As was Elizabeth, too, Julie thought, though she knew her even less than she knew Steven. Julie had met her once or twice and sensed she was stronger than her husband, more self-possessed. About Julie’s own age? Maybe a few years older. Slim and good-looking. Her career seemed to be flourishing. Henry said she was not maternal. But how well did he really know her? And, well, Julie wouldn’t have exactly rejected that description of herself. But Henry and Howard Townsend had both seemed vaguely negative about Elizabeth, and both had made it clear that Mary Ellen was not a fan of her daughter-in-law, either. Certainly Mrs. Detweiller had more than hinted at the same thing. But that was hardly unique in the history of family relations. So what did Julie know about Elizabeth? Not nearly enough to make any further notes beside her name.
Julie looked at her watch and saw it was noon. She should probably have lunch before her tour at one, but instead she returned to her yellow pad. She flipped to a new page and made another large dollar sign and beside it wrote “Nilsson” and “Dyer” and gave them a bracket and question mark, too. Since Mary Ellen had till today to back out of the land sale, getting rid of her before would have some kind of financial value to the two developers. How much? Julie had no idea of the magnitude of the project, but everyone who talked about it implied it was a big deal. Who was at risk if it didn’t go through? Apparently both Nilsson and Dyer, but Howard had said Dyer had a small part of it, except of course for the construction. Okay, both men would gain something by making sure Mary Ellen didn’t cancel the sale. That was motive.
Julie wrote “Find out,” underlined it, and then wrote “value of Birch Brook,” and “Nilsson share” and “Dyer share.” She really didn’t know much about either man, let alone about the condo project they were involved in. She had talked to Nilsson yesterday and remembered meeting him sometime in the past year. Dyer she had been dealing with over the excavation but didn’t know much beyond her impression that he was abrupt and not particularly warm. Oh, there also was the matter of the land itself—Howard had said Dyer’s father had sold it to Dan Swanson. Julie noted that next to Dyer’s name.
The yogurt she had brought for lunch was in her drawer, and though she still didn’t feel hungry she knew she should have something now since the tour would occupy her until after two. As she was taking small spoonfuls of it, a thought struck: I can find out more about Frank Nilsson because I have his résumé! She jumped up and went to Mrs. Detweiller’s office and found the file labeled TRUSTEES—PROSPECTIVE. Howard had asked her to start a file last summer, when Worth’s death left the Ryland Historical Society’s board short of members. Howard had asked other trustees to suggest names of potential new members, and someone had suggested Nilsson. It was Mary Ellen! She had proposed his name and had asked him for a résumé. And there it was in the file. Thank heavens Mrs. Detweiller is organized, Julie said to herself when she returned to her desk with the résumé.
It wasn’t long. He had probably put together the one-page summary in response to Mary Ellen’s request because it emphasized his community involvement: former president of the Ryland Chamber of Commerce, chair of Rotary’s Christmas appeal for children, board member of Community Hospital, founding member of Western Maine Scandinavian Heritage Society. Under “Education” he had listed a high school in southern Maine and Bowdoin College, though without a degree or dates of attendance. Occupation was simple: developer. Married with two children.
There was nothing revealing in the résumé about the man, nothing that would help her figure out if he were capable of murder to prevent Mary Ellen from canceling the land sale. But then, Julie thought as she laughed out loud, you wouldn’t exactly expect someone to include a line on his résumé like “capable of murder under the right circumstances.” She would have to find another way to learn more about Nilsson.
“They’re here, Dr. Williamson.” Julie jumped when Mrs. Detweiller issued her statement from the door separating their offices. “The bus tour. I saw them pull up when I was coming from lunch. You have a one o’clock tour, you know,” the secretary said sternly.
