Lie of the Needle(56)

            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.”

            * * *

            The 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.