Breaking Ground

by William Andrews

  That thought taking firm shape in her mind, Julie rolled out of bed and stood at the window of the guest room. Though only half full, the moon was bright enough to illuminate the woods behind the inn. Julie thought of what effect the light was having on the view from her bedroom in Harding House. The sooner the break-in was solved and the criminal arrested, the sooner she could go back. Tomorrow Rich would be there, so that would be fine. But when he returned to Orono on Sunday she would face the choice of having to stay on in the house by herself or continuing to seek refuge at the Black Crow Inn until someone was arrested for the break-in.

  She pulled the wicker chair beside the bed to just in front of the window and sat down to think this through. So much depended on what Mike found out about where Frank and Luke had been last night. Wait a minute, she told herself: I do know where Frank was last night. He had gone to Boothbay Harbor to check on one of his projects and had stayed at the Nilsson camp near there. He got back just as Julie and Patty were finishing up with the papers. If he was there, he couldn’t have broken into Harding House this morning. Then it must have been Luke. Mike had greeted that possibility with obvious skepticism, but then he knew Luke a lot better than Julie did. Besides, as both Dalton and Mike had pointed out, Luke had good reason for the truth about the ownership of Birch Brook to be exposed, not hidden. So if the Oakes diary shed some light on the question, wouldn’t he want it, too, to become public? Even if for some reason he didn’t, Julie couldn’t imagine any simple way for Luke to steal the diary if it had been among the Oakes papers that Patty reviewed at her house.

  Julie’s head was spinning now. There were just too many questions. And she was too restless. She had brought a book with her and decided this was the moment for which she meant it. She located the paperback catalog of New England quilts in her bag, sat down with it in the chair next to the window, and tried to find it interesting. The pictures were the best part—well-done illustrations of brightly colored quilts from an exhibition in Boston. But the prose in the essays just didn’t keep her attention. She flipped back to the illustrations. Great images, she thought.

  Yes, images. She remembered now how Mike had tried to guide her to recall the scene at the tent when he was investigating whether someone in the woods might have witnessed the murder. He had told her to close her eyes and recapture the scene, not thinking in words but focusing on images. What did you see? he had asked. She decided she should try again now. She turned off the reading lamp. The moon was still too bright, so she pulled the curtains closed. Sitting back down, she closed her eyes and tried to relax. What did she see? The tent. The patch of earth marked in flags to indicate the site for the ceremonial digging. The table under the tent. The shovels on the table—she couldn’t count them, and while she knew she had brought four and later found only three, she really couldn’t make out how many were in the scene she was reconstructing. Must be four, she said, because this was at 9:30 and I'd just brought them over. What else could she remember? The woods behind the construction site were there but not vivid—just something she was aware of, but not clear enough for her to answer Mike’s question about whether someone on a bike might have been back there. She rotated her mental picture and looked the other way, toward the back of the buildings of the Ryland Historical Society. She squeezed her eyes tighter and there was the yellow backhoe. The machine was sitting there waiting for the groundbreaking to be over so it could dig into the earth and create the ditches in which the foundation for the new Swanson Center would be poured. Julie thought of it almost as an animate object, capable of digging on its own, and eager to get started.

  If only it were animate, Julie said as she opened her eyes and sat quietly, trying to find the meaning in this. If it were the animal she pictured it as being, the backhoe would have been a witness to Mary Ellen’s murder. And that was just silly, she told herself. But something about the recalled scene troubled her. She was still trying to figure out the source of her unease when she fell asleep.

  When she woke to the sound of crows in the trees behind the inn—the birds for whom Dalton had named his establishment—she was at first surprised to discover she was sitting in the chair. Then she remembered the long, sleepless night. She looked at her watch: 6:15. She couldn’t have slept for more than a few hours, and though she was stiff from having done that sleeping in a sitting position, she felt oddly refreshed. She recalled the previous night’s long conversations with herself about Frank and Luke, about missing letters and a missing diary, about alibis and motives. What stood out was not all her arguments, but a simple, clear, vivid image: the yellow backhoe. But she still didn’t know why that seemed important.

