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 one. He’s the one.”

He was the one, all right. Now I remembered what I was here for. I put my hands on my hips. “Everything is not okay. When you walked through my house the other night, you somehow missed the log propping open the basement window. Anybody could have gotten in there. I’m lucky I didn’t get my throat slit in my sleep.”

“Whoa.” Brad crossed his arms. “What are you talking about? What log?”

“Not a log, exactly. More like a stick. But either way, that window isn’t secure. And I want to know why.”

Brad ruffled a hand through his hair. “Hang on. Let me get dressed.”

He shut the door, leaving me alone on the porch. I stared at the six panels of glossy white. If it had been my house, I would have asked him inside. I felt a little put out having to wait here, especially since I hadn’t yet grabbed my winter coat out of the trunk of my car.

I sat down on the first step and scrunched up to keep warm. Directly across the street, the railroad tracks stretched east and west. Behind them lay an unkempt field of grass, then began the first buildings of downtown.

I shook my head. The inferior view coupled with the ear-blasting trains that ran rampant through town would definitely count against poor Brad upon resale. He’d have been smart not to get shackled with the home in the first place. But hey, not everyone was as house-savvy as me. At least my house had a row of shade trees hiding the railroad tracks. And if I were lucky, the next owner wouldn’t even notice the tracks until the papers were signed.

I wondered how Brad had ended up in Rawlings. Where had he grown up? Why had he become a cop? Why wasn’t he married?

I sighed. Maybe I should have said yes to his dinner invitation. He seemed like a nice enough guy, even if he was a Uniform. He’d probably just wanted to welcome me to the neighborhood like he’d said, not quiz me on my pathetic past. In fact, Brad didn’t even seem to care that I’d done time. That alone said heaps about his intentions. If he were looking for a long-term relationship, he sure wouldn’t pick me.

I leaned on my hands and sighed again.

Yep. I was safe with Brad.

The door opened and I turned to see him dressed in work boots, blue jeans, and a gray sweatshirt. Though he still looked built, his jaw-dropping features were now safely covered with fabric.

“Why don’t you show me the problem,” Brad said, coming down the steps.

When he got to the bottom, he turned and looked at me. Tall as I was, my head only reached his shoulder.

“By the way, your hair looks great,” he said.

I touched my new do, suddenly appalled by its lack of length. It seemed anybody could see right to my core without those fluffy flyaways to hide behind. And though Brad’s eyes had appeared dull brown on Halloween night, they were definitely sparkling with x-ray vision today.

I pursed my lips, determined not to be sidetracked by eye color observations. Especially since there was a pair of beautiful blue ones waiting to take me out Friday night.

“Follow me.” I led him up Railroad Street to the edge of his property, then angled through the crackled-white picket gate onto my own land. I kept close to the fence line, which was thick with out-of-control weeds and infant trees mixed with a border of daylily greens. Jan Hershel apparently hadn’t cared much for gardening. The unsightly mess could only come from years of consistent neglect. I was tempted to take a rototiller to the whole yard and start fresh.