Breaking Ground (6 page)

“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.”

“He's happy with the dedication of the concert, by the way,” Julie interrupted. “I haven't talked to him, but he left a couple of messages for me saying that, and that he wants to get together. I'm hoping to see him at the concert.”

“Steven may just want to be sure everything's in place on the project. But when you talk to him, maybe not today because it's so soon after, I think it would be sensible to mention that Mary Ellen told you she was going to give the final installment of the gift this summer, and that you'd be grateful if he agreed so we can cut through the paperwork. He may even bring it up himself. You can tell him I'll be happy to discuss it with him. I'm going to try to see him today, too. But my point, Julie, is that I don't see any trouble about getting the half-million soon.”

Before the call, Julie had been wondering if she was the only person in Ryland who wasn't thinking about Mary Ellen's money. Now she was glad to know that Henry shared her view of yesterday's trustee gathering—and also glad, she had to admit to herself, that the rest of the gift would soon be available.

When Mike hit the siren of the Ryland police cruiser to signal the start of the parade, Julie and Rich were standing at the top of Main Street where it curved to go around the Common. Both sides of the street were lined with families.

After the police cruiser passed by, the heart of the parade came up the hill: decorated hay wagons and other floats from local businesses; marching Boy and Girl Scouts; clowns tossing candy that little kids ran into the street to retrieve; the high school marching band; a contingent of American Legion old-timers in military uniforms gasping to keep pace; and finally the flotilla of fire trucks, a pumper and ladder truck from Ryland and pumpers from a half-dozen outlying communities. Julie remembered from last year that the trucks, their sirens on and lights flashing, to the delight of the children, signaled the parade's end—or at least the end of its first phase, since all the vehicles and marching groups except the fire trucks took a turn around the Common and came back down Main.

“I better go check on the band,” Julie said as the last of the fire trucks passed.

“I'll stake out a spot by the gazebo for us,” Rich said.

At exactly eleven, the American Legion group that had shuffled through the parade marched with greater confidence onto the Common and presented the colors as the people rose from their blankets to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” When they finished and the honor guard marched out, Julie walked to the microphone and gave her welcome, including the dedication of the concert to Mary Ellen Swanson. Then she found Rich on a blanket by the gazebo and sat down to enjoy the concert.

As the band launched into a medley of patriotic songs, Julie surveyed the scene. After only a year in Ryland, she was pleased at how many faces were familiar. All the trustees were there: Dalton with Nickie Bennett, Howard and his wife, Loretta and her husband, Henry and his family, Clif with several children and grandchildren, many of the volunteer guides, Tabby Preston from the library, and even Mrs. Detweiller with a man Julie supposed was Mr. Detweiller, though Julie had never met him.

When the band took a brief break, the crowd rose nearly as one and stretched by their blankets or walked lazily around to greet neighbors. At the edge of the crowd Julie was surprised to see Steven Swanson talking with a man she at first didn't recognize, and then recalled as Frank Nilsson, the developer Luke Dyer was working with on the Birch Brook condos. Julie considered walking over to talk with him since she still hadn't expressed her condolences in person, but before she could decide, the bandleader waved to her to indicate they were ready to resume. That was also Julie's signal to remount the gazebo and remind the crowd of the cookies and lemonade awaiting them afterwards.

As the band broke into the collection of Sousa marches to end the concert, Julie leaned over to Rich and told him she needed to head to the society to be sure everything was ready. She slipped away as unobtrusively as she could and sprinted across the street. Standing by the first table by himself, with a glass of lemonade in his hand, was Steven Swanson.

“Mr. Swanson,” Julie said formally and reintroduced herself. “I'm so very sorry about your loss. It's a loss for all of us who knew your mother. Please accept my condolences.”

“I remember you, Julie,” Swanson said. “And please call me Steven. Thanks for your sympathy—and for dedicating the concert to Mom. I'm sure she would have been very pleased. Hope you got my messages, by the way.”

“I did. Thanks. I hated to bother you at such a time.”

“It's all so complicated and strange,” he said. “I realized Mom was getting along and that eventually she'd, well, obviously we all will. But not like that. God, it's just so hard to think about.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes and then stood silently again.

