Breaking Ground

by William Andrews

  “So?”

  “So he had more to lose than just the construction business if Mary Ellen had backed out of the deal. And then there’s the fact that the land went from his family to Swanson’s and now back to him and Nilsson. At a much higher price. No wonder he’s looking into those Swanson papers!”

  “But not Dan Swanson’s. You said it was the grandfather’s papers.”

  “For now, but that’s because they’re the ones Tabby’s cataloged. Maybe Luke is just biding his time to get at the more-recent ones.”

  “Why?”

  “I bet he’s trying to find out why his father sold Birch Brook so cheaply to Dan Swanson. Dyer has a fifth of the equity. Let’s say they paid two and a half million—Frank said it was nearly four times what Luke’s father sold it for, which we know was $700,000. Then Luke’s share of that is about a half-million! If the land was still in his family, he could get a pile from Nilsson and be so much better off. Wouldn’t you be bothered by that? Nilsson said Luke is.”

  “Of course I’d be bothered, and I can see why Dyer is. But—”

  “I wonder what Frank meant about protecting everyone when you work with partners?” Julie interrupted.

  “Probably just what it sounds like—some way to make sure no one cheats, or to share the ownership if something happens to one of them.”

  They pulled up to Julie’s car. “Here you go,” Rich said. “I assume you plan to continue this conversation after a hot shower and a drink.”

  “Your assumption’s right on the shower and drink,” Julie said, “but I think I’ll cut my losses with you and drop the topic for tonight. It’s our last night before you have to go back to Orono, and I’d like to spend it doing something other than talking about who killed Mary Ellen.”

  “Scrabble?” he asked.

  “Maybe a jigsaw puzzle?”

  CHAPTER 19

  Children know the feeling of waking with excitement, anticipating a full day of freedom and fun, and then suddenly being hit by the realization that it will not end as it began. As appealing as Sunday seems at seven or eight in the morning, when it lies before you, it always carries the seeds of its own destruction: Monday, the beginning of the school week, the price you pay for weekends.

  Far from being a child, Julie was nonetheless as affected by the mixed and melancholy character of Sunday morning as when she had been a schoolgirl. Sunday had taken on new melancholy over the past two years. One year was devoted to long-distance commuting, between Delaware and Maine, and the expense of that usually limited it to monthly visits back and forth, always ending on Sunday. The past year was so much better because she and Rich spent almost every weekend together, either in Ryland or in Orono, but the frequency and ease of that made Sundays even worse because the weekends together were so good, seemed so natural, that the prospect of their ending was more poignant.

  As Julie lay in bed contemplating the cruelty of Sunday, she wondered if they could, or would, continue this way. Rich had gotten angry yesterday when the topic of her parents had come up on the trail, but she suspected that the real reason was the uncertainty of their relationship. She could feel the issue coming to the forefront, hanging in the air between them. Was marriage in the cards? How would they make it work if it still required commuting? And if it didn’t, what did that mean for her career, or his? They had avoided a serious and lengthy discussion of the topic and today, with all Sunday’s sad aching, was not the time for it either.

  They took a long, challenging run that Rich said was necessary to stretch the muscles that had carried them up and across Sutter’s Mountain yesterday. It was warmer today, already near fifty degrees and heading toward the more-seasonable prediction of low seventies, but still perfect for their run. After a late brunch, Rich worked in the garden, pruning and weeding, and trying to impress on Julie the need for her regular attention to such tasks.

  “You can’t leave it all to the weekends,” he said, “especially since you’re coming to Orono next weekend, and that means I won’t be able to work on this for two weeks.” Julie listened patiently to his detailed instructions about which plants needed what kind of care, but she found herself losing focus and then getting angry. As he was describing the proper way to deadhead the rhododendrons, she interrupted: “You know I’m hopeless about gardening. I’m happy for you to do it, happy you actually enjoy it. I don’t. So can we just leave it at that?”

  Rich stood up from crouching over the plant and looked at her. “Why are you angry?” he asked.

  “I’m sorry; I’m not really angry. It’s just that you know so much about gardens and cooking and woodwork and, well, all those things. But I don’t. And I really don’t want to learn.”

  He was silent for a few moments. Julie turned and walked to the other side of the garden. He joined her. “Look,” he said, “I don’t mean you have to do these things. I was just trying to explain what you could do while I’m away, but you don’t have to. Sorry if I come off as being bossy.”

  “It’s not that. I’m sorry I said anything. It’s just that sometimes I feel like you’re trying to take over my life—like the garden. Tend me. Prune and fertilize. Sometimes I just want you to back off.”

  “That’s your problem,” Rich said sharply. “If we’re different, lots of people would think that’s a good thing—a kind of balance. You don’t. Anyway, I should be getting ready to leave now.” He turned from her and headed to the house. She stayed in the garden. She could hear him inside the house, slamming drawers, packing. She walked to the kitchen door and was there when he emerged with his two boat bags and backpack. “Rich,” she said, reaching out to hold him. “Come here. I’m sorry—I really am. I’m really rattled, and, well, the truth is that I just hate it when you leave. I’m sure I’m making a fuss because I’ll miss you so much, and maybe it makes the parting easier if …”

  “If we fight?” he finished for her. “That’s a pretty weird way to say you’ll miss me.”

