He rubbed his scalp and smiled. “Time for a trim.”
Tammy giggled.
I tried not to puke.
I turned back toward the window, holding my stomach. I couldn’t believe what I was witnessing. It seemed the local ogre had some budding attraction for the local hairdresser. That explained Dietz’s out-of-character generosity toward the church youth. I didn’t peg Tammy as the Beauty-and-the-Beast type, but I figured she could flirt with whomever she wanted as long as she wasn’t hounding after David.
I plucked at a nail tip. It seemed secure enough. Time to get back to the house and start on another upstairs bedroom. Once I got the second floor done, I’d have some furniture brought in and could at least enjoy a mattress and a fluffy pillow at bedtime. With a decent night’s sleep once in a while, I should be able to get the rest of the house done by selling season.
I fished under the chair for my pinky nail, tucked it into my jeans pocket, then walked over to the counter to pay the bill. As I approached, Dietz dropped his relaxed pose and stiffened to full height.
I squinted into his eyes, daring him to make some comment.
He glared at me, his bald head bulging with veins. I half expected him to snort and paw like a raging bull.
Tammy dove between us. “Doesn’t Tish look great, Martin?”
She touched a strand of hair that followed the line of my jaw. “With a little restyling, we’ve uncovered the real Tish Amble. And she’s beautiful.”
Tammy turned toward Dietz. “Isn’t she, Martin?”
The red drained out of his face and he cleared his throat.
“You certainly look like a different person,” he said to me.
I stood flabbergasted. It seemed Tammy had already tamed the beast. I gave a half smile, slapped enough money on the counter to cover the bill plus tip, and headed for the door.
I practically sprinted the half block to the Whistle Stop Coffee Shop, hoping to put some fast distance between Dietz and me.
The scent of fresh, hot coffee calmed my jostled nerves.
“Brrr,” I said to the bejeweled attendant inside. “Feels like January out there.”
“It’s supposed to get colder this weekend.” The girl’s diamond lip stud flashed with each word.
“Great.” I rolled my eyes. “I guess I better warm up with a café mocha. A drop of raspberry in that too, please.”
“Whipped cream today?”
“Absolutely.”
Coffee Girl blended and poured and stirred until my order was steaming in front of me on the counter.
“By the way,” she said, “I watched it.”
I looked at her, perplexed. “Watched what?”
“Casablanca. I didn’t like the ending.”
I cocked an eyebrow. “Why not? Rick did the right thing.”
“I know, but he loved Ilsa. They should have been together.”
“Ilsa didn’t love Rick. She loved Victor.”
Coffee Girl leaned over the counter toward me. “Victor Lund was an idea, not a man. Rick was real. I wanted her to love Rick.”
I’d never seen such passion in the usually complacent young woman.
I shrugged. “Ilsa made a tough choice. We can only guess at the outcome.” I picked up the Styrofoam cup. “Thanks for the coffee,” I said over my shoulder as I walked out the door.
The sharp November air sliced through me like hedge cutters. Though it was only noon, dark clouds had moved overhead, creating a perpetual twilight. The first snow of the year would surely grace us by the end of the week.
I came around the rear corner of the house and headed to the garage for the snow shovel. The back porch would be the best place to lean it for the next five months or so.
One foot caught on a ridge in the blacktop driveway and I stumbled. The cup of café mocha flew out of my grasp and settled lidless on the pavement. I caught myself with outstretched palms, saving my secondhand jeans from a bigger hole in the knee. I dusted my hands off and watched the last drops of coffee drain onto the ground. In my side vision, I caught that “something’s not right” feeling. I turned toward the rear of my towering Victorian.
My eyes rested on the basement window, the one just above the spooky old cistern. A stick protruded out the bottom sash, propping open the flip-out window half an inch.
I froze to the pavement. Icy wind forced its way into my lungs. At least I wouldn’t die from lack of oxygen while I waited for my senses to come back on line.
I stood there breathless, trying to figure out how that window ended up open. Just a few nights ago, Brad had assured me everything was locked up. So when had a stick magically appeared in the sill?
12
I stared at the propped-open window and remembered the body I’d imagined beneath the concrete. I wondered what I’d see if I peered through the glass into the cistern. Human features twisted in suffering? I fought a swell of vomit at the idea . . . Behind me in the yard, the ancient catalpa tree groaned.
Breathe, breathe, breathe, breathe, I told myself.
A car clattered across the tracks. From a nearby garage came the hum of an automatic door opener. The sounds of everyday life prevailed over the dizzy whirl of my brain. There had to be a rational explanation for the stick in my window, if not for the face in my cistern.
I peeled my feet from the pavement and spun toward Brad Walters’ house. He was the last person in that cellar. He’d better have good justification for the piece of wood that made my house accessible to any crazed axe- murderer in Rawlings.
I banged on Brad’s front door three times with my fist. The sound of my impatience made me take a step back. I didn’t want Officer Walters to think I was some hot-tempered psycho-chick, at least not until I had definite proof that he was behind the open-window incident. Then he’d get a piece of my mind.
I concentrated on my air intake while I admired the tidy exterior of Brad’s home. Bright white trim and dark gray shutters accented cheerful yellow siding. The grass was cut back from the smooth sidewalk, and a row of cone-shaped evergreens lined the front of the house. I looked down at the cement porch beneath me and made a mental note to tell Brad he’d better fix the cracks or potential buyers might count it against him. I couldn’t fathom why he hadn’t replaced the porch the same time he’d had the sidewalk done, which was no doubt within the last couple years.
A faint thudding came from inside the house. I looked toward the door just as Brad opened it. If it hadn’t been almost lunchtime, I would have sworn he was still in his pajamas. He wore a sleeveless white tee and clingy black sweatpants. His hair stuck up on one side like it had recently been mashed against a pillowcase. One of those sleep-induced lines ran down his cheek, and that moist area on the side of his mouth could very well be drool.
One bicep, thick as the pillars holding up my front porch, blocked the doorway. My eyes traveled over the hump of solid muscle. Funny, Brad hadn’t seemed so huge with clothes on.
I tried choking out a hello. Instead, my mouth dropped in dumb awe.
What was wrong with me? I’d seen plenty of well-endowed Uniforms before. I’d seen big, bare-muscled hunks on TV. There was no reason to stare at a man’s body just because it had obviously been put to good use. And let’s face it, I was hitting middle age. I shouldn’t even blink twice at the sight in front of me. I took a step back.
“Everything okay?” Brad asked.
“Ummm . . .” I knew I was here for a reason, I just couldn’t think of it at the moment. I looked at my feet. A crack led up to the door, then branched back in two directions, like a big arrow pointing at Brad, saying, “He’s the
