Free Watchdog by Laurien Berenson

old, that’s all. It’s probably been years since Haney did any repairs.”
    I stepped beneath the hole and had a look. “Those boards look pretty rotten.”
    â€œIt wasn’t just the floorboards, it was the joists underneath, too.” Frank pointed to the beams he was talking about, displaying his newfound knowledge proudly. “The whole thing gave out.”
    â€œThat seems odd.”
    â€œWhat does?”
    â€œYou’d already installed the counter in the back of the room, and with that granite top, it’s got to be heavy. I would think that if the floor was going to cave in, it would have happened there.”
    â€œMaybe the boards are okay back there.”
    â€œMaybe.” I stepped back to the swinging bulb, grasped it by its base and directed the meager light toward the support column nearest the hole. Something didn’t look right.
    â€œCome here and hold the light,” I said to my brother. “There’s something I want to show you.” I reached up and ran my finger along a jagged wooden edge. “It looks like this support post broke, too.”
    â€œSo what? The whole thing broke. It’s all going to have to be replaced.”
    â€œBut this support column doesn’t look rotten.” I stepped around into the shadows and looked at the post from the other side. “And the break looks different back here. The edges are smooth, not uneven, like you’d think they’d be if the thing just snapped.”
    â€œLet me see that.” Frank came over and joined me.
    I looked down at the dirty wooden floor, pushing some of the debris around with my toe. “What’s this?”
    We knelt down and had a closer look.
    â€œSawdust,” said Frank.
    I swallowed heavily. My brother and I looked at each other. For once I could read his mind, and we were both thinking the same thing.
    â€œYour floorboards may have been rotten, but they didn’t break from old age. Somebody sawed this support post nearly in half.”
    Frank was already shaking his head. “That’s crazy. Who would do a thing like that?”
    I stood up and dusted off my knees. “You tell me.”
    â€œNobody.” Frank headed for the stairs. “There’s no reason anybody would want to sabotage the coffeehouse.”
    â€œWhat about the neighbors? You told me they were unhappy about the conversion.” I turned off the light and followed. All at once the dank, gloomy basement was giving me the creeps. It was a relief to step up into the sunlight and close the cellar door behind us.
    â€œSure they’ve shown some concern, but it’s a big leap from nailing up posters and arguing with the zoning board to rigging a building so that somebody gets hurt.”
    â€œAll right, then let’s look at it another way. Who had access to the building?”
    â€œProbably half of Stamford.” Frank grimaced. “Most of the guys have keys because I’m not always here. Usually they lock up, but they don’t always remember. And sometimes they leave the place open on purpose so deliveries can be made.”
    â€œYou’re not helping any.”
    â€œDon’t you think I know that? But damn it, Mel, this is crazy. I don’t care what it looked like down there. It had to have been an accident, because nothing else makes any sense.”
    â€œWhat about your broken water pipe? Do you still think that was an accident, too?”
    Stubbornly Frank nodded.
    â€œI think you should call the police.”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œFrank, listen—”
    â€œI am listening.” My brother held up a hand. If we were younger, he’d have probably covered my mouth with it. “Now you listen to me. I’m not calling the police. Marcus put me in charge of this project because I told him I could handle it. Handling things does not involve bringing in the police.”
    My brother can be incredibly pig-headed at times.