  Julie had no idea whether Dalton and Nickie were early risers, but she decided to play it safe by staying in her room and reading till she heard them. A perfect chance, she told herself, to learn more about quilting. Around 7:30, when she heard voices in the hall, she decided that what she knew about quilting was adequate for the foreseeable future.

  She declined Dalton’s offer of breakfast in favor of stopping at the diner on her way to the office. She ordered the “Lucky Day Special” without realizing its meaning until she overheard two customers behind her talking about Friday the thirteenth. Oddly, she did feel lucky—because Rich was coming this afternoon. She had phoned him yesterday about the Nilsson invitation and was pleased he was agreeable. With luck on this supposed unlucky day, she thought, Rich would arrive early enough and she would finish the trustee meeting early enough to allow them time before they had to leave for dinner. And the pre-dinner sauna, she reminded herself, thinking of Frank Nilsson’s smarmy look when he'd mentioned nudity. She had warned Rich to bring a bathing suit.

  The blinking light on her office phone alerted her to Mike’s message: “Had a talk with Frank and Luke,” the voice said. “I should probably fill you in. Give me a call when you get in. Oh, it’s about seven a.m. You’re keeping banker’s hours, Dr. Williamson.”

  “If you’ve got coffee on, I’ll just swing by,” the policeman said when she returned his call. Five minutes later he was sitting in her office. The coffee she'd started after the phone call was still dripping.

  “Not very helpful, I guess,” he began. “They both check out. Frank says he was home with Patty last Tuesday morning, working in his office there. And he was at their place down the coast this Wednesday night. Went down to check on one of his projects at Boothbay Harbor and stayed over.”

  “Or so he said,” Julie said, and then briefly explained about being at the Nilsson house yesterday when Frank had returned.

  “Right. I didn’t check with people in Boothbay yet, but I can do that.”

  “And Patty verified that her husband was working at the house the day Mary Ellen was killed?”

  “Haven’t checked that, either. As to Luke, he said he was out at the Birch Brook site the morning Mary Ellen was killed, and at home this Wednesday. I can check with his wife about that, I guess, but there’s really no way to verify his story about being at the condo site last Tuesday.”

  “So we really don’t know,” Julie said. “I mean, if their wives support their stories, it looks like Frank couldn’t have killed Mary Ellen and Luke couldn’t have broken into my house. But Luke could be lying about Tuesday morning, and Frank could be lying about Wednesday night. We can’t really confirm either one of those stories.”

  “We could eliminate Frank as far as the break-in goes if some of his people at the Boothbay project confirm he was there.”

  “He could have gone down there but not stayed the night.”

  “True. But if you were thinking the same person who killed Mary Ellen broke into your house, neither Frank nor Luke could have done both.”

  “Assuming their wives confirm they were home those times. Are you going to ask them?”

  “That coffee ready yet?” Mike asked. Julie went to the outer office and returned with two steaming mugs. “It’s getting a little awkward,” Mike continued as he sipped the hot coffe
e. “This is a small town, Julie, and I’m reluctant to make waves unless I have to. It wasn’t easy questioning Frank and Luke. They were naturally suspicious. I had to make up a little story to cover things.”

  “How’d you do that?”

  “Oh, I can tell a white lie when I have to. About Wednesday night, I made up a story that a driver had been run off the highway and reported vehicles like theirs. Said I didn’t really think they had been out in the middle of the night but had to follow up. Just hope they don’t talk to each other and compare notes since I told Luke the vehicle was a pickup like his, and told Frank the vehicle was an SUV like his. Probably the driver was confused and said it could have been either a pickup or an SUV! Maybe that’ll do it.”

  “You’re devious, Chief Barlow,” Julie teased. “But how did you bring up the morning of Mary Ellen’s murder?”