“Polyester,” Julie said to herself as she hustled across the lawn toward Holder House. The bus tour was a quilting group from New Jersey, making a summer tour across northern New England in search of inspiration for their hobby. Three-quarters were women, all but one in hooded sweats, and the rest were bored husbands. Julie sometimes worried that her easy labeling of visitors led her to do canned presentations, pulling out the sentences and ordering them in a certain way more in response to the label she had placed on the participants than to their reality. On the other hand, she often found that stereotypes were useful, offering shortcuts that made her comments appropriate if not precisely fresh. About quilts she was a rank amateur, but given their importance to visitors to history museums she had diligently read quilting books and talked with volunteer guides who themselves quilted. As a result, she could sling the lingo—Grandmother’s Flower Basket, Hands of God, Weeping Willows—that impressed tour groups a lot more than such modest knowledge warranted.
But it usually worked, and today it did, too. The seniors were delighted with her, asked soft-pitch questions that she returned with force and grace, expressed appropriate wonder at the collections, and—Julie was especially pleased to see—headed back to the gift shop before boarding their bus.
Returning to her office in Swanson House, Julie cut behind the crafts shed to see how the digging was progressing. The yellow backhoe that had sat quietly the last several days was anything but quiet now. Like some prehistoric animal, the machine extended its long proboscis straight out, then brought it down with a thud and scooped and dropped a load of soil beside the lengthening gash that would eventually be filled with concrete to form the foundation. Julie was pleasantly surprised to see that one of the long trenches was complete and that the machine now was attacking the second. When that was done, the two would be connected with short trenches at both ends to form the rectangular outline of the Swanson Center. Amazing! Julie said to herself. Only yesterday she feared the whole project would be delayed, and now the excavation was almost half done. She stood there for a few minutes to observe the work.
“Coming right along,” a voice said from behind. Julie turned to see Luke Dyer, incongruously enough carrying a leather briefcase.
“It sure is,” Julie agreed. “I’m surprised how fast you work.”
“Not me,” he said with what Julie thought was a first-time occurrence: a friendly laugh. “That’s Benny, my best backhoe man. I put him on this because I know you were getting antsy. Don’t see no problem now getting the foundation dug by tomorrow.”
“That’s terrific. Thank you so much. And I suppose now you’ll be able to get your other project started.”
“Should start on Monday, soon as we close.”
“I understand it’s quite a big project—lots of condos?”
“Biggest development around here.”
“And a beautiful site, I hear.”
“Gorgeous. Ever seen it?”
“No. It’s called Birch Brook, right?”
“Yeah, Birch Brook runs right smack through it, down to the river. You should come out and take a look. Maybe you’d be interested in a condo.”
“Thanks, but I’m living in Worth Harding’s house here now. He gave it to the historical society.”
“Oh, right. I heard that. Well, it’s a nice place, and the condos will have every convenience and great views. Maybe you know someone who’d be interested. Anyway, come out and have a look sometime.”
“I’ll do that.” Looking at his briefcase, she wondered if he had come to see her about business. “Are we all in order here, Mr. Dyer, about the project? Any more paperwork?”
“You can call me Luke. All set for now. We’ll send an invoice.” He noticed Julie’s gaze still on the leather briefcase. “Oh, you thought I was looking for you, I see. No, I was just over to your library. Pretty crowded place. I can see why you need this new building.”
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“It’s going to really help us a lot. The library can expand and all the papers will get the special care they need,” she said, forgoing the nearly automatic line she could deliver about humidity control, spacious surroundings for researchers, proper lighting, and all the benefits the new Swanson Center would offer. She was too intrigued by Dyer’s visiting the society’s library. “Hope you found what you wanted,” she said.
“Still looking. But I’ll be back. Good to see you,” he added and walked toward the backhoe, the briefcase swinging at his side an odd accessory to his flannel shirt and work pants.
CHAPTER 13
Of course I’m indulging in stereotypes, Julie admitted to herself when she was back in her office. But stereotypes work for visitors. So why shouldn’t I find Luke Dyer’s visit to the Ryland Historical Society library out of character?
Well, it was easy enough to find out what he had been doing. All Julie had to do was walk up the stairs and talk to Tabitha Preston, the earnest woman who served, for free, as the society’s librarian and archivist. And that’s what she would have done, immediately, had not Mrs. Detweiller come to the door to tell her Steven Swanson was on the phone.
