Lie of the Needle (A Deadly Notions Mystery) (5 page)

“I’m sure there’s a very good explanation,” I said firmly.

Serrano followed my gaze, never missing a thing. “Will the cat be all right here by himself, Daisy?”

“It’s warm enough inside this trailer, and he can come and go as he pleases through the cat flap.” The little feline was an independent spirit, just like his owner. “I’ll come by every day and make sure he has food and fresh water.”

The detective walked through to the kitchen and I followed, leaving Martha still gazing at the rugby photo. I moved closer and grabbed his sleeve. “What the hell’s going on, Serrano?” I hissed. Up close, I could finally read the concern in his eyes.

“I don’t know, Daisy,” he murmured, “but I’ve got a bad feeling about this whole situation.”

*   *   *

T
hat night, there was a Board of Supervisors’ meeting where one of the topics on the agenda would be the proposed zoning change that Beau Cassell would require to develop the land for his townhomes.

Before the meeting, and what promised to be a contentious public hearing, Martha, Eleanor, and I went over to see Ruth. I picked them up in my old Subaru, because for one thing, Eleanor didn’t own a car, only a red Vespa, and for another, Martha was the worst driver in the world, and I was an even worse passenger.

But when we got there, Kathleen Brown said that Ruth was not up to seeing anyone. We reluctantly handed over our chicken enchilada casserole, green salad, and bottle of wine.

“Isn’t that rather strange?” Martha whispered to me as we got back in the car. “Shivah is supposed to be where you have people come over all the time, right?”

I shrugged. “Yes, I thought so. Traditionally it lasts a week. Ruth must really not be feeling well.”

“We’ll come back tomorrow.” She settled herself in the front seat. “Now, let’s put the pedal to the metal, Daisy.”

I ignored her and drove carefully. The roads were still slick, and I didn’t want to drive too fast, even in a Subaru. Every once in a while, I could feel the tires lose traction on a slippery patch, and by the time we reached Sheepville, I breathed a sigh of relief.

The meeting was scheduled for 7:30 p.m. at the Sheepville Town Hall, so we had plenty of time to kill. We’d planned to share the meal with Ruth, and I could feel my stomach rumbling. Maybe we could grab a bite in town.

But when I pulled into the parking lot, Martha hopped out of the car almost before it had stopped moving.

“You two go on ahead to the meeting without me,” she said. “I’m going to file a missing persons report at the police station. Time to take action.” She bustled off down Main Street toward the intersection with Sheepville Pike.

Eleanor and I looked at each other for a moment.

“What do you think about this whole state of affairs, E? Do you really think Cyril just took off with Roos and they’re hanging out in some cheap Atlantic City motel?”

Her gray eyes were somber. “Not unless he’s savagely hungover and can’t face the music yet, no. Nothing against Cyril, but I don’t think he’s
this
brave.”

I had to drive all the way around the nearly full lot before I finally squeezed into a spot. “This place is packed. I guess we should skip dinner and go find a seat inside.”

Eleanor sighed as we got out of the car. I guessed she was as hungry as me.

We walked into the town hall situated at the corner of Porter and Main, across from the glorious Sheepville Library. It was built in the same grand style as the library, with a brick façade and tall Palladian windows.

The town of Sheepville oversaw the zoning and building codes for several smaller towns and villages, including Millbury. In the meeting room that held about a hundred seats, most of them were occupied tonight, with the first few rows filled with township experts like the engineer, fire marshal, and code enforcement officer. The supervisors were ordinary citizens, mostly small business people and volunteers, and they relied on the advice of the paid experts. I was pleased to see a good showing by Millbury residents. The Historical Society had worked hard to get the word out about this meeting.

The court stenographer was setting up before the curved podium that was flanked by the Stars and Stripes on one side and the Commonwealth’s flag on the other. The appearance of the board, probably waiting in the wings with their laptops, would be a well-orchestrated production.

“Eleanor, you go ahead and sit down. I’ll just hang out here in the back.” My rush of claustrophobia and near panic attack at the funeral was still fresh in my mind.

