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in.
    â€œSydney’s here. He’s looking for his tool belt. Any idea where it might be?”
    â€œOops. That’s my fault,” I said. “I borrowed it to put up a few pictures on my living room wall and forgot to bring it back down.” I’d put up lovely pictures of Native weaving all over my bedroom wall as inspiration for my new collection. It had worked. So far, I’d 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. “I’ll be right back.” I raced up the stairs to my apartment, returning a few seconds later. “Here it is,” I said, walking into Jenny’s shop.
    â€œAh, that’s a relief,” Syd said. “There’s not much I can do without my measuring tape and hammer.” He grabbed the tool belt.
    â€œBy the way, did you hear about Swanson?”
    â€œYou mean about the electrical panel?” he asked, dropping his measuring tape. “Jenny told me I wouldn’t have to move it, and Marnie just told me the city had already passed it. I can’t figure it out, unless I misunderstood. Lucky for everyone she checked.” 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.
    â€œI was talking about his murder,” I said, watching for his reaction.
    â€œMurder? What are you talking about? Are you telling me that Swanson is dead?” I wasn’t sure what was behind the expression in his eyes, except that it didn’t look like surprise. There had been an instant of something like elation, quickly replaced by fear. Already my mind was jumping to conclusions.
    â€œI’m afraid he is.”
    â€œSwanson is dead?” he repeated, this time, as if he was trying to sound sad. It was a poor attempt.
    â€œHe was murdered. Somebody hit him over the head hard enough to split it open.”
    He leaned against the wall as if his legs could no longer support him. “I knew a lot of people hated him, but I never imagined—”
    I waited, hoping he would expand on this.
    He blew out a breath. “He was a city inspector. He had a way of making enemies.” 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. “Poor guy. That’s a real shame.” I wondered if Marnie and Jenny heard the insincerity in his comments as I did. “That’ll be especially hard on his family. He just got married again a few months ago. At least his wife won’t be entirely by herself. Her sister and brother-in-law moved here.” He paused. “Do the cops have any idea who did it?” This time, the nervousness in his voice sounded real.
    â€œNot that I’m aware,” I said. “How well did you know Swanson?”
    â€œConsidering I’ve been a contractor for the better part of my life, not all that well. A lot of my jobs didn’t involve permits—you 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€œWho was he friends with?”
    He shrugged, glancing at the door as if he couldn’t wait to get out of there. “I don’t really know.” I waited, and after a few seconds of silence he expanded on that. “I saw him a couple of times at The Bottoms Up, with Ronald Dempsey.” I hid my surprise.
    â€œYou said Swanson was friends with other contractors. But Dempsey is a developer.”
    â€œDeveloper, contractor, same difference.” He was now inching his way backward toward the exit. “He needed building permits just as badly I do. And he must have liked Dempsey’s work