Love Me If You Must apam-1

by Nicole Young

  I flipped to the next item. Another life insurance policy, identical to the first. This time, Rebecca Ramsey was listed as beneficiary, with David Ramsey as contingent. Why on earth would Dietz have the Ramseys listed in his policy, even if he and Sandra were on the outs?

  I thought of the body in my cistern.

  Up at the house, the back door slammed shut. My head jerked toward the sound.

  Footsteps crunched in the direction of the garage.

  I stuffed the file back into the top box as best I could, but something got in the way. I could only jam Dietz’s file about three-quarters in. It protuded from the box like a blinking neon light.

  If David caught me in here, I hated to think what could happen. There was a good possibility that he’d killed Rebecca to keep her from claiming Dietz’s insurance money. Now he could claim the money for himself.

  I looked around in alarm. The garage had no clutter to hide behind. I dove for the sports car, rolling under it to keep out of sight.

  From my shadowy nook, I watched David walk in carrying a tan cardboard box that matched the other file boxes. He set it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, then started to close the doors.

  He looked toward the top shelf and hesitated.

  Dietz’s file.

  David reached up and took the box down. He inspected the out-of-whack file. He took a slow look around the garage.

  I held my breath, certain that my heartbeat was as loud to him as it was to me.

  He straightened the file and put the box back in its place. He shut the cabinet doors, ran the chain through the pulls, and fastened the padlock.

  He walked to the door, took a long backward glance into the garage, then shut the door soundly.

  I gulped for air. I promised myself never to snoop again. David was not marriage material. I didn’t care what explanation he gave for the files he kept on local residents. Now was a good time to find out that good looks and good manners couldn’t outdo ethics and morals.

  My lip quivered as I crawled out from beneath the car. I stopped at the entrance, peeking through the glass at the bleak morning. If I took off across the yard, David was sure to see me. He’d know I’d been in here. He’d seen the Dietz file and he’d know that I knew. There was no back way out of this place, unless I wanted to risk breaking my neck falling out the high windows along the rear of the garage. That is, if I could fit through the narrow openings in the first place.

  I fingered the fingernail in my pocket. Poor Rebecca. Killed for a half-million dollars. Human life was worth far more than that. Of course, many had died for far less. David must have been working out his plan slowly and patiently. First he’d killed Rebecca and pretended she’d gone off to California. He was a computer expert, wasn’t he? Any correspondence from Rebecca, including the divorce papers, were scams, meant to keep anyone from suspecting that she had never made it out of town. Then, nearly a year later, he’d offed Martin Dietz, ready to collect the reward money for a game well played.

  He probably already had a set of falsified documents ready for the day he sucked the life right out of me like a vampire, and left me dead somewhere. I was a perfect candidate for his sick diversion. No friends, no family. I’d disappear as if I’d never existed. No one would even know. No one would even care. Of course, if I took the fall for Dietz’s murder, so much the better.

  I leaned against the garage wall and assessed my situation. The best action would be to sneak out the door, hang a hard left, and hide out behind the garage. I could wait a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, then run behind the museum’s garage over to my own yard.

  Chances of anybody seeing me would be slim. Of course, if Jack Fitch was on duty, he’d wonder why I was acting like a criminal.

  I twisted the handle and peeked out the garage door. I didn’t see anyone, but the glare of daylight on David’s windows kept me from knowing if he was watching.

  I ducked out the door around to the back of the garage. I leaned against the siding and caught my breath. My plan had one glaring flaw. Maybe David wouldn’t notice the set of solo prints heading toward his back door from the street. And he sure wouldn’t notice my prints mixed in with the tracks he’d beaten between the house and the garage. But how could he miss the trail of size 10 boots announcing to anybody with eyeballs that someone had run behind the garage?

  But, hey, snow didn’t hang around long this time of year. Maybe it would melt by noon. I tiptoed as fast as I could over to the back of the museum garage. My pants got snarled in some dormant raspberry bushes. Apparently the staff of museum volunteers never took the time to clip the rear of the property.

