Brad raised an eyebrow. “What trouble was that?”
“Please. Don’t pretend you weren’t all over Rebecca Ramsey.”
Brad squinted. “I don’t know where you got that information, but it’s incorrect.” His voice took on a ragged quality. “There was never anything between Rebecca and me.”
I blinked, wondering whom I should believe. David, who swore Brad was after his wife. Or Brad, standing there close to tears, seeming to wish there’d been something more between him and Rebecca than merely friendship.
And maybe there had been.
I moved a step closer and squinted at him. “How does Rebecca like California? Hot enough for her?”
Brad gazed down at me. “We don’t correspond.”
“Well, maybe now that David’s out of her picture, she’ll be back in touch.”
“Highly unlikely.” Brad closed the gap between us. “Am I missing something? You called me. So why do I feel like you’re annoyed I’m here?”
I stood my ground. “I’m not annoyed. I’m ready for bed.” I ruffled my fingers through my hair. “Thanks for coming by.”
I turned toward my other visitor, who toyed with the nozzle on the water jug. “You want a to-go cup, Jack?” I looked at Brad. I wanted in the worst way to be polite to him. But somehow, manners would signal a truce. And I wasn’t ready for that. I pushed Brad and Jack out the door using only eyebrows, crossed arms, and tapping fingers.
30
I ran a hot shower, hoping to calm my nerves and get some sleep. But later, as I lay on my cot, I couldn’t banish the day’s events.
The whole town knew about my grandmother. And they all thought I killed Martin Dietz.
My self-preservation instinct told me to never leave the house again. Order my groceries in, finish the renovations, and get out of town fast.
But the rebel in me said, Hold your head up. Don’t let anybody run you out of Rawlings.
Tonight I sided with the rebel. But who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d go along with the preservationist.
A train whistle blew in the distance. The faint rumble grew louder and louder until the whole house shook from the vibration of fully loaded boxcars flying past on narrow steel rails.
I imagined I lay in a hole in the cistern, damp sand and lumpy pebbles beneath me. A layer of wet, slimy cement mix covered me, getting thicker and thicker as it hardened. Yet with each lurch of the train, the cement settled around my body, filling in every tiny crack and crevice, until my face, hands, and foot protruded from the grave like a plaster cast. Whoever had poured the concrete mix on top of me hadn’t counted on tremors from the tracks doing such a great leveling job. I needed another layer of cement to cover my features, so anyone looking down at me couldn’t see me screaming and clawing and fighting for my life. I wasn’t finished.
I sat up on my cot. Beads of sweat dampened my forehead. That’s what Jack kept saying. The job wasn’t finished.
I swung my feet to the floor.
Did Jack have something to do with the murders? Or was I being paranoid? Even Brad seemed to know a little more about neighborhood events than he let on. He shouldn’t even be on the Dietz case. He was too embroiled in the whole affair to be impartial.
Who was Brad protecting in this mess? Just Jack? Or was Rebecca a part of it?
I rubbed my temples. With my mind moving as fast as the train outside, I’d never get any sleep. I stood. The warning bells outside quit dinging, and the rumble of boxcars faded into the distance.
I was wide awake. I might as well get something accomplished. I grabbed my paint supplies from a corner of the parlor.
The front stairs creaked and groaned as I made my way to the second story.
I flicked on the light to the bedroom directly at the top of the steps. The room had an odd shape where it angled in for the staircase. It looked like a square with one corner cut off. One window looked out to the side yard, right into the branches of the maple tree. The other looked out onto the balcony. The walls were in decent condition—nothing a little spackle couldn’t cure. The Hershels had been kind enough to strip the thick bands of woodwork down to a light pine color. I spent the next half hour taping the trim so I could edge around it with a fresh coat of paint.
But taping was a mindless job. Thoughts of murder, bodies, and motives had plenty of room to roam. I’d already narrowed down the identity of the body in my basement to three possibilities. Unfortunately, by midnight, the list of suspects topped ten and continued to grow. Even the biddies from the clothing store weren’t immune from my late-night scrutiny.
Motives ran the gamut from love scorned to money owed to rumors spread. And still nothing made sense.
I had to get this thing figured out. Then maybe the authorities would take my body-in-the-basement theory seriously. And I could be cleared of Dietz’s murder.
I poured paint into an old cottage cheese container and started cutting in. I wondered what David must think of me now that the story of my grandmother was out. Would he avoid me like the plague? Would he plague me with accusations? I couldn’t blame him if he reacted just as everyone else had over the years. Like I was worthless because of what I’d done. Who wanted to hang out with someone capable of murder?
I wished I could go back ten years and redo Grandma’s last days. I’d been too eager to please. I should have said no. I should have had standards, morals, ethics, something that would have prompted me to do the right thing instead of the easy thing. I should have had compassion. I should have had a backbone. I should have known better. I should have been more patient. I should have had more faith.
I dipped the brush in the paint and tackled another section of wall. But why stop with Grandma? I carried an equal load of guilt for Martin Dietz’s murder. I should have seen it coming. I should have tried to stop it. I should have known arguing with Dietz was a waste of time. I should have gone along with him and not made him mad. I should have installed a security system so people couldn’t sneak around in my basement when I wasn’t home.
I could bury myself in should-haves. Or I could figure out what made this small town tick like a bomb about to explode, and try to stop it.
I yawned. It had to be almost 1:00 a.m. My body ached, my brain ached, my heart ached. I wrapped my brush in cellophane. I’d come back up tomorrow to finish the job.
The baseboard pipes clunked as the furnace kicked on. I glanced out at the hallway. Blackness. I stretched plastic wrap over the paint, half-expecting to see Jacob Marley standing in the doorway of the room. With my favorite tappy hammer, I sealed the lid on the paint can. I wiped a glob of ivory on my pass-me-around pants.
The neighborhood seemed eerily quiet tonight. No midnight train, no cars bouncing over the tracks. Even the wind had died. It was as if the hot water pipes and I were the only two noisy elements in the universe.
I cupped hands around my eyes and peeked outside. A foggy halo circled the streetlight in front of my house. Without the snow, the town had gone back to looking like Halloween. Spooky, and silent as the grave. And I was the main caretaker of the graveyard.
The skin on the back of neck my prickled. Beneath me, two flights of steps down, lay a body. I was almost sure of it.
I jolted down the steps, shaking the walls around me as I beelined to my bedroom and slammed the door.
My sleeping bag became a sanctuary. In its warm safety, I finally drifted to sleep, ghosts and guilts and guys flitting through my mind.