“I’ll stand with you, you crazy old woman.”

I bumped shoulders with her. “Hey, not so much of the
old
.”

Warren Zeigler, a local lawyer, came up to us, wearing his customary bow tie and round horn-rimmed glasses. He was representing the Historical Society for free, thankfully, because he also had a vested interest. It wasn’t just the society that was against the builder. Many other residents of the village didn’t want the landscape spoiled by a condo development either.

I smiled at him. “So what do you think of our chances tonight, Warren?”

“Yeah, do you think that if Cassell’s bid falls through, the farmer will be willing to make a deal with us?” Eleanor asked.

“One step at a time, ladies. Let’s first state our case at this meeting.” He pushed his glasses up a fraction. “I think that once we educate people to what construction will mean, they’ll see the danger. Not just the negative aesthetic impact on our village, but increased traffic, higher school taxes, and a greater drain on the township resources.”

The Historical Society had been blindsided when the old farmer who owned the land had suddenly signed a conditional agreement of sale with Cassell Builders. Glory Farm had lingered on the market for over two years, partly because of the downturn in the real estate market, and partly because it was priced far too high. We’d been lulled into a false sense of security.

Cassell had preempted us, but undeterred, we’d resolved to drum up enough support within the community to block him. Builders often optioned a piece of land before buying it outright, but if he couldn’t get the zoning approved, he wouldn’t be obligated to go through with the purchase. Our hope was that we could raise enough money with the proceeds from the calendar, combined with funds accumulated over the years, to step up and make our own offer when that happened. It would take everything we had, but it would be worth it.

Now the calendar had hit a road bump, but we still needed to do whatever we could to make sure he didn’t get the necessary approvals.

“Now here’s a sight for sore eyes. Brat One and Brat Two!” Angus Backstead, the auctioneer, came up and threw his huge arms around me and Eleanor. We found ourselves crushed against his mountain man frame. “What’s goin’ on, girls? Good turnout tonight for the NIMBY meeting, eh?”

“The what?” Eleanor had almost disappeared under the folds of his ski jacket, but I could still hear her muffled voice.

“NIMBY. Not in my backyard.” Warren took off his glasses and polished them carefully.

Angus chuckled. “Yup. Always produces a good showing. We like the concept of affordable housing, but just not here. Right, missy?”

I almost expected Angus to rub his knuckles across the top of my head. He was like the big brother I never had, and we’d spent many an enjoyable day hunting for dusty treasures at flea markets and yard sales.

“I’m warning you, things could get ugly,” Angus said. “If we’re going to win the war, we gotta be ready to fight. Cassell knows he’ll make a boatload of dough in the end and he’s used to dealing with these types of legal battles for his builder’s remedy. Right, Warren?”

Warren nodded. “I’m going to look for an opportunity to accuse the board of spot zoning. They’ll hate that.” He straightened his tie one last time and headed for the front of the room.

“What’s that?” I whispered to Angus.

“Spot zoning is when a certain party is being favored for no good reason. Or at least not one that’s made public.” He nodded toward the podium. “It’s
showtime
, folks.”

With the appropriate amount of fanfare, the supervisors, township manager, solicitor, and police chief entered the room, took their seats, and the meeting was called to order.

After the pledge of allegiance, roll call, and the approval of minutes from the last meeting, the chairwoman announced the first item on the agenda. One resident was seeking a variance to the ordinance that required a three-acre lot to keep livestock. She owned two potbellied pigs and argued that they weren’t really livestock, but pets. She went on at length how the pair, called Eggs and Benedict, were docile, intelligent, and well-trained, and brought up a seemingly endless parade of people to testify on their behalf.

“Dang, but she’s makin’ me hungry,” Angus murmured.

Eleanor sighed. “Yeah, Daisy, we could have skipped all this nonsense. We would have had time for dinner after all.”

The variance passed, probably because the supervisors were so glassy-eyed they could hardly see their notes.

After we suffered through various other mind-numbing matters on the agenda, the chairwoman finally announced that Beau Cassell was filing a request to have Glory Farm rezoned. The builder had already presented his preliminary plans before the zoning hearing board.

