A gust of air rattled the windows. The cold blast brought to mind the image of perpetual suffering frozen in the cistern, and along with it came a wave of empathy. In her misunderstanding of Rick’s passion for the house, Jan might have become a permanent part of it.

Or not.

I reminded myself that there was no body in the basement.

“So Jan must be happily living in a brand-new home somewhere, huh?” I said.

“Haven’t heard. Thought she’d drop a note now and then, but some people are bad that way. Probably hurts too much to think about the old neighborhood.”

I clasped my hands against a rearing stomach. “What about Rick? Has he stayed in touch?”

Dorothy nodded. “In a manner of speaking. I see his car drive by every so often. Probably just curious to see what you’re doing to the place. Never stops in, though.”

Not exactly comforting to learn that a possible murderer was casing my house. I thought about the stick in the basement window, and wondered if Rick had conveniently kept a key so he could let himself in later, prop open the basement window, then take his time patching up his lousy burial job.

Forgetting my audience, I shook my head and rolled my eyes, determined not to give valuable brain space to a ridiculous notion.

“Where’d you wander off to?” Dorothy asked.

I gave her a questioning look. “Pardon me?”

“Looked like your mind was a million miles away.”

I hesitated. Spilling my guts about imaginary bodies somehow didn’t seem like good Welcome Wagon conversation.

Still, for the sake of sound sleep, I took a chance.

“Just thinking about the trick-or-treaters that came through last week. A couple of them said my house was haunted.” I gave an embarrassed smile and rubbed the back of my neck.

I’d hoped she’d laugh and reassure me that it wasn’t true. Instead, a look of alarm flashed across her face. Her hands fidgeted in her lap.

“Oh, kids these days.” She waved off their comments. “No such thing as ghosts.”

I wrapped my jacket tighter to keep the frigid wind at bay and stared vacantly at Dorothy’s house across the street. The curtain in the downstairs window moved to one side. I jerked upright in my perch on the top step. A zing of pain knifed down my leg.

I tried not to waggle my primped-up finger too exuberantly as I pointed.

“Who’s that in the window?” I asked. I’d been going on the assumption that Dorothy was the busybody of the ’hood, but it seemed I was wrong.

Dorothy looked toward home. The curtain fell back into place.

Her lips pursed up, giving the illusion she had teeth.

“Just my Jack,” she said. Her thumbs twirled together in slow circles. “Bet he’ll like you just fine. Sure liked Jan when she used to live here.”

A buzz of apprehension crept over my shoulders and up the back of my neck. Somehow I didn’t want anything in common with cold, dead Jan.

Especially not interest from Dorothy’s eccentric son.

15

I coughed at the sudden dryness in my mouth.

“Let’s get you inside before you catch your death,” Dorothy suggested, touching my arm.

Too weak to resist, I allowed her to help me. She led me to my makeshift bedroom and tucked me into the cot, complaining that I should have a real bed. She left the room and appeared a few minutes later with a sandwich piled high with slabs of Brad’s homegrown tomatoes, cucumber slices, and cheese.

“You’re not eating enough,” Dorothy chastised, handing me the fare. “Hardly any food in your cupboards, and what’s there is only fit for birds and rabbits.”

My stomach grumbled as if in agreement. I took a bite, closed my eyes, and savored the juicy combination. A stream of pink squirted from the side of my bread, and I licked it from the back of my hand. “This is delicious. Thank you.”

“You need to take better care of yourself,” Dorothy lectured as she handed me a glass of milk.

I sniffed the contents before I took a drink. It never hurt to verify the expiration date.

I thought back to the shopping trip with my dreamy neighbor David almost a week ago. I’d been at the milk cooler, grabbing for the half-gallon of skim. He was at the cream cheese, picking up an eight-ounce package. Thankfully, I’d shown him the reduced-fat variety in time. He’d had that special sparkle in his eyes as he thanked me for helping him avoid a major mistake.

I sipped the cold, refreshing milk and looked forward to a future of mind-melding looks from David.

“Far too skinny for my liking,” Dorothy carried on. “A few more pounds would do you good.”

I handed Dorothy my glass. She was either passing out backhanded compliments or bold-faced criticisms. I tried not to let them under my skin.

