Breaking Ground Page 8

  CHAPTER 14

  At dinner, Rich had told Julie that the person who had waited on him at Holdsworth’s hardware store was certain: The latest frost ever in Ryland had occurred in early June, and that had been nearly fifty years ago. So the odds of a frost two days after the Fourth of July were simply overwhelming. But around two o’clock on the morning of Friday the sixth, when Julie got up to rummage for a third blanket, she would have been willing to bet against even those odds. Now, at six, when Rich came back up to the bedroom dressed in a sweatshirt and long pants, he reported that the thermometer outside the kitchen window read 40 degrees.

  “And you’re going to run?” she asked.

  “I do it in Orono when it’s freezing, so this isn’t a problem, though I did decide on pants instead of shorts. Sure you won’t join me?”

  Julie said that she was taking a break from their early-morning runs.

  “Then I’m off,” Rich said. “Have a good breakfast.”

  “I don’t have to meet Nilsson till seven-thirty. You’ll be back by then.”

  “Not today. I’m taking a long one.”

  “Not slowed down by me.”

  Instead of responding, Rich asked what she wanted for dinner and said he’d take care of shopping. Knowing she wasn’t going to go back to sleep, Julie luxuriated in just lounging under the covers. But when she began to preview the breakfast meeting with Frank Nilsson, she decided to give up and take her shower and dress.

  Julie found a table for two by the window at the back of the diner, a spot where she and Frank could talk without being overheard. But not without being seen. Between 6:30 and 8:30 every weekday, the diner served as Ryland’s principal business center. Carpenters and plumbers and builders constituted the first wave. They were gone by 7:30, replaced by shop owners and professionals, who in turn left by 8:30, their tables taken over by retirees and tourists. The time Frank selected, 7:30, seemed to Julie to match his status. As she saw the clock behind the counter registering exactly that moment, Frank entered the diner, spotted her at the table in the back, and waved.

  It took him some minutes to reach her, however, as he stopped to exchange words with other diners—here a painter, marked by the swatches on his cap, on his way to the door; there another arrivee known to Julie as an insurance agent; finally, with the manager of Ryland Savings Bank, who was seated at the large table that combined the early and late crowds. Frank’s progress reminded Julie of watching the U.S. president make his way up the aisle of the House of Representatives for his State of the Union speech and pausing to glad-hand all along the way. At the large table, the bank manager turned to look in Julie’s direction as he spoke with Frank.

  When Frank at last reached her, he said, “Would have been on time if I hadn’t stopped to talk, but it’s good to keep in touch with town opinion. Hope I didn’t keep you,” he added as he took the seat opposite her.

  Frank Nilsson was a trim, well-built man. From the date of his high school graduation on his résumé, Julie made him out to be forty-five, though his athletic body could have belonged to someone ten years younger. He had dark black hair cut short and carefully brushed. Everything in his appearance was careful, she noted as they ordered breakfast—his crisply pressed tan slacks, long-sleeved cotton dress shirt with cuffs just visible under his green cashmere sweater, well polished tasseled loafers. The only thing surprising was his gray mustache. Facial hair seemed out of place in someone so carefully done up, and the color was surprising given his black hair.

  “Of course everyone’s talking about it,” Frank said, interrupting Julie’s contemplation of him. “Two murders in such a short time, and both such prominent Rylanders. Natural curiosity. But then you’ve heard all this, I’m sure.”

  “I don’t know so many people the way you do,” Julie answered.

  “Well, it takes a while to get comfortable in a little town like ours. Just one, soft-boiled,” Frank sharply corrected the waitress, who had come to the table to say the special was two eggs and toast. “And whole wheat, no butter,” he added.

  Julie felt embarrassed that she had ordered two eggs over easy with sausage and home fries, but she had eaten at the diner enough to know that if you didn’t take advantage of their high-cholesterol offerings, you might as well stay home and indulge in yogurt with berries.

  “Have to watch it,” Frank said to her when the waitress left them. “Every ounce counts at my age,” he added as he tapped himself just above his belt—an area that looked to Julie as flat as the table they were sitting at. Instead of flattering him by saying so, Julie decided to use her icebreaker: “Funny that this place has so many different names, isn’t it? When you suggested meeting here you called it The Greek, the way old-line Ryland people do.”

  Frank laughed. “Afraid I’m not ‘old-line Ryland,’ but my wife is, and that’s what she always calls it. What is it called now, by the way?” he added, looking around the room for an answer.

  “Actually, I have no idea,” Julie replied, “and no one else seems to know, either. So your wife is from Ryland?”

  “Born and bred, quite a few generations. Patty’s maiden name was Oakes—you’ve probably seen the name in the archives.”

  “I think so. Where did you grow up?”

  “York; that’s in southern Maine if you’re not familiar. So I’m not from away, but I’m certainly not old Ryland. Patty and I met in Portland. I was at Bowdoin, and she was at Westbrook. Bowdoin was all-men then, and Westbrook was all-women, so there were lots of mixers. We got married the year she graduated and lived in Wells for a couple of years, and then in Portland when I was doing projects down there. But she always wanted to return to Ryland, and frankly, I was happy to. It’s such a great little town and a perfect place to raise kids. Both of ours graduated from Ryland Academy. Great school. They’re in college now, but they like to come home anytime they can.”