  “Didn’t have to lie on that. I just told them that while I was talking to them, I needed to do what the State Police asked me to do and ask everyone I could if they had been near the historical society that Tuesday morning and might have seen anything. Actually, I put a notice in The Ryland Gazette along those lines, asking anyone who might have been around there to get in touch with me. Both of them had seen that, as a matter of fact, so it was pretty easy.”

  “Maybe I’ll find out some more tonight,” Julie said. “Frank invited Rich and me to have dinner there.”

  “You sure you want to do that? If you really suspect him, won’t you feel a bit creepy?”

  “Rich will be there—and Patty.”

  “At least you’re not planning to do any interrogating, I assume.”

  “Of course not. Frank is being considered to be a trustee of the historical society, and Patty is giving us some of her family papers. So I’m just doing my job. But about those papers, Mike, there’s something you might want to know.”

  “With a refill,” he said, and Julie went to get it. Mrs. Detweiller had arrived, and Julie spent a few minutes chatting with her about some tours before rejoining Mike. She explained about the missing Oakes diary and her supposition about what it could mean about Birch Brook. And she mentioned Dr. Tabor’s letter describing the sale of the Swanson property in the Depression.

  “Which confirms what the 1997 letter said,” Mike noted. Julie agreed. “But no details?”

  “No, that’s true.”

  “Well, missing letter, missing diary. You do seem to have trouble holding on to things,” Mike said. “But all this is getting to seem more like a history project than a police investigation.”

  “Maybe that’s where I come in,” Julie said.

  “I can’t stop you from speculating.”

  Did the lab people find out anything about the break-in?”

  “Haven’t heard. Probably won’t till next week. Did you get your door fixed?”

  “They were supposed to put on a dead bolt yesterday. I haven’t been by the house to check yet.”

  “Good. I need to push off. Oh, by the way, did I mention that I called Steven Swanson, while I was at it, and he says he was in New Hampshire Wednesday and Thursday, showing houses during the day and at home with Elizabeth at night. Anyway, remember not to give the Nilssons the third-degree tonight. Of course, if you do pick up anything …”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” she answered.

  CHAPTER 36

  When she did not find them terribly frustrating, the meetings of the Ryland Historical Society board amused Julie. The first couple of monthly meetings after she’d started in the job had been sheer torture, but she found she was coming to look forward to them, not so much for the content but for the theatrical experience they offered. She previewed today’s meeting as she sat in her office early Friday afternoon, ostensibly preparing for it, but the meetings were so predictable that she had learned there was nothing special required of her.

  Trustee meetings were Howard Townsend’s show. He wrote the script and orchestrated the dialogue, and the trustees played their roles with admirable consistency. Clif, the treasurer and general curmudgeon, could always be relied on to hint at fiscal doom ahead. Loretta, bright and chirpy, would find something wonderful to contemplate in the smallest matter. Henry, the ironic attorney, was always good for a sharp dig. Dalton confined himself to matters he knew about, which over the past year had been exclusively those relating to the plans for the Swanson Center. Julie was brought up short when she realized that there were no other actors now on the stage called the board of trustees. Today’s would be the first official meeting without Mary Ellen. Despite all of Mary Ellen’s to-ing and fro-ing, Julie really was missing her.

  Howard’s role as director of the play began with the stage setting and props. He insisted on an urn of coffee and several trays of cookies. Julie had begun smuggling bottles of water and some fresh fruit into the room, additions warmly greeted by Loretta, Henry, and Dalton but snubbed by Howard and Clif. “Who eats fruit at this hour?” the board chair had asked the first time he had seen the apples and grapes on the tray beside the cookies. In fact, Loretta, Mike, Dalton, and Julie did eat fruit, which the two older men watched with increasing dismay. Julie thought, though, that Howard was secretly pleased with the new menu, since the fruit diverted some of the trustees from the cookies, leaving more for Clif and himself to divide up at the end of the meeting and take home for private consumption.

