“What would it cost if we canceled?” Clif asked.
“Cost?” Julie said.
“Isn’t there a cancellation fee or something for the band?”
“Yes, I think there is, but I’m honestly not sure. I could go check the contract.”
“I don’t see any need to do that,” Howard said. “I agree with Loretta—the concert’s an important event for us, good community relations. I certainly think Mary Ellen would agree.”
It amused Julie to hear Howard for the second time invoking Mary Ellen’s postmortem support, but she was glad he did, and the other trustees seemed equally happy for the chair’s decisiveness and greeted it with vigorous head nodding.
“So if there’s no objection,” Howard continued, “we’ll proceed with the concert.”
“How about if we dedicated the concert to Mary Ellen,” Loretta asked. “Maybe Julie could announce that at the beginning? I think it would be well received.”
“An excellent point,” Howard said. “If there’s no objection …”
“This isn’t a formal meeting, Howard,” Clif pointed out. “Unless our solicitor says we should go into formal session here.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary, Clif,” Henry said. “I’d be hard-pressed to imagine why we need a formal meeting and resolution to accomplish a simple act of humaneness like dedicating tomorrow’s concert to Mary Ellen. It doesn’t carry any legal obligations, for goodness' sake.”
“Maybe Steven thinks it would,” Clif said. “Maybe he’d hold us to naming the concert for her in the future. Perhaps we should ask him.”
Clif’s suggestion, though in keeping with his usual behavior at trustee meetings, seemed so bizarre to the others that for a few moments no one spoke. Julie finally did.
“Maybe I’ll just tell Steven Swanson what we’re going to do, so he’ll be aware. It would be a courtesy to let him know, and maybe a nice idea at a difficult time.”
“Excellent,” Howard pronounced. “Tell him how much we valued his mother, want to honor her, know she would agree, et cetera. Very nice. Anything else?”
Clif moved forward in his chair, a sign to Howard that he had something further to ask—or say. But then he shifted back. “Clif?” Howard asked. “You look like there’s something else on your mind.”
“Nothing the board needs to be concerned with.”
“Fine, then. Now there is a matter we need to consider, but this isn’t the right time to discuss it in detail. Let me just mention it briefly so you can all think about it, and then we can talk about it at a formal meeting later. Mary Ellen’s death leaves us diminished in many ways. When we lost Worth Harding and Martha Preston as trustees, we agreed to spend some time seeking new members. I just want to remind you that we now have three vacancies on the board of trustees. Thank you all for assembling so quickly for this little session. I look forward to seeing you at the concert tomorrow.”
As the rest of the trustees filed out, Dalton offered to help Julie return the chairs, but before she could decline she noticed Clif standing awkwardly by the door. She was sure she knew what he wanted. So she accepted Dalton’s offer to handle the chairs and walked over to the treasurer. She debated making it easier for him by bringing up the topic herself but, impishly, decided to make him do it.
“The shovels,” Clif said as soon as he and Julie were alone in her office. “Since we’re not having the groundbreaking, I thought I’d collect the shovels and take them back to the store.”
“You’d have to check with the police chief about that,” she said. “I think he plans to keep the whole site taped off.”
“Oh. Well, maybe you could get them tomorrow or whenever he says it’s okay.”
“I’ll do that,” Julie said.
When Clif left without another word, Julie wondered how he would take the news that only three of the four shovels he had provided were left at the construction site. She couldn’t even contemplate what he would make of the likelihood—a likelihood that grew stronger as Julie thought about it—that the fourth of his shovels had been the murder weapon.
Julie went to her office to phone Steven Swanson at his mother’s house. She dialed the familiar number. Hearing Mary Ellen’s voice on the answering machine brought tears to her. The voice gave the phone number rather than the name and invited the leaving of a message. It was all too weird—hearing Mary Ellen’s voice and then leaving the message for Steven about his mother. His dead mother.
After leaving word about the concert dedication, she recited both her home and office phone numbers and then hung up. She was glad to be able to communicate with Steven Swanson so indirectly. She didn’t feel awkward about the message itself, but if he had answered she might have asked Steven why he had said his mother was meeting her.
Maybe Mary Ellen had gotten it into her head that she had a meeting scheduled with Julie. This was not beyond the realm of the possible—Mary Ellen had scheduled dozens and dozens of meetings with Julie, and many times had changed or canceled the appointments. The other explanation was that Steven had made up the story. Why, though? To cast suspicion on Julie? If so, did that mean he had something to hide? Having seen the bloody body, Julie doubted any child could have done such a thing to a parent. But then she reminded herself she really didn’t know Steven Swanson.
CHAPTER 8
Rich set chicken out to cook on the new barbecue grill he had brought for Julie as a housewarming gift, half apologizing when he presented it to her because he admitted he’d be using it more than she would. They sat in the back garden sipping wine in the long light of midsummer.
“How are you doing?” Rich asked her. “I think you should talk about it. It’s either that or a game of Scrabble.”
Julie laughed. “I could be bought off,” she said.
“Doubtful. Go ahead.”