  “So I’m weird. Big surprise?” she asked and laughed.

  “Not too big,” he said, smiling. “You know I’ll miss you, too. It’s only five nights. We’ll still be together on Friday, right?”

  “You still want me to come?”

  “I don’t think you really have to ask.”

  “Thanks. Really, I’m sorry. Please say you forgive me, that you’ll forget everything I said.”

  “I’m just going to put on a Stones tape and wind my way to Orono. Can’t remember anything bad that happened this weekend.”

  “I love you, Rich.”

  “I love you, too. Be safe. I’ll call when I get in. You’ll be here?”

  “That’s the plan,” Julie said.

  “So is it a busy week?” he asked, delaying.

  Julie was glad to change the topic and the tone. “More than usual,” she said. “Tomorrow’s the funeral, and Wednesday Dalton is having a building committee meeting, and there’s a lot of cleanup from last week. And now that the excavation’s done the builders can pour the foundation and get started. Probably good that I can keep busy and not think so much—about how nice it was to have this week together, about how stupid I can be sometimes.”

  He laughed. “Not very often. And you can think about August. We’ll have the whole month! And by the way, I notice your list of the week’s work didn’t include solving any murders.”

  “I’ll just slip that in between the other things,” she teased.

  “Julie …”

  “I said I’ll let Mike do his job, but that doesn’t mean I won’t think about the murder.”

  “And give the chief the benefit of your penetrating insights?”

  “If that happens, isn’t it my obligation as a good citizen to assist the police?” Rich laughed.

  “Speaking of Mike, I wonder what he’s been up to,” she continued. “Haven’t talked to him since he gave the go-ahead on the excavation.”

  “Probably doing his job. Sticking to your job—now that sounds like good
advice for everyone.”

  “How does your week look?” Julie asked.

  “Same old, same old. I’ve got to spend some time tonight prepping my lectures and writing an exam. I thought I’d work on that stuff this weekend, but it was actually nice not to.”

  “I really appreciate all your help, Rich. I’m sorry I seem to just gobble up your time and then be so ungrateful.”

  “Gobble away,” he said, and leaned over to encourage a kiss. “When I’m in Orono I have more than enough time to think about colonial history, so don’t apologize for keeping me otherwise occupied here.”

  They hugged and kissed, neither referring to the words they had exchanged, and he put his gear in the car and backed out of the driveway. She followed and waved from the street. Then she took a walk through the garden, thinking she should try to perform some of the tasks he had described as a way of making it up to him. She felt even more at loose ends than usual on a Sunday. The holiday week together had been so good, and she hoped she hadn’t spoiled it by telling him to back off. That wasn’t really what she wanted at all, and she knew she had been bitchy just to make his leaving easier. But there was another reason: Tonight she would be alone again in Worth’s house. To take her mind off that, Julie decided to walk to the historical society and try to concentrate on some work.

  She walked through the garden and down the back street to check on the construction before going to her office in Swanson House. For some reason, the site of Mary Ellen’s death didn’t produce the same feelings that Worth’s did. The yellow backhoe was gone, though the image of it sitting there idly several days ago immediately came into her mind. The deep trenches that formed the outline of the new structure looked as if they had been magically transferred from the building plan and imposed on the ground. She walked around them, imagining the building that would rise from the foundation to be poured this week. It wasn’t going to be huge or grand, but the new Daniel Swanson Center, sixty feet long and thirty-two feet wide, would nearly double the space available to the Ryland Historical Society for the proper storage of library and archive materials. Overseeing its planning and construction truly excited Julie, and aside from Mary Ellen’s constant interference, the experience had been satisfying. She credited Dalton Scott’s patient and informed guidance of the building committee for that. He was such a pleasure to work with, and though he occasionally lost his cool when Mary Ellen got itchy, he managed her pretty well, Julie had to say. So strange to think of the committee’s next meeting, on Wednesday, the first time without Mary Ellen. Julie sighed. Poor Mary Ellen; she truly would miss her, no matter what.

  I wonder what is happening on that front, Julie thought as she finished her circuit of the trenches. Mike certainly had been distant, but then, as Rich said, he was obviously at work on the investigation. Julie knew the State Police were involved, too, but exactly who did what she didn’t know. Anyway, maybe she’d call Mike in the morning. Meantime, she thought, after she’d let herself into Swanson House and settled into her office, it would be a good idea to make a few more notes in the file so as not to forget the details of Birch Brook she had learned yesterday.

  “Almost 7:30,” she said out loud when she looked at her watch. How could the time have gone so fast? Rich always called when he got back to Orono, so she would have to move fast to be home for his call. Locking up Swanson House and activating the security system didn’t take long, nor did the short walk, and when she entered Harding House and went to the phone, she saw the blinking light that meant a message. She listened with a mix of pleasure and sadness to Rich’s report on his trip and realized there was a note of something between anger and concern in his last comment: “I thought you were going to be home. Give me a call as soon as you get in. Love you.”

