the toilet seat and ranting about a body in my cistern, when of course there was no body in my cistern.
The flush of the toilet blended with the peal of a train whistle as an engine flew past. Funny, a sound I’d dreaded only last night was a comfort to me now. The blaring notes were rooted in reality. They strengthened me enough that I could open the door and walk back into the kitchen. There was no need to be nervous.
There was no body.
“Your mother was always a good girl,” she said, smiling at me. Her white hair was arranged in perfect curls around her face. Red lipstick and drawn-on eyebrows made her seem younger than her years.
When I looked at her hands, wrinkled and old, gripping the steering wheel, that “something’s amiss” feeling came over me—the one you get when you meet someone in a dream, and all of a sudden you remember that in real life the person is dead. Suddenly I was scared. My legs and arms felt bolted to the bench seat. I watched, helpless, as Grandma’s face became an oozing mass of color, as if an artist had swirled his brush on the canvas to blot out a mistake.
The contorted mouth talked to me. “Why couldn’t you have been more like your mother?”
Then we were airborne, with the bottom of Mead Quarry racing up to meet us.
I was awake now, more so than after my usual two cups of coffee. And a good thing too. It was time to roll up my sleeves and get to work.
Milk sloshed over the edges of the bowl as I ate a hurried breakfast. I decided to strip the wallpaper from the front entry while waiting for Lloyd & Sons to arrive. I could accomplish the modest-sized project before lunch and feel like I was at least headed in the right direction.
I painted water over the ’70s pattern, gave it a few minutes to soak in, then scraped the layers off with a wide, flat-edged putty knife. It wasn’t the most effective way to rid the walls of their covering, but the obsessive- compulsive in me loved the way the paper came off in long spirals that piled up on the floor.
One wall was stripped bare when I realized Lloyd hadn’t arrived yet. I flipped open my phone and dialed up his cell.
“Lloyd here,” he answered in tandem with crackling airwaves.
“Tish Amble. I thought we were on for today.”
There was a pause while he tried to come up with a good excuse for stiffing me.
“Got tied up . . . crackle . . . deck repair . . . crackle . . . crackle . . . get the permit?”
“Permit for what? I thought you were taking care of all the permits.”
I could barely hear his reply as the signal cut in and out.
“. . . get the permit . . . for the cistern . . . by tomorrow.”
“By tomorrow? Fine. In fact, I’ll take care of it right now.”
The line was nothing but static as I jammed the disconnect button with my finger. What kind of contractor didn’t pull his own permits? It’s not like it took a college degree to get permission to knock down a stone wall.
I picked up the soggy paper shavings and dropped them in a plastic bag. Now I’d have to get cleaned up and face the village guardians myself.
But it would be worth it if it meant getting rid of that creepy pile of rocks once and for all.
8
The brisk October wind blew cold fingers of air down the neck of my jacket, slowly cooling my boiling blood as I stomped two blocks down to the village offices. Lloyd’s reliability quotient had dropped to a solid zero. What was I paying him for? I should fire him and use the money on a one-way ticket to Fiji. I could renovate a grass hut as my next project.
Leaves danced circles around me, then piled up in exhausted heaps against the brick storefronts. I pushed open the heavy glass door to the Village of Rawlings headquarters and stepped into a workplace as hushed as a morgue. The smell of new paper and copy toner greeted me. Behind the reception counter, a woman was absorbed with a collating project that involved six or seven multicolored sheets and an electric stapler.
I crossed my arms and waited. She showed no sign of slowing. After a few moments, I cleared my throat.
Without looking up, the clerk droned, “I’ll be right with you.”
My fingers tapped the denim of my sleeves. The pile that consumed the woman’s attention hadn’t shrunk a millimeter since I’d been standing there. I wondered at what point she would decide to do her job and assist me.
“Uh-hmmm,” I said with more insistence.
The nameplate on the counter identified the woman as Laura Boyd. I was about to say her name in not- very-nice tones, when she huffed and laid down the papers overflowing her fingers. She gave me a sharp glance.
“Can I help . . .” Her voice petered off into stunned silence. From her goggle-eyed stare, I concluded my notorious twin had preceded me once again.
No time for flabbergasted clerks. I had a deadline.
“I need to apply for a permit.” I flopped my elbows on the counter and leaned toward her. “My name is Tish Amble and I’m at 302 South Main Street.”
“T . . . Tish Amble?”
“That’s my name.”
Ms. Boyd backed up into a desk, knocking over the pencil holder. She swung around, made a half-try to pick up the mess, then practically ran to a back office and shut the door.
I hoped that meant she was getting my application.
Her absence dragged on. An old-fashioned bell, the kind you ring for service, was sitting on top of a stack of last week’s local newspaper. My patience came to an end, and I gave the ringer a good workout. The ding, ding, ding, ding lowered my frustration level considerably, though whether it had the power to procure my application was yet to be seen.
From the direction of the back office, bobbing between bookshelves and file cabinets, came a head shaved smooth as a plum. I had only a moment to wonder if the owner used a double-blade or some kind of cream, before the man’s face, purple-veined with anger, wiped all curiosity from my mind.
“Laura tells me you need a permit.” His voice resonated off the plate-glass windows behind me and rattled my rib cage.
My body stiffened in defense. “That’s right.”
“At 302 South Main?” he asked.
“That’s correct.”
“For what?” The guy sounded like a grunting monkey.
“Removal of the cistern.”
“Nope. Can’t do it.” He thumped his fist on the counter.
“Pardon me?” My heels dug into the carpet.
“You heard me—302 falls in the Historic Preservation District along with the rest of Rawlings Township. Can’t touch the foundation.”
“Thankfully, the cistern isn’t part of the foundation.” I made my best attempt at a smile, but I’m sure it looked more like a grimace.
“It’s part of the original stonework. The committee won’t let you touch it. Believe me.” His head angled down and his brows angled up.
“Perhaps you could give me the chairperson’s name and I’ll check into it myself.” No village tyrant was going to deter me from reaching my goal.
“Sure. Martin Dietz.”