  I tripped over a rusty shovel and landed on my backside.

  The shock of the snow against bare fingers held me motionless a moment. As soon as I caught my breath, I struggled toward safety. But the stringy thorns tangled around me, cutting my hands and burying prickers in my clothing. With every attempt to stand, the tentacles snarled more tightly around me. I ripped myself free. Blood dripped from my hands. Miles of scratches lay hidden beneath my jeans.

  Out in the open again, I ran past my garage and straight into the house. I bolted the door behind me.

  I stood at the sink and let warm water flow over my mangled hands. The thorns had left deep scratches that were now raised white lines. I toweled dry, then gingerly pulled from my skin whatever glasslike prickers I could detect. I must have missed a dozen. Every movement seemed to drive one or more deeper into my flesh.

  I tried pulling thorns from my jeans, but gave up. I’d have to change them altogether and start fresh. I started toward my bedroom when I saw a head pass the side window.

  My heart did a belly flop in my chest. It was David, striding up the back steps. I dove past the kitchen door, out of sight in the dining room. David tried the knob, then pounded on the door.

  If he got in here, I would be dead. I had no weapon, no way to defend myself.

  “Tish. Let me in.” David sounded half off his rocker.

  I crept through to the parlor, consumed with fear. He’d get in eventually. I had to get out.

  I dashed out the front door and across the street. I knocked on Dorothy’s front door.

  “It’s Tish. Let me in.” Please be home. Please. Please.

  Jack opened the door. I shoved past him and headed toward a couch in the corner of the enclosed front porch.

  “Thanks, Jack.”

  “Tish. What’s up?” Jack shut the door behind me.

  I stared across the street at my house, watching for David to cross the yard and go back home, but I couldn’t see the back porch from my seat at the Fitches.

  “Jack. Hey. I’m just getting a head start on my campaign for the vacant seat on the Historical Committee. Is your mom around?” A raspberry thorn worked its way into my thigh. I scratched at it.

  “Yeah. I’ll tell her you’re here.”

  While Jack was gone, I kept an eye on my house. Still no sign of David. Maybe he got inside. Maybe he was flinging my cot and dirty clothes around in my bedroom, looking for stuff. I squinted, trying to see any movement through the glare. Nothing.

  At least I didn’t have anything to hide. The only thing that might incriminate me was the floral card I’d plucked from his trash. But it was safely hidden in the pocket of my other jeans. I doubted he’d look for something small enough to fit in pants pockets. He probably figured I’d swiped something useful, like a file with incriminating evidence.

  And why I hadn’t grabbed Dietz’s file was beyond me. Everything I needed to exonerate myself for Dietz’s murder was in that file. It might be circumstantial, but it could definitely lead to David’s conviction. Especially once they uncovered Rebecca’s body in my cellar.

  Dorothy walked in. I barely glanced at her, afraid to take my eyes off the Victorian.

  “Tish. Nice of you to stop in.” She sat on the opposite end of the sofa. “Jack tells me you want to fill Martin’s place on the Historical Committee.”


  I smiled in her direction, still looking out the window. “Yes. I think it’s a shame we historic-home owners have to be confined to old-fashioned applications for our homes.” I spotted David going down my back porch steps. He rounded the back of the house. “Take my cistern, for example. Its use is completely outdated. Nobody needs storage for rainwater anymore.” I saw David cut between my house and the museum house. Phew. He was going home. I looked at Dorothy. “That cistern is a danger to the homeowner. I’d hate to see a little kid get trapped back there. Maybe get hurt and not be found for a while. I ought to be allowed to remove it.”

  “Have you thought about walling it in?” Dorothy asked.

  I took a deep breath. “Absolutely not. It needs to come out. That’s the only option.”

  “So you’re becoming a member of the committee so you can get your project through?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with that. I’m happy to help others, as well. We can find a balance between historic preservation and comfortable, modern living.”

  “Don’t suppose my opinion counts for much, but I’d say you’re better off leaving that cistern alone. Old houses can get mighty particular if you start cutting them up.”

