As it happened, I wasn’t able to leave early after all. Neal stopped by my office with more finger-snapping-fist-punching vague-splaining, so by the time I reached the tearoom parking lot, it was close to six o’clock with dusk rapidly approaching. A car was just pulling out as I arrived, and I glanced in my rearview as it disappeared around the corner. A gold GTO. 1966. Mint condition. Nice. I’d never noticed it here before.

As I parked my own sensible Honda CR-V, I wondered why the car had snagged my attention, but shook my head as I gathered my Irregular Choice Time for Tea purse and black vegan leather moto jacket from the passenger seat, dismissing it as product identification, since Del had mentioned rebuilding his own GTO on Monday. In fact, that might have been him just now. I hadn’t gotten a clear view of the driver, but it had definitely been a man whose profile had been blurred by facial hair. If Neal hadn’t delayed me, we might have had a chance to chat again.

I paused as I locked my car. Why was I identifying Del’s… product, as it were, and regretting a missed encounter? I shrugged. Probably just a reaction to PJ’s rather obvious attempt at matchmaking. I chuckled while I walked around the Magic Meatball Italian restaurant to get to the sidewalk that passed in front of the Airship Ambassador. Usually, PJ was highly critical of anybody I dated. He was absolutely scathing about Bjorn, although considering subsequent events, I probably should have listened to his dire warnings. He’d never actively tried to set me up with anybody specific, though.

I pondered Del’s soft-looking beard, wavy hair, and shy smile. PJ could certainly have done worse playing Cupid, but I had too much on my plate right now—the house, the company merger, expanding my product line in the tearoom gift shop—to think about dating. Time enough to tackle that after my life settled down a bit.

My steps slowed to a stop. The door to the former Rip Snorter was ajar. I frowned. Surely if Del was headed home for the day, he would have locked up. Could one of the subcontractors be working late? One way or another, leaving the door open with night coming on wasn’t the best move. This neighborhood was fine—a business district, although not all the businesses were as high end as the Airship Ambassador, the former Rip Snorter being a case in point. But leaving the site unsecured was a sure-fire way to invite unexpected and unsavory guests inside. Just look at what happened at the tearoom on Monday. That building inspector was about as unsavory as you could get when it came to attitude.

As I passed the tearoom, the gift shop was dark, but a light spilled out from the hallway, casting odd shadows in the dim dining room. I was a little surprised. The place was usually booked solid on Wednesdays, but then I remembered: The Needhams had closed the place all week to complete the restroom build-out. Margaret must still be hard at work on the mosaic. Good. I could offer to help. But first, I’d pop my head in next door and warn the crew about keeping the place closed up.

I pushed the door open a little wider and peeked in. Inside, it was even darker than the tea shop. “Hello? Is anybody here?” Something tickled my alarm circuits. An odor like warm iron filings, conjuring memories of my undergraduate mechanical engineering machine shop lab, hung in the air. Since there wasn’t a metal workshop in a ten-mile radius, the smell could only be one thing, one I’d become more familiar with lately than I liked.

Blood.

And mixed with it, burning the back of my throat, the distinct stench of melted electrical wire.

Calm down, Tash. It’s a construction site. This could be perfectly innocent. Maybe one of the workers had a minor accident. Maybe the electrical contractor had been soldering connections all afternoon. I dug in my purse for my Maglite Mini. Despite the chills creeping down my back, I couldn’t help but hear PJ’s voice in my head: “An industrial-strength flashlight, LaTashia? Of course you’d have one.”

I played the beam around the floor. Plumber’s tools, a bundle of PVC pipe, a nail gun, and a stack of drywall sheets lined one wall. A table saw stood in the center of the room, with a router mounted on another work bench next to it. Lengths of milled wood were arranged neatly between the tools. That must be the molding Del told us about. Big spools of electrical wire were lined up next to the opposite wall, along with some lengths of galvanized duct as big around as PJ’s waist.

What I could see of the floor around the power tools was swept clean, so whatever else anyone could say about Del, he kept his job site in good shape. I sniffed again and took another couple of steps inside. The Rip Snorter’s old bar had been torn out, exposing a swath of the plywood subfloor that was almost garish against the dark plank flooring.

“Hello?” I called again. Underneath my voice’s weird echo, I caught the sound of running water and a snap-crackle-buzz that lifted the hair on my nape. Live wire. My flashlight glinted off a puddle that was spreading out of the dark hallway, pooling around the old bar top that was leaning against the rear wall.

And at its base…

I peered through the darkness, phantom caterpillars creeping up my spine. That wasn’t a roll of tar paper. It wasn’t a roll of insulation. It wasn’t a pile of discarded rags. My stomach roiled, because I knew exactly what it was, even without seeing the pale face with its blank, empty eyes.

It was a body. And it was most definitely dead.