Love Me If You Must

35

No sense wasting time. I walked down to the village office and requested the necessary forms to run for the latest vacancy on the Historical Committee.

The clerk looked at me with wide eyes. “Aren’t you Tish Amble?”

I smiled. At least I had a reputation of my own now. Move over Sandra Jones.

“Yes, I am. How do you do?” I offered her my hand across the polished wood. Might as well start politicking.

She jutted out her chin. “You know, I can see where you might be upset that Mr. Dietz wouldn’t approve your project. I didn’t like the guy much, either. But to murder him and then run for his seat? That’s just wrong.”

For a moment I was speechless. It hadn’t occurred to me how the general public might view my drive for justice. To have it laid out so bluntly by the Collating Queen knocked the wind right out of me. But I wasn’t about to let her know that.

“Innocent until proven guilty,” I said. I snatched the forms off the counter, twirled, and sped home.

I snuggled into my love seat and read through the application. I had until mid-January before the special election took place. That meant I had to get 51 percent of the voting population to choose me over the next guy.

If there was a next guy. How many people wanted Dietz’s slot, anyway? I mean, the man was murdered.

The thought dampened my enthusiasm, but only momentarily.

I was no Martin Dietz. I had personality and pizzazz. I’d been on the receiving end of an ordinance violation more than my fair share of the time, and I could dole out sympathy and solutions to applicants. And if anyone valued the historic quality of a home, I did. I’d spent my adulthood bringing the structurally dead back to life. And I did it with style.

I stared at the shaggy carpet, anxious for the spring day I could haul the rug and its inhabitants to the curb. The key to my political success would be getting the right sponsor. Someone who had a lot of pull with the citizens of Rawlings. Someone who could introduce me to the movers and shakers of this Podunksville.

Someone like Officer Brad. He had connections within the village hierarchy, among the average Joes, and in the church community. With his backing, I might just get the seat. Then it was bye-bye cistern and bye-bye Rawlings, with cash to spare.

I’d start by inviting Brad to an organizational brunch at the Rawlings Hotel. Then I’d pop the question.

As I dialed Brad’s home number, it occurred to me that I might have to break down and get a landline. With all the phone-calling and schmoozing I’d have to do, it would probably be cheaper in the long run than relying only on my cell.

Brad’s phone rang. I ran my hand along the soft fabric of the love seat and sighed. It seemed my stay in Rawlings would be riddled with broken rules. Still, one piece of furniture and a telephone line hardly constituted a permanent residence.

As long as I didn’t get too attached, I’d be okay.

Brad’s answering machine kicked on.

“Uh, Brad,” I said, wishing I’d prepared my spiel. “It’s Tish.” I paused. “Amble,” I added, as if he wouldn’t recognize my voice. “You know how Martin Dietz is dead now and there’s an opening on the Historical Committee?” I started to sweat. That was bad. Very bad. “Well, I’m hoping to be the newest member. I think you can help me get my way. I mean, get the position.” Oh, boy. This was all on tape. “Anyway, please call me back.”

I pressed the end button and cradled my head.

Puh-leeze. Had I really said those words into a recording device? Maybe I could plead the fifth and the tape would be disallowed at trial.

While waiting for return calls, I started to yank the floor-to-ceiling cabinetry from the kitchen wall. Once finished, the area would host a generous pass-through countertop to the dining room. Then the two rooms would have a combined feeling, like in contemporary homes.

Outside, daylight had disappeared. My stomach reminded me that I’d forgotten to eat. Chiseling at ancient joints, twisting screws, and pulling rusty nails had given far more entertainment than preparing a balanced meal. Still, food had its place, and my body seemed determined to have its way on that point.

I chopped the black spots off one of Brad’s tomatoes, cut up the fruit, and laid the slices on a piece of bread. I covered the whole thing with co-jack and stuck it under the broiler until strings of melted cheese dangled toward the oven floor.

I sat on my love seat and savored the simple but healthy meal, catching orange threads before they hit the upholstery.

I dusted the crumbs off my lap and looked at my hands. Short nails, scuffed and scratched skin, and blistery palms. Not exactly wedding-day material.

I sighed. David had to pass a few more tests before I could say yes to any eternal arrangements. I wasn’t exactly desperate yet.

And I didn’t plan to fall into that category. Ever.

There was no need to panic and do anything hasty or irreversible just because the whim struck.

I cleaned up the kitchen project and got some early z’s. I woke up fresh the next morning, ready to hit the campaign trail.

I set out to canvass my neighborhood. I lived in the historic district, after all. What better place to start my drive for equal rights for historic-home owners in America? I brought my cell phone along, hoping I’d hear back from Lloyd, Brad, or both.

An old beater was parked next door at the village museum.

I might as well get the museum people on my side. I walked up the freshly shoveled steps of the ornate turn-of-the-century home.

I poked my head in the beveled-glass door.

“Hello,” I called.

An older gentleman dressed in baggy olive slacks and a plaid shirt scuffed toward me across the creaking oak floor.

“Not open,” he said.

“I’m Tish Amble. I live next door.” I walked in and stuck out my hand in greeting.

He ignored the gesture. “We’re closed until spring, young lady.”

