by Nicole Young
“The reason you got hurt last time is because you were consumed with fear. You should have seen your face. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be with you.”
“You don’t understand. Whether you believe me or not, there is blood in my basement. I’m not about to put myself in danger because you think I’m imagining things.”
“I never said you were imagining things. As your neighbor and friend, I’d like to see you get over your fears. And the only way to do that is to confront them. Admit it. Once you looked in the cistern and saw there was no body in there, you felt better.”
My jaw clenched. He had no idea what I’d been through since I’d seen that image in the concrete.
“You’re right.” I leaned against the wall. “There’s no body in the cistern. I feel great about it. But I’m still not going down there.”
He snorted, shook his head, then descended the stairs.
I paced the kitchen and waited for him to emerge from the cellar with some explanation for the bloody wall.
The squawking of a police radio drifted up the steps. Obviously, Brad had found whatever I’d been lucky enough to miss.
He thumped up the stairs and came over to me, glowering, his eyes filled with accusation.
At his look, I scrambled backward, cornered by the window and the kitchen counter.
“You were right. I was wrong,” he said through gritted teeth.
“What do you mean?” I bit my lip.
“There is a body in your cistern.”
Horror coursed through my veins. “Is it Rebecca’s?”
I didn’t want to know the answer, but after last night’s date with David, I’d been chewing on the awful possibility that it was Rebecca who called to me from the cistern.
“Rebecca? Have you seen Rebecca?” His expression turned from anger to surprise.
“Of course not. She’s buried in the basement.”
Brad grabbed my arms. “Tish. Get a grip. Rebecca’s in California. Martin Dietz is in your basement.”
My head lolled to one side. Only Brad’s strength kept me from falling over.
“Why is Martin Dietz in my basement?” My words slurred.
“That’s what you need to tell me.”
I shook my head, dazed. “I have no idea. Maybe he was inspecting the cistern and fell.”
Brad helped me slide to the floor.
“You two had an issue regarding the cistern, didn’t you?” he asked.
An issue. That was a nice way of putting it. “Yeah. I wanted to knock it down, he wanted to keep it up.”
“And he threatened you if you removed it?”
“I guess he threatened. He’s the zoning czar. He doesn’t have to let anybody do anything.”
“Isn’t it true that his denial interfered with your renovation and resale plans?”
“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’d . . .” I halted midsentence. “I don’t like your tone. Are you accusing me of killing Martin Dietz?”
“The man is dead in your basement. You had the motive, the opportunity—”
“I didn’t kill him.” Defending myself against his accusation was futile. Anything I said could and would be held against me. Just like last time. I struggled to lift myself off the floor.
Thuds and thumps sounded from the front of the house, and moments later, my kitchen was filled with donut dunkers.
The largest of the crew found his way over to me while the rest disappeared into the basement.
“Miss Amble, I’m Chief Doyle. Has Officer Walters explained to you your Miranda rights?”
Exasperation bubbled like lava in my guts. “I told you, I didn’t kill anyone.” I glared at Brad.
“You have the right to remain silent . . .” The chief droned through the list as if I’d never heard it before.
I stared numbly. Not again. I couldn’t face going through it again.
I was jostled and nudged. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser.
26
I was questioned, swabbed, fingerprinted, and booked.
The attorney assigned to me, a young guy named Moranski, knew less about the process than I did. I coached him along out of pity, but by midmorning, I realized a shortened version of his name might suit him better.
At least I had a warm place to spend the next couple nights, even if the lingering odor of vomit revealed that my cell did double-duty as the drunk tank.
Outside, the wind blew. Every few minutes, a gust blasted its way through the caulk around the high window. I lay on the hard bench beneath it. The cold air drifted down and settled around me. If I got convicted of Dietz’s murder, my life was as good as over. I’d already languished away three years. With a murder rap, I could write off the next twenty-five, minimum.
On the bright side, maybe I’d get to be cellmates with Verna again. And this time around, I’d agree with her about the injustice of the justice system and the inhumanity of humanity.
I curled up in a ball to keep warm. At least I’d already been wearing my coat when Officer Brad threw me out in the storm at four o’clock this morning. Too bad he hadn’t had the courtesy to provide me with a blanket after questioning today.
I stewed for a couple hours, beating myself up for even giving a rip that there was blood on the rocks of my cistern. So what? It’s a basement. There’s bound to be undesirable slime in anyone’s cellar. And considering that there was already a body under the concrete, what was another one on top of it? The scent of a decaying body would blend right in with the general odor of mildew. And if my furnace hadn’t gone out, I never would have gone down in the basement. Spring would have been a much better time to deal with the murder of Martin Dietz.
I didn’t like the guy anyway.
The door to my cell clanked and a female deputy came in. “If you got someone who’ll put up a hundred grand, you can go home.”
Look lady, I felt like saying, I couldn’t even track down a friend to help me with my furnace, so what makes you think I can find one to fork over a hundred g’s?
She looked at me with something like pity or compassion on her face. “You get one phone call.”
She stood aside to let me go through.
I stayed on the bench thinking for a minute.
