Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (6 page)

Althea Gunn stuck both her pinkie fingers in her mouth and sounded a piercing whistle.

The room fell silent.

The chairwoman took a deep breath and took advantage of the sudden quiet. “Now, please settle down, everyone. The issue here is the zoning change, not the quality of the builder’s construction.”

Cassell glared at her.

“Not that I’m—er—commenting on that, however.” She cleared her throat in confusion.

One of the supervisors leaned forward. “Has a traffic study been done yet, Mr. Cassell?”

Cassell shook his head, his mouth compressed as if he was holding on to his temper with an effort.

“Well, I think we need to learn more about that issue. Also about the additional load on the sewer system. You’re talking two hundred EDUs on land that was only zoned for thirty. I propose we defer a decision for this evening and meet privately with Mr. Fowler and the rest of our consultants to review more of the facts.” He nodded at the chairwoman.

“Ahem. Due to—er—time constraints, we are going to table the discussion on the Glory Farm property. Meeting is adjourned.” She banged her gavel, and a few minutes later, amid some residual grumbling and the shuffling of chairs, the crowd began to disperse.

Angus, Warren, Eleanor, and I gathered again in the back of the room.

Angus ran a hand through his thick snow-white hair. “Whew! Hell of a shindig, eh? Me and the gals didn’t even get a chance to speak. And after the reaction tonight, I can’t imagine the supervisors approving this unless some serious money exchanges hands.
If
you know what I mean.”

Warren delicately cleared his throat. “I couldn’t possibly comment. But if the rezoning request is denied, Cassell can file a substantive validity challenge.”

“But the longer this whole thing drags out, the better for us, right?” Eleanor said. “Gives us more time to raise the money.”

“Possibly. However, if you fight too hard, the courts will make the decision, and it may not be the one you want,” Warren said. “Sometimes it’s better to compromise a little. More open land preserved to create a larger buffer between the development and the village of Millbury, for instance.”

“He’s going for two hundred units, so they can shoot him down to one-eighty, and he’ll still be happy,” Angus said. “He knows how to play this game.”

Warren nodded. “I’m sure he has a contingency plan up his sleeve.”

“The board will probably reintroduce it when the weather is bad and there’s poor attendance, and it’ll get pushed through,” Angus muttered darkly. “I’ve seen this tactic before, and especially when it comes to a Cassell build. Just need to figure out who the rat is in the woodpile.”

The lack of dinner and the overabundance of hot tempers in the room combined to make my head swim. “I need some air,” I said. “I’ll meet you guys outside.”

I stepped out of the town hall into the parking lot and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke. In deep shadow cast by the eaves of the grand building, Frank Fowler seemed to be in an intense discussion with a stranger, an imposing, rough-hewn man wearing a long, black leather coat.

The stranger towered over the slim lawyer, almost threatening, or at least invading, his personal space.

One of the genetic gifts I had honed during my decades as a high school teacher was my excellent sense of hearing as I caught the whisper of test answers or the rustle of notes being passed in class. I half closed my eyes now to concentrate.

They were arguing about something, and I caught a word here and there, but I needed to get closer.

I walked across the lot as if heading to my car and, once I got as near as I dared, stopped and bent my knees slightly, shrinking into the shadow of a big Chevy Suburban.

“What the hell do you want?” Frank Fowler sucked on his cigarette as he glared at the stranger.

“You owe me, Fowler. Big-time.”

“You’re mistaken. I don’t owe you a damn thing.”

The stranger’s voice lowered. “You and me, we have a lot of history between us. A lot of secrets to keep. I’m sure you wouldn’t want certain information made public, now would you, Frankie?”

Fowler glanced in my direction, and I pretended to fumble inside my pocketbook as if searching for my keys. I looked up to see him staring directly at me. I straightened up and decided to take the bull by the horns and see if I could get a better look at this intimidating companion.

I walked over to the two men. “Hey, Frank. Interesting meeting, eh?” I turned to the tall stranger. “Hello. I’m Daisy Buchanan.”

The man didn’t speak, just stared at me without any change in his expression.

