“Why don’t you?”

“Because you’re a cop.”

“And that makes me a liar?”

“Let’s just say I have a basic mistrust of anyone in authority.”

“And why is that?”

I wanted to slap him for asking so many questions.

“Because I spent three years behind bars and found out that jerks run the system.”

Brad looked off toward the window. “A uniform doesn’t make someone good. It doesn’t make someone bad. It’s just a uniform. People are human everywhere you go.”

“Well, some people have an obligation to be better than human.”

“Does that include you?”

My hands yearned to strangle him. “I’m not exactly in a position of power. If I mess up, I’m not wrecking other people’s lives.”

“What about your grandmother’s?”

I stared at him a second, shocked that he could even make the implication. His needle came a little too close to popping my balloon.

I jumped up and stumbled toward the kitchen. “How are you doing in here, Jack?”

He stood at the water dispenser, holding down the lever. Water dripped to the floor.

“Hey, buddy.” I smiled and headed his way with a towel. “Someone’s going to slip in that puddle.”

He took the towel and wiped up the spill. “I like this. It’s better than the small bottles.”

“Cheaper too.” I swung my arms. “So, Jack. I heard you did a great job down in the basement. Who else worked on it with you?”

I felt Brad’s aura enter the room. I glanced over my shoulder. He leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, listening.

Jack put up a thumb and a finger. “There was Mr. Lloyd and his son Josh.”

That was old news. I knew about Lloyd & Sons’ participation back in July when I started canvassing for a contractor.

Jack put up another finger. “You know David. I saw you with him the other night.”

I remembered my surprise to learn that David Ramsey had earned a key to my house from his efforts on the project. It was hard to picture him wearing work clothes and wielding a sledgehammer.

“There was Mr. Hershel. He used to live here.” Jack added a finger to his count.

I’d only met Rick Hershel briefly, but from what Dorothy said, Rick was having a hard time letting go of the Victorian himself.

Another finger made a full hand. “And I helped,” Jack said. “I carried buckets of cement down the steps. I dumped it in the holes.”

“You did a great job.”

Incredible. It was hard to picture myself actually living in a neighborhood where people would work together like they had on this one waterproofing project. When I was growing up, Grandma always complained that no one would lift a finger to help her out. Of course, she’d never admit she needed help.

Rawlings had that good-neighbor element that so many towns lacked. Then again, a year after the project, one man was dead, bashed by one of these so-called neighbors. And there was the possibility that another body was beneath the surface of a waterproofing project gone bad.

I poured myself a cup of water and took a sip. “So, Jack, do you remember seeing Mr. Dietz in the basement?” I glanced over my shoulder to see what Brad was up to. His stony features hadn’t moved.

“I saw him sometimes. He came down to talk to Mr. Hershel. He got in a fight with Mr. Lloyd one day.”

“A fight, huh? What was it about?”

“Mr. Lloyd wasn’t doing it right. He wanted to dig a hole for the water to run into. Mr. Dietz said no, he had to put in a pump. The hole could be outside, not inside. Mr. Lloyd said, ‘What do you think that cistern is there for anyway?’ Mr. Dietz said he better not catch him digging holes in the basement unless he was hooking up a pump. The job better get done right, or Mr. Dietz would make sure Mr. Lloyd lost his license.”

I could almost picture the scene between the two men. Tall, gray-haired Lloyd versus stocky, bald-headed Dietz. One bare basement bulb reflecting off their sweaty brows. Gentlemen, take your corners.

“Sounds like Mr. Dietz was really mad.” I imagined veins popping from his temples, ready to burst.

“He yelled really loud. Jan came down to see what was wrong. She told Mr. Dietz to get out, but he wouldn’t go. Said he wasn’t done inspecting the project. She went back upstairs and called Officer Brad.” Jack nodded toward the off-duty Brad.

I turned, intrigued. “So, you broke up the neighborhood brawl?”

“Dietz was gone before I got here. Jan was pretty upset, but Rebecca and Dorothy came over and helped her calm down. As usual, Sandra came by later and smoothed everything over for Dietz.”

“Of the four women you mentioned, three of them aren’t around anymore.” My unspoken question hung in the air.

Brad nodded once. “Rough year. Three relationships down the tubes.”