I had the cash sitting in my bank account, but every penny of it was reserved for renovations. If I dug into it for bail, I wouldn’t be able to finish the job on schedule. And I’d be stuck in Rawlings for at least another year. Maybe even forever. There had to be someone out there who could put up the money. I was good for it. It’s not like I could leave town with my Victorian unfinished.
The only face that came to mind was Tammy Johnson’s from Beauty Boutique. She’d invited me to church, hadn’t she? It was time she put her fortune where her faith was. If she refused to help me post bail, I’d know she was just another one of those Sunday Soldiers.
I followed the deputy. She handed me a phone book. I looked up Tammy’s home phone number.
The line rang. An answering machine picked up.
“Hi. This is Tammy. I can’t take your call. Please leave a message at the tone. Thanks!” Her voice sounded perky as ever, but I knew that in real life she was probably wiped out from grieving over Casey.
The machine beeped, waiting for a message.
“Um, hi, Tammy.” I leaned against the dirty white wall, adding my fingerprints to those of other desperate callers. “This is Tish Amble. You know, the one who reminds you of your good friend Sandra? I’m at the county jail and I need your help. Can you please come down as soon as you get this message? Please?”
The other end was silent. Then a beep sounded as time ran out.
I hung up the phone.
“She’ll get here,” the deputy said in a gentle voice.
I squeezed my eyes and bit my lip, waiting until I gained control of my emotions before I looked at her.
“Thanks, but she barely even knows me. I guess I can only hope.”
Maybe Tammy had gone out of town.
Maybe she hated me and wasn’t coming.
Maybe she figured anyone who’d killed her admirer deserved to be alone in a cold, dank cell.
I cradled my head in my arms. The cell started to spin around me. I could feel myself sinking into blackness.
Despair.
I lay down on the bench. Sleep would help the time pass.
The door clanked.
“You have a visitor.” It was the female officer.
I sat up, groggy. I must have dozed off.
“What time is it?” I asked.
“Almost ten.” She stood aside to let me through.
I sat in the interview room. Tammy came in and took the chair across the table from me. Her face was puffy and red. Her hair had lost its body and hung loosely to her shoulders. Runoff from her mascara blackened the bags beneath her eyes.
Her chin had a sharp slant. “I was at Casey’s service when I heard about Martin. I didn’t want to come here tonight. Brad talked me into seeing you.”
“Tammy. I’m so sorry. I know you’ve had a rough week. But I really need your help.”
She pushed back in her chair. Her eyes glinted and her voice took on a bitter edge. “Rough is an understatement.”
I opened my palms, pleading. “I didn’t kill Dietz. But I can’t find out who did if I’m stuck in a jail cell. I need someone to post bail.”
She crossed her arms. “I just can’t believe you’d kill Martin over a stupid cistern.”
“Exactly, Tammy. It was a stupid cistern. Nothing to kill over. But somebody felt they had a very good reason to kill him. Help me so we can find out who. And why.”
“You’re the obvious candidate. He was found in your basement.”
“I also had three people swear I was at the Rawlings Hotel at the time of the murder. You invited me to church, remember? Give me a chance.”
“Just because I’m a Christian doesn’t mean I’m willing to aid and abet criminals.”
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “You know I’m innocent, Tammy. Would a Christian leave an innocent woman in jail?”
With as many guilt trips as my grandmother had put me on over the years, I knew how to dish one out.
Tammy looked down and sighed. “Even if you’re innocent, there’s nothing I can do. I’m broke and then some. I’m holding on haircut to haircut. I don’t know how much longer things can last.”
Her sob story hit me. It was hard being single, trying to make ends meet, and still wake up with a smile in the morning.
It looked like I’d have to use my own seed money to get out of jail quick, and hope the arraignment could be scheduled soon. Otherwise, I’d find myself in a financial crunch that would drag out the renovations indefinitely. And I didn’t need anything stopping me from selling the Victorian full price come June.
I told her where to find my personal checkbook, and how to get the cash and post bail. Nothing could be done until the banks opened on Monday, so I geared up for a solitary couple of nights.
27
I woke up Sunday morning wondering how it would have felt to be getting dressed for church about now. What if I had taken Tammy up on her offer the other day and said, “Sure, I’d love to go to church with you and meet your teens and help them get over the death of Casey. I miss God. I can’t wait to talk to Him again”?
Maybe if I had, I wouldn’t be sitting in jail. Martin Dietz would still be alive. The murderer would have refrained from bonking Dietz’s head on the rocks and pitching him into the cistern. All because God would have been pleased with me.
But God wasn’t pleased with me.
And Martin Dietz was dead.
I toyed with possible suspects. Not David. He was at dinner with me. Not Dorothy. She was too small to heave that lug up and over the edge. Of course, her son Jack could have done it. Tammy herself might even be a suspect. Didn’t it always come back to a scorned lover?
But why my basement? Why the cistern?
Revenge.
That could be the motive. A year ago, Dietz buried a body in the cistern, and someone just found out what he’d done. Insane with grief, that someone clonked Dietz and evened the score.
That led me back to my original question.
