Love Me If You Must

37

“I’d love to stay.” I looked at Dorothy standing across from me in her living room. “Soup sounds good.”

We went into the kitchen together. A lace runner hid the Formica tabletop. Baskets stuffed with unopened mail, multicolored hankies, seasonal napkins, and various fingernail and letter-opening accessories littered the dining area.

I stepped toward a wall of photographs. Judging by the quality and hairstyles, the pictures had been taken in the ’70s. Two girls and one boy. The boy had a big-toothed smile and sticky-out ears. He was no more than eleven. He must be the one that got killed on the tracks.

I wondered how Dorothy could have stayed put in this house with a tragedy like that happening so close to home. Every day when she heard the train go by, she must think about that little cutie playing chicken with a metal monster. And losing.

I swallowed with a tight throat.

The two girls had at least made it to their high school graduations. Both wore the same powder-blue sweater. Their hair was pulled back in buns. They wore sweet but sorrowful expressions on Farmer’s Daughter faces. A few more framed photos documented boyfriends and husbands in laughing embraces. Then nothing. No grandbabies in bibs, on bikes, or in Grandma’s lap. Just nothing. End of the line. End of the family.

I searched the wall again. “Where did you hang Jack’s pictures?”

Dorothy stared at the wall of pictures. “Look at them. They’re all dead. Adored them, raised them, hung their pictures on the wall, and they died. But not my Jack. Never wanted pictures of him on the wall.” She tapped her temple. “Keeping him up here.”

Tears coursed down my cheeks. I couldn’t stop the flow. My whole body shook, and next thing I knew, Dorothy cradled my head against her shoulder. She sat me in a chair and let me cry. I sobbed a trash can full of tissues before I could control myself again.

“Don’t fuss on my account,” Dorothy said. “Loved those kids. But they were God’s to do with as he pleased. Now all of them are safe in heaven.”

I sat up and wiped my nose. “How do you do it? How can you keep going after everything that has happened to you?”

“Take it one day at a time. Get up. Put on my shoes. Say a prayer. Eat. Work. Live another day. Go to bed. Then do it again.”

“But how do you handle all the thoughts and emotions? Sometimes it’s too much for me. And I’ve barely lost anything compared to you.”

“Every day you tell yourself that God loves you. He’s going to take care of you. He’ll take everything that’s wrong and make it right. And when your time’s up, he’ll take you.” She wiped a teardrop from my face. “Woke up alive today, didn’t you? Then put your shoes on and get to living.”

I sniffled. “But what about a person who didn’t wake up alive today? What if they’re dead . . . and it’s not their fault?”

“Can’t do anything for them.”

“But what if they’re dead because of something I did?”

“Get it right with God. Then get on with life.”

If only it were that simple. How many times had I tried to get it right with God, only to crawl away and hide in shame?

Dorothy set a bowl of soup in front of me. The hot broth started my nose running again, but somehow made me feel better. When I’d scooped up the last spoonful, I thanked her for her hospitality and let myself out.

I paused on her porch, not really feeling like hitting the campaign trail, but too scared to go home. I walked along a wet sidewalk to the house next door, and directly across the street from David’s.

I stood on the front stoop of a completely modernized circa 1920s home. Cream vinyl siding erased any architectural details the home had once worn. Boring concrete steps took the place of a covered porch that had previously graced the home. The only evidence of the former porch was a plain swath of white trim halfway up the facade. Houses like this one were the whole reason the Historical Committee existed. The brutal mutilation of historic architecture had to be halted.

I rang the doorbell, then turned to watch for signs of activity across the street at David’s.

No answer.

I walked to the next house. The brown shake-and-brick two-story was the blight of the neighborhood. I stepped over a muddy pothole in the driveway on my way to the back door, which apparently was the only way to gain entrance. I swerved around a girl’s banana bike and picked my way up crumbled concrete steps. The storm door was missing its glass, so I reached through to knock on the dented metal exterior door.