  I waved off the comment. “I don’t believe in that stuff. Houses are inanimate objects. The only life they have is what we give them in our own imagination.”

  I adjusted the denim around my thigh, dislodging a thorn. “You mentioned that the Ramseys and Martin Dietz were close at one time,” I said. “How close was close?”

  Dorothy sighed. “Birds of a feather. Dogs in a pack. Fleas in a circus. Every one of them expert at getting what they want and using each other to do it.” She shook her head. “Just glad Sandra got away from all that.”

  There had to be more to the Main Street Triangle than met the eye. Life insurance policies, fake appraisals, fudged tax returns. I had the feeling I’d merely scratched the surface.

  I was only sorry to see Tammy Johnson getting involved. There were more than her finances at stake if she got too wrapped up with David and his services.

  “So,” I said, getting to my feet, “please vote for me in January.”

  “Stay for soup, Tish. There’s chicken noodle on the stove,” Dorothy said.

  I had no place better to go. Home wasn’t an option right now. I had no idea what course of action to take as far as David went. If I called the cops, I’d be blowing stuff out of proportion again. They’d need a warrant and hence, good cause. Which my word alone didn’t seem to provide.

  As much as I hated the thought, the only proof I could get on David that would put him behind bars required an excavating party. Me and a hammer and chisel.

  Tonight. I’d do it tonight. No more guessing, wondering, lost sleep, or nightmares.

  Tonight I’d know.

  37

  “I’d love to stay.” I looked at Dorothy standing across from me in her living room. “Soup sounds good.”

  We went into the kitchen together. A lace runner hid the Formica tabletop. Baskets stuffed with unopened mail, multicolored hankies, seasonal napkins, and various fingernail and letter-opening accessories littered the dining area.

  I stepped toward a wall of photographs. Judging by the quality and hairstyles, the pictures had been taken in the ’70s. Two girls and one boy. The boy had a big-toothed smile and sticky-out ears. He was no more than eleven. He must be the one that got killed on the tracks.

  I wondered how Dorothy could have stayed put in this house with a tragedy like that happening so close to home. Every day when she heard the train go by, she must think about that little cutie playing chicken with a metal monster. And losing.

  I swallowed with a tight throat.

  The two girls had at least made it to their high school graduations. Both wore the same powder-blue sweater. Their hair was pulled back in buns. They wore sweet but sorrowful expressions on Farmer’s Daughter faces. A few more framed photos documented boyfriends and husbands in laughing embraces. Then nothing. No grandbabies in bibs, on bikes, or in Grandma’s lap. Just nothing. End of the line. End of the family.

  I searched the wall again. “Where did you hang Jack’s pictures?”

  Dorothy stared at the wall of pictures. “Look at them. They’re all dead. Adored them, raised them, hung their pictures on the wall, and they died. But not my Jack. Never wanted pictures of him on the wall.” She tapped her temple. “Keeping him up here.”

  Tears coursed down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop the flow. My whole body shook, and next thing I knew, Dorothy cradled my head against her shoulder. She sat me in a chair and let me cry. I sobbed a trash can full of tissues before I could control myself again.

  “Don’t fuss on my account,” Dorothy said. “Loved those kids. But they were God’s to do with as he pleased. Now all of them are safe in heaven.”

  I sat up and wiped my nose. “How do you do it? How can you keep going after everything that has happened to you?”

  “Take it one day at a time. Get up. Put on my shoes. Say a prayer. Eat. Work. Live another day. Go to bed. Then do it again.”

  “But how do you handle all the thoughts and emotions? Sometimes it’s too much for me. And I’ve barely lost anything compared to you.”

  “Every day you tell yourself that God loves you. He’s going to take care of you. He’ll take everything that’s wrong and make it right. And when your time’s up, he’ll take you.” She wiped a teardrop from my face. “Woke up alive today, didn’t you? Then put your shoes on and get to living.”

  I sniffled. “But what about a person who didn’t wake up alive today? What if they’re dead . . . and it’s not their fault?”

  “Can’t do anything for them.”

