Lie of the Needle(58)

            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.

            The house was even more hostile and soulless than I remembered.

            Just hurry up and get this over with, Daisy.

            I ran up the stairs and into the master bedroom to where the window faced the street. I looked out across the rows and rows of houses that all pretty much looked the same, trying to see what Alex might have spotted from his vantage point. Who was he spying on? Cassell? Or someone else?

            A board creaked. I held my breath, but there were no more sounds. No human footsteps, anyway. Perhaps it was the tortured ghost of Roos, still trapped in this hellish place.