Free Dead Dogs and Englishmen by Elizabeth Kane Buzzelli

hostas. Jackson stood beside me, hands crossed at his crotch, one finger impatiently tapping the other hand as he waited for Harry to leave.
    â€œProbably not tomorrow,” he said to Harry. “I’ve got a job lined up for Emily. The appointment with the gentleman is for tomorrow afternoon.”
    Harry shook his head and leaned back stretching his neck to look up at the darkening sky, as if for patience. “Tomorrow’s when I’m going, if she wants to come along. Guess you’ll just have to choose, Emily.” Harry smiled one of his rare, tight smiles.
    Jackson leaned back on the heels of his very expensive deck shoes and laughed. “I’m afraid she really has no choice. The man who wants to employ her isn’t the patient sort. I don’t think …”
    I looked from one to the other of my bristling bantam roosters and put up a hand.
    â€œI’m going fishing with you, Harry. That’s just what I need. This other thing might not come through, but a jar of fish is a jar of fish.”
    â€œYou’re kidding.” Jackson gave me a disbelieving look.
    I shook my head. “Please set it up for the day after tomorrow. Just explain that I had a previous engagement.”
    â€œMaybe I should tell him you’re too busy and don’t need the money …”
    â€œDon’t be a jerk. I promised Harry I’d go fishing with him. He’s going to teach me to can fish for next winter. I’m not turning my back on him just ’cause something else came along.”
    â€œWell … well …”
    â€œIf your man needs my help, I’m sure he can wait.”
    Jack shrugged and gave up. “I left a few of my chapters inside.” He motioned toward the house. “On the counter. Whenever you can get to them … maybe this weekend?”
    I made a face at him. “I’ll call. And I’ll get you a bill.”
    He closed his eyes and threw his head back as if pleading for patience from some place outside of him. He turned and walked to his car.
    â€œYou seem out of sorts,” Harry commented after Jack was gone. “Heard about that dead woman over to Old Farm Road. And a dog too, eh? I got an idea about that. Don’t like to say too much.”
    He gave me a smile—this one with a bit of a gleam to his eye—and walked off the other way, around my fading vegetable garden and toward the drive and his home. He stopped once to call back at me, “See you at six-thirty a.m. You be ready. Take your car, if that’s all right. Otherwise that friend of yours’ll be chasing me ’cause I got no license on mine. And we got no fishing licenses either, so I’ll pick the spot where we go in. That all right with you?” He frowned and added, “Unless it rains. I ain’t standing in water with water coming down on my head.”
    I nodded—if it rained I was not going to get my fish and I wouldn’t get the job either. I hadn’t thought about licenses—cars or fishing. If we got caught I could be fined. My name would be in the newspaper.
    I sighed. That’s the chance you take when you’ve got a friend like Harry Mockerman. The rest—well—like Scarlett, I’d think about that tomorrow.
    For the next few hours I picked tent worm cocoons off my house, my tool bench, my work gloves, and the statue of a little girl holding a rose behind her back that I’d brought with me from Ann Arbor. The cocoons were everywhere—this next stage of the awful creatures’ life cycle. I poked them, peeled them from where they had been stuck on, and dropped them into the can of gasoline I carried around the garden with me. I thought about Dolly and this situation she’d gotten herself into and had now dropped in my lap. Then I thought about Jackson. When the can was filled with cocoons, I threw a match in, lighting the gas. I watched them burn with deep and evil