by Nicole Young
Though the piece of furniture must have weighed a ton, it remained suspended between Dorothy and Jack while I gawked.
I snapped out of my trance. “Gee. Put that down and come in, won’t you?”
“It’s for you.” Jack smiled and pushed on his end impatiently.
Dorothy edged toward the door, her face red from straining. I had no choice but to hold the door open with one hand and grab an end of the love seat with the other.
The three of us stuffed the piece through the doorway and settled it against the wall by the staircase. The rolled arms and arched back filled the space perfectly.
“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t mention that I’d have to take the thing out the back door piece by piece in black garbage bags.
“Came to talk,” Dorothy said, taking off her coat. “Knew we’d have to bring our own chair.”
I sighed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had quite a weekend. What I really hoped to do was get some sleep.”
“Can’t blame you.” Dorothy sank into the soft cushions. Jack sat down next to her. I stood there, almost drooling at the idea of a comfortable seat. The hard bench I’d been sentenced to the past three days hadn’t done my back any good, and my own bumpy, narrow cot wasn’t much better.
“Thing is,” Dorothy said, “I feel real bad about what happened and wanted to make it up to you somehow. Brought the love seat I promised, for starters.”
“That wasn’t necessary. Really.” I crossed my arms, hoping they’d take the hint and leave.
“Wanted Jack to meet you.” She turned toward her son. “See, Jack, this is the lady who lives here now. Tish Amble. You sure she’s who you saw Friday night?”
“I saw her.”
“Was she with someone?”
“I saw her with Officer Brad.”
I laughed in relief. “Yes, about nine o’clock Friday. I was walking out front. Brad pulled over and talked to me.” I left out the part about being at David’s.
“Before that, Jack. You saw her before that too, right? Going in the house with Mr. Dietz?”
I lodged my protest. “I was at dinner. He couldn’t have seen me.”
“Hush,” Dorothy waved me off and watched Jack.
“I saw the lady who lived here.”
“Jack, this is the lady who lives here. Is this who you saw?”
“I saw the lady who lived here.”
Dorothy sighed. “You saw Miss Amble walk in this house with Mr. Dietz Friday night?”
Jack put on a stubborn chin. “I saw the lady who lived here. She went in with Mr. Dietz.”
“Do you remember Jan Hershel? She used to live here, Jack. Is that who you saw?” Dorothy asked.
He squeezed his forehead in concentration and shook his head.
Dorothy patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Okay, Jack.”
Jack turned his face away, pouting.
Dorothy lowered her voice. “Think his memory is starting to go.”
Jack turned on her in a rage. “I remember, Ma. I remember.”
He pushed up from his seat and fumed out. The front door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.
Dorothy flinched. “Pretty sure he’s got memory loss. Can happen early for Down’s syndrome adults. Premature aging, you know. Sometimes they end up with Alzheimer’s by forty.”
“Officer Brad said it was you that saw me going into the house with Dietz. But you’re telling me it was Jack who supposedly saw me?”
“Jack said it was the lady who lived here. Asked him over and over, but he always said the same thing. I just assumed he meant you. Maybe he meant someone who lived in the neighborhood. Guess I owe you an apology.”
“So it’s Jack that’s never wrong, not you.” Dorothy couldn’t miss the edge to my voice.
She looked up, eyes pleading. “Have to say it was me. The police wouldn’t listen if it was Jack who told them.”
“How do you know?”
“Don’t want my Jack talking to the police. Got too many problems as it is.”
Dorothy patted the cushion next to her on the love seat.
I sank down beside her and crossed my legs. I leaned my head into the softness behind me. I breathed in, enjoying the moment.
“You won’t tell, will you, dear?” Dorothy sounded distressed.
I lifted my head. “If it comes down to me going to jail or you losing your reputation as the perfect spy, you bet I’m going to tell.”
Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’ll say it was too snowy and I can’t be sure who I saw. Jack can’t talk to the police. It’s not a good idea.”
