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the building inspector at city hall. There’s a lot of blood, and I’m pretty sure he was attacked.”
    â€œI’ve got an ambulance on its way,” she said, and proceeded to ask me all the pertinent information.
    â€œAre you with the victim now?”
    â€œNo. He’s in his office, where I found him. There was so much blood, I had to get out.”
    â€œHas anybody taken his pulse?” At that moment the two men stepped out of the building, wearing grim expressions. They made their way over.
    â€œNot me, but the men who just went to check on him are coming back. You can ask them.” I handed the phone to the older man. He took it, a question mark in his eyes. “It’s the emergency dispatcher.”
    â€œThere’s no point in standing here. Come on inside and sit down,” the woman said. “You look a little wobbly on your feet. We have a staff room. We might as well wait in there for the police.”
    I followed her into the building to a small room with a coffeemaker and two worn sofas. She offered me a cup of coffee, which I gratefully accepted.
    â€œYou’re getting a bit of color back in your cheeks,” she said after I’d had a few sips. “Are you starting to feel better?”
    â€œI am. Thank you. I’m Della Wright, by the way.”
    â€œI’m Johanna Renay. I’m a clerk for the department of revenue.” She shook her head, her eyes tearing. “I can’t believe it. Why, just yesterday Howard was talking about the new house he was planning on buying. It was his dream house. Oh, his poor wife will be devastated.” Hearing the sorrow in the woman’s voice as she spoke of him, and knowing the man had a loving wife made his death all the more tragic somehow.
    The two men walked in and the older one handed me my phone. I introduced myself again.
    â€œNice to meet you. I’m Tom Goodall,” the gentleman said. He shook my hand and turned to Mrs. Renay. “How are you doing, Johanna. I know you and Howard were close.”
    â€œI’m all right,” she said, not very convincingly.
    The younger man introduced himself. “Ronald Dempsey,” he said, adjusting his tie and raising his chin self-importantly. He wasn’t a city employee as I’d first thought. I recognized his name as that of a local builder. And if I remembered right, this was the same man who was financing a project right here in Belmont—a new development of luxury houses. I hadn’t seen the prices, but judging by the advertisements all around town, they were in the stratosphere.
    â€œI’m the owner of Prestige Homes,” he added, as if reading my mind. “Mr. Swanson was buying one of my houses—the Mountain View model.”
    This surprised me. I’d always thought city employees earned modest salaries. How much did a house in the Prestige Homes project cost? I wondered.
    â€œAren’t you going to take your coat off?” he asked me. “You must be getting hot.”
    â€œI’m fine. Thanks.” I was just beginning to get over the shivers. The shock, I supposed.
    â€œAnd by the way,” Dempsey said. “You were right. Swanson is as dead as a doornail.”
    I nodded.
    Mrs. Renay was taking the news terribly. She wiped the moisture from her red-rimmed eyes, and when she spoke, it was with a tight throat. “Poor man. I can’t believe somebody killed him.”
    â€œI can,” Dempsey said. All eyes turned on him.
    â€œWhat would make you say such a horrible thing?” Mrs. Renay said.
    â€œThe man was impossible to work with. He nearly drove a lot of contractors out of business, having them demolish and rebuild things that were perfectly fine, and making them wait and wait for their permits,” he said, looking as if he was dying to name names.
    â€œLike who?” I asked.
    â€œSmithy, Clarkson, Shuttleworth.”
    â€œShuttleworth?” I said,