  She was just about to pick up the phone to make the call when it rang. “Just went to the office,” she explained. “To take my mind off you and the week. I miss you already, Rich, and I’m so sorry about what I said. Don’t back off—I don’t want that at all.” He didn’t respond directly, but they talked a bit more about what a nice week it had been, and then Rich reminded her to lock the house tightly. “You’re not worried about me, are you?” she asked.

  “I’m always worried when we’re not together. And I know you worry about being there alone. Just be sure everything’s locked.”

  Later, in bed, Julie replayed the conversation. Rich was certainly right. She had locked and double-checked all the locks. Harding House was perfectly safe. So why couldn’t she fall asleep?

  CHAPTER 20

  Just because you feel like you haven’t slept all night doesn’t necessarily mean you haven’t, Julie told herself around five o’clock Monday morning when she decided that getting up couldn’t be worse than lying in bed. Surely she had slept. It was just that she couldn’t remember it. What she could remember were the sounds of creaking steps, opening doors, and footfalls downstairs in the front parlor. No. To be precise, what Julie remembered was thinking she was hearing such sounds and then realizing they were the results of what she readily admitted was her active imagination.

  The sun was already above the eastern horizon as she sat at the kitchen table to await the coffee she had set to brewing. Actually, she told herself, it hadn’t been that bad, this first night in a week alone in Harding House without Rich. She had just gotten spoiled with him there for so long. Her memories of finding Worth’s bloody body and the red stains on the floor under it were not as persistent as they once were, after all. She poured her first mug of fragrant coffee and walked into the parlor. It looked perfectly normal, even familiar with her white sofa covering the spot where Worth’s body had lain. Rich had sanded the spot last week and refinished it to match the rest of the floor, even though he said the bloodstains were nonexistent. “Humor me,” Julie had implored him, and Rich being Rich had done so. She went back to the kitchen to refill her mug. Deciding that so much coffee would make a run impractical, she opted for breakfast instead. But a healthy one, she told herself as she boiled water for oatmeal.

  Since Mary Ellen’s funeral was at eleven, Julie had reasoned that opening the historical society at its usual hour and then closing again so soon wasn’t sensible, so no one would be in until the afternoon. That fact made working around the house this morning appealing, but Julie quickly found herself distracted and thinking about the folder in her office desk that contained her notes on the murder. At 9:30 she walked to Swanson House, punched in the secuity code, and let herself into the building with her key. Listlessly turning the pages of the folder, she found herself able to concentrate on the murder no better than she had been able to concentrate on finishing putting her books in the shelves at Harding House earlier. She had time to take a walk through town and end up at the church enough in advance of the ceremony to assure herself a good seat. After a loop around the Common and through the residential section behind the church, she found herself in front of the beautiful Gothic structure just as the hearse pulled up. She held back as the men from the funeral home carried the coffin into the side entrance. She felt as if she were at the theater ahead of the performance, watching the stage being readied and the actors assembling before the audience took their seats. She looked at her watch and saw it was 10:15, and decided on another transit of the Common so she wouldn’t be first in the church.

  “Warmed up?” a voice said from behind as Julie came onto the sidewalk at the lower end of the Common. She turned to see the police chief.

  “Mike, sorry I didn’t see you. I was early and thought I’d just take a walk. It’s such a beautiful day.”

  Mike didn’t speak for a few seconds, and Julie had the impression he was taking a photo of her with his eyes. Was her black skirt and dark-blue blazer inappropriate for the funeral? Mike certainly was formally attired, but Julie thought she was, too. “Something wrong?” she asked and ran her hand through her hair, wondering if perhaps it had become untidy because of what had turned out to be a longer walk than she had planned.r />
  “Wrong?” the policeman repeated. “Not that I know of. Your hair’s always been light red, hasn’t it?” He laughed and continued. “I know I’m a cop and should remember things, but I was just wondering if—”

  “If I changed my hair color?” Julie completed his question. “No. This is natural. You think I should?”

  He laughed again, uncomfortably. “Of course not. It’s very nice.”

  “Thanks,” Julie answered, looking at Mike questioningly. “What’s up? I haven’t talked to you since late last week.”

  “Pretty busy,” he replied, moving quickly away from the conversation about Julie’s hair that neither of them seemed to want to pursue. “Working on the case, of course.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “Making progress, though working with the State Police isn’t my idea of fun. They’ve got a detective on this, but of course he doesn’t know the scene here, so I end up having to tell him who’s who.”

  “So are they getting close to figuring it out?”

  “It’s moving along. And I guess we should be, too. Looks like the crowd’s gathering.” He pointed to the church, where a dozen or so people were standing on the sidewalk.

  “Mike, what’s the deal with my hair?” Julie asked as they moved down the street toward the church.

  “Nothing. Hey, you’d better get in and find a seat. I need to stay out here and help direct folks,” he added, turning away quickly before Julie could pursue the topic.

  “Want to join us?” Dalton Scott asked as Julie fell in the people moving up the short flight of stairs. Nickie was beside him. “That would be great,” Julie replied. “I wasn’t sure of the protocol.”

  “Well, you could always join Howard in the family pew,” Dalton said, and pointed to the second row of pews where Howard and his wife were already seated.