Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (11 page)

“Okay, PJ,” I said, smiling. She was taking this investigative reporting thing very seriously. “Be there in a few.”

I called Joe and told him I’d be home in about an hour. He said he was still busy with a furniture piece he was working on, so I promised I’d pick up dinner from Pop’s Pizza.

The Sheepville Pub was about half a mile past Backstead’s Auction House, and another half mile before the center of town. There was usually a startlingly eclectic collection of cars outside, and tonight was no exception. From BMWs, to a plate glass truck, to a Harley. I parked next to PJ’s light green Fiat, the only thing she’d splurged on since her windfall.

She was sitting at the bar, nursing a bottle of Rolling Rock and chatting with Vikki, the bartender. The pub wasn’t a fancy place, with its dark wood paneling and ancient jukebox in the corner, but the burgers were tasty and the beer was cold. There were multicolored lights hanging above the rows of bottles, although not in honor of the upcoming holiday. It looked like this year-round.

Vikki grinned at me. “Hi, Daisy, what can I get you?”

“Glass of chardonnay, please.” I slid onto the stool next to PJ and ran my fingers over the scarred oak top worn smooth as shellac. “So? What’s up?”

“I’ve uncovered more information about the night of the photographer’s disappearance.” She nodded toward Vikki, who was uncorking a fresh bottle. “According to Vikki here, Roos stopped at the pub after the shoot.”

“On his way to the funeral?”

Vikki shook her head as she set the drink in front of me. “I think his exact words were, ‘I don’t really do funerals, man.’ But he
was
planning on going to the shivah. Said he needed a stiff one before he went, pardon the pun.” She chuckled. “Sorry. Just can’t get those damn leather pants of his out of my mind.”

She hurried down to the other end of the bar to wait on someone else, and PJ pointed the tip of her bottle at me. “And get this.
Cyril
was here with him.”

I choked on my wine. “Really?”

“Yeah. But he suddenly rushed off to the bathroom and never came back, leaving Roos without a ride.”

“That doesn’t sound like Cyril. Why on earth would he do that?”

She shrugged. “No idea, but sounds like Roos had to walk the rest of the way home.” Suddenly PJ nudged my elbow. “Yowza. Check it out.”

I glanced over to where Nancy Fowler was dancing to the jukebox music, surrounded by a crowd of interested men. She wore a red dress with a handkerchief hem that flounced up as she moved, showing her long legs. Her milquetoast husband, Frank, hung back with a benevolent look on his face.

“Look at her. Shakin’ the moneymaker.” PJ snickered. “She knows how to move her hips, that’s for sure.”

Vikki came back over to us and stuffed some dollar bills into her tip jar.

“I didn’t know the pub had live entertainment,” I said, nodding toward Nancy Fowler.

Vikki smiled as she poured tortilla chips into a couple of plastic bowls. The pub handed out free chips and a salsa so fiery that it made for some substantial beer consumption. “She acts like a party girl, but she doesn’t even drink. Natural endorphins, I guess.”

“And her husband doesn’t mind that she dances with other guys?”

“He seems okay with it. A lot of men wouldn’t be, though.”

Did Nancy Fowler have a fling with Roos, and Mr. Meek and Mild over there had finally had enough? Or had Alex snapped a photo of her in a compromising situation? For a politician, the wrong picture at the wrong time could destroy a career.

PJ consulted her notepad. “Oh, and one of the regulars saw Roos taking shots along Grist Mill Road that day.”

“Before he met up with Cyril? I wonder if he was using the vintage camera that he got from my store.”

Vikki shrugged. “Beats me. But you know, it’s strange. The guy always seemed stone-cold broke whenever he came in here. Women were buying
him
drinks.”

I turned to PJ. “We should tell Serrano all of this.”

“Oh, I already did, honey,” Vikki said. “By the way, what’s going to happen with your calendar now?”

I took a swallow of my wine, as if it could wash my frustration away. Obviously Detective Serrano had not seen fit to share this news with me. Guess our information-sharing was a one-way street. What the hell was the matter with him lately?

