Breaking Ground (18 page)

“Not very pretty, I'll bet.”

“Well, I'm just getting started,” she said sheepishly, thinking of how little she had actually accomplished—and seeing on her desk the green folder that Tabby had given her with some additional Tabor letters. “But I'm sure things were tough.”

“Probably why Old Dan sold the land to the Dyers then. But then Paul—that's Luke's dad—sold it back to Dan—Mary Ellen's husband—in 1997. That's why Luke's mad. If his dad had kept it in the family, Luke wouldn't have had to join up with Frank to buy it yesterday so they can do the condo development.”

“Why did Paul Dyer sell it?”

“I have no idea. I came to Ryland that year, but I didn't represent the Swansons until two years later, when their old attorney died. Maybe that's in the Swanson letters you mentioned.”

“You think Luke didn't know, and is trying to find out now?”

“Hard to say. Maybe you should just ask him.”

“Or find out by reading the rest of the papers,” Julie mused. “I was having trouble sorting it all out. Hold on a second.”

Julie quickly jotted notes on a yellow pad and then placed it in front of the attorney.

1890s: Herbert Swanson (Dan's grandfather) owned land west along river; Leonard Dyer (Luke's great-grandfather) owned land east along river; current Birch Brook parcel was between and disputed; they went to court, Swanson got Birch Brook.

Depression: Old Dan Swanson (Dan's father) sold Birch Brook to Paul Dyer (Luke's father).

1997: Paul Dyer sold it back to Dan Swanson for $700,000.

This year: Frank Nilsson and Luke Dyer buy from Mary Ellen Swanson for $2.5M.

“That looks right to me,” LaBelle said. “But why is this important?”

Before Julie could respond, there was a knock at the door. “It's for you, Mr. LaBelle,” Mrs. Detweiller said when Julie opened the door. “Mr. Swanson's calling. He said he tried you at your office and they said you were here. He says it's urgent.”

“You can use my phone,” Julie said.

“Good morning, Steven,” the attorney said after Mrs. Detweiller transferred the call to Julie's phone. The look on his face told Julie something was wrong. “Just now? That's strange … But I'm not a criminal lawyer. I can recommend one, but do you think that's necessary? Maybe it's just routine.”

Julie felt uncomfortable listening in, but her curiosity trumped that feeling.

“Okay, I'll stop by and see what's happening. I'll call you from there—you're at the house, right? Okay. Don't worry; I'm sure there's a simple explanation. I'll talk to you shortly.”

Henry returned the phone to the cradle and sat silently for a few seconds, apparently collecting his thoughts. Julie asked, “Something wrong?”

“Not sure. Seems strange to me: Mike went to the Swansons' this morning and asked Elizabeth to come to the police station to answer some questions. Steven's upset. As I told him, I don't do criminal law, although I am the family lawyer, so I think I'd better go over to the station and see what's happening. I'll get back to you later about the probate situation,” he said as he left.

“Probate?” Julie said aloud. “What about Elizabeth?”

“Tabby left these for you,” Mrs. Detweiller said after Henry left and Julie was sitting at her desk thinking. The secretary handed over a pile of papers.

“Thanks, Mrs. Detweiller. Tabby didn't need to rush; I told her not to.”

“Oh,” the secretary added as she walked toward the door, “your friend called—Mr. O'Brian. While you were with Mr. LaBelle. I told him you couldn't be disturbed.”

Having a secretary for the first time ever had seemed to Julie a wonderful perk when she started the job last year. Since then, she had every reason to be pleased with Mrs. Detweiller's typing and filing skills; yes, on the whole, Julie had to admit, Mrs. Detweiller was just fine. But why, then, did the secretary drive her to distraction with her implied criticisms, her innuendos, her formality that made “Mrs. Detweiller” and “Dr. Williamson” their customary forms of address? Maybe those reasons are enough, Julie thought angrily as she punched in Rich's number on her phone.