“This is—er—Randy,” Frank said. “He’s—er—Beau Cassell’s new foreman.”

The stranger flicked a disparaging look at Frank, but stuck his hand out. I shook it and got a quick impression of a large, smooth palm before he yanked it away. He stayed sullen and silent, and the moment became uncomfortable until the door opened and Angus and Eleanor came out into the lot in a burst of laughter.

“Well, nice to meet you, Randy,” I said. “Good night, Frank.”

I scurried over to my friends, thinking that the newcomer’s gruff persona would be a good match for the builder. One was just as obnoxious as the other.

W
hen I got home, starving and chilled, Joe had already pulled the heavy curtains in the living room against the cold. I followed an enticing aroma toward the kitchen, where I found him stirring a huge pot of turkey chili.

“Wow. You have no idea how good it is to see you.” I breathed in the steam from the stove. “And your chili.”

“Hungry, Daisy?”

“I could eat my arm off, that’s how starving I am.”

Joe laughed, and while he opened a bottle of cabernet, I ladled the spicy bean mixture into two soup crocks. I set them on the table next to a basket of crusty French bread and farm fresh butter. As we ate, I told him about the meeting and the encounter with Fowler and the other man.

It was one of those nights when all I really wanted to do was snuggle on the couch with my husband and sip some more red wine, but once I’d finished eating, our retriever puppy, Jasper, fixed me with an unblinking stare, as if willing me to put my coat on.

I tried to squash the rising guilt as I rinsed the dishes and put the rest of the chili into plastic containers, some for the fridge and some to go in the freezer.

Like a lot of married couples, we’d made pacts about how to divvy up the household chores. Joe did the cooking and I cleaned up. He did the laundry and I walked the dog.

Most days I felt like I was getting the better end of the deal as, truth be told, I enjoyed the walks as much as Jasper, but on nights like tonight, I had to dig deep into my suitcase of courage.

Joe came up behind me, wrapped his arms around me, and I turned and kissed him. Things were progressing nicely until I heard the tiny whine in the back of Jasper’s throat. A bark I might have been able to disregard, but this plaintive plea was impossible to ignore.

With a sigh, I gently disengaged myself from my husband’s embrace and bundled up to brave the elements.

Outside, I gasped at the unforgiving chill and tucked my face inside the collar of my jacket like a turtle. Gray strips of clouds lay across the moon, like someone shining a torch through a mummy’s shroud. Ice-crusted snow on the grass verges crunched underfoot as we hurried down Main Street. Or at least I hurried, trying to keep the dog moving.

When we got to the end of Main Street, I took a right on Grist Mill Road. I’d already walked farther than I wanted to in this weather, but now I was so close to the farm, I had an urge to see it one more time.

What would happen if this land was turned into yet another cookie-cutter development? The wild turkeys, foxes, deer, and other wildlife would all disappear.

“Suppose I should thank you for keeping me fit, Jasper,” I huffed out against the wind. “There’s no way I’d have taken this walk tonight if not for you.”

The names of some of the developments in the surrounding townships gave a hint as to what had come before, like Meadow Farms or Hilltop Forest or Pleasant Woods, except there wasn’t a farm there anymore, and most of the trees were gone. The McMansion had ridden the wave of the real estate boom of the eighties and nineties, and there seemed to be no way to stop the powerful force of development raging through the remaining available land like a voracious combine harvester. It seemed as though the builders always won, and I sucked in a breath of frigid air at the thought of this peaceful expanse of countryside becoming yet another victim.

My face was freezing, and my gloves weren’t doing much to protect my icy fingers. I alternated keeping one hand in my pocket and one holding the leash. Jasper snuffled in the undergrowth by the side of the road, probably catching the scent of a rabbit.

Why had Sheepville Township done nothing to stem the flow of this destruction? Was there someone on the board, or close to them, who was doing a backstreet deal with the developers and had helped push deals through for Cassell before? Was Fowler accepting bribes to finance his wife’s political campaign?

Was Frank Fowler the rat in the woodpile?

