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 at the bleak morning. If I took off across the yard, David was sure to see me. He’d know I’d been in here. He’d seen the Dietz file and he’d know that I knew. There was no back way out of this place, unless I wanted to risk breaking my neck falling out the high windows along the rear of the garage. That is, if I could fit through the narrow openings in the first place.

I fingered the fingernail in my pocket. Poor Rebecca. Killed for a half-million dollars. Human life was worth far more than that. Of course, many had died for far less. David must have been working out his plan slowly and patiently. First he’d killed Rebecca and pretended she’d gone off to California. He was a computer expert, wasn’t he? Any correspondence from Rebecca, including the divorce papers, were scams, meant to keep anyone from suspecting that she had never made it out of town. Then, nearly a year later, he’d offed Martin Dietz, ready to collect the reward money for a game well played.

He probably already had a set of falsified documents ready for the day he sucked the life right out of me like a vampire, and left me dead somewhere. I was a perfect candidate for his sick diversion. No friends, no family. I’d disappear as if I’d never existed. No one would even know. No one would even care. Of course, if I took the fall for Dietz’s murder, so much the better.

I leaned against the garage wall and assessed my situation. The best action would be to sneak out the door, hang a hard left, and hide out behind the garage. I could wait a few minutes to make sure the coast was clear, then run behind the museum’s garage over to my own yard.

Chances of anybody seeing me would be slim. Of course, if Jack Fitch was on duty, he’d wonder why I was acting like a criminal.

I twisted the handle and peeked out the garage door. I didn’t see anyone, but the glare of daylight on David’s windows kept me from knowing if he was watching.

I ducked out the door around to the back of the garage. I leaned against the siding and caught my breath. My plan had one glaring flaw. Maybe David wouldn’t notice the set of solo prints heading toward his back door from the street. And he sure wouldn’t notice my prints mixed in with the tracks he’d beaten between the house and the garage. But how could he miss the trail of size 10 boots announcing to anybody with eyeballs that someone had run behind the garage?

But, hey, snow didn’t hang around long this time of year. Maybe it would melt by noon. I tiptoed as fast as I could over to the back of the museum garage. My pants got snarled in some dormant raspberry bushes. Apparently the staff of museum volunteers never took the time to clip the rear of the property.

I tripped over a rusty shovel and landed on my backside.

The shock of the snow against bare fingers held me motionless a moment. As soon as I caught my breath, I struggled toward safety. But the stringy thorns tangled around me, cutting my hands and burying prickers in my clothing. With every attempt to stand, the tentacles snarled more tightly around me. I ripped myself free. Blood dripped from my hands. Miles of scratches lay hidden beneath my jeans.

Out in the open again, I ran past my garage and straight into the house. I bolted the door behind me.

I stood at the sink and let warm water flow over my mangled hands. The thorns had left deep scratches that were now raised white lines. I toweled dry, then gingerly pulled from my skin whatever glasslike prickers I could detect. I must have missed a dozen. Every movement seemed to drive one or more deeper into my flesh.

I tried pulling thorns from my jeans, but gave up. I’d have to change them altogether and start fresh. I started toward my bedroom when I saw a head pass the side window.

My heart did a belly flop in my chest. It was David, striding up the back steps. I dove past the kitchen door, out of sight in the dining room. David tried the knob, then pounded on the door.

If he got in here, I would be dead. I had no weapon, no way to defend myself.

“Tish. Let me in.” David sounded half off his rocker.

I crept through to the parlor, consumed with fear. He’d get in eventually. I had to get out.