“Yeah?” said the woman who opened the door. She had long, thin hair on her forty-something head. I knew by the guarded look in her eyes that my coifed hairstyle and trim figure posed some imagined threat to her oversized sweatshirt and baggy jeans.

I introduced myself.

A smile crept over her face. “I’m Kay. Come on in. I’ve been wanting to meet you. Anybody with the guts to kill a guy like Martin Dietz deserves a toast. How about a glass of homemade rhubarb wine?”

I stepped over the threshold, not sure if I was brave enough to venture off the entry rug onto the gouged and grungy linoleum. The stench of last night’s greasy dinner lingered.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink,” I said. I’d watched my grandfather drink himself to death by the time I was ten years old and never had the inclination to touch the stuff myself. Maybe fear of becoming a drunk like him kept me on the straight and narrow. Goodness knows, I’d be comatose in my cot right now if I drank to deal with life’s problems, like Gramps had.

I cleared my throat. “I’m running for the vacancy on the Historical Committee. I’d like your vote.”

I looked around the kitchen, which other than ’70s appliances and flooring hadn’t changed since the home was constructed. “When you’re ready to update, I’ll help you find a balance between historic preservation and modern living.” Kay didn’t need to know that by the time that day rolled around, I’d probably be long gone.

“Never could afford to update. Not with Dietz’s infernal fees. Two months of cleaning houses just to cover the application. That didn’t include whatever gadget I’d have to bribe him with, either.”

“I’m surprised his corruption was so widely known.” I shook my head. “Couldn’t the authorities do anything about it?”

“Dietz knew everything about everybody. He had enough dirt to keep half the town broke buying his silence. Especially the authorities. Believe me, if you hadn’t gone and killed him, somebody else would have.”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t kill him. Who do you think would have been next in line to do the job?”

Kay humphed. “Take your pick. Sandra Jones would be top on my list. But, like I say, if it hadn’t been you, it could’ve been anybody.”

“Sandra had already broken up with him. Why would she want to kill him?”

“It was what Dietz did to her in the elections that should have got him killed. I know I couldn’t have controlled myself if it had been me. Dietz stood there in front of a thousand people in the county park and called Sandra a backstabbing Mary Magdalene. Said she was in church on Sundays but in league with Satan the rest of the week. I don’t know about you, Tish, but that goes beyond name-calling.”

“I see what you mean.” From what I’d heard, Sandra was doing amazing things with the youth in Rawlings. Going against Dietz didn’t make her a bad Christian. Dietz was the jerk. Too bad Sandra let him get to her. She should have stuck it out and won the election. That would have been the best revenge.

“He sunk himself anyway,” Kay said. “No one wants to hear all that fire and brimstone stuff. Thank goodness the other candidate took the slot. I’d hate to think what this county would be like today if Dietz were in charge.”

“So you’ll vote for me in January?” I asked.

“Sure,” Kay said. “Are they going to hold the meetings down at the jail?” She gave a hearty laugh.

I smiled on my way out the door. I couldn’t blame anyone for taunting me about Dietz. It helped that their laughter only made me more determined to nab the real killer.

I gave a quick look to make sure no police were watching, then walked kitty-corner across the street to my house. David couldn’t help but see me if he was watching. I shook off the clammy feeling that crept up my spine.

Once at home, I scarfed down some cottage cheese. Running a campaign sure worked up an appetite. While the food did its job, I thought about the info I’d gathered along the trail. Dietz had enemies. Lots and lots of enemies. But only one man would greatly profit from his death.

David.

Without another thought, I headed for my toolbox on the counter, grabbed a flashlight and a hammer, and picked out the heaviest chisel. I’d unearth Rebecca and show her to the authorities along with Dietz’s will from David’s garage.

Motive and opportunity. David had them both when it came to killing Martin Dietz. Hadn’t his hair been damp when I got back from the bathroom that night at the Rawlings Hotel? He could have had time to meet Dietz here, kill him, and get back to the table by the time I returned. The hotel was only a block away if you took the shortcut.

I gripped my tools and took a determined breath. I wouldn’t be taking the fall for anyone this time.