“I know Mom’s attorney talked to you,” Swanson said abruptly after Julie picked up the call. “I told him it was okay to, because I needed to be sure she hadn’t talked to you about giving more money to the historical society in her will. It’s not that I was against that, but it seems to me the money she’s already given for the building in Dad’s name is quite a bit.”
“It’s a wonderful gift! We’re all so grateful to your mother for her generosity, and we certainly weren’t expecting more.”
“I didn’t think so, but it was important for me to know that. I think Mom was just playing one of her games that morning—trying to get Elizabeth riled up as usual. And as usual, it worked. But anyway, the reason I called is to thank you for telling Henry that she hadn’t talked to you about changing her will, and to say that I agree with him about the fact that you folks were expecting the rest of Mom’s gift. I’ll do whatever I can to help out there. It’s only fair, because Mom would have given you the money next week when she sold the land. Henry asked me to sign a statement about that so he can present it to the probate judge and see if the money can be released. Like I say, that’s fair, and I’ll be happy to do it.”
“Thanks so much, Steven. That’s very generous of you, especially now at such a difficult time.”
“That was the other reason I called,” Swanson said. “About Mom’s funeral. Her … her body has been released now, so the funeral can go ahead. Next Monday, at the church. I hope you can come, and tell the others if you will—the trustees, Mom’s friends at the society, whoever. I don’t really know who to invite, but if you’ll just pass the word I’d be grateful.”
“That’s no problem at all, and I’m sure everyone here will want to attend. What time will it be?”
“Eleven. On Monday.”
After the call ended and Julie was sitting at her desk, she smiled at the high-context nature of Steven’s description: “at the church.” Last year, Julie would have asked “What church?” Now she knew better. “The church” meant the United Church of Christ—or as locals referred to it by its old name, the First Congregational—the Gothic white church that stood on Main Street just below the Town Common. Among the trustees, volunteers, and staff of the Ryland Historical Society—indeed, among almost every Ryland resident Julie had met—it was simply called “the church.” The town had five, but the Methodist, Christian Alliance, United Baptist, and Catholic churches were merely places where members went for worship. “The church” was the site for community musical and dance performances, senior citizen discussion groups, Girl and Boy Scout meetings, candidate forums for local elections, and weekly church suppers. It was also the favored site for funerals and memorial services for prominent citizens, whether or not they were communicants. So Julie was hardly surprised that Mary Ellen’s funeral would be held there.
“The trustees know,” Mrs. Detweiller said when Julie asked her about the best way to inform them of the funeral. “I think everyone here does, too,” she added. “Monday at eleven at the church. Should we close the society?”
Instead of responding to her secretary’s question, Julie asked one of her own: “How does everyone know? I just found out from Mary Ellen’s son.”
“Well, I can’t really say, but my cousin told me this morning, and I suppose she heard it from someone at the church. This is a small town, Dr. Williamson.”
“Yes, I think we should close Monday morning, Mrs. Detweiller. I’ll write up a notice we can distribute tomorrow. I’m going up to see Tabby now, before she leaves.”
“Too late,” the secretary said. “She leaves at 4:30, you know.” Julie indeed knew Tabby’s schedule, and knew also that Mrs. Detweiller also left at 4:30 and was obviously signaling that Julie’s impertinent questions about informing the board of the funeral were delaying that ritualistic event, too. “I lost track of the time,” she said. “Sorry to hold you up, Mrs. Detweiller. I’ll work on the notice now and have it ready for you in the morning. Have a nice evening.”
Writing the notice consumed a mere few minutes, and then she was back to the notes she had made during and after the conversation with Henry. She reviewed them, and added to the list under “Find out” the curious fact that Luke Dyer had been looking at materials in the society’s library. Why? she wrote. Had he suddenly become interested in town history? Howard Townsend had said Dyer was part of an old Ryland family. Maybe he was doing some genealogical research. That was the favorite activity of users of the society’s archives, and there was no reason to think Luke would be an exception. In any event, a talk with Tabby would provide the answer, but that was for tomorrow.
