I stepped over the threshold, not sure if I was brave enough to venture off the entry rug onto the gouged and grungy linoleum. The stench of last night’s greasy dinner lingered.

“No, thank you. I don’t drink,” I said. I’d watched my grandfather drink himself to death by the time I was ten years old and never had the inclination to touch the stuff myself. Maybe fear of becoming a drunk like him kept me on the straight and narrow. Goodness knows, I’d be comatose in my cot right now if I drank to deal with life’s problems, like Gramps had.

I cleared my throat. “I’m running for the vacancy on the Historical Committee. I’d like your vote.”

I looked around the kitchen, which other than ’70s appliances and flooring hadn’t changed since the home was constructed. “When you’re ready to update, I’ll help you find a balance between historic preservation and modern living.” Kay didn’t need to know that by the time that day rolled around, I’d probably be long gone.

“Never could afford to update. Not with Dietz’s infernal fees. Two months of cleaning houses just to cover the application. That didn’t include whatever gadget I’d have to bribe him with, either.”

“I’m surprised his corruption was so widely known.” I shook my head. “Couldn’t the authorities do anything about it?”

“Dietz knew everything about everybody. He had enough dirt to keep half the town broke buying his silence. Especially the authorities. Believe me, if you hadn’t gone and killed him, somebody else would have.”

“Well, let’s just say I didn’t kill him. Who do you think would have been next in line to do the job?”

Kay humphed. “Take your pick. Sandra Jones would be top on my list. But, like I say, if it hadn’t been you, it could’ve been anybody.”

“Sandra had already broken up with him. Why would she want to kill him?”

“It was what Dietz did to her in the elections that should have got him killed. I know I couldn’t have controlled myself if it had been me. Dietz stood there in front of a thousand people in the county park and called Sandra a backstabbing Mary Magdalene. Said she was in church on Sundays but in league with Satan the rest of the week. I don’t know about you, Tish, but that goes beyond name-calling.”

“I see what you mean.” From what I’d heard, Sandra was doing amazing things with the youth in Rawlings. Going against Dietz didn’t make her a bad Christian. Dietz was the jerk. Too bad Sandra let him get to her. She should have stuck it out and won the election. That would have been the best revenge.

“He sunk himself anyway,” Kay said. “No one wants to hear all that fire and brimstone stuff. Thank goodness the other candidate took the slot. I’d hate to think what this county would be like today if Dietz were in charge.”

“So you’ll vote for me in January?” I asked.

“Sure,” Kay said. “Are they going to hold the meetings down at the jail?” She gave a hearty laugh.

I smiled on my way out the door. I couldn’t blame anyone for taunting me about Dietz. It helped that their laughter only made me more determined to nab the real killer.

I gave a quick look to make sure no police were watching, then walked kitty-corner across the street to my house. David couldn’t help but see me if he was watching. I shook off the clammy feeling that crept up my spine.

Once at home, I scarfed down some cottage cheese. Running a campaign sure worked up an appetite. While the food did its job, I thought about the info I’d gathered along the trail. Dietz had enemies. Lots and lots of enemies. But only one man would greatly profit from his death.

David.

Without another thought, I headed for my toolbox on the counter, grabbed a flashlight and a hammer, and picked out the heaviest chisel. I’d unearth Rebecca and show her to the authorities along with Dietz’s will from David’s garage.

Motive and opportunity. David had them both when it came to killing Martin Dietz. Hadn’t his hair been damp when I got back from the bathroom that night at the Rawlings Hotel? He could have had time to meet Dietz here, kill him, and get back to the table by the time I returned. The hotel was only a block away if you took the shortcut.

I gripped my tools and took a determined breath. I wouldn’t be taking the fall for anyone this time.

38

I twisted the knob that led to the cellar and pushed the door open. I stood silent at the top of the steps.

No voice called. No presence pulled at me.

I flicked the switch, adding a yellow glow to gray late-morning light. I ducked under the single strand of police tape and stepped down into the dimness, ready to do what I should have done weeks ago.

The air grew colder as I reached the basement floor. Prickles ran over my skin.

