Page 9 of Dark Storm Rising

“Yes, but Lovina says she checked and it wasn’t left on.”

Tomasetti scowls at him. “What do you think?”

The Amish man shrugs. “She may be forgetful sometimes, but most days she’s sharper than me.”

Something I can’t quite put my finger on dances in the back of my mind, just out of reach. Something he mentioned earlier that may or may not be relevant.

Developers buying up the land.

Paying a pretty penny for it.

We’re the last holdouts.

… developers are hungry for land.

“Mr. Nisley,” I say slowly. “You and your wife mentioned a developer earlier.”

The Amish man’s gaze locks with mine and in that instant, I see a flicker of comprehension in his eyes. “Louis Devlin,” he says. “He’s been buying up a lot of the Amish land around here for the last six or seven years.”

“Have you had any problems with Devlin?” Tomasetti asks. “Any arguments? High-pressure tactics? Anything like that?”

Enos shakes his head. “Not outright. But he did try to put some pressure on us. And there was something about him that just didn’t sit right.”

“How so?” I ask.

Glancing toward the window, where the storm continues to rage, Enos sighs. “Devlin paid us a visit a few months ago. He made a serious offer. A generous offer. Cash. Said he was going to put up forty tiny homes and a fancy hotel for the tourists. The missus and I told him no. We’ve no use for his money. We plan to live out our retirement here. We plan to die here and be buried in the old Amish cemetery off of Lake Road.”

“How did Devlin take it?” I ask.

“Didn’t like it much.” The Amish man huffs. “The man was a pushy sort. Rude, too.”

“Did he get angry?” I ask.

“Not exactly. But he made an odd comment before leaving. Said life could get difficult when people get too old to take care of their land. I didn’t think too much of it at the time.” Looking miserable, he shakes his head. “Maybe I should have.”

“Did he ever threaten you or your wife?” I ask.

“No.”

“What about your Amish neighbors?” I ask. “Before they sold their land. Did any of them have any problems with Devlin?”

The old man considers. “Now that you’re asking, I recall the widow who owned the gift shop down to the cove had a thing or two to say about Mr. Devlin. Called him greedich.” Greedy. “Said he was kfeahlich.” Dangerous. “I didn’t pay her any heed…”

The old man’s voice trails off. He raises his gaze to mine, his mouth open and trembling. “Her shop burned to the ground a month later. No one suspected any kind of mischief. Maybe we should have listened to her.”

“Was there an investigation?” I ask.

“Fire marshal said smoking was the cause. The widow didn’t smoke, of course. But every now and again, her young nephew would sneak a cigarette out back.” Enos shrugs. “Three months later, she sold her land to Devlin and moved to Lancaster County.”

Tomasetti reaches for his cell. “I’m going to put out some feelers on Devlin.”

While he makes the call, Enos and I walk through the cabin, looking for clues. We’re more thorough this time. The only thing that’s out of place is a bottle of cooking oil on the counter.

We’re in the kitchen when Tomasetti comes in, his face grim. “Devlin’s legit. Based in Pittsburgh.” He looks from Enos to me. “That said, there have been a couple of lawsuits. Accusations of the company using high-pressure tactics. Intimidation.” He looks at me. “Unsubstantiated reports that some of his ‘associates’ aren’t quite so squeaky clean.”

“I don’t like the sound of that,” Enos says.

“Who are these ‘associates’ you’re talking about?” I ask.