Looking at her notes, Julie found herself focusing on Nilsson and the brief conversation she had had with him at the concert. He was eager to have Julie talk to Steven Swanson about Mary Ellen’s plan to contribute the remainder of her gift this summer. Nilsson seemed to be seeking her help to get Swanson to move quickly on the land sale, but Henry had made it clear that he, as executor of the estate, had the authority to complete the deal. Maybe Nilsson was just looking out for the Ryland Historical Society’s interests, which in this matter did overlap with his own. No harm in that, Julie decided.
But Nilsson continued to interest her, and she began to formulate a way to learn more about him. She would phone Nilsson to set up a meeting. Hadn’t Howard encouraged everyone to work on the expansion of the board of trustees? Hadn’t Mary Ellen requested Nilsson’s résumé with exactly that goal in mind? So why shouldn’t Julie now talk to the man to inquire about his possible interest in joining the board? She would be carrying out her job as director, and if she learned anything about Nilsson that cast light on his dealings with Mary Ellen—including, of course, whether he might have murdered her—well, that would be an additional benefit. She located Nilsson’s phone number on his résumé and called him.
“Good to hear from you,” he assured her confidently. “Thanks for talking to Steven Swanson. He’s happy about everything going ahead, and Henry LaBelle is handling the closing on Monday. So everyone wins: Our project goes forward, and, most important, you’ll get the rest of Mary Ellen’s gift right away.”
Julie considered pointing out that not quite everyone won, since the day of the closing of the land sale would also be the day of Mary Ellen’s funeral. Instead, she told him that she hadn’t really encouraged Steven, who seemed quite content for things to proceed.
“Well, it’s settled anyway, and I’m glad the society is going to benefit as Mary Ellen wanted. That new building is going to be quite an addition for you, isn’t it?”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Nilsson—”
“Frank, please,” he interrupted. “And I hope I can call you Julie. Even though we haven’t talked much, I feel very positive about you and what you’re doing over there. Mary Ellen did, too.�
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“Well, Frank, thank you for saying that. As a matter of fact, I was wondering if we might get together when it’s convenient for you to talk a little about Ryland Historical Society. Mary Ellen had mentioned to me that she thought you would make an excellent trustee, and we’re always looking for strong new members.”
“Sure, I’m very interested. Mary Ellen did talk to me about this last fall sometime. I think I gave her a résumé.”
“That’s right. I have it right here, and I’d like to talk to you about what we’re doing and whether you’d be able to get involved. Of course it’s up to the board to elect new members, but part of my job is to help gather information for them, so if you’d be interested, I’d enjoy sitting down and talking a bit.”
“Absolutely,” he said. “Things are going to get pretty busy with the closing and starting the project, so maybe we could get together before that. How would tomorrow be? Say, breakfast at The Greek?”
“Let me just check.” Julie knew her schedule tomorrow included more tours, but the first wasn’t until ten. Still, she didn’t want to appear too eager. “Yes, that’s fine,” she said, after what she hoped he would interpret as a dutiful review of her schedule for the day. “What time would be good for you?”
“Seven-thirty?”
“Great, I’ll meet you at the diner then. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Me too,” he said before ending the call.
What Julie called the diner and what Frank Nilsson called The Greek was the same small restaurant just north of town on the way toward Ryland Skiway. The first time she had had breakfast there—with Mike last year during the investigation of the historical society’s missing artifacts—Julie had learned the evolution of the diner. In Mike’s early days in town it had been run by a Greek family, and the name was still current with old-timers. Julie honestly couldn’t recall its official current name—even though a sign out front said Bert’s Family Restaurant and the coffee was served in mugs that said The Food Place—but if you made a date to meet at The Greek or the diner, the result was the same. She wondered why Nilsson, whose résumé indicated he wasn’t a Ryland native, used the old-timers’ name. Something to ask him, she decided, an icebreaker to open the conversation. After that, she would focus on what really interested her: Did Nilsson play any part in Mary Ellen’s death? Of course I could just cut to the chase and ask him, she said to herself with a laugh as she closed her office, locked the door to Swanson House, and headed home to Rich.
Breaking Ground Page 7