  “But what if they’re dead because of something I did?”

  “Get it right with God. Then get on with life.”

  If only it were that simple. How many times had I tried to get it right with God, only to crawl away and hide in shame?

  Dorothy set a bowl of soup in front of me. The hot broth started my nose running again, but somehow made me feel better. When I’d scooped up the last spoonful, I thanked her for her hospitality and let myself out.

  I paused on her porch, not really feeling like hitting the campaign trail, but too scared to go home. I walked along a wet sidewalk to the house next door, and directly across the street from David’s.

  I stood on the front stoop of a completely modernized circa 1920s home. Cream vinyl siding erased any architectural details the home had once worn. Boring concrete steps took the place of a covered porch that had previously graced the home. The only evidence of the former porch was a plain swath of white trim halfway up the facade. Houses like this one were the whole reason the Historical Committee existed. The brutal mutilation of historic architecture had to be halted.

  I rang the doorbell, then turned to watch for signs of activity across the street at David’s.

  No answer.

  I walked to the next house. The brown shake-and-brick two-story was the blight of the neighborhood. I stepped over a muddy pothole in the driveway on my way to the back door, which apparently was the only way to gain entrance. I swerved around a girl’s banana bike and picked my way up crumbled concrete steps. The storm door was missing its glass, so I reached through to knock on the dented metal exterior door.

  “Yeah?” said the woman who opened the door. She had long, thin hair on her forty-something head. I knew by the guarded look in her eyes that my coifed hairstyle and trim figure posed some imagined threat to her oversized sweatshirt and baggy jeans.

  I introduced myself.

  A smile crept over her face. “I’m Kay. Come on in. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Anybody with the guts to kill a guy like Martin Dietz deserves a toast. How about a glass of homemade rhubarb wine?”

  I stepped over the threshold, not sure if I was brave enough to venture off the entry rug onto the gouged and grungy linoleum. The stench of last night’s greasy dinner lingered.

 
“No, thank you. I don’t drink,” I said. I’d watched my grandfather drink himself to death by the time I was ten years old and never had the inclination to touch the stuff myself. Maybe fear of becoming a drunk like him kept me on the straight and narrow. Goodness knows, I’d be comatose in my cot right now if I drank to deal with life’s problems, like Gramps had.

  I cleared my throat. “I’m running for the vacancy on the Historical Committee. I’d like your vote.”

  I looked around the kitchen, which other than ’70s appliances and flooring hadn’t changed since the home was constructed. “When you’re ready to update, I’ll help you find a balance between historic preservation and modern living.” Kay didn’t need to know that by the time that day rolled around, I’d probably be long gone.

  “Never could afford to update. Not with Dietz’s infernal fees. Two months of cleaning houses just to cover the application. That didn’t include whatever gadget I’d have to bribe him with, either.”

  “I’m surprised his corruption was so widely known.” I shook my head. “Couldn’t the authorities do anything about it?”

  “Dietz knew everything about everybody. He had enough dirt to keep half the town broke buying his silence. Especially the authorities. Believe me, if you hadn’t gone and killed him, somebody else would have.”

  “Well, let’s just say I didn’t kill him. Who do you think would have been next in line to do the job?”

  Kay humphed. “Take your pick. Sandra Jones would be top on my list. But, like I say, if it hadn’t been you, it could’ve been anybody.”

  “Sandra had already broken up with him. Why would she want to kill him?”

  “It was what Dietz did to her in the elections that should have got him killed. I know I couldn’t have controlled myself if it had been me. Dietz stood there in front of a thousand people in the county park and called Sandra a backstabbing Mary Magdalene. Said she was in church on Sundays but in league with Satan the rest of the week. I don’t know about you, Tish, but that goes beyond name-calling.”

  “I see what you mean.” From what I’d heard, Sandra was doing amazing things with the youth in Rawlings. Going against Dietz didn’t make her a bad Christian. Dietz was the jerk. Too bad Sandra let him get to her. She should have stuck it out and won the election. That would have been the best revenge.