Love Me If You Must

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.

When Monday finally rolled around, Tammy did her part and posted bail, and with my prompting, Mr. Moron managed to get me out of police custody by late afternoon. The hearing was scheduled for mid-January, meaning my basement renovation would have to be delayed until I got my bail cash back.

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.

I snapped out of my trance. “Gee. Put that down and come in, won’t you?”

“It’s for you.” Jack smiled and pushed on his end impatiently.

Dorothy edged toward the door, her face red from straining. I had no choice but to hold the door open with one hand and grab an end of the love seat with the other.

The three of us stuffed the piece through the doorway and settled it against the wall by the staircase. The rolled arms and arched back filled the space perfectly.

“Thank you,” I said. I didn’t mention that I’d have to take the thing out the back door piece by piece in black garbage bags.

“Came to talk,” Dorothy said, taking off her coat. “Knew we’d have to bring our own chair.”

I sighed. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve had quite a weekend. What I really hoped to do was get some sleep.”

“Can’t blame you.” Dorothy sank into the soft cushions. Jack sat down next to her. I stood there, almost drooling at the idea of a comfortable seat. The hard bench I’d been sentenced to the past three days hadn’t done my back any good, and my own bumpy, narrow cot wasn’t much better.

“Thing is,” Dorothy said, “I feel real bad about what happened and wanted to make it up to you somehow. Brought the love seat I promised, for starters.”

“That wasn’t necessary. Really.” I crossed my arms, hoping they’d take the hint and leave.

“Wanted Jack to meet you.” She turned toward her son. “See, Jack, this is the lady who lives here now. Tish Amble. You sure she’s who you saw Friday night?”

“I saw her.”

“Was she with someone?”

“I saw her with Officer Brad.”

I laughed in relief. “Yes, about nine o’clock Friday. I was walking out front. Brad pulled over and talked to me.” I left out the part about being at David’s.

“Before that, Jack. You saw her before that too, right? Going in the house with Mr. Dietz?”

I lodged my protest. “I was at dinner. He couldn’t have seen me.”

“Hush,” Dorothy waved me off and watched Jack.

“I saw the lady who lived here.”

“Jack, this is the lady who lives here. Is this who you saw?”

“I saw the lady who lived here.”

Dorothy sighed. “You saw Miss Amble walk in this house with Mr. Dietz Friday night?”

Jack put on a stubborn chin. “I saw the lady who lived here. She went in with Mr. Dietz.”

“Do you remember Jan Hershel? She used to live here, Jack. Is that who you saw?” Dorothy asked.

He squeezed his forehead in concentration and shook his head.

Dorothy patted him on the shoulder. “Okay. Okay, Jack.”

Jack turned his face away, pouting.

Dorothy lowered her voice. “Think his memory is starting to go.”

Jack turned on her in a rage. “I remember, Ma. I remember.”

He pushed up from his seat and fumed out. The front door slammed behind him, rattling the windows.

Dorothy flinched. “Pretty sure he’s got memory loss. Can happen early for Down’s syndrome adults. Premature aging, you know. Sometimes they end up with Alzheimer’s by forty.”

“Officer Brad said it was you that saw me going into the house with Dietz. But you’re telling me it was Jack who supposedly saw me?”

“Jack said it was the lady who lived here. Asked him over and over, but he always said the same thing. I just assumed he meant you. Maybe he meant someone who lived in the neighborhood. Guess I owe you an apology.”

“So it’s Jack that’s never wrong, not you.” Dorothy couldn’t miss the edge to my voice.

She looked up, eyes pleading. “Have to say it was me. The police wouldn’t listen if it was Jack who told them.”

“How do you know?”

“Don’t want my Jack talking to the police. Got too many problems as it is.”

Dorothy patted the cushion next to her on the love seat.

I sank down beside her and crossed my legs. I leaned my head into the softness behind me. I breathed in, enjoying the moment.

“You won’t tell, will you, dear?” Dorothy sounded distressed.

I lifted my head. “If it comes down to me going to jail or you losing your reputation as the perfect spy, you bet I’m going to tell.”

Her hands twisted in her lap. “I’ll say it was too snowy and I can’t be sure who I saw. Jack can’t talk to the police. It’s not a good idea.”

“But Jack may know who the killer is. I’m sure if he talks, the police will understand. No one will blame you.” I wasn’t at all sure of that, but Dorothy had to be persuaded to tell the truth. My freedom was on the line.

She clawed at my arm. “My Jack’s all I have left.” She sat back, her eyes toward the ceiling. “Had four children once, you know. The oldest died when he was just eleven years old. Right there on the railroad tracks. Thought he could beat the train.”

My hand flew to my mouth.

“I’m so sorry,” I mumbled through my fingers.

“Jenny died when she was twenty-three. Cindy was twenty-seven and pregnant when she passed away.”

My eyes must have been the size of saucers.

“Cancer took them. Not as strong as me, I guess.” Her expression glazed over.

I looked again at her patchy hair and opaque skin, startled to realize that Dorothy herself was a cancer survivor.

“You see why Jack’s everything to me, don’t you? When he was born, everyone said he was a burden to bear. But God knew I was going to be alone. And He gave me Jack to keep me company.”

I touched the back of her hand. “Let’s just see what happens. I can’t promise to keep your secret, but I’ll hold off telling as long as I can. Who knows? Maybe they’ll find the real murderer and it won’t matter.”

She gave a single nod of her head and stared at the carpet.

Her dejected look did its job. How could I tattle on the only surviving son of a woman whose children were genetically cursed? “All right. I won’t say anything.”

She gave a relieved sigh.

“But, in exchange, I want some honest answers to a few questions that have been bothering me.”

“Answer what I can,” Dorothy said.

“Great.” I settled into one comfy corner of the love seat, hoping to be there for a good, long stretch. “I want you to tell me everything you know about Martin Dietz.”