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.
36
I opened to the top document. A tax return from last year, showing thousand of dollars in losses. Yeah, I bet Martin Dietz didn’t claim his “gifts” from the town folk, either. The refund he received would have bought several riding mowers.
Next was a mortgage document from Sugar Cane International. I glanced at the comparable homes and final value of Dietz’s Oak Street residence, willing to bet the whole thing was fudged. I could see average homes in Rawlings going for prices like Dietz’s in about two years when urban sprawl arrived. But not yet. Not today.
Beneath the mortgage was a life insurance policy. The amount made me choke. The document listed Sandra Jones as the beneficiary. Now there was one lucky woman. Obviously Dietz hadn’t thought to change his papers after their breakup.
I flipped to the next item. Another life insurance policy, identical to the first. This time, Rebecca Ramsey was listed as beneficiary, with David Ramsey as contingent. Why on earth would Dietz have the Ramseys listed in his policy, even if he and Sandra were on the outs?
I thought of the body in my cistern.
Up at the house, the back door slammed shut. My head jerked toward the sound.
Footsteps crunched in the direction of the garage.
I stuffed the file back into the top box as best I could, but something got in the way. I could only jam Dietz’s file about three-quarters in. It protuded from the box like a blinking neon light.
If David caught me in here, I hated to think what could happen. There was a good possibility that he’d killed Rebecca to keep her from claiming Dietz’s insurance money. Now he could claim the money for himself.
I looked around in alarm. The garage had no clutter to hide behind. I dove for the sports car, rolling under it to keep out of sight.
From my shadowy nook, I watched David walk in carrying a tan cardboard box that matched the other file boxes. He set it on the bottom shelf of the cabinet, then started to close the doors.
He looked toward the top shelf and hesitated.
Dietz’s file.
David reached up and took the box down. He inspected the out-of-whack file. He took a slow look around the garage.
I held my breath, certain that my heartbeat was as loud to him as it was to me.
He straightened the file and put the box back in its place. He shut the cabinet doors, ran the chain through the pulls, and fastened the padlock.
He walked to the door, took a long backward glance into the garage, then shut the door soundly.
I gulped for air. I promised myself never to snoop again. David was not marriage material. I didn’t care what explanation he gave for the files he kept on local residents. Now was a good time to find out that good looks and good manners couldn’t outdo ethics and morals.
My lip quivered as I crawled out from beneath the car. I stopped at the entrance, peeking through the glass