“Now we are going to open up the meeting for citizen comments. Please state your name and your association with the property address at the microphone.”

Althea Gunn spoke first. She was our church secretary and a forbidding woman who cowed much of the congregation into submission. “I, for one, would like to see that old farm sold as soon as possible. The place is a nuisance and an eyesore. Neighborhood kids have broken in,
partying
and doing who knows what else. It’s only a matter of time before something bad happens. I hope that Mr. Cassell’s request is approved without delay.”

Odd.
As a longtime resident of the village, one would think she’d want to protect open space as much as we did. Although it wasn’t just Althea. As other members of the public got up and spoke in support of the development, it seemed there was a small faction that really liked the idea.

“Just like Glory Farm, my land is my 401(k)!” one man shouted. “It’s all I have to take care of my retirement. It’s builders like Cassell here who are going to pay me what it’s worth. We need to work
with
them instead of the municipality stonewalling and taking money out of my pocket!”

“That old retirement nest egg line has been heard enough times around here,” Angus muttered to me and Eleanor. “It’s a personal dig that works well. Plays on the board’s sympathy.”

We looked at each other in dismay. This meeting wasn’t going according to plan. Not at all.

Next it was Warren’s turn, and I crossed my fingers.

“The farmland is the buffer between our historic village and the new construction that’s happening all over Bucks County,” he began in his measured tone. “Many villages have already been lost to growth and development. How many other farms like this one have disappeared? Gone for good. Do you realize that we’ve lost almost seventy percent of our open land since 1950?”

I could see heads nodding in the audience. Warren had a quiet intelligence that made people calm down and listen.

“Wider roads have spelled the death of villages that sit at a crossroads like ours. Where a blacksmith’s shop or a tavern used to be, it’s now a strip mall or gas station. And let’s not forget skyrocketing school taxes. A new development adds about five thousand dollars per child to the tax burden on a township.”

The audience was spellbound, the court stenographer rapidly taking down every word, and I grinned at Eleanor. This was more like it.

Now it was the builder’s turn at bat. Beau Cassell was an attractive man and a smooth speaker, but a faint flush on his cheeks hinted at high blood pressure and a volatile temperament.

“New development
can
offer affordable housing to your township without changing its character. As you’ve seen, my plans have been carefully designed to provide for a limited number of units, as well as keeping back five of the thirty acres for open space. The plan also included renderings of the exteriors, and much care was put into façades to blend with the environment.”

Right.
As if his vinyl boxes could compare to a village of historic homes. Especially the two-hundred-year-old farmhouse he would raze with his development.

I watched one of the younger women chewing on her lip thoughtfully, as if an affordable condo would fit the bill for her. I knew that a lot of young people preferred new construction. This generation didn’t want to deal with redoing kitchens or stripping off wallpaper. They wanted any place they bought to be move-in ready.

“You’re welcome to visit any of my completed developments and see how well we have assimilated our designs into the landscape.”

“Your houses are crap!” came a shout from the back of the room. “Shoddy construction that could kill someone. You oughta be ashamed of yourself!”

Frank Fowler, the township’s solicitor, patted his balding forehead with his handkerchief. He looked a little under the weather, his pale skin more colorless than usual.

More voices chimed in. It became obvious that a contingent of homeowners who lived in Cassell-constructed homes had shown up with serious axes to grind. I recognized Jim McIntire, the husband who had been mad with jealousy over his wife’s infatuation with the photographer, and who had been beeping frantically outside the garage on the night of the calendar shoot. “Cassell never finished half the stuff on our punch list after we moved in!” he yelled.

“Slaps them up, takes the money, and doesn’t care that they fall apart a year later,” another one shouted.

I saw a muscle clench in Beau Cassell’s cheek, the flush noticeable even through the tan.

Everyone was shouting now, whether they were a resident or not.

“Goddamn it, Fowler,
do
something.” Even though I wasn’t a lip reader, it wasn’t hard to decipher the words Cassell growled at our hapless attorney.