I ignored the reprimand. “I’m running for the opening on the Historical Committee.” I decided to leave Martin Dietz’s name out of it this time. “Owners of historic homes need to respect the original intent of a structure, it’s true. But they shouldn’t have to sacrifice all the comforts and benefits that new-home owners enjoy. This is America. We should be able to determine for ourselves what’s best left alone and what can be gracefully altered to accommodate today’s lifestyles.”

“Martin turned you down on something, didn’t he?” The old man grinned. “You just needed to negotiate better. Take this place, for instance. Had to put in a bathroom on the first floor to satisfy public sanitation requirements. Martin said no, a first-floor john would alter the historic accuracy of the place. It looked like there wasn’t going to be a town museum. So a bunch of us got together and decided Martin needed a new riding lawn mower. Next time it came up for a vote, we got our bathroom.”

“You bribed a city official?” My jaw dropped.

“Not a bribe. A thank-you gift. For his future support.” The man walked me to a room at the back of the house.

“Ain’t she beautiful?” He smiled and rubbed a hand along the door trim.

The restroom looked original to the home, with a pull-cord, raised-tank toilet and tiny pedestal sink.

“Wow. You did a great job.” I started to get excited about the removal of my cistern. My new basement rec room would look all spiffy in polished oak and smooth off-white drywall, and have enough space to accommodate a modern family’s social life.

I turned to the old guy. “The election’s in January. I promise you won’t have to get me a snowblower if you want to update the kitchen.”

He nodded. “So what idea of yours did Martin take offense to?”

“I made the mistake of asking if I could remove the cistern.”

“Sounds like an expensive job.” He rubbed his chin. “I’m thinking that might have cost you a new dishwasher. ’Course you saved all kinds of money by killing him first, eh?” He cackled like an old hag.

I pursed my lips. “Please vote for me in January. I promise to be fair.” I started out the door.

“You might be in jail come January.” His voice died out as I hit the front sidewalk. I’m glad he could laugh about it. I failed to see the humor.

I headed to the next house, determined to complete my five-resident goal.

David’s house. I hesitated before heading up the driveway to the side door. I’d spent entirely too much time here in the past several days. Today, if he didn’t open the door himself, I sure wasn’t going to open it. There was no way I’d enter uninvited again.

The back door hung open about an inch. Gusts of snow blew into the gap.

Great.

I knocked on the doorjamb and listened. No answer.

I was not going in there.

I pushed the door wider and called into the shadows. “Hello? David?”

No response. I refused to step over the threshold. To be nice, I closed the door against the weather. I shivered on the porch, contemplating my next step. Multiple tracks led out to the garage. Maybe that’s where I’d find David. My shoes squeaked in the light snow. I opened the paned-glass door of the detached garage and stuck my head in.

“David? Anybody here?” I hadn’t really expected an answer.

The dim winter sun barely reached through the high, tiny windows. I felt around for a light switch. I found it and clicked it on.

Two cars took up the parking spaces. David’s red coupe, and some silver hot-rod variety. I wondered why on earth he needed two cars, especially now that he was single again.

I couldn’t resist a peek inside the sports car. Everything looked leather and shiny and very expensive. The shifter filled the space between the only two seats. The vehicle could hardly be comfortable, sitting so low to the ground.

David probably wouldn’t mind if I just sat in it a minute and tested it out. I glanced up. The coast was clear. Quietly, I pulled the handle and opened the door. I slid onto the smooth cushion of the driver’s seat. I could almost feel the power that pulsed under the hood, waiting to be let out in one pedal-to-the-metal ride. But it wouldn’t be me driving. The law already hoped to nab me for murder. I wasn’t about to provide a second reason.

I leaned over as I got out. My eye caught a blemish on an otherwise clean floorboard. I reached over and picked up a flesh-colored object. It was a fake fingernail, painted in Rebecca’s favorite Barely Blush shade. This must have been her vehicle.

If I were a newly promoted bigwig at a super-goliath architecture firm in L.A., wouldn’t I want my cute little California hot-rod with me? I’d leave my silver baby behind only over my dead body.

I tucked the nail into my pocket and got out of the car.

I checked out the far reaches of the garage for any interesting gadgets. The fake nail in my pocket gave my fingers something to fiddle with.

Lawn implements in one corner, a shovel and some concrete-encrusted buckets in another. I took a closer look. These must be the pails Jack Fitch had hauled up and down the staircase during the waterproofing project last year. Jack had seemed so proud to help.

A row of cabinets lined the far wall. Padlocks kept the contents secure for all but the one closest to the door. The chain and lock were off and sitting on a nearby bench. The cabinet door hung open a few inches.

Curiosity may have killed the cat, but I was no feline. In fact, I had a right to see what David kept locked up. Knowledge of one’s potential life partner was integral to the decision-making process.

I crept toward the cabinet and pulled open the door.

Folders. Boxes and boxes of manila folders.

My breath quickened. To look, or not to look?

Definitely look.

I pulled a file at random.

Pyle, Eleanor, the tag read. I flipped through the bank statements inside. Monthly withdrawals of five hundred dollars were highlighted in yellow. I flipped it shut and filed it as close to its original location as I could.

I reached up a shelf and pulled another file.

Fate. Destiny. Irony.

Whatever was responsible, I held Martin Dietz’s file in my hand. A slew of questions popped to mind. Why did David have a file on Martin Dietz? Something to do with work, maybe?

There was only one way to find out.