Breaking Ground (21 page)

Clif walked away, nodded to Dalton, and exited. Loretta and Mabel had already gone. “Pretty fast,” Dalton said as he glanced at his watch. “Only 4:35. So I've got time now if you want to talk.”

“Maybe we could go back to my office if that's okay. I'd like to show you something. In deepest confidence, I might add, or Mike will have me thrown in jail just to shut me up.”

“Fascinating,” Dalton said when he read the copy of Dan Swanson's letter to Paul Dyer. “What a strange way to say things—all that about being a Christian and a gentleman. Sounds like something from the Victorian period, doesn't it?” Julie agreed. “What do you make about this ‘tangled web' and family disputes business?”

“That the Birch Brook property created a lot of problems between the Swansons and the Dyers,” Julie answered.

“You told me that the other day, but aside from confirming what you knew, what does this letter add?”

“Well, not much, I guess. But when you put everything together, doesn't it seem like this land deal is at the center of things?”

“Center of what things?”

“Mary Ellen's murder.”

“Whoa! That's a big leap! You'll have to walk me through this.”

She did, pointing out that Mary Ellen Swanson's murder occurred conveniently two days before the cancellation provision expired, and that both Luke Dyer and Frank Nilsson had a lot to gain by the expiration.

“Sure, you said that before, and I don't disagree. But what's the point about the dispute over the land—and this letter?”

“Luke Dyer wasn't happy that he and Nilsson had to buy the land from Mary Ellen. If his father hadn't sold it back to Dan Swanson, Dyer would have pocketed a lot more money.”

“But they
did
buy it. What good is it going to do now if someone finds out there was something funny about the deal between Dan and Paul?”

“So you agree there
was
something funny?”

“It's a strange letter, I'll grant that. And I suppose if there was some kind of pressure—blackmail or whatever you want to call it—when Paul Dyer sold to Dan Swanson, then maybe Luke would have some kind of case. I don't know; I'm not a lawyer. I agree there's something funny here. I just don't see what good it does to pursue it now.”

“Luke Dyer
is
pursuing it.” Julie explained that Luke was reading the Swanson papers in the archives.

“Well,
that
is interesting,” Dalton said. “Okay, for the sake of argument, I'll concede that Luke may have smelled a rat. But the fact is that if he did—if he thought he had some chance to claim the land for himself and thereby save having to buy it from Mary Ellen—then Luke would have no interest at all in preventing Mary Ellen from exercising her option to cancel the deal. On the contrary, he would have had a lot to gain—delay the deal, find out about the sale back in '97, and then get title to it himself. If he could.”

“That's true. I see what you mean. But Luke is in this with Frank, so both of them would have a good reason to question Mary Ellen's ownership. If Luke could lay claim to the land, Frank might have benefited, too—paid a lower price, worked out a different split on the equity, whatever.”

“It's one thing to question her ownership. It's another to kill her.”

“I know. I just haven't figured that out. Mike is going to check their alibis for last Tuesday morning. At least then we'll know if either of them could have done it.”

“What about the son and daughter-in-law? You were thinking before they might have done it.”

“Steven already provided an alibi for her, which also covers him—kind of convenient.”

“How do you know that?”

“You didn't know the police questioned Elizabeth?”

“Hey, I run an inn; it keeps me busy. What happened?”

Julie explained about Elizabeth's being questioned and about Steven's alibi for her.

“So you're back to Luke and Frank?”

“I guess so; I don't really know. Thanks for listening, anyway. I guess I sound a little loony about all this.” When Dalton didn't immediately disagree, Julie continued: “I should probably just forget all this and wait and see what the police determine.”

“I couldn't say it better. I've got to get going. Thanks for showing me the letter. I'll give it some thought.”