“Eleanor’s trying to talk the guys into reshooting, but we’ll also need a photographer to work for free, and time is running out to get it done before Christmas.” I gave a heavy sigh. “Think I might go have a chat with Mr. Cassell. See if I can get him to listen to reason.”

Vikki grinned as she wiped down the bar. “Good luck with that, honey.”

*   *   *

T
he next morning, I drove over to Sheepville to the development where Beau Cassell was still building, hoping to present the case of the Historical Society and our village in a calm fashion, away from the overheated atmosphere of the zoning meeting.

It was a peaceful drive along curving River Road, where it ran parallel to the Delaware River. In the summer, the trees would form a green canopy, but now leaves were falling, exposing the view of the water and the Victorian and Tudor houses perched along its banks. Bucks County was idyllic, with its narrow country roads, creeks running through quiet woods, covered bridges, old mills, and stone barns.

When I neared the town, open fields appeared, bordered by thick forests in the distance. Farms that had been worked for centuries had crops that came right up to the road with hand-lettered signs that offered eggs and milk for sale.

As I passed the bakery on Sheepville Pike, I suddenly recognized Stanley’s old nurse, Jo Ellen, coming out of the shop.

Seeing her reminded me that I was also supposed to be on the lookout for evidence on Stanley Bornstein’s death. Most people thought it was a blessing that he was gone, but I still clung to the memories of my cultured, intelligent friend and I felt I owed it to him to make sure justice was done.

I drove past her for a half a block or so, swung the car into the first space I could find, hopped out, and then nonchalantly strolled back in her direction.

“Hey, Jo Ellen! What a surprise. How are you doing?”

She frowned, a wary look in her eyes.

“I’m Ruth’s friend. I met you the night that, well, you know . . .”

Finally her broad face cleared. “Oh, that’s right. Now I remember you.”

“I—ah—didn’t see you at the funeral last week. I must have missed you in the crowd.”

She stared at me for a moment, her dark gaze assessing me. “I didn’t go. I’m not comfortable with all them high society folks.” She pursed her full lips, made fuller by a mahogany lip gloss. “I had a long, long time to say good-bye to that man. I figured I can honor him in my own way.”

I swallowed. I wasn’t a particularly consistent churchgoer myself. Like Eleanor said, it was more important how you lived your life day in and day out. This woman had cared for him through the most difficult period of his existence.

“It must be hard for you, though, being out of a job all of a sudden.”

“Miz Bornstein gave me a nice severance. I’m doing fine.”

“It was such a shock. I mean, I talked to him that night, and the next day he was gone.”

Jo Ellen shifted the large white box she carried to one hand and wrapped her orange scarf tighter around her neck with the other. “I seen it before. I knew he was near the end. The body just starts shutting down and there ain’t nuthin’ anyone can do.”

“It seems as though Ruth tried to provide all the latest medicine and treatments for him.”

“Miz Bornstein did everything she could. Drove me crazy sometime, but you had to admire her devotion to that man. I never seen anyone more devoted.”

And with that, she walked away, apparently done with me and our conversation.

I continued my fake stroll toward the bakery, but when I glanced over my shoulder and saw her getting on a bus, I hurried back to my car.

Cassell’s current development was off Sheepville Pike, which ran parallel to Grist Mill Road. It was a huge sprawling conglomeration that covered a couple of hundred acres. As things stood now, there was no way for the residents of Millbury to get to Sheepville other than go the long way around. North on Grist Mill, across on River Road, and south on Sheepville Pike, for a five-mile trip. If the builder won the parcel on Grist Mill abutting the top end of his development, it would provide access for people to cut through to Sheepville. I could see why some people were for his proposal, and if I was completely truthful, I had to admit it would be convenient, especially in the winter months, but it would destroy the dreamy old-world approach to our village.

I found Beau Cassell standing next to a construction trailer, smoking a cigar. He wore jeans and work boots, but the jeans were a pristine dark blue and his gold watch glittered in the sunlight. Sort of like a gentleman farmer from days gone by.

When I suggested that he step out of the bidding on Glory Farm for the sake of historic preservation, he laughed so hard, he choked on his cigar smoke.

“You’ve got to be kidding, lady. That farmland in Millbury is prime real estate. Not only that, do you have any idea of how much money I’ve spent already on engineering? On plats and surveys, and now for a goddamn traffic study? This is
business
.”