  “Do you live right in town?”

  “Not anymore. After the kids graduated from the academy, we rented our place in town and built a new one out at the skiway.”

  “I lived up there last year,” Julie said. “In a condo. It was really nice.”

  “Ski?”

  “Afraid not, but everyone tells me it’s a great ski mountain. I’m going to take lessons next year and get started.”

  “I can recommend a good instructor when you’re ready. I helped develop the ski area and the condos and keep my hand in things there.”

  Their breakfasts arrived, and they both began to eat, letting the conversation slide as they did so. After he had crushed his boiled egg into small bits, Frank continued. “So tell me about your plans for Ryland Historical Society, Julie. I hear you’re really doing a great job there, by the way. Mary Ellen was so happy. What a shame!”

  “Mary Ellen was a great supporter of the society, as you know,” Julie said in the automatic way she had learned to talk about major benefactors. Mary Ellen’s intrusive and inconsistent behavior during the planning of the new center wasn’t pertinent now. Julie elaborated on Mary Ellen’s gift, the many ways the society would benefit from the building, her hopes for increased programming and activities to increase attendance. “So it’s a pretty exciting time for us, and as you know, we couldn’t do any of it without the trustees. Mary Ellen certainly thought you’d have a lot to contribute.”

  “Mary Ellen was always looking for more money for her causes,” Frank replied.

  “Oh, I don’t mean money. Or not just money, though the trustees do support the society financially.” Or some do, she said to herself, thinking particularly of Clif Holdsworth’s notable lack of generosity. “There’s so much to do in setting directions, developing policy, overseeing operations. It’s a very good board, but as you probably know, we lost two other trustees last year, and now, of course, Mary Ellen.”

  “Worth Harding and Martha Preston, right,” he said. “Tell me, do you really think I could offer something on the board, really help out? I don’t do things halfway, and I
don’t enjoy just sitting on a board for the sake of it. If I came on, I’d get pretty involved.”

  “That’s exactly what we need, but as I said before, the decision to elect new members is up to the board.”

  “Understood. But you’re the director, and I’d come on only if you thought I could be helpful.”

  “From everything I know, you’d be very helpful. With the new project, for example, Dalton Scott’s been such a big help because he’s an architect. And we need additional skills like that. You’ve done so many real estate projects that you could really add to the board’s expertise.”

  “I do know a little about developments, but I don’t have any experience with historical societies. Before I moved here I was mostly in retirement communities, in York County and down the coast. Ryland Skiway was my first project up here.”

  “Birch Brook sounds pretty big,” Julie prompted him.

  Frank finished his egg, which he had been slowly nibbling at as Julie tucked into her decidedly larger breakfast, which she was a little embarrassed to see was now finished. The waitress refilled their coffee cups, and Julie sipped from hers as she waited for Frank to talk about his new project.

  “It’s big for Ryland,” he said after their plates were removed.

  “Thirty-five townhouses to start with, but that’s only phase one. We’ve got over four hundred acres there—lots of room for more units if things go as we hope. Terrible shame Mary Ellen won’t be around to see the project.”

  “She was happy about it?”

  “Happy to sell the land,” Frank said. “Who wouldn’t be? She didn’t have any plans for it. She struck a hard bargain, but it was fair.”

  “I’m sure it was, but I sort of got the impression that Mary Ellen wasn’t entirely sure about it.” Julie didn’t consider a small lie too high a price to pay for drawing out Frank on the subject of the land sale, but she was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction.

  “Where’d you get that idea?” he asked bluntly, and locked directly on her eyes with a look Julie thought almost menacing.

  “Oh, nothing in particular. I just seem to have the impression that she was maybe having second thoughts.” Okay, Julie said to herself, if you get started with a small lie you have to be ready to keep going.

  “She never said anything to me about second thoughts,” Frank said firmly. “We’re paying a high price. She couldn’t have done better. And she was pretty eager to get that cash so she could finish off her gift to you.”

  Julie realized she couldn’t continue down the path she had put herself on without risking a confrontation. Moreover, she had absolutely no reason to believe that Mary Ellen was planning to cancel the deal, and if pressed by Frank—who seemed perfectly capable of pressing her—she’d end up with an unsustainable story. “You’re right about that; she was eager to complete the gift. So I’m sure whatever else I might have heard was just gossip.”

  “Not a good thing to listen to, especially in a small town where people think they know a lot more than they usually do about other people’s business.”

  Julie nodded.

  “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer, and I should also get out to Birch Brook and see if Luke’s getting ready to start next week. I enjoyed our talk, Julie, and if your board is interested, you can tell them I’d consider it an honor to become involved with the Ryland Historical Society. This is mine,” he added as he scooped up the check. “Good to talk,” he said again as he rose to leave. “It’s been very interesting.”

  Indeed, Julie said to herself as she rose to follow Frank toward the door.