And so she talked, and Rich was right that discussing the murder helped calm her. The half bottle of sauvignon blanc she had drunk over dinner didn’t hurt, either. “Maybe just one more glass,” she responded when Rich offered to open another bottle after dinner. “The first question I have—” She stopped abruptly.
“Do you think I’m wrong here?” she asked Rich. “I mean, Mary Ellen was killed today, and Howard held a trustee meeting as if we had to deal with a leaking roof or a power outage or something. I was in such a daze through it all that I just went along, but it hit me afterwards how absolutely nuts the whole thing was.” Rich laughed. “But now I’m just as bad, aren’t I? Talking about the murder like some abstract thing, something I read about.”
“I think it’s good for you to talk about it, just as long as you don’t think of playing detective again like you did last year with Worth’s murder. You know how I feel about that. So what’s your ‘first question?’”
“Well, obviously, it’s why was she killed? Who would want to kill Mary Ellen?”
“You, at least on a couple of days. You found her pretty hard to deal with on the project.”
“Oh, stop,” Julie said, pouring herself another glass of wine. “True. There were several times I wanted to strangle her. In fact, Dalton once said he was prepared to do it with his bare hands if she kept messing up the planning.”
“You don’t think Dalton did it?” Rich asked, giving her a wink.
She giggled. “No, of course not! But the fact is, she could be damned annoying. If we’re going to figure out who killed her, we need to think about why.”
“Julie we are not going to figure out who killed her. Get that out of your head!”
“We can still speculate, can’t we? Now, if she could be so annoying to people who liked her, like Dalton and me, imagine what someone who didn’t like her might feel like doing.”
“Were there others you know who didn’t like her?”
“I can’t say I really knew her that well. We played our roles—she was the generous benefactor and trustee, and I was the grateful director of the Ryland Historical Society. But as to her friends …
”
“Or enemies?”
“Right. Well, I just don’t know. Apparently she has lots of money. I mean, I knew she could afford to give us a million, but she paid that out over time in small amounts.”
“But not all of it?”
“No, but that’s interesting, too. She told me she was going to pay the final half-million this summer. And Henry LaBelle—he was her attorney—said that that wouldn’t be a problem now, and that her son would still inherit quite a bit. Henry was discreet, but that’s how I read what he said. Oh, and speaking of her son, did he call here? I forgot to ask.”
“And I forgot to tell you. Sorry. Yeah, he left a message while I was in the shower just before you got home. He sounded nice—a little tired, but pleasant. Thanked you for calling, said his mother would have been honored to have the concert dedicated to her. He said he didn’t know if he’d be there, but that he’d like to get together with you later to talk about the building project.”
“I wonder what about. Maybe he’s just like his mother and will want to make changes in everything.”
“Well, if he’s going to inherit a lot of money, maybe he’s going to add to her gift or something.”
“Hmm, that’d be nice. Anyway, Howard said the contractor, Luke Dyer, is the one building that big condo development just outside of town, and it was Mary Ellen who sold the land to him and some other guy—Nelson. No—Nilsson. Frank Nilsson. I think I’ve actually met him once or twice around town. Howard said Mary Ellen must have made a lot of money on the sale. Maybe that’s where she was going to get the half-million.”
“So what if it is? That doesn’t have anything to do with you or the historical society. You don’t need to get involved in this.”
“I know I don’t have to get involved, but I am involved—it happened at the historical society, and Mary Ellen played a big role there. And, it’s the second murder since I’ve been here, and …”
“And you feel responsible?”
“Not responsible. But already involved—because of the society, because of Mary Ellen, because Steven told Mike that Mary Ellen was meeting me.”
“But your alibi will check out.”
“Of course! It’s just that I’m in the middle of all this.”
“I guess so. And you can’t help yourself because you’re a trained historian and you like to solve puzzles?”
“Maybe that, too.”
CHAPTER 9
Every Fourth of July Julie could remember from her childhood had been humid and blisteringly hot. The Ohio River town where she grew up might as well have been deep in the heart of Dixie because no matter what the weather was like at the end of June, you could be sure early July would be scorching, and heat and muggy skies always accompanied the parade and fireworks in Julie’s remembered Fourth of July celebrations.
Maine is so different, Julie thought as she woke briefly at five o’clock on the morning of the Fourth and reached to pull the blanket over her. She slipped back to sleep, pleased that the holiday would actually offer pleasant weather.
An hour later she sensed Rich’s presence by the side of the bed. Why was he wearing shorts and a sweatshirt?
“Ready for a run?”
“Huh?”
“Oh, don’t be so eloquent at this early hour. I just thought after last night’s wine consumption you’d benefit from a good work-out—say five miles before breakfast?”
In ten minutes she was dressed and ready to join Rich in the garden where he was stretching. As they had the day before, they cut through the garden to the small side street and headed toward the back of the historical society’s campus. And just as it had been yesterday, the bright yellow backhoe with its Dyer Construction lettering was sitting patiently. But the rest of the scene was different: a blue State Police car sat on the curb by the street, and a uniformed trooper stood beside it, lazily surveying the site. When his head turned to Julie and Rich, he yelled at them: “Stay back from there! This is a crime scene!” Rich gestured in a half-wave, half-salute and cut to his right, along the side street. Julie followed. Rich led them through the residential section that ended in a small bluff, then he turned westward, and they entered the wooded area directly behind the construction site.