What had just happened made Julie even more eager than usual to talk to Rich, so when his message came on she was both disappointed and irked. Instead of relaying the recent news she left a short confirmation that she was returning his call. Which is pretty obvious, she said to herself after hanging up. Then she decided it was just as well he wasn't available; she knew he was becoming impatient with her involvement in the murder. And maybe he's right, she thought. Maybe …

“It's almost noon, Dr. Williamson,” Mrs. Detweiller said sharply after knocking on the door to Julie's office. “You have a tour. In case you forgot.”

Julie walked quickly to Holder House and arrived just as the first several people were coming out of the bus. She really hated to think she was already putting her tour talk on autopilot, but she was grateful that she had enough of a script in her head. Unfortunately, it was the wrong script. The tour was a garden club from Medina, Ohio, a fact Julie would have known had she spent a few moments looking over the booking form before she left her office. It was doubly unfortunate that Julie neither knew nor cared about flowers. But if she didn't have flowers in common with the group, she did have Ohio. And she made the most of it; but somehow telling the thirty people assembled for their tour about growing up in southern Ohio didn't seem to make up for not knowing the flowering dates of the shrubs that several asked her about as they walked around Holder House before going in.

“It's a different zone, anyway,” one of the women said curtly. “Medina is way far north of the river. Zone five. You must have grown up in Zone six.”

Having not the faintest idea what the woman meant, Julie smiled and hurried the group inside to the welcome area that displayed artifacts of various Ryland's history. She was relieved to see Mabel Hanson, a volunteer, in the gift shop. Mabel was also responsible for the society's gardens. “After I do the general introduction, Mabel, maybe you could take them through our gardens? You know everything about them, and that's what they really want to hear about.”

Mabel agreed, and Julie finished off the local-history bit of the tour in record time and turned the group over to the volunteer, relieved but still disappointed in herself for neglecting to prepare. On top of that, as she walked back to her office she continued to have doubts about whether she should pursue her growing interest in Mary Ellen's murder investigation. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she was extremely surprised to find Steven Swanson
pacing in front of the secretary's empty desk, looking, as seemed usual for him, lost and uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry if you've been waiting long,” Julie said. “Mrs. Detweiller is out to lunch, and I was doing a tour at Holder House. What can I do for you?”

“These are for you,” he said, pointing at four large cardboard boxes stacked outside the door to her office. “Last night after the funeral seemed like a good time to pack them.” Julie looked puzzled. “Mostly just old papers, letters, and documents,” Steven said. “Mom had gathered them up but hadn't boxed them yet. I figured she was planning to give them to the historical society.”

“Oh! Of course. Your mother had already given us some, and I knew there were more. That's very kind of you, especially under the circumstances.”

“Circumstances? Which one do you mean—Mom's funeral, or Elizabeth?”

Julie knew a plea for help when she heard it. “Do you have a minute to come in, Steven?” She gestured toward her office door, he meekly followed, and she closed the door behind them.

“I really appreciate your bringing in the papers,” she said.

“Well, I know that's what Mom wanted, and last night it was pretty hard to concentrate on anything, so I just boxed them up. I was planning to call you to see when I could bring them in, but then Elizabeth … well, I guess you've probably heard.”

“I hope everything's okay.”

“Elizabeth's back at the house. Mind if I sit down?”

“Please.”

“I don't know what Barlow was thinking. But maybe it was the state cops. They said some kid saw someone who looked like Elizabeth—a blonde woman, anyway—talking to Mom at the construction site. Before …”

“Last Tuesday?”

“Right. Before Mom was killed.” He paused. “Anyway, it couldn't have been Elizabeth, because she was at the house with me. Well, she told them that, and then Barlow asked me to verify it. Which of course I did. So Elizabeth's back at the house, but they told her to stay in Maine for twenty-four hours because they need to do some more checking. This is all nuts. And Elizabeth's fit to be tied.”

“I don't blame her,” Julie said. “But it sounds to me like everything's straightened out now.”

“I hope so. Elizabeth just wants to get back home and back to work. She doesn't want to set foot in this town—or state—again.” Before Julie could think of a response, Steven stood up. “I shouldn't keep you. Just wanted to leave off those boxes.”

