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.
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.
Though the piece of furniture must have weighed a ton, it remained suspended between Dorothy and Jack while I gawked.