Midsummer Murder (11 page)

“There was mesh over the rocks on the road.”

Ellis nodded. “We still get an occasional boulder falling onto the road. Only last season, one barely missed a family on its way to the camp. No one was hurt, thank God. It doesn’t happen often. Usually we just get a lot of mud across some of the paths. The park service is good about clearing the main road. There are a lot of tourist attractions near here—near as the crow flies, anyway.”

“None of your land is developed?”

“Heavens no. Not that I have anything against tasteful development, ski slopes and golf courses, and the like, as long as they don’t get too close. But the land has been in our family for generations.

Several hundred acres are held in trust for the camp. Marguerite would never let the homestead be ‘corrupted,’ as she calls it.” Ellis lifted his shoulders in an amused shrug.

“A daunting job.”

“Oh, she doesn’t have the sole voice. I get to put in my two cents worth on occasion. There is a board of trustees, mostly family 67

Shelley Freydont

members.” He smiled, a wistful tilt to his head. “Unfortunately, there are not that many of us left. Only two out of the original six children. Two dead in World War II. One in childhood.

Samuel of a heart ailment. Lord, how I miss him. He did leave a daughter, but she lives in London and is not much interested in the family business.

“It doesn’t really matter. The trust practically runs itself. Our mother was very farsighted. When she saw her first performance of Ted Shawn and Ruth St. Denis, she fell in love with dance. She modeled this camp along the same philosophy as the one run by Shawn. Of course as an early suffragette, she included girls.” His eyes twinkled.

“Our resident writers and visual artists have their living quarters and studios over that ridge, closer to the county road. They keep pretty much to themselves, communing with nature, and all that.”

Lindy followed the direction of his finger but could see nothing but trees.

“And we have our own resident archaeologists. I think Van Zandt has been here as long as some of the fossils he’s looking for. They haven’t found anything but a bunch of oyster shells, but they keep plugging away year after year.”

“I don’t suppose they would be too enthused about any development of the area, either.”

“Just mention developers and Van Zandt goes berserk. His crew have had more than a few run-ins with the locals over it.”

“The locals? They’re in favor of development?”

“Mainly they’re afraid that if the archaeologists
do
find something, the Indians will claim the land and put up a casino. This is a depressed area. Has been for years. First the sawmills shut down. Then all the young people started moving away. When the highway came through, they hoped it would boost the local economy, but nothing materialized.

All the money-making ventures seemed to spring up all around here but just out of reach. The locals figure if anyone is going to make money off the land, it had better be them.”

“I can’t believe that anyone who lives in such a beautiful place would be willing to sacrifice it for a few extra tourist dollars.”

“I think most people would sacrifice just about anything to make life better for themselves or their children. Fortunately, I’ve never had to make a choice like that, and I’m not eager to judge those who do.”

68

Midsummer Murder

Lindy regarded him thoughtfully. Until now, Ellis had seemed shallow and ineffectual, though he was entertaining. But this small window into his thoughts, and the unexpected compassion she had found there made her readjust her opinion of him. It also made her angry to think that one man was intent on bringing his family to grief.

“Is that why Sheriff Grappel is so antagonistic?” she asked.

Ellis expelled an explosion of air. “Byron Grappel is an ass—in the
Equus
sense, mind you.”

Lindy didn’t know if he meant the genus or the play by Peter Schaffer.

“
Equus asinus
,” Ellis clarified. “But to answer your question.

There are a few movers and shakers in town who have their eyes on the property. Some parcels could be sold off within the terms of the trust, and they would love to put up ski resorts, shopping outlets, and a theme park. And the sheriff, being a paid county employee, wouldn’t mind feathering his own nest. But the reason for his

‘antagonism’, as you understate it, doesn’t have to do with the land.” Ellis brushed his hands together. “How did we get onto such a sordid topic? I shouldn’t have distracted you.”

“I’m glad you did, I enjoyed talking with you.” Lindy rose from the bench and rubbed the front of her thighs. “But I’d better get going. I’m already getting stiff from sitting too long.”

Ellis nodded. “Another twenty minutes down the path, there’s a bridge where you can dip your toes into the stream.”