“But Jack may know who the killer is. I’m sure if he talks, the police will understand. No one will blame you.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but Dorothy had to be persuaded to tell the truth. My freedom was on the line.
She clawed at my arm. “My Jack’s all I have left.” She sat back, her eyes toward the ceiling. “Had four children once, you know. The oldest died when he was just eleven years old. Right there on the railroad tracks. Thought he could beat the train.”
My hand flew to my mouth.
“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled through my fingers.
“Jenny died when she was twenty-three. Cindy was twenty-seven and pregnant when she passed away.”
My eyes must have been the size of saucers.
“Cancer took them. Not as strong as me, I guess.” Her expression glazed over.
I looked again at her patchy hair and opaque skin, startled to realize that Dorothy herself was a cancer survivor.
“You see why Jack’s everything to me, don’t you? When he was born, everyone said he was a burden to bear. But God knew I was going to be alone. And He gave me Jack to keep me company.”
I touched the back of her hand. “Let’s just see what happens. I can’t promise to keep your secret, but I’ll hold off telling as long as I can. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find the real murderer and it won’t matter.”
She gave a single nod of her head and stared at the carpet.
Her dejected look did its job. How could I tattle on the only surviving son of a woman whose children were genetically cursed? “All right. I won’t say anything.”
She gave a relieved sigh.
“But, in exchange, I want some honest answers to a few questions that have been bothering me.”
“Answer what I can,” Dorothy said.
“Great.” I settled into one comfy corner of the love seat, hoping to be there for a good, long stretch. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Martin Dietz.”
28
“Not one to gossip,” Dorothy said. She shifted in her seat. “All I know is what I see and hear for myself. Don’t pay no mind to rumors.”
“I understand. I’m not looking for rumors. I’m looking for facts. Did Dietz have family? Friends?” I leaned toward Dorothy on the love seat, eager for information that might clear my name.
“Heard he’s got family over in Jackson. That’s where the funeral is, the paper said. Far as friends go, I don’t think there’s a soul in town that liked the man. Even Sandra eventually saw through him. Everyone else just paid him due homage.”
“How long did Sandra and Martin know each other?”
“Can’t say for sure. They’d been dating quite awhile before he popped the question. Saw the ring when she first got it. She’d been over to the Ramseys’. Showed me on her way home.”
“Sandra knew Rebecca and David Ramsey?”
“Small town, dear. For a good number of years, they were pretty tight. Sandra loved watching the renovations. David teased that she was Martin’s spy.”
Dorothy rubbed her eye with a bony knuckle. “Then long about a year ago last April, Sandra quit hanging around the jet setters that had made her career, the Ramseys included.”
I remembered Tammy saying Sandra had helped with the church youth group. I assumed that activity took up Sandra’s former big-shooter schmooze time.
“And let me guess,” I sa
id. “That’s when she broke up with Martin.”
“She didn’t want to call it off. Said she just wanted to get her life together. Martin harassed her for trying to change. Mocked her for wanting to do the right thing. When she jumped in the race for commissioner against him, that’s when he showed his true colors. She held her head up as long as she could. But he intimidated and embarrassed her in front of everyone. She had to throw in the towel.” Dorothy shook her head. “Never thought she’d just up and leave like that, though.”
“How was Martin after she left?”
“Think she broke his heart. He bad-mouthed her every chance he could, promising she’d never be able to come back to Rawlings. But men only do that when they’ve got their hearts broken. Don’t know why he thought he could be mean to her and she’d stick with him. A woman can only take so much.”
Control freak. That was Dietz. Sandra was okay as long as she toed the line, but do something for herself, and she was toast. Maybe all that bad-mouthing Dietz did was designed to wrap a smoke screen around the facts.
Sandra Jones was dead in my basement. And Martin Dietz put her there. I was almost sure of it.
That got me back to the important question: who killed Martin Dietz?