I bit my lip. To invest his own funds to that extent, he must have a reasonable assurance he would get the variance approved.

A crane swung a roof-truss system into place over one new home. Down the block were units in various stages of development, some with their frames of prebuilt wall panels already standing, some with poured basements waiting for their wooden skeletons. Workers were yelling indistinguishable instructions to one another over the cacophony of the pop of a nail gun, the beeping of a truck in reverse, the clang of metal meeting metal.

“And what are you bleeding hearts going to use it for?” He held up a hand. “Wait, don’t tell me. Whatever it is, it’s a waste of good ground.”

“A community center for the children,” I said, raising my voice above the din while struggling to hold on to my temper. “Perhaps a battered women’s shelter, too.”

“Oh, that’s just
great
. Bringing in delinquents who’ll cause no end of trouble? That’ll go over big with the Board of Supervisors.”

“Those women are trying to get away from trouble! They’re not delinquents, they’re victims.” I took a deep breath. “Look, what about all the beautiful open land in Bucks County that’s disappearing with this type of development? Don’t you
care
about the environment?”

Cassell pointed the glowing stub of his cigar at me. “People always blame the builder, but these townships only have themselves to blame. They’re the ones who mandate huge lots and frontage. Buyers these days insist on having their one acre, or more, for their custom builds. I’m proposing a cluster of townhomes that not only provides affordable housing, but also makes the most efficient use of the land.”

Time for plan B.
Seeing as the society’s hopes of being able to buy the land were dwindling anyway, perhaps I could convince him to at least leave the old farmhouse standing.

“Okay, so how about gifting the house and a couple of acres to the Historical Society? Think about the enormous goodwill you could curry in the community with such a gesture.”

He laughed again. “Get out of here, Ms. Buchanan. I have a business to run.” He tossed his cigar stub into the muck, got into a dented white truck, and drove off. I had to jump back to avoid getting spattered.

“I should have realized it’s a waste of time appealing to your better nature, because you simply don’t have one!” I yelled after him as the truck careened into the distance.

The same little man who had appeared on the day poor Alex Roos was found scurried over to me. “You see how he is, don’t ya? You should hear some of the stories about the way he operates, from sabotaging his competition to poaching workers from their sites. He’s a ruthless bastard.”

I stood there, still shaking with fury. A chain saw whined in the distance, cutting down trees and chewing up the scenic backdrop of our lives.

Was Roos planning some kind of exposé on Beau Cassell and his substandard building practices? Was he threatening to ruin him and that’s what got him killed?

“He’s a cheap so-and-so, too,” the old man continued, his eyes bright. “Makes his poor secretary sit in that trailer with no heat or air-conditioning. Never lets her take a day off. And that pip-squeak foreman of his is a real prize.”

I looked around, but I couldn’t see any sign of the taciturn Randy.

“I’ve given that son of a gun my punch list a million times, but he ignores it. And I moved in two years ago.” He sidled closer to me, so close that I could smell the musty odor of his clothes. “Cassell doesn’t even live in one of his own houses. What does that tell ya?”

I shrugged and smiled, backing away ever so slightly and wondering how to make a polite getaway.

He tapped his forehead. “I just remembered something. Something I forgot to tell the cops. But you seemed pretty chummy with that one detective. Perhaps you could mention it to ’im.” He paused, enjoying the drama of the moment.

I held my breath, nodding for him to continue.

“I saw a flash of light out of the bedroom window of that vacant house the night the photographer guy was killed. What do ya suppose that means?”

“I don’t know. But I’ll pass it along. Thanks.” I got back in my car and promptly drove over to the vacant house.

Screw Serrano.

There was a lockbox on the front door, so I hurried around to the back. The window in the basement was still broken, and it would be easy enough for me to slip inside.

I blew out a breath and gingerly kicked out the rest of the jagged edges of glass. I wasn’t a particularly athletic person, but Angus had made me clamber up enough ladders into precarious old barns on our picking adventures that I knew what I was capable of. I put my gloves on, held on to the top of the window, slid my legs inside as low as I could go, and then dropped to the floor.