  “Everything’s ready, Dr. Williamson,” Mrs. Detweiller announced from where she stood in the door between the offices. “I got extra cookies this time. They always seem to go fast.”

  They did, Julie knew, only when the meetings ended. Gathering her papers, she headed to the classroom in Holder House that was set up for the trustee meeting. Although it was only 3:45, she wasn’t surprised that Howard was already present. And having a chocolate-chip cookie with his coffee. Julie opened a bottle of Poland Spring water.

  “Everything looks in order,” Howard said as he scrutinized the agenda Mrs. Detweiller had mailed to the board earlier in the week. “I expect Dalton will have some backup papers on the project, though. The building committee met on Wednesday, didn’t it?”

  Julie said it had, and described their discussion and recommendations. “So we’ll have to vote on signing the construction contract,” the board chair said. “Clif will have some tough questions about the numbers, I’m sure, so Dalton will need some paper on that.”

  Whether Dalton had prepared “some paper on that” Julie didn’t know, so she simply said she was sure that he would be ready. “We had a good meeting, Howard,” she continued, “and the building committee is eager to move ahead.”

  “Assuming we’ll be getting Mary Ellen’s gift, of course.”

  “I’m sure Henry will have something to say on that.”

  “And so I will,” said Henry as he joined them. “Good news, in fact. Judge Childerson phoned this morning to say he sees no problem about making the disbursal right away. With the proceeds of the land sale, there’s plenty of cash in the estate account, so as soon as the judge puts it in writing I’ll be able to prepare a check.”

  “Good old Mary Ellen,” Howard said. “How we’ll miss her.” And her money, Julie thought the board chair was silently saying. But out loud she simply agreed, heartily and with deep sadness. Being here for the meeting without Mary Ellen brought home her death so sharply, though Julie continued to wonder how many of the others shared that view.

  “Well, that should satisfy Clif,” Howard continued.

  “Seeing Clif satisfied will be worth the ticket of admission,” Henry observed.

  Loretta and Dalton entered just in time to catch Henry’s comment, and after Henry explained it, Dalton said, “Anyone care to wager on it?”

  “I don’t think that would be appropriate,” Howard said sternly. “And here’s our treasurer now.” Clif walked stiffly across the room, headed directly for the cookie tray.

  “You must have been talking about money,” Clif said between bites of a large peanut-butter cooki
e. “I didn’t think I was late; it seems like you already got started.”

  “Not at all,” Howard said. “We’d hardly begin without you, but as we’re all assembled now … let’s be seated.”

  Howard called the meeting to order and asked, as he always did, for a motion to forgo the reading of the minutes since they had been mailed. And, as always, Clif so moved. Dalton seconded, and it was duly authorized that the minutes would not be read aloud. They never were, but Howard always insisted on accomplishing that obvious convenience with a formal motion.

  “Corrections or comments?” the chair then asked. “Hearing none, I call for a motion to approve the minutes.”

  “One moment, Mr. Chairman,” Clif Holdsworth said. “You didn’t hear my correction because you didn’t give me a chance to say it before your call for approval.”

  “I’m sorry, Clif. Please proceed.”

  “In the third paragraph of the second page,” Clif intoned, “the word ‘approve’ should be deleted and the word ‘accept’ introduced in its place. That refers to the treasurer’s report, as you may know.”

  Indeed they did, because each time Clif gave his treasurer’s report, one of the trustees would inevitably try to end the agony by moving its approval. And each time that happened, Clif would point out that the report didn’t need to be approved but accepted. The difference between those two actions was of considerable importance to him, but no one else cared, let alone understood. Clif always said he stood ready to explain the vital distinction, but, at least in Julie’s year of meetings, no one had been foolhardy enough to take him up on the offer. Yet Henry, in preparing the minutes, invariably used approved, and with equal invariability Clif had the correction made before the minutes were approved. Julie strongly suspected that Henry took some impish pleasure in what he always apologized for as his “terrible error.”