“In my basement. Over on the cistern wall.”

“Please hold while I dispatch an officer to assist you.”

The line went silent. I sat on my cot and waited.

“Miss Amble?” The dispatcher was back on line. “Officer Walters will be arriving shortly.”

I ended the call and cradled my forehead in my palms.

It seemed Officer Brad was on duty 24/7.

Within minutes, lights flashed against the bedroom wall, and I knew without turning that Brad had pulled in the drive. Living a mere two blocks from the cop shop had its rewards.

I patted down my hair and opened the front door.

Brad stepped in.

“Going somewhere?” He looked my outerwear up and down.

“Just to the basement to fix my furnace.” I turned and started walking toward the kitchen. “That’s when I saw the blood.”

I could almost feel him rolling his eyes behind me. Another hallucination from the queen of paranoia, he must be thinking.

Humph. I wasn’t hallucinating this time.

I stopped at the top of the cellar steps and crossed my arms. “There you go.” I nodded toward the steps. “The blood is over on the cistern.”

“Come down and show me.”

“I am not going down there. Don’t you have a partner or something? What if the perpetrator is still in the basement?”

“I’m a trained professional. I’ll make sure you don’t get hurt.”

I patted my bad leg. “I got hurt last time I went down there with you. I’m not making the same mistake twice.”

“The reason you got hurt last time is because you were consumed with fear. You should have seen your face. There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’ll be with you.”

“You don’t understand. Whether you believe me or not, there is blood in my basement. I’m not about to put myself in danger because you think I’m imagining things.”

“I never said you were imagining things. As your neighbor and friend, I’d like to see you get over your fears. And the only way to do that is to confront them. Admit it. Once you looked in the cistern and saw there was no body in there, you felt better.”

My jaw clenched. He had no idea what I’d been through since I’d seen that image in the concrete.

“You’re right.” I leaned against the wall. “There’s no body in the cistern. I feel great about it. But I’m still not going down there.”

He snorted, shook his head, then descended the stairs.

I paced the kitchen and waited for him to emerge from the cellar with some explanation for the bloody wall.

The squawking of a police radio drifted up the steps. Obviously, Brad had found whatever I’d been lucky enough to miss.

He thumped up the stairs and came over to me, glowering, his eyes filled with accusation.

At his look, I scrambled backward, cornered by the window and the kitchen counter.

“You were right. I was wrong,” he said through gritted teeth.

“What do you mean?” I bit my lip.

“There is a body in your cistern.”

Horror coursed through my veins. “Is it Rebecca’s?”

I didn’t want to know the answer, but after last night’s date with David, I’d been chewing on the awful possibility that it was Rebecca who called to me from the cistern.

“Rebecca? Have you seen Rebecca?” His expression turned from anger to surprise.

“Of course not. She’s buried in the basement.”

Brad grabbed my arms. “Tish. Get a grip. Rebecca’s in California. Martin Dietz is in your basement.”

My head lolled to one side. Only Brad’s strength kept me from falling over.

“Why is Martin Dietz in my basement?” My words slurred.

“That’s what you need to tell me.”

I shook my head, dazed. “I have no idea. Maybe he was inspecting the cistern and fell.”

Brad helped me slide to the floor.

“You two had an issue regarding the cistern, didn’t you?” he asked.

An issue. That was a nice way of putting it. “Yeah. I wanted to knock it down, he wanted to keep it up.”

“And he threatened you if you removed it?”

“I guess he threatened. He’s the zoning czar. He doesn’t have to let anybody do anything.”

“Isn’t it true that his denial interfered with your renovation and resale plans?”

“Well, yeah, but that doesn’t mean I’d . . .” I halted midsentence. “I don’t like your tone. Are you accusing me of killing Martin Dietz?”

“The man is dead in your basement. You had the motive, the opportunity—”

“I didn’t kill him.” Defending myself against his accusation was futile. Anything I said could and would be held against me. Just like last time. I struggled to lift myself off the floor.

Thuds and thumps sounded from the front of the house, and moments later, my kitchen was filled with donut dunkers.

The largest of the crew found his way over to me while the rest disappeared into the basement.

