“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 glanced 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?”