*   *   *

O
n Friday, the bitter cold eased up a little, with a forecast of forty degrees later in the day. Early that morning, I walked up to the salvage yard. As I got closer, I caught a glimpse of Cyril’s cat disappearing through the flap into the trailer.

I knocked on the door before I went in, just to be on the safe side, but there was no sign that his owner had returned. I swallowed against a rush of disappointment. I’d have put up with any amount of tongue-lashing to know that Cyril was still around.

The little cat peeked at me from behind the grandfather clock as I filled his food and water bowls. “It’s okay, buddy. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.”

He blinked his topaz-colored eyes, but didn’t venture any nearer.

The other end of the trailer served as Cyril’s office, and I hung a
CLOSED
sign on the door. In some silly way it made me feel better, as if he would be coming back at any minute.

I trudged back up the long potholed driveway to the intersection with Main Street. Seeing as it was Friday, Laura would be managing the shop, but there were no auctions on my schedule because Angus and I were going house hunting with Patsy Elliot and her daughter, Claire. As a first-time home buyer, Patsy had asked us to come along and give the benefit of our experience.

When I arrived in Sheepville, I stopped at the hardware store to pick up some more pet-safe ice melt and a few other necessary items that I couldn’t get in Millbury. Apart from the specialty stores like mine, there was only the post office with a tiny convenience shop attached and the diner. That was it, apart from farm stands in the summer. Residents had to make this five-mile trip for any major shopping. As I walked out, the sun was shining, and the snow was melting in earnest on the salt-encrusted sidewalks.

Suddenly I gasped as I saw Ruth Bornstein walking along the other side of the street with an attractive man in his forties.

I skidded on a patch of slush, dropped the bag of ice melt, and grabbed hold of a lamppost for balance. Ruth was laughing up at the man, who had his arm around her. I peeked around the pole, wondering if they’d seen me, but they were too engrossed in each other.

According to Jewish custom, Ruth should be sitting shivah at home, at least for a week, shouldn’t she? Should I say anything to Detective Serrano about this merry widow?

I pulled out my cell phone and stood there for a few moments, wracked with indecision.

Come on, Daisy. Why don’t you mind your own business for once?

Time was ticking away and I didn’t want to be late, so I stuffed the phone in my pocket, threw the ice melt in the trunk of the station wagon, and headed up Sheepville Pike toward Backstead’s Auction House.

The auction building sat on three acres, with parking for a hundred cars, plus room for more on the surrounding fields. I pulled up in front of the low-slung corrugated metal structure and parked next to Angus’s Ford F-150 pickup truck.

“Hullo, Brat,” he greeted me as he strolled out of the double front doors, wearing his usual uniform of plaid shirt, jeans, and mountain boots. He handed me a coffee to go from the snack bar.

“Ah, a savior has come! Thank you, Angus.” I took a grateful slurp of the caffeine. “This is so exciting, isn’t it? It’s been a long time since I went house hunting.”

Angus grunted. “Yup. We just need to make sure that crazy gal doesn’t buy some ol’ money pit today.” He crossed his massive arms across his chest. “You know, Daisy, I still miss my Betty, but teaching Patsy the ropes around here is helping take my mind off things.”

A month or so ago, Angus’s wife had left him after twenty-five years of marriage, saying she wanted to “find” herself. Poor Angus didn’t really know what that meant and was utterly devastated, until Patsy, who had been a part-time auctioneer, quit waitressing and came to work for him full-time. With her no-nonsense practicality, she was pushing Angus to revamp his ancient business practices and distracting him from pining so much for his lost love.

At that moment, a gold-colored sedan that had seen better years zoomed along Sheepville Pike, clanged into the parking lot, and came to a stop in a cloud of smoke.

Claire, Patsy’s ten-year-old daughter, rushed out of the car and into my arms, reminding me of a galloping colt with her long limbs and shining dark hair. “This is so fun, isn’t it, Daisy?” she exclaimed, echoing my enthusiasm for the outing.

