in.
âSydneyâs here. Heâs looking for his tool belt. Any idea where it might be?â
âOops. Thatâs my fault,â I said. âI borrowed it to put up a few pictures on my living room wall and forgot to bring it back down.â Iâd put up lovely pictures of Native weaving all over my bedroom wall as inspiration for my new collection. It had worked. So far, Iâd completed two blankets, a dozen place mats, a few runners and some squares I planned to make into decorator cushions.
I wiped my hands with a rag. âIâll be right back.â I raced up the stairs to my apartment, returning a few seconds later. âHere it is,â I said, walking into Jennyâs shop.
âAh, thatâs a relief,â Syd said. âThereâs not much I can do without my measuring tape and hammer.â He grabbed the tool belt.
âBy the way, did you hear about Swanson?â
âYou mean about the electrical panel?â he asked, dropping his measuring tape. âJenny told me I wouldnât have to move it, and Marnie just told me the city had already passed it. I canât figure it out, unless I misunderstood. Lucky for everyone she checked.â He made a production out of rearranging all the tools in his belt, the whole time, avoiding my eyes. I glanced at Marnie again, wondering if she was also noticing how fidgety he was.
âI was talking about his murder,â I said, watching for his reaction.
âMurder? What are you talking about? Are you telling me that Swanson is dead?â I wasnât sure what was behind the expression in his eyes, except that it didnât look like surprise. There had been an instant of something like elation, quickly replaced by fear. Already my mind was jumping to conclusions.
âIâm afraid he is.â
âSwanson is dead?â he repeated, this time, as if he was trying to sound sad. It was a poor attempt.
âHe was murdered. Somebody hit him over the head hard enough to split it open.â
He leaned against the wall as if his legs could no longer support him. âI knew a lot of people hated him, but I never imaginedââ
I waited, hoping he would expand on this.
He blew out a breath. âHe was a city inspector. He had a way of making enemies.â That was pretty close to what Ronald Dempsey had said just a few hours ago. He shook his head, as if in disbelief. This reaction also seemed off. âPoor guy. Thatâs a real shame.â I wondered if Marnie and Jenny heard the insincerity in his comments as I did. âThatâll be especially hard on his family. He just got married again a few months ago. At least his wife wonât be entirely by herself. Her sister and brother-in-law moved here.â He paused. âDo the cops have any idea who did it?â This time, the nervousness in his voice sounded real.
âNot that Iâm aware,â I said. âHow well did you know Swanson?â
âConsidering Iâve been a contractor for the better part of my life, not all that well. A lot of my jobs didnât involve permitsâyou know, flooring, kitchen cabinets, painting. That sort of stuff. I know he was buddies with some of the local contractors, but except for the occasional job, he and I never had much in common. He was a lot older than me.â
âWho was he friends with?â
He shrugged, glancing at the door as if he couldnât wait to get out of there. âI donât really know.â I waited, and after a few seconds of silence he expanded on that. âI saw him a couple of times at The Bottoms Up, with Ronald Dempsey.â I hid my surprise.
âYou said Swanson was friends with other contractors. But Dempsey is a developer.â
âDeveloper, contractor, same difference.â He was now inching his way backward toward the exit. âHe needed building permits just as badly I do. And he must have liked Dempseyâs work
Sam Crescent, Jenika Snow