It had to be someone who knew and loved Sandra. Someone loyal to her memory. Someone who knew what Dietz had done and was just waiting for the right time to take revenge. Waiting for the day when some schleppy renovator chick could take the rap.
I leaned toward Dorothy, feeling as if the answers were somehow mingled with the ganglia in her brain and all I had to do was ask the right questions. “Tell me about the waterproofing project last year. What part did Martin Dietz play in that?”
“He had to approve it. Saw him there a couple times while it was going on. He was always one to keep a close eye on things.”
“Did you ever see him down there after business hours? You know, a time maybe when he shouldn’t have been?”
Dorothy looked at the floor in front of her. “Can’t think of one.”
“What about Jack? Do you think he might know of a time?”
“Might, I suppose.” She glanced up quickly. “But he doesn’t like to talk to strangers. I’ll ask him for you.”
Yeah, right. By the way he’d plopped his bottom into the love seat, Jack had wanted to stay and visit.
Dorothy stood. “Promised you soup, didn’t I?” She headed to the front door. “Best get to it.”
I wasn’t done digging for clues, but I didn’t want to push her. I’d hit a nerve somehow asking about Jack.
“Thank you for the love seat,” I said as she walked out.
Half an hour ago, I’d been ready to burn the plaid atrocity. But having cuddled up in it, I was hooked on its sink-down-to-my-toes comfort. I stood back and looked. The shape softened the angles of the open stairwell. Between the love seat and new paint job, the parlor seemed cozy. And free was always better than renting.
I curled into the curved arm, almost giddy to own a stick of real furniture.
I closed my eyes. Lucky for me there were Officer Brads in the world. Instead of freezing, I was toasty in my usually drafty Victorian.
I must have dozed off.
Clang, clang, clang. Prison guards were opening and closing my cell door. Behind me, Verna was telling me how to make coffee. “Three scoops in the top. But don’t you use that nasty water.” I was only half listening to her. Mostly I was wondering why the guards kept banging the door. “Am I in, or am I out?” I asked.
“You’re in,” the guard said and stuck his face up to the bars. It was David.
I stumbled backward to get away from him and fell across Verna. But it wasn’t Verna anymore. It was a dead, decaying body.
Teeth without lips smiled up at me. “I’m waiting, Tish.”
I screamed myself awake, scrambling upright on the love seat. My heart pounded.
Night had fallen while I’d napped. Streetlights sent a dim glow to the parlor. I stood and groped my way to the kitchen.
I turned on the light and waited for the fluorescent bulb to reach full intensity. I eased toward the kitchen sink and looked over at the cellar door. Yellow police tape draped across it, most likely forgotten after the brief and unrevealing investigation. Crime scene, the black letters warned.
I could only hope that Martin Dietz had made amends with his Maker. I didn’t need another ghost wandering the halls. As it was, his death was enough of a curse. A picture of my house plastered all the area papers, along with details of the murder in the basement. I crossed my fingers that no one would recognize the Victorian once I transformed it with a fresh coat of paint come spring.
I opened the fridge and scrounged around.
An onion bagel and some low-fat cream cheese fit the bill.
I leaned against the counter as I ate and thought about breaking through the police tape. If I had a speck of courage, I would throw a private grave-digging party and have the case wrapped up in thirty minutes or less. And without Dietz around to stop me, no one could comment on the excavation of my cistern.
I brushed a crumb off my lip. I was stuck in limbo between knowing the right thing to do and having the gumption to actually do it.
And it wasn’t like I had anybody to come to my rescue. Officer Brad probably choked down a chuckle every time he remembered the body I thought was in my cistern. And I couldn’t invite a police officer to join me in wrecking a crime scene, even if it was already abandoned.
David remained a possibility. But I shuddered to imagine his reaction if I asked him to help exhume a body. He might think I was a little on the loony side now, but after that, he’d be convinced I’d lost my marbles.