“You’re getting too tall and grown-up. You need to stop that right now.” I grinned at her as I hugged her back. I’d insisted she call me Daisy, instead of Mrs. Daly or Mrs. Buchanan or whatever else I could be.

Patsy got out of the car, too, but the unfortunate vehicle still sounded like it was running along the road until she thumped the hood a couple of times and it shuddered into silence. She had the same slim build as her daughter, and she wore jeans that encased her long legs, plus a red T-shirt under a leather jacket. “Yo, guys, wazzup?”

Angus glared at the beat-up contraption. “You need to get rid of that crappy car, missy.”

Patsy frowned. “What for? It runs fine.”

“Gimme a break. I can tell you’re coming a country mile away by the black clouds.”

“House first, and
then
maybe I’ll think about getting a new ride. My sister’s been awesome, but I think she’s really ready for us to get our own place.”

Patsy and Claire had been living with her sister in the same condo development as Serrano, and while they had the whole huge finished basement to themselves, there was nothing like owning your own home. At a recent auction, the antique doll collection on sale had blown the doors out with the sky-high price it fetched. In fact, it was the biggest auction that Backstead’s had ever seen, and Patsy’s share of the healthy commission was enough for a down payment on a house, and then some.

Thinking how Cyril and I had restored a Victorian dollhouse for Claire’s birthday this past Halloween brought a rush of renewed anxiety for his safety, but I tamped it down and pasted a smile on my face.

Claire kept an arm around my waist as she looked up at her mother. “Do you think we can be in the new house by Christmas, Mommy?”

“Not sure about that, sweets. Heck, Christmas will be here before we know it. Look at all the stuff in the stores already, and it’s not even Thanksgiving. Drives me
crazy
.”

I winced as I thought of my festive and decidedly Yule-like store.

“I don’t understand why you guys don’t just move in with me,” Angus said. “I got lots of room. Hell, I’m rattling around that old place by myself.” He nodded toward the pristine white stucco three-story farmhouse across from the auction building. Angus had sort of adopted these two, like the child and grandchild he never had.

Patsy stifled a sigh, as if they’d had this conversation many times before. She looked at me with a plea in her eyes.

I cleared my throat. “Well, that’s certainly very generous of you, Angus, and I’m sure Patsy appreciates the offer. But with you two working together, it might be best for all concerned if she had her own home. As a woman, I can tell you that sometimes we just need our space.”

Angus grunted, but he was a smart enough man to know that three females were too much to take on at once.

We’d arranged to meet the real estate agent at the first listing, so we piled into Angus’s truck and headed toward the south end of Sheepville.

“The first one we’re going to see is a resale in a development that Beau Cassell built a couple of years ago.” Patsy consulted her sheaf of property listings. “Fairview Farm Estates. He’s still building over in the newer section, but this one’s well within my budget.” She directed Angus through the development until we found the right road.

The agent was waiting for us in a common parking area near a row of beige single homes, built close together with tiny yards in front.

“Are we the only crazy people looking for a house at this time of year?” Patsy called to her as she got out of the truck. Claire bent and gathered some snow into a snowball.

The real estate agent shook her head and smiled. “It’s the serious buyers who are looking now, and so sellers are generally willing to make a deal. But I have to point out up front that this one is a foreclosure.”

“So? What’s your point?” Patsy demanded.

“Foreclosures can be tricky because you’re dealing with the banks. It could take longer than the average sale and may not go through at all. But if it works out, you can get a great value. Anyway, here’s the house.”

She led the way to one at the end of the row.

“This is it?” Claire murmured, dropping her snowball in dismay. “Ooh, Mommy, it’s
ugly
!”

“Shh. Knock it off,” Patsy hissed over her shoulder as she followed the agent into the foyer.

I had to admit it wasn’t the most attractive place I’d ever seen. Just a plain shingled box with four windows and a door in the center of the bottom story.

Glancing back toward the newer section, I saw the same unappealing cubes going up in rapid succession. Even a gable or two or some decorative feature above the front door would have helped. Guess Beau Cassell hadn’t spent much on architectural design. This one could have been sketched on the back of a napkin.