It was five-thirty when Dalton left her office, and Julie dutifully checked to see that the building was empty—Tabby and Mrs. Detweiller both gone for the day, no volunteers working in the back office. She was ready to lock up but went back to her office to retrieve the folder with her notes. She had added to it the copy of Dan Swanson's letter to Paul Dyer. After setting the security code, she walked behind the building to take a look at the construction site. A pile of metal forms had been placed by the far trench. Tomorrow they would be inserted into the excavation, and within a few more days the cement would be poured. That phase would be complete, and the next phase would, she was sure, be approved by the board on Friday, making it likely that the structure would be up and closed in by the late fall. At long last the Swanson Center was on its way to becoming a reality!

As she walked across the site toward the street, Julie saw a pickup truck pull away from the curb and drive out to Main Street. Pickups were hardly rare in Ryland, but she was sure she recognized it as the one she and Rich had seen at Birch Brook on Saturday—Luke's. Well, that too was hardly a surprise. He might have been making a final inspection of the excavation that his
company had been responsible for. Then again, it might have been someone else.

At home, Julie put the folder on the kitchen table and poured a glass of wine. She took the wine and the remote phone into the garden. Over the last few days the temperature had gradually returned to normal, but it was still pleasantly cool. Julie's talk with Dalton had temporarily revived her, but sitting down with a glass of wine she suddenly felt exhausted. She reminded herself she had started the day around four a.m. A quick call to Rich, a light supper, and an early bedtime sounded just right. Rich had been so good last night when she had called to tell him about the late-afternoon board meeting on Friday. He had immediately suggested he come to Ryland for the weekend, but Julie had felt guilty enough about not holding up her part of their deal that she suggested they wait till tonight to make plans. Nothing today, though, had made her driving late Friday to Orono seem more attractive. She was happy then, during their phone conversation—brief because Rich had to go out to an evening lecture—to hear that he was still willing to come to Ryland. After hanging up Julie concocted a salad from the remains of Rich's cooking last weekend, worked a bit more on the State of Maine puzzle, made multiple rounds of the house to assure herself all windows and doors were secure, and finally dragged herself up the steps to bed at nine, far earlier than she normally did, but it felt more like midnight to her tonight.

She was out at once and slept soundly until she woke with a start. Damn those pine branches, she practically said aloud. But as she emerged more fully into wakefulness, Julie wasn't so sure it was the tree branches she had heard. A door slowly opening or closing? Not possible—she had locked them all. Footsteps? Come on, she told herself, you're just letting your imagination roam.

She sat up in bed and concentrated her hearing. There was no wind, she was sure now, so the sounds couldn't be the result of the swaying branches. She kept concentrating, trying to make out the source. It
is
a door, she suddenly realized—the screen door in the kitchen. A solid wooden door opened from the kitchen to the back garden, but Rich had found a screen door that fit the opening and installed it so they could open the main kitchen door and get air through the room. Like most screen doors, it was a little flimsy and didn't make a perfect match with the opening, but it was tight enough to do the job of holding Maine's armada of bugs at bay. The screen door itself didn't lock, and you had to give it an extra push to close it. But the main one had a standard lock, and she was certain she had checked it before coming to bed. But then she had been so tired; was it possible she hadn't?

Yes, she was sure now the noise came from the kitchen. And it was no longer just the door—it was footsteps, the sound of someone moving on the creaky kitchen floor. Don't move, she told herself. Stay still, wait, listen. The digital alarm clock by the bed read 2:48. By the clock was the phone. Could she turn quietly and reach it to call the police? Would whoever was in the kitchen hear her? And leave? Or come upstairs? Was that creaking coming from the steps—was someone coming up? Surely not!

As her mind alternated rapidly among the possibilities, she couldn't settle on a likely one. Even more than her confusion, Julie felt incredibly cold. Despite the blankets and the moderate temperature, she was shaking, responding to a cold that seemed to reside at the very center of her body, a cold deeper and more penetrating than any she had felt in the middle of winter. Shouldn't she be sweating? she asked herself in an effort to get in touch with her mind, to overcome the icy cold.