“Sounds heavenly.” She continued her jog down the path while Ellis walked slowly back toward the theater.

She passed under a canopy of trees and swatted at a few mosquitoes that buzzed around her face in the damp air. The path wound slowly downward—through thick forest, then past a meadow filled with blue bachelor buttons and into the woods again.

After half an hour she slowed her pace, sweat dripping into her eyes.

She’d be sore tomorrow. She had no idea where she was; she hadn’t come to the bridge. Perhaps, she had gotten off the main path, there were no signs here. She had left the graveled path some minutes ago, and only hardened earth, deeply rutted with erosion, met her feet.

Once again she found herself on a ledge of rock, and below her was a rushing, stream swollen from the recent rain. To the right 69

Shelley Freydont

were the bridge and the path that wound back into the woods.

She had taken a detour and it would take her forever to retrace her steps and then continue to the water. Her feet burned inside her sneakers; the water beckoned. She looked over the side. Rough, but enough places for hand and footholds. A shortcut. She had been running for an hour, and would have to hurry to get to the water if she didn’t want be late for rehearsal.

She wondered for a moment if Jeremy would notice if she were.

To hell with him, she decided. Taking hold of a sapling she stepped downward. Loose rocks, dislodged by her shoe, clattered down the slope before her. Testing the solidity of the ground, she took another step. She skidded, but her grip on the sapling helped her to recover her balance. Carefully, she continued downward, searching for secure stepping places among the roots and stones that littered the way, trading the sapling for a bush and then an overhanging limb.

Halfway down the side, she skidded on wet leaves. The mass of vegetation slid downward, taking her with it. She leaned forward, bending her knees to keep her balance. Her arms stretched to her sides as she navigated past the blurring scenery. Mountain surfing, she thought wryly. This was a little more excitement than she had planned on. Her adrenaline was pumping and was she wrecking the ecology. Guilt, mixed with panic and excitement accompanied her to the bottom.

She had barely reached the base of the cliff, still standing, but heart beating wildly, when a figure rushed at her from behind a tree.

It took a heart-stopping second to realize that its hind legs were covered by jeans, and the arms that were waving furiously were flesh, not fur. Not a bear, but a suntanned young man wearing a Grateful Dead tee shirt.

He rushed up to her and skidded to a stop.

“Are you okay?” he asked breathlessly. “I saw you hauling down that cliff, and I thought you were a goner for sure.”

“I was just taking a shortcut to the stream. I hope I didn’t destroy any flora or fauna on my way.”

His eyes widened. They were a light hazel. “Don’t worry. Stuff is always falling down these cliffs.” His eyes narrowed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”

70

Midsummer Murder

He seemed to be in worse shape than she was. His sun-bleached hair was pulled back in a ponytail, leaving two high cheek bones exposed to view. One was covered by a considerable-sized bruise that had faded to an ugly greenish yellow.

“Looks like you know whereof you speak,” said Lindy pointing to the bruise.

“Huh? Oh, you mean this.” He touched his cheek. “Nah, I got that at the local bar.” His expression changed from concern to embarrassment.

“I’m twenty-one.”

“Ah, that makes all the difference.”

“It wasn’t my fault. Hey, you’re bleeding.”

Lindy twisted her arm around and looked at her stinging elbow. “I think I sideswiped a couple of trees on my way down.” She laughed, suddenly feeling weak in the knees.

“Maybe you’d better sit down.”

“I think that would be a good idea.”

He enclosed her upper arm with strong fingers and led her to a log that lay near the edge of the stream. Pushing her onto it, he began to examine her elbow. “Not too bad, but I can give you a Band-Aid if you come down to camp.”

“You’re an archaeologist?” asked Lindy.

“How could you tell?”

Lindy lifted her chin toward a scene of activity farther along the water where the stream had washed out a wide area before twisting in the opposite direction. Several tents were pitched near the streambed. A battered Jeep that had probably been red in a former lifetime was parked on a ledge behind them. Along the stream, several figures squatted in ankle-deep water within an area marked with stakes and string.