“Thanks again, and if there's anything I can do, just let me know.”

He extended his hand and shook hers weakly, then walked distractedly out the door before Julie could ask him if he wanted a receipt for tax purposes for the papers. Well, she decided, she could do that later. Julie found it hard to believe Steven was essentially her own age. She thought of him as a boy, a boy reeling now that his mother was killed and his wife seemed so unsympathetic. But that wasn't her concern now; the boxes were.

She was opening the first one when Mrs. Detweiller returned from lunch. “I'll get someone to take them upstairs,” the secretary said after Julie explained them. “They shouldn't be cluttering things up here.”

“I'll just put them in my office for now,” Julie said. “I should look them over quickly anyway.”

“If that's what you'd like.”

Julie was sliding the last of the four boxes into her office when Mike walked into the reception area.

“Thanks,” she said to the policeman's offer to help with the box. “This is the last one.” She decided not to tell him about the boxes' contents. “But I suspect you didn't come by to move boxes.”

“Not quite,” he admitted. “Mind if I close the door? It's been a busy morning.”

“Really?”

“Frankly, I'm pissed, if you'll excuse my French. Those stupid staties!” he answered. “But forget I just said that. Look, if you have a few minutes I need to ask a couple of questions.”

“Shoot.”

“Okay, I know we went through this last week, and everything checked out, but I have to ask you again about the morning Mrs. Swanson was killed, between nine-thirty and ten-thirty.”

“I was at the Inn, checking on arrangements for the lunch. You confirmed it.”

“Right. But let me just ask again: When you were over at the construction site putting those shovels out, did you happen to notice a woman around—not Mrs. Swanson, a younger woman, blonde?”

“So your interest in my hair color wasn't exactly personal?” Julie asked with a sly smile.

Mike blushed. “Sorry about that. I got it straight now, but I had to check.”

“Why the interest in a blonde?”

“Let's just say someone thought there was a young blonde woman at the construction site that morning, maybe around nine forty-five or ten, and maybe arguing with Mrs. Swanson.”

“And you thought it was me?”

“Come on, Julie, you know I have to check things. The State Police detective interviewed the kid who said he saw them. I know the kid, and he's totally unreliable—a troublemaker, most likely looking for his fifteen minutes of fame—but the detective wanted
to pursue it. Of course he has to follow every lead. Anyway, yesterday I just had to be sure the kid hadn't seen you there when you were arranging the shovels. I didn't think you were blonde, but …”

“I understand. No, I'm not now and never have been blonde. And, to answer your question, I didn't see anyone at the construction site—no one at all, let alone a blonde woman, let alone Elizabeth Myerson.”

“What does
that
mean?”

She explained that Henry had been in her office when Steven called, and then about Steven's own recent visit and his report about his wife.

“Small town,” the policeman said. “So you know we talked to her, and Steven confirmed she was at the Swanson house all morning. But he's her husband, so we have to take what he says with a grain of salt.”

“And that's why you're questioning me?”

“Just confirming. Absolutely no one around? Not even, say, a kid on a bike, maybe back in the woods?”

“Was the kid in the woods when he saw a blonde?”

“Just take a minute to think about it again. When you were there Tuesday morning, was there any chance that a woman, blonde or not, was anywhere around? Or anyone in the woods? Could you have heard a noise from there?”

Julie closed her eyes. The power of suggestion was strong, she knew, so she tried not to imagine the scene the police had been told about and instead blanked her mind and concentrated on that morning. But, except for the sharp image of the yellow backhoe, the blank remained.

“Sorry. I'm pretty sure I didn't see anyone, or hear anyone in the woods, but I honestly can't be definitive.”

“Sure,” he said. “You can't rule it out, but you can't remember. That a fair statement?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, that'll do as far as I'm concerned. I'll tell the detective. Maybe he'll move on to something else.”

“Like the shovel? Any luck on that?”

“Nothing. It's possible it'll never turn up. Anyway, thanks for your statement. And I'm sorry about—”