Breaking Ground (14 page)

“It's my biggest project,” Frank said, “but I've done enough others to know how it works. And Luke is a great contractor. And partner—we're in this together; he's got a fifth of the equity, but he'll be making most of his on the construction itself.”

“I didn't realize you were partners,” Julie said.

“When you develop projects, Julie, you have to have
lots
of partners. You just have to keep them all straight! And make sure you protect everyone. But Luke's a good partner, easy to work with if you don't mind long periods of quiet.”

“I noticed he's not too talkative,” Rich said, and laughed.

“Not Luke. But he brings plenty to the table. He just wishes his father never sold the land!” Julie's quizzical look prompted Frank to continue. “You wouldn't know about that, being new, but Birch Brook used to belong to Luke's dad. He sold it to Dan Swanson.”

“As a matter of fact, I think I did hear that, Frank. I guess the financial part of this would be a lot different if the Swansons didn't own the land.”

“You got that right. Luke and I would be getting rich here if his old man hadn't sold to Dan. Or hadn't sold so low. That really bothers Luke, and I can't say I blame him. Paul, Luke's dad, got
$700,000, and we're paying almost four times that, but of course, land does appreciate. Try to tell Luke that, but it still bothers him. Well, I shouldn't bore you with all these details, but that's it in a nutshell. Help yourself if you'd like to look around more. I should be getting home.”

Rich and Julie accepted Frank's offer of a ride in his Explorer down from the clearing to the parking area where Rich's car sat. Frank gave them a final wave and drove off, and Rich and Julie got in the car and drove east on the River Road to pick up Julie's car at the trailhead in Ryland. “Thinking about our hike?” Rich asked to break Julie's silence.

“It was wonderful, wasn't it? Such incredible views. This is a really great area, isn't it?”

“Sure is. But somehow I get the impression you're thinking about something else.”

“Okay! I'm thinking about the hike, but I was also thinking about Birch Brook. Pretty interesting.”

“How so?”

“How about money? This is a
huge
deal, Rich—the first phase alone is $6 million or more, and if they do the next two, then the lots for private homes at the top, we're talking big bucks here.”

“But not necessarily big
profits
. They have to buy the land and then build the townhouses before they get a penny back. Plus taxes, financing costs on the land and the construction, and …”

“I know, I know. But you heard Dyer say he wasn't in it for the fun. They're going to make a bundle here.”

“Probably they will, eventually, but it's not like they're going to get rich overnight. And what if they can't sell those places? They're stuck with all the carrying costs. I just think you're making too much of it.”

“Another interesting thing,” Julie continued, instead of trying to rebut Rich's obviously rational analysis, “is that Luke Dyer is a
partner with Nilsson—not just the contractor. Howard mentioned that, but Nilsson confirmed it—Dyer will own a fifth.”

“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?”

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.