As she wrestled with her emotions and pulled the blanket—quietly, slowly—around her, Julie realized the house had gone
quiet. She concentrated again. Yes! There were no sounds from below now. But did that mean whoever had been there was gone? Or waiting? Going downstairs would surely be dumb, but how else would she know?

The clock said 2:50. Was it possible so much had happened in a mere two minutes? Could she safely reach the phone? Before she could decide, Julie heard a loud bang—the screen door, she was sure. The screen door
closing!
Without even thinking further, she grabbed for the phone and hit 9-1-1. A voice answered before the second ring. Julie spoke so softly the man at the other end had to ask her to repeat what she said. She was out of bed now, huddled in the corner of the room farthest from the door. The calm voice told her he'd patch the call directly to the local force. Within seconds, she heard Mike's confident response: “Ryland Police. Chief Barlow.”

“Mike, it's Julie. Someone's in my house—or was. I heard noises downstairs.”

“You okay?”

“Yes, I'm in the bedroom. The noises were downstairs.”

“Stay where you are. Keep calm. I'm just up Grander Hill Road. I'll be there in a couple of minutes. Stay on the line, Julie. Everything's going to be fine.”

“I'm going to hit the siren,” Mike said. Julie heard it first over the phone, and then the sound was audible from outside.

“You're close.”

“I'm at the top of Main now. Stay put. I'll stop in front and leave the lights on, but I'll have to switch to the handheld radio, so I might lose you. I can see your house now.”

The pulsing blue lights reflected weirdly on the bedroom window. Julie went to it and looked out to see the Ryland cruiser. Mike leapt out and raced toward the front door, just below her, and then around the house. “You still there?” the voice on the phone asked. She confirmed it. “I'm at the back door. It's unlocked. I'm coming in.” Julie was surprised that the handheld radio was so sensitive that it picked up the snap of Mike's holster as he opened it to withdraw his gun.

“Julie,” he yelled, and the sound came more from downstairs than the phone. “I'm coming up.”

She heard his footsteps as he took the stairs two at a time. Then he came into the room, and she raced toward him and accepted the one-armed embrace he extended as he held his pistol in his right hand, pointed down. “Let me get this,” he said, and clicked the safety on. Then he added his right arm and held her tightly.

“God, I was so scared!” she sobbed. “Thank you!”

“It's okay. You're safe.” He steered her to the bed and got her to sit. “I think it's clear downstairs, but I want you to just stay here while I go take a better look.”

The cold was returning, and Julie pulled the blanket more tightly around her, but she couldn't stop shaking. Mike returned after what to Julie seemed hours but was no more than minutes.
She heard his steps on the stairs again; this time he was taking them one at a time.

“Whoever it was, he's gone.”

“You're sure?”

“I went through the place. He's gone.”

“But there really was someone, wasn't there? It wasn't just my imagination?”

“No. The screen door was closed, but the main door wasn't locked—wasn't really pulled shut, in fact. Maybe he heard you up here and ran, leaving the light on and not quite closing the door. Come on down and take a look?”

She nodded, then realized she was wrapped in the blanket and under that was wearing only pajamas. “Let me put something on first.”

Mike withdrew to the hallway while Julie pulled on jeans and a sweatshirt. She joined the policeman at the top of the stairs and then followed him to the first floor.

“Be careful,” he told her as he guided her across the room toward the kitchen. “Let's take a look at the door, but don't touch anything.”

Mike stopped at the door. The screen door was closed. He examined the area around the lock. “You're sure you locked this last night?”

“Absolutely. I checked and rechecked everything.”

“I'm sure you did. It's not easy, but you can jimmy these if you know what you're doing,” he said as he peered at the lock. “You really should have a dead bolt on this.”

“I was going to, but haven't had time.”

“Well, right after I get the crime lab folks to check this out, you should make the time. Meanwhile, can you just look around and see if anything's missing or messed up?” Julie scanned the room. Could she remember where things had been? It seemed so
long ago when she had closed up and gone to bed. “Take your time. Look carefully.”