Damn. I’d have to venture down to their house.
The driveway seemed endless as I drove down a slight slope toward the substantial sprawling brick ranch. The grass in the front yard had been cut with a mower blade set too low, and had burned out in scorched patches. No landscaping or summer flowers softened the austerity of the house’s façade. It looked as though someone had created a flower bed under the living room window at one time, but now it was just a rectangle of bare earth spotted with weeds.
There were no lights on inside the house. I knocked on the front door, but there was no answer. I peered in the living room window. Typical minimalist bachelor décor. Black vinyl couch, massive flat-screen TV, a coffee table littered with last night’s pizza box and other debris, a pair of sneakers on the floor, and not much else. I walked around the house, past two forlorn bushes, looking for any sign of life. There was an extensive deck built across the back that looked fairly new and an industrial-sized barbeque grill.
At this time on a Saturday night, the Perkins boys were probably already down at the Sheepville Pub, tying one on.
The house was set in a dip in the land and the ground that gradually sloped up behind it held a white barn, a silo, and several clusters of outbuildings. I looked over at the hay barn, pig stable, and smokehouse up on the first rise to the left, but all seemed still and quiet there, too.
To the right of the house and set back about a hundred feet was another large building, most likely for farm equipment. Past that, and directly in line with the house, was a smaller structure, hidden from view of the main road. A dim light was on inside.
I shifted the heavy bag holding the quilt to my other hand. This would be my last try. If I couldn’t find anyone there, I’d leave the bag on the front step with a note.
I headed across the grass toward the weak pinpoint of light, but after only a few feet I skidded on something slimy.
Crap.
Literally. I’d stepped in a cowpat about six inches in diameter. I lifted my foot up to take a look at the sole of my shoe, grateful that I wasn’t wearing open-toed sandals. I kept going, trying to wipe my shoe off against the dry grass as much as I could.
There was one windowless door in the front of the dilapidated wooden building, but instead of knocking, I decided to take a tour around. I’d rather meet up with one of the Perkins boys out in the open than in a confined area.
When I walked around the back, I gasped in surprise. There had to be at least twenty cars parked in the field in long vertical rows.
What were all these cars doing here? And why not park in the front? One of the pickup trucks looked like Jimmy’s, but it couldn’t be. As I got closer, I saw there were no stickers on the bumper.
I took a quick look at the rest of the cars. Why the heck was there a patrol car in the last row? Had the police come to arrest Tom Perkins for something?
There was one window in the back of the outbuilding, but it was too high up for me to see inside. Against the wall was a jumble of construction-type garbage almost grown over with grass, so I set the bag down and hauled a five-gallon paint bucket out of the debris. I turned it upside down against the side of the building. Teetering on top, I stretched up inch by inch until I could peek inside.
A group of men were sitting at what looked like four folding banquet tables pushed together in a square. Across from me I recognized Smitty, one of the bartenders from the pub; Arnie Holder, Sheepville’s tax collector; Henry Moyer, president of the 4-H Club; a bunch of the auction regulars; and Tom Perkins, who was smoking a cigar.
I tried to control my breathing even as my pulse accelerated.
Four men had their backs to me. I was sure one of them was Ramsbottom. That looked like his bull head and those familiar love handles swelling over his belt. In the center of the table was a pile of cash, and Henry was busy dealing cards. Assorted beer bottles and glasses of liquor sat next to each player.
I suddenly flashed back to the scene in Ramsbottom’s office when he’d been talking to someone about a top-secret event going down on Saturday night. This must be it.
And here I was, spying on illegal gambling activities attended not only by an officer of the law, but also by several prominent members of the local community.
Get the hell out of here, Daisy.
Tom Perkins glanced up toward the window and I immediately ducked down. I didn’t think he’d seen me, but I stepped off the bucket as silently as I could and set it carefully back in the garbage pile. Something told me these guys wouldn’t be too happy to know their little secret had been discovered. I should listen to myself and get a move on.
Humping the quilt bag against my side, I hurried toward the front of the building, watching my step this time in the dusk.