I pursed my lips. “You don’t sound very sorry for the trouble you caused.”

Brad raised an eyebrow. “What trouble was that?”

“Please. Don’t pretend you weren’t all over Rebecca Ramsey.”

Brad squinted. “I don’t know where you got that information, but it’s incorrect.” His voice took on a ragged quality. “There was never anything between Rebecca and me.”

I blinked, wondering whom I should believe. David, who swore Brad was after his wife. Or Brad, standing there close to tears, seeming to wish there’d been something more between him and Rebecca than merely friendship.

And maybe there had been.

I moved a step closer and squinted at him. “How does Rebecca like California? Hot enough for her?”

Brad gazed down at me. “We don’t correspond.”

“Well, maybe now that David’s out of her picture, she’ll be back in touch.”

“Highly unlikely.” Brad closed the gap between us. “Am I missing something? You called me. So why do I feel like you’re annoyed I’m here?”

I stood my ground. “I’m not annoyed. I’m ready for bed.” I ruffled my fingers through my hair. “Thanks for coming by.”

I turned toward my other visitor, who toyed with the nozzle on the water jug. “You want a to-go cup, Jack?” I looked at Brad. I wanted in the worst way to be polite to him. But somehow, manners would signal a truce. And I wasn’t ready for that. I pushed Brad and Jack out the door using only eyebrows, crossed arms, and tapping fingers.

30

I ran a hot shower, hoping to calm my nerves and get some sleep. But later, as I lay on my cot, I couldn’t banish the day’s events.

The whole town knew about my grandmother. And they all thought I killed Martin Dietz.

My self-preservation instinct told me to never leave the house again. Order my groceries in, finish the renovations, and get out of town fast.

But the rebel in me said, Hold your head up. Don’t let anybody run you out of Rawlings.

Tonight I sided with the rebel. But who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d go along with the preservationist.

A train whistle blew in the distance. The faint rumble grew louder and louder until the whole house shook from the vibration of fully loaded boxcars flying past on narrow steel rails.

I imagined I lay in a hole in the cistern, damp sand and lumpy pebbles beneath me. A layer of wet, slimy cement mix covered me, getting thicker and thicker as it hardened. Yet with each lurch of the train, the cement settled around my body, filling in every tiny crack and crevice, until my face, hands, and foot protruded from the grave like a plaster cast. Whoever had poured the concrete mix on top of me hadn’t counted on tremors from the tracks doing such a great leveling job. I needed another layer of cement to cover my features, so anyone looking down at me couldn’t see me screaming and clawing and fighting for my life. I wasn’t finished.

I sat up on my cot. Beads of sweat dampened my forehead. That’s what Jack kept saying. The job wasn’t finished.

I swung my feet to the floor.

Did Jack have something to do with the murders? Or was I being paranoid? Even Brad seemed to know a little more about neighborhood events than he let on. He shouldn’t even be on the Dietz case. He was too embroiled in the whole affair to be impartial.

Who was Brad protecting in this mess? Just Jack? Or was Rebecca a part of it?

I rubbed my temples. With my mind moving as fast as the train outside, I’d never get any sleep. I stood. The warning bells outside quit dinging, and the rumble of boxcars faded into the distance.

I was wide awake. I might as well get something accomplished. I grabbed my paint supplies from a corner of the parlor.

The front stairs creaked and groaned as I made my way to the second story.

I flicked on the light to the bedroom directly at the top of the steps. The room had an odd shape where it angled in for the staircase. It looked like a square with one corner cut off. One window looked out to the side yard, right into the branches of the maple tree. The other looked out onto the balcony. The walls were in decent condition—nothing a little spackle couldn’t cure. The Hershels had been kind enough to strip the thick bands of woodwork down to a light pine color. I spent the next half hour taping the trim so I could edge around it with a fresh coat of paint.

But taping was a mindless job. Thoughts of murder, bodies, and motives had plenty of room to roam. I’d already narrowed down the identity of the body in my basement to three possibilities. Unfortunately, by midnight, the list of suspects topped ten and continued to grow. Even the biddies from the clothing store weren’t immune from my late-night scrutiny.

Motives ran the gamut from love scorned to money owed to rumors spread. And still nothing made sense.