I hadn’t been down here since the night my furnace had gone out. I could make out a shoe tread here and there on the dirty concrete, left over from the investigators. No doubt some of the tracks belonged to Officer Brad.

I drew near the cistern. Dietz’s blood still encrusted the rock.

I shuffled closer to the stony crescent. I set the hammer and chisel on the flat ledge above, then started my climb up the face of rocks. I made it to the top and slung my knee over, clinging with one hand while I turned on the flashlight with the other.

I aimed the light into the hole, where daylight from the adjacent window couldn’t reach. I don’t know what I had expected. Maybe a body. Maybe the outline of a body. But all I saw was a dark patch on lumpy white concrete. The stain of Dietz’s blood.

I slid down the interior and grabbed my tools off the ledge.

My feet felt tingly, as if I’d accidentally stepped on a grave at the cemetery.

“Sorry, Rebecca,” I whispered. There was no way to avoid walking on the body beneath me. The cistern simply wasn’t big enough.

I set the tools down, then crouched on the cement, trying to remember the angle her body had lain when I’d seen it so clearly that day in October.

I ran the flashlight over the lumps. One bulge caught my attention. I squinted, trying to picture a splayed palm or a clenched fist beneath the surface.

I set the flashlight on the concrete and picked up the hammer. I angled the chisel and gave it a tap. I jumped at the sound of metal on metal. From the corner of my eye, I caught movement and jerked around.

I fell backward, gasping and half laughing at myself for being afraid of my own shadow, projected by the flashlight onto the cistern wall.

I angled the light away from the ledge and into the corner. That way I wouldn’t think someone was peering over the top at me every time I lifted the hammer.

I rubbed at the floor. The chisel had left only a small indentation in the cement. I sighed. This was a bigger job than I’d imagined.

I blew back my bangs and hit the chisel again. The things I’d been reduced to. Here I was grave robbing instead of home designing.

I gave the chisel a mighty whack, then blew back the dust to check my progress. I’d been working around ten minutes already, but there were only a few cement chips to show for it.

I turned my back to the ledge and tried a new angle. If there were something under the cement, I’d bump into it eventually.

I chipped away, wondering if maybe the real trouble with my life had started when I’d finally rebelled against my grandmother. “Honor your father and mother,” the Bible said. I supposed that meant grandmothers too, when she was the one raising you. Maybe my life would have gone better if I’d done things her way.

That fateful night my senior year popped to mind. I had left work around six thirty, sick to my stomach at the thought of facing my grandmother. Rush hour in Walled Lake ended right about the time I got into my rust-bucket gold Granada. It was a waste to get on the roads before half past six, since they were packed with traffic trying to navigate the winding, narrow passages that led between the numerous lakes in the area.

I pulled into the yard of our tiny lakeside bungalow. The slam of my car door echoed in the still of early evening. A neighbor dog barked. I looked up at the few stars that penetrated the glow of suburbia and fought the knot that twisted my guts. I couldn’t put it off forever. I had to tell her.

We sat down to our usual four-course supper.

“Wish you could get home early once in a while. My arthritis is acting up, and that salad didn’t chop itself, you know.”

I stared past Grandma at the collection of salt-and-pepper shakers from around the world. Gram herself had never left Walled Lake, but her globe-trotting friends always remembered her in their travels.

“What’s for supper tomorrow? I’ll help you chop it up tonight,” I said.

“We’ll probably just have leftovers. I’m too tired to be cooking like this all the time.” She plopped food on our plates.

“I can bring something home from the store,” I said. “You know you don’t have to cook all the time. It’s just us two. And I can fix myself something, Gram. I’m big now.” I smiled, but the nerves in my stomach pulled tight as I geared up to tell her the news.

I told her. She sat silent for a moment. Scary silent. I chewed and swallowed, waiting for a response. I didn’t have to wait long.

“You’re not running off to any university. You’re staying here and taking classes at the community college.” Grandma slammed her fork like a gavel on the supper table.

“Gram, you know it’s what I’ve always wanted. And it’s paid for. I’d have to work twice as hard for half the education if I went locally.”

“Your mother went to community college and turned out just fine.” Gram gripped both sides of her plate. I knew from her taut lips and gleaming eyes that she’d fight until I gave in.