That left Jack Fitch as the most likely White Knight in the neighborhood. I could tell him I just wanted to redo the concrete job in the cistern. No offense, Jack, it’s just too bumpy. Can’t you help me take out the old concrete and smooth in some new? And if we happen to find a body under there, oh well. You never know what you’ll uncover in these old homes.
I scraped the bottom of the cream cheese container with my last chunk of bagel. There was always the off chance that my basement was devoid of a body. No Sandra. No Rebecca. No Jan in residence. Just plain soil under that chunk of mortar.
I swallowed a lump of dough.
I was betting on a body. Of course, with Dietz getting so carelessly clunked in my cellar, I might end up back in the slammer.
A thunk came from outside the back window. My heart did a double flip-flop.
I froze against the counter, then pitched the cream cheese container in the trash and dusted off my hands.
29
I tiptoed to the window and peeked through the glass, shielding my eyes to block the glare. I could vaguely see movement almost directly below me at the basement window over the cistern.
I squinted and craned for a better view. Could be a dog.
I bit my lip. Or the person who did in Dietz.
My heart kicked into overdrive. Oh, for a pair of outdoor floodlights.
I heard scratching, like someone prying at the window casing.
I slunk toward my bedroom, avoiding the squeaky spots on the floor. I dug through my jean jacket for my cell phone and dialed Brad’s home number. I’d had enough of the criminal justice system to last the rest of my life. I sure didn’t want any more officials at my door. But maybe, if Brad was off duty, he could come by just as a friend and nab whoever was outside peeling my paint.
“Hello?”
I almost sagged to the floor in relief. He was home.
“Brad. Hi. It’s Tish. Um, I think there’s someone behind my house, and I was hoping you would take a look for me. Unofficially, of course.”
There was a beat of silence.
“Sure, Tish. I’ll be right there.”
Ten minutes or more passed. I heard a knock at the back door.
I opened it to find Brad standing with Jack Fitch.
“I found your visitor.” Brad glanc
ed at Jack.
“Jack?” I said his name in a high-pitched squeak. “What were you doing back there?”
“I didn’t get to finish. Have to finish.”
I shook my head, bewildered, and looked at Brad. “Finish what?”
Brad touched my elbow and spoke to me in a low voice. “Can I talk to you alone for a minute?”
I glanced at Jack. He seemed consumed with his cuticles.
I shrugged. “Sure. Come on in.”
Both men entered. Jack stood in the kitchen while I led Brad to the new love seat. We sat down at the same time. I scrunched back into my own corner as far as I could go. Our knees angled toward each other, almost touching.
Brad blew out a breath and looked at the fireplace. “Jack has a bit of a compulsion. He likes to finish what he starts.” He smiled and looked at me. “A lot of people are like that. But with Jack, it’s really hard for him to let go of the waterproofing project he helped with last year. He wasn’t there when the crew finished, and he worries that it got left undone.”
“Did you bring him down there and show it to him?”
“Yeah. He’s seen it. But he always insists it isn’t finished and he has to finish the job.”
“Okay. So he was trying to get in my basement just now to finish a year-old project that’s already done?” No wonder Dorothy had flinched at my mention of ghosts that day on the porch. She figured Jack was doing the haunting.
Brad tapped his fingertips together. “Something like that. This has happened before. I talked to Dorothy about it last week. She was supposed to keep an eye on him.”
My eyebrow lifted. “You talked with her about it last week?” I remembered Brad hugging Dorothy on her front porch that one day. He must have been speaking to her about it then.
I bounced my fingers on my thigh. “You mean, the stick-in-the-window thing, that was Jack?”
“Most likely.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“To protect Jack’s privacy.” He leaned toward me. His voice softened. “Listen, no harm has been done. Jack’s no killer. He was at home with Dorothy when Dietz was murdered. And now that you’re aware of the situation, you can be on the lookout. It’s hard enough for Dorothy. Please don’t make it worse just because you’re mad at me.”