He followed her gaze. “Oh, yeah.” He shrugged. “Actually I’m not an archaeologist yet. But I will be. I have another year of undergrad work. There are a bunch of us doing our independent study with the old man this summer.”

“The old man?”

“Dr. Van Zandt, I mean,” he mumbled. His mother couldn’t have provoked a more embarrassed response.

“Actually, he won’t be too pleased to see you here. It’s off limits to anybody but staff, and I’m already on his shi—on his bad side.”

71

Shelley Freydont

“Oops, too late,” said Lindy. Dr. Van Zandt, it could be no one else, was puffing toward them. “Unless the bears here wear canvas hats and work boots.”

“Yep, that’s the old man, all right,” said her rescuer, sounding decidedly unhappy.

“Paarrker,” Van Zandt bellowed when he was still a hundred feet from them.

“That’s me,” said the young man. “Donald Parker.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Van Zandt continued to lumber toward them, oblivious that he had left the shore and was splashing through the shallow water and soaking his trouser legs. He was short and husky and his stomach bounced as he ran. He looked just like an archaeologist, thought Lindy, at least like the ones she had seen on television.

He must have stepped in a hole in the streambed, because one side of him shifted abruptly downward, sending his glasses flying off his nose. Lindy gasped. They bounced on his chest as he recovered himself and began running even faster. Instead of plummeting into the water, the glasses continued to bounce against his chest. A thick black strap was attached to each earpiece and hung around his neck.

He plowed up a deposit of rocks, feet slipping and scudding on their slippery surfaces with a bizarre kind of grace. “Paarrker.” This one started low and quiet and continued to crescendo, then died
subito
when he stopped before them, red in the face and puffing mightily.

Lindy stood up ready to make her apology, then changed her mind.

After all, she
was
a guest of the Eastons.

“Who is this person?” Dr. Van Zandt scowled. Lindy could swear that one eye looked at her, while the other pinned an uncomfortable student assistant. Then she realized that one eye was slightly askew. Bad eyesight must surely be a liability for an archaeologist, she thought.

Van Zandt replaced his glasses and scrutinized her. She quickly improvised an explanation that would get her and Donald Parker off of the doctor’s list.

“I’m sorry,” she barked. “Didn’t realize this was off limits.” She yelled at him as if he were slightly deaf. She had no intention of backing down before this bad-mannered eccentric. “I’m a friend of Marguerite Easton’s.” She stuck out her hand. “Lindy Graham.”

72

Midsummer Murder

Open sesame. Van Zandt’s features broke into a beatific smile. His color returned to normal. His teeth flashed. “A friend of Marguerite’s, eh? Glad to meet you.” His hand shot out.

When Lindy’s teeth had stopped rattling from the handshake, she apologized again.

“Don’t worry about it, but it’s dangerous around here, especially with all the rain we’ve been having. They’ve already had one tragedy up at the house, they don’t need another. Parker here will show you back to the path.” He turned to leave, then stopped. She felt Donald tense beside her. “And you, Parker, will type this week’s field notes tonight instead of going into town.” They watched his broad back bound away over the rocks.

“This way,” said Donald. “Sorry about not getting you a Band-Aid.”

“That’s all right. I’m sorry if I got you into trouble.”

Donald began leading her away from the stream. “No problem.

He’s been unhappy with me ever since I talked to the police about the accident.”

Lindy stopped. “The police questioned you about Larry Cleveland?”

“That was the kid’s name?” Donald sighed. “It’s a damned shame what happened to him. And the old man is worried that the town will just make the accident an excuse to try to close the camp. I mean, he cares about the kid, of course, but if the town develops this area, it will ruin the beds. I know oyster shell middens aren’t as glamorous as pyramids but it’s important work. They’re the major source of our knowledge about prehistoric man on the eastern seaboard.” He looked suddenly embarrassed. “Sorry, I guess it isn’t really very interesting.”

“I understand the importance of work without glory; consider me an appreciative audience.”

Donald’s face broke into a gratified smile. “Thanks.” He started walking again.

“What did the police question you about?” asked Lindy, running to catch up and trying to lasso the conversation back into the modern era.