“You work yourself to death.” Dorothy clucked her tongue. “Rest up. I’ll check back on you later.”

She took the dishes into the kitchen and thumped around in there awhile. I wondered what she was doing. Then I heard the faint sound of the faucet running and realized she must be washing up for me. A few minutes later, Dorothy left the house, closing the front door softly behind her.

An approaching train provided the backdrop to my dreams as I dozed off.

I woke a few hours later, refreshed after my first nap in years. Somewhere under the pile of laundry in the corner, my cell phone rang.

I retrieved it from the pocket of last week’s jeans, knowing before I answered that it must be the vagrant Lloyd & Sons on the other end. Nobody else in Rawlings, not even David, had my phone number.

“This is Tish,” I answered.

“Lloyd here. How’s the permit . . . crackle . . . coming?” The connection was no better than the last time we’d talked.

“I mailed out the application. The next committee meeting is a week from Thursday. I’m not holding out any hope. But don’t worry, I’ve got a Plan B in mind.” I leaned against a windowpane and looked at the overcast sky, completely clueless as to any Plan B.

Lloyd piped up. “While you’re waiting around for approval, I’ve got other projects. I’ll . . . crackle . . . and check back with you in the spring.” The line screeched static and I realized I lost him.

Disgusted, I hit the off button and dropped the phone back on the pile. I steamed into the parlor as fast as my limp would let me, and paced the blue shag carpet. I relished the shot of pain zapping my nerves at every step.

Get back with me in the spring? Was Lloyd crazy? My basement was top priority. And when I lined him up last summer, he’d guaranteed my project would come first.

Looking at the situation from Lloyd’s point of view, I could see where my own stubbornness to have the cistern removed, instead of walled in, was messing with our agreed-to schedule. It was my change, not his, that slowed the renovation.

Of course, when I walked through the house last July, it hadn’t registered that there even was a cistern in the basement. So technically, Lloyd should include its removal as part of the project.

I fingered the banister leading to the second floor, pulling back at the stickiness of the original finish. With everything else to do, there was no time to dwell on the cistern. The matter was now up to the Historical Committee. Once I got an official rejection, and not just some off-the-cuff denial from the village overlord, I could decide my next step.

I toyed with a loose dowel along the stairwell. It would be simple to wall in the cistern as Lloyd suggested. Preferable, even. No more concrete image dangling in my mind at bedtime. No more wondering how a body ended up buried in my basement, and worse, who put it there. But somehow I knew I wasn’t being honest. I already had the overwhelming urge to pick up a hammer and chisel and see for myself what lay under the concrete. A mere layer of drywall couldn’t dampen innate curiosity. If I thought I could maneuver the basement steps, I would be down there even now disproving my morbid theory.

I looked up from the broken dowel to the wallpaper that lined the room. Small pink and yellow roses were arranged in tidy columns. In between each was a strip of larger bouquets tied with blue ribbons. From my place at the stairs, the pattern looked like mama flowers holding hands with baby flowers.

I leaned close to the edge of a leaded-glass window and picked at a gap in the paper with one pointy fake nail, peeling off the time-worn surface in a long strip. The next owners would have inoffensive, off-white paint interspersed with a coat of polyurethane to create a subtle striped effect.

Just for fun, I pulled off every loose section and picked at every long-suffering bubble throughout the parlor. When I’d finally exhausted my urge, the floor was covered in curls of pastel and white paper, like the remains of a hit-and-run baby shower.

I plopped to the carpet and massaged my ankle. Pain or not, I had just made the parlor my next project. The thought of someone walking in and seeing peeled, unfinished walls reviled my sense of pride. I plotted a trip to the paint store, hoping I could still operate a car with my foot in such bad shape.

I was getting up the gumption to stand when the doorbell rang. I looked at my mess in panic, wondering if I should pretend I wasn’t home. Footsteps crossed the porch and the room darkened as the uninvited guest peered in the front window.

It was Dorothy, keeping her promise to return and check up. One hand shielding the glare, she spotted me amidst the evidence of my parlor paroxysm.

Dorothy shuffled around to the door and let herself in, probably feeling sorry for the turtle thrashing around on the floor.