“I'm sure it is. I talked to your mother just the day before, and I know how much she was looking forward to the groundbreaking. It's so hard to accept she's gone. She was so …”

“Lively?” he suggested. “That's just what I was thinking. I mean, she was seventy-four, and I know that's not old today, but she acted more like she was in her fifties. Dad was almost ten years older, and so when he died it didn't seem so strange. That was almost five years ago. And then he went … well, he died at home.” Not murdered, Julie thought, and had to stop herself from saying it aloud. “Not like Mom,” he concluded. “Anyway, you said you saw Mom the day before, but I thought she was going to see you yesterday morning—at the tent, before the groundbreaking.”

“Really?” she said, feigning surprise. “Your mother didn't say anything to me about getting together then, but of course she might have decided to come by. Was there something she wanted to talk to me about?”

“My mother
always
had something to talk to someone about, didn't she?” Steven smiled and laughed slightly. “But she did say, at breakfast, that she couldn't dawdle because she had to meet you at the tent. Maybe she hadn't told you. That would be typical of Mom, just assuming what was in her head was in yours.”

Julie laughed and asked again if his mother had mentioned if she had something specific to meet about.

“About her contribution to the historical society,” he said.

Julie waited for more, but Steven turned silent again. Julie felt time slipping away—the concert would be over in a few minutes, the crowds would descend on the historical society's grounds,
and Julie would lose the chance to talk with Steven. “What about that?” she asked more abruptly than she knew she should.

“Well, she had some ideas, and I guess she wanted to talk to you about them. But you didn't see her?”

“No.”

“Well, we'll have to work this out. I need to talk to her attorney. Anyway, I've got to go now. I'll be seeing you, I'm sure.”

Steven turned and walked away before Julie could say more. Howard Townsend was coming toward her. “You remember Mrs. Townsend,” the board chair said to her, and the two women shook hands. “Lovely concert, Dr. Williamson,” Mrs. Townsend said. “A little chilly, though,” she added, and Julie felt the need to apologize for the weather, in addition to asking Mrs. Townsend to call her Julie. “Well, it beats heat, doesn't it?” Mrs. Townsend said, and hugged herself through the winter parka she was wearing. “Hot tea might be better than lemonade, don't you think, Howard?” she said to her husband.

Not a word about Mary Ellen, Julie thought as the Townsends retreated in search of warmth. Unbelievable. You would assume, Julie thought, that at least Mrs. Townsend, seeing Julie for the first time since the murder, would say something—anything. She had known Mary Ellen for years, but she was as cold as her husband. Did anyone care? she wondered.

“Dr. Williamson,” a man's voice said politely behind her. She turned to face Ben Marston, a longtime volunteer guide at Ryland Historical Society. Julie had been grateful to him last year when on one of his tours he had discovered a painting everyone thought had been stolen. She had seen him only a few times since. “I'm sorry to interrupt you,” Ben continued, “but I just wanted to say how terribly sorry I am about Mrs. Swanson. She was such a wonderful lady. Ben Marston, by the way,” he added.

“Of course, Ben. It's so good to see you again. And please, call me Julie. We've missed you over the winter!”

“And spring, too,” he said. “We decided to stay down in South Carolina a little longer this year, but I'm back and ready to give tours.”

“Thank you for that. And for your nice words about Mrs. Swanson.”

“Oh, she could be a handful, couldn't she? Had a few run-ins with her myself, but still and all, she was certainly generous to the society.”

“You can say that again!”

“It must have been terrible for you …”

“Howard Townsend is the one who found her, but, yes … well …” A vivid, complete image of the murder scene came so suddenly into Julie's mind that she couldn't finish her sentence.

Marston put his arm around her shoulder, lightly, and with a fatherly touch patted her once and then withdrew his arm. “I shouldn't keep you,” he said. “You've got a lot to do here today. I didn't mean to upset you.”

“Oh, no! I'm glad you brought it up. In fact, I've been so surprised at how little people say. It makes me think they just don't care.”

“You're not a Mainer, Dr. Williamson. It's just how we are. My wife's the same. She moved here from New Jersey when we got married, and that was almost forty years ago, and she says she still can't believe how reserved we are—‘frosty' is what she calls it. But I tell her it's not how we
are
, just how we
act
. We're afraid that if we showed our feelings, well, they'd get out of hand and sort of take over and run us. But people do care.”