36

I opened to the top document. A tax return from last year, showing thousand of dollars in losses. Yeah, I bet Martin Dietz didn’t claim his “gifts” from the town folk, either. The refund he received would have bought several riding mowers.

Next was a mortgage document from Sugar Cane International. I glanced at the comparable homes and final value of Dietz’s Oak Street residence, willing to bet the whole thing was fudged. I could see average homes in Rawlings going for prices like Dietz’s in about two years when urban sprawl arrived. But not yet. Not today.

Beneath the mortgage was a life insurance policy. The amount made me choke. The document listed Sandra Jones as the beneficiary. Now there was one lucky woman. Obviously Dietz hadn’t thought to change his papers after their breakup.

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.

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