“Think it’s okay?” Julie asked between breaths. “Mike was going to search here for the shovel.”
“It’s not taped off,” Rich said.
As they jogged through the woods, Julie swerved her head from side to side, hoping to catch sight of a discarded red ribbon, but they reached the end of the wood and came onto the historical society’s parking lot without her seeing anything more interesting than a few empty beer cans. They paralleled yesterday’s route, down Main Street and toward the river. When they cut back up toward the Common Julie realized she was tired and signaled to Rich to slow down.
“Think I’m feeling the effects of last night,” she said. “I’m going to just walk in from here, but go ahead and run if you like.” He did, while Julie, falling farther behind, slowed to a brisk walk. It was unusual to see so much activity this early in the morning on the Common: two town trucks stopped by the gazebo, and a handful of workers stringing bunting. The concert and picnic began at eleven o’clock, but the Common would be well decorated before then because the parade started at ten. She stopped to survey the scene but found she was shivering. It must be 50 degrees, she thought, and decided to resume her running pace. At the top of the Common she met Rich coming back toward her.
“I went up to the golf course,” he said. “You okay?”
“Fine—but cold. I can’t believe it’s the Fourth of July.”
“Perfect running temperature.”
“Feels more like March,” Julie said. “But that’s fine with me—I was dreading boiling in the sun at the concert.”
“So what’s the drill today?” Rich asked when they were back in the kitchen and he was starting the coffee.
“First I warm up with some of that coffee,” Julie said. “Then breakfast, and a hot shower.”
“And off to work?”
“I’ll stop by the office, but we don’t open till noon. Parade’s at ten, concert and picnic at eleven. I’ll have to check on the band and make sure everything’s set at the gazebo, but after that I hope we can just spend some time together.”
“That sounds good. Hope you didn’t stay awake last night thinking about Mary Ellen or about solving her murder,” Rich said as he poured orange juice and toasted bread for them.
“I slept fine—better than I expected—but talking to you about it last night was helpful. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. I just hope you’ll stop thinking about this thing.”
“I can’t help thinking about Mary Ellen, if that’s what you mean, but I’ll try to stop playing detective. It’s just—well, what you said last night: I like to solve puzzles.”
“But her death isn’t your problem.”
“Well, it’s sort of my problem, but I’ll try.”
Stopping at her office before heading to check on preparations for the concert, Julie saw the blinking light that signaled a message. She punched PLAY and sat down to listen.
“I left a message at the other number, but I thought I better leave it here, too. This is Steven Swanson. I’m sure my mother would have been pleased that you’re going to dedicate the concert to her. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure if I’ll be there, but if I do go I’d like to get together to talk. If not, maybe I can see you later. My wife has to go back to New Hampshire, but I’ll be around Ryland for the next few days to make arrangements … for my mother. Good-bye.”
Rich was right that the tone of the message was quite pleasant, and the fact that he had left the message at both numbers made Julie think he was a careful person. She wondered what he wanted to talk to her about, but he must have a hundred issues to deal with, and some of them might well concern the Ryland Historical Society.
The red light continued to blink, alerting Julie to another message.
“Hi, Julie. Henry LaBelle calling Tuesday evening. Didn’t want to bother you at home, but I need to follow up with you on what came up at Howard’s little meeting. Give me a ring, but if I don’t hear from you before, I’ll look for you at the concert. Take care now.”
Because it was a holiday, she decided to call his house, apologizing for doing so when Henry answered.
“No problem,” he replied. “Glad you called. Look, I wanted to say that I thought Howard’s having that board meeting last night was a terrible idea. It just felt awful, sitting there talking about whether Mary Ellen’s pledge would come through when the poor woman had just been killed a couple of hundred yards away.”
“I felt that way, too, Henry. Howard didn’t ask me …”
“Of course not. Howard never asks. I guess we have to be grateful that he’s so dedicated, but it just seemed so cold. And then Clif probing about the estate … well, that got to me.”
“You handled it very well.”
“Thanks. I came close to saying what was really on my mind, but then I’m a lawyer after all!”
Julie joined Henry’s laugh. “I guess we were all in shock,” she said.
“That’s putting a nice spin on it, so let’s leave it at that. The other thing I wanted to say is that I felt bad that maybe you were left in doubt about the rest of Mary Ellen’s gift.”
“You said it would come, and she told me she planned to give all the rest this summer, so I’m not too worried.”
“Well, you shouldn’t be worried at all. I called because I wanted you to understand that the full half-million will be available in cash after the closing. It will take a little time to probate this, of course, but I think under the circumstances I can persuade the court to release the money to the society. I know Clif well enough to realize that unless the money is forthcoming, he’ll want to put a hold on the project so the society doesn’t have to borrow too much. I didn’t want you to be worried about that. Now, like I said, it’ll take time to distribute the whole estate, but I think we can make a good case that the $500,000 should come right away. The only problem would be Steven, and I wanted to mention that to you, too.”
Breaking Ground Page 4