“Miss Amble, I’m Chief Doyle. Has Officer Walters explained to you your Miranda rights?”

Exasperation bubbled like lava in my guts. “I told you, I didn’t kill anyone.” I glared at Brad.

“You have the right to remain silent . . .” The chief droned through the list as if I’d never heard it before.

I stared numbly. Not again. I couldn’t face going through it again.

I was jostled and nudged. Next thing I knew I was sitting in the backseat of a police cruiser.

26

I was questioned, swabbed, fingerprinted, and booked.

The attorney assigned to me, a young guy named Moranski, knew less about the process than I did. I coached him along out of pity, but by midmorning, I realized a shortened version of his name might suit him better.

At least I had a warm place to spend the next couple nights, even if the lingering odor of vomit revealed that my cell did double-duty as the drunk tank.

Outside, the wind blew. Every few minutes, a gust blasted its way through the caulk around the high window. I lay on the hard bench beneath it. The cold air drifted down and settled around me. If I got convicted of Dietz’s murder, my life was as good as over. I’d already languished away three years. With a murder rap, I could write off the next twenty-five, minimum.

On the bright side, maybe I’d get to be cellmates with Verna again. And this time around, I’d agree with her about the injustice of the justice system and the inhumanity of humanity.

I curled up in a ball to keep warm. At least I’d already been wearing my coat when Officer Brad threw me out in the storm at four o’clock this morning. Too bad he hadn’t had the courtesy to provide me with a blanket after questioning today.

I stewed for a couple hours, beating myself up for even giving a rip that there was blood on the rocks of my cistern. So what? It’s a basement. There’s bound to be undesirable slime in anyone’s cellar. And considering that there was already a body under the concrete, what was another one on top of it? The scent of a decaying body would blend right in with the general odor of mildew. And if my furnace hadn’t gone out, I never would have gone down in the basement. Spring would have been a much better time to deal with the murder of Martin Dietz.

I didn’t like the guy anyway.

The door to my cell clanked and a female deputy came in. “If you got someone who’ll put up a hundred grand, you can go home.”

Look lady, I felt like saying, I couldn’t even track down a friend to help me with my furnace, so what makes you think I can find one to fork over a hundred g’s?

She looked at me with something like pity or compassion on her face. “You get one phone call.”

She stood aside to let me go through.

I stayed on the bench thinking for a minute.

I had the cash sitting in my bank account, but every penny of it was reserved for renovations. If I dug into it for bail, I wouldn’t be able to finish the job on schedule. And I’d be stuck in Rawlings for at least another year. Maybe even forever. There had to be someone out there who could put up the money. I was good for it. It’s not like I could leave town with my Victorian unfinished.

The only face that came to mind was Tammy Johnson’s from Beauty Boutique. She’d invited me to church, hadn’t she? It was time she put her fortune where her faith was. If she refused to help me post bail, I’d know she was just another one of those Sunday Soldiers.

I followed the deputy. She handed me a phone book. I looked up Tammy’s home phone number.

The line rang. An answering machine picked up.

“Hi. This is Tammy. I can’t take your call. Please leave a message at the tone. Thanks!” Her voice sounded perky as ever, but I knew that in real life she was probably wiped out from grieving over Casey.

The machine beeped, waiting for a message.

“Um, hi, Tammy.” I leaned against the dirty white wall, adding my fingerprints to those of other desperate callers. “This is Tish Amble. You know, the one who reminds you of your good friend Sandra? I’m at the county jail and I need your help. Can you please come down as soon as you get this message? Please?”

The other end was silent. Then a beep sounded as time ran out.

I hung up the phone.

“She’ll get here,” the deputy said in a gentle voice.

I squeezed my eyes and bit my lip, waiting until I gained control of my emotions before I looked at her.

“Thanks, but she barely even knows me. I guess I can only hope.”

I waited in the cell. Supper came. I ate the familiar, flavorless fare. Daylight faded to dusk.

Maybe Tammy had gone out of town.

Maybe she hated me and wasn’t coming.

Maybe she figured anyone who’d killed her admirer deserved to be alone in a cold, dank cell.