Who was buried in my cistern?
I had plenty of time to run the various scenarios while I waited for Monday.
When Monday finally rolled around, Tammy did her part and posted bail, and with my prompting, Mr. Moron managed to get me out of police custody by late afternoon. The hearing was scheduled for mid-January, meaning my basement renovation would have to be delayed until I got my bail cash back.
Officer Brad escorted me home, trusting me enough to give me the front seat. The sky held solid gray clouds, making nightfall seem only moments away. Friday night’s snow had melted, but the wind still whipped in fury.
All I could think about was the mess I’d have when my pipes thawed out. Sitting in custody for two and a half days, I couldn’t exactly dial up my plumbing and heating professional.
Brad parked the cruiser and opened his door. I jumped out mine and headed up the front porch steps, leaving him to eat my dust.
I turned and gave him an aloof, irritated wave. He mounted the steps anyway.
“Thanks for the fantastic date,” I said. “I imagine we’ll be seeing a bunch more of each other before it’s all over.”
He closed his eyes for a second as if praying for strength. “Don’t take it out on me, Tish. I was just doing my job.”
“Yeah, well, when you come back to get me, call first so I can pack a weekend bag. My teeth feel like they have a layer of algae on them.”
“Don’t worry, you’re off my list of suspects for now.”
“What do you mean?”
“Time of death was sometime around seven o’clock Friday night. The bartender and waiter at the Rawlings Hotel vouched for you.”
“Then why did you say I’m off your list ‘for now’?”
“The neighbor across the street says she saw you and Dietz enter the house together a little before seven that night. That’s why the prosecutor wouldn’t drop charges.”
“There was a blizzard going on Friday night. How could Dorothy have seen anyone going into my house? I could barely find my way home.”
“Mrs. Fitch is part of our neighborhood watch program. Believe me, her information is generally right on. She remembers makes of cars, license plate numbers, facial features, clothing, height. She’s the best there is, so her testimony will probably be given a lot of weight in this case.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want the fact that I’m innocent to get in the way of Dorothy’s perfect record.” I pushed open the front door, ready to slam it in Brad’s face.
“Hey. I have a friend who’s a heating contractor. I had him come over Saturday morning and get your furnace going. Hope you don’t mind.”
I drew in a sharp breath. Brad had my furnace fixed?
The hard shell around my heart fractured like cracking ice. Guilt oozed out of the fissure. After all the spite I’d shown Brad over the past few weeks, I didn’t deserve such an act of kindness.
I crossed my arms. “I guess it’s the least you could do after arresting me for murder.” I hated my words. Why couldn’t I have simply said thank you?
“He’ll send you the bill.” Brad strode down the steps and got in his cruiser.
I stood in the cold watching him go.
My foot nudged a frozen lump on the front porch. I kicked at it mindlessly before I looked down to see what it was. A newspaper. I peeled it off the decking and brought it in.
I walked into my bedroom, shoulders slumping, and dropped the newspaper in the corner. I didn’t even subscribe to the local news.
I sighed. Brad might be a cop, but he was probably the most decent guy I’d ever met. If I would just stop being
such a jerk to him, we could probably be friends. But who had time for friends? I had to finish this renovation project before I ran out of cash or got run out of town. June or jail was just around the corner.
I took off my coat and pitched it in the pile on the floor, thankful the house was warm again. Break-ins, breakdowns, jail breaks. Too much came against me. I didn’t know how to handle the barrage. If I had a bed, I’d crawl under it. Instead, I sat on my cot and leaned my head in my arms.
When I looked up, the newspaper caught my eye. It had unfurled where it landed. A picture of my house splashed the front page. I picked it up. A sick feeling spread across my stomach. I read the murder story. Martin Dietz’s name appeared three times. Mine showed up eleven. Jason Blane, whoever that was, ripped me to shreds. He’d dug up details of my life that I hadn’t even known and couldn’t possibly be true. The guy begged for a libel suit.
But even if I won a million in damages, the damage was already done. Not a jury in the land would set me free after that kind of publicity. The doorbell rang. I hadn’t showered in three days, my hair spiked up on one side, my teeth were pale green, and I could feel a pimple growing on the side of my nose.
The doorbell rang again.
“Go away,” I yelled halfheartedly.
The intruder pounded on the front door.
I jumped up. “Go away.”
Dorothy Fitch’s ratty hairdo peeked through the glass of the door. Somebody else stood behind her, but with the waning light, I couldn’t see who.
I sighed and rolled my eyes. That busybody was the last person I felt like talking to right now. But Grandma would tell me to put on a smile and open the door.
I did.
My smile disappeared when I saw the love seat. The overstuffed styling sported unsightly navy-blue-and-burgundy plaid upholstery. I hoped Dorothy and her helper wouldn’t be upset when I sent it right back home with them.
Dorothy stood on the top step in her bulky quilted coat. She squirmed to keep a grip on the awkward corner. A middle-aged man with Down’s syndrome held up the other end. Dorothy’s son Jack, I assumed. Confronted with his personal challenge, I was suddenly ashamed to have made a monster of him in my mind.