michigan—well—except for a murder or two.
    â€œHad a dog-fighting group up here maybe twenty years ago. Townspeople turned those guys in. Can’t see it happening again without folks putting a stop to it. Still, you never know.”
    That wasn’t something I wanted to hear. Not up here. That kind of mindless evil didn’t belong in my new world.
    _____
    In Mancelona Dolly pulled up next to a state police car parked at the side of the road and exchanged how-ya-doings with the cop sitting inside, then we were off again.
    I settled down for the ride. Fifteen miles or more, depending on where this farm was. The notes I continued making, head down, concentrating, were now notes on groceries I needed, body lotion, a box of dog bones, and anything else I could think of needing within the next month or so. Then I started listing home improvements I might one day make—if my book sold and I made any money. Things like adding a greenhouse off the porch. Like building a garage for the Jeep.