  CHAPTER 15

  Julie’s first call when she got to her office was to Howard Townsend for what she recognized as a cover-your-rear tactic. Knowing how things happened in Ryland, she could imagine Frank and Howard running into each other and comparing notes, and she didn’t want the board chair to think she was working behind his back. As it turned out, the conversation was easy. Howard said he was glad she was following up on the matter and happy to know Frank had expressed interest. “He’s a go-getter,” the board chair said. “Got his hands into everything. And on the money.”

  The second call was to Rich. She was so excited about the breakfast with Nilsson that she had to talk about it, even though she knew Rich didn’t share her interest.

  She recounted the breakfast conversation, emphasizing Frank’s sudden and strong denial that Mary Ellen had been having second thoughts about the land sale.

  “I didn’t know she was,” Rich said.

  “It was a bluff—to see Frank’s reaction. And, boy, did he react! I think that’s pretty suspicious.”

  “Julie, I thought you said you weren’t going to get into this.”

  “I’m not getting into anything. Just, well, trying to figure out if …”

  “If Frank Nilsson had a reason to kill Mary Ellen Swanson to keep her from backing out. I know what you’re up to, but you need to let the police handle it.”

  “Mrs. Detweiller’s here. I can hear her stomping around out there. I have to go. We’ll talk more about this over dinner, okay?”

  After sorting out some work with Mrs. Detweiller, Julie was surprised to see it was already 9:30, and she had no time before the tour at ten to talk to Tabby Preston in the library or to jot down notes on her meeting with Frank. Distracted, Julie felt unable to throw herself into the tour with the energy she customarily deployed. Although the dozen summer visitors of varying degrees of uninterest in Ryland’s history seemed not to notice, Julie felt she had let them, and herself, down. As they trooped off to the gift shop after the tour, she was content to return to Swanson House to talk with Tabby.

  Not that a talk with Tabby would raise anyone’s spirits. She had been volunteering as society librarian and archivist for several years before Julie arrived as director. A Ryland native, Tabby had left town for college and then for a career as a school librarian in a small town on the coast. Julie assumed that she had retired early because she was still in her early sixties. What motivated Tabby’s return to Ryland wasn’t a topic Julie could ever have broached with the woman, but she guessed it had to do with Tabby’s sister, Martha. Martha, too, had gone off to college and then worked at a fairly high executive level in some retail business in southern New England. The two spinsters had returned together to live in the stately Federal house they had grown up in below the Common and just behind First Church of Christ, Congregational. Martha, too, had become involved with Ryland Historical Society, first as the volunteer manager of the gift shop, a job befitting her retail career, and then as a trustee. Julie had heard the stories of Tabby’s anger that it was Martha rather than she to whom the board had extended the latter honor. But the sisters remained close in the antagonistic, cat-and-dog way typical of small-town family relationships.

  And then their lives took a terrible turn just when Julie entered the scene. Julie could never bring herself to inquire about Martha’s state, and Tabby never mentioned her sister. Tabby continued to work diligently in the library, and she and Julie maintained a perfectly correct and productive professional relationship. As Worth Harding had often remarked, Tabby was a great gift to the Ryland Historical Society because she did for free the work that would have cost a good deal if she were a paid staff member. Both for that reason and because she genuinely sympathized with Tabby, Julie always went out of her way to be pleasant to her.

  And so she would be this morning, Julie resolved, as she climbed the stairs behind Mrs. Detweiller’s office to the second-floor library and archives room. Tabby was sitting at her desk in the center of the large room, squinting through bifocals at a pile of papers and at first too absorbed to notice Julie’s entrance. No one else was in the room. Julie cleared her throat and said good morning.

  “Sorry, Dr. Williamson,” Tabby said as she looked up to locate the source of the sound. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

  “You’re working too hard, Tabby,” Julie said, deciding to skip her usual correct
ion of the librarian’s formal manner of address. For a year Julie had called her Tabby and tried to get her to reciprocate with Julie, but she had made no progress on that front and resigned herself to it.

  “These papers just seem to grow. Every time I finish cataloging a batch, another one springs up. And I’ve put some more letters in that folder for you.”

  “The Tabor papers?”

  “Yes. I found some more of Dr. Tabor’s letters from the thirties. What a letter writer he was! No one bothers today.”

  The papers had been donated, a year before Julie’s arrival at the historical society, by descendants of Dr. Samuel Tabor, who had practiced in Ryland for the first four decades of the twentieth century. Julie learned about them last winter when Tabby had, just like today in her usual timid way, apologized for spending so much time cataloging them. To show Tabby that she endorsed the work, Julie had spent some time then looking through the papers, fascinated by their random nature: copies of prescriptions; papers torn from medical journals and fiercely annotated by the doctor, as if he were engaged in a heated argument with the author; long personal letters describing life in rural Maine to family members in Tabor’s native Connecticut; notes and minutes from various selectmen’s committees on which he served. Surveying them briefly, Julie saw then that the Tabor papers were a rich lode from which she could mine articles—perhaps even a book—that would enhance her professional standing while, of course, contributing to public knowledge of Ryland’s history.