When Mike hit the siren of the Ryland police cruiser to signal the start of the parade, Julie and Rich were standing at the top of Main Street where it curved to go around the Common. Both sides of the street were lined with families.
After the police cruiser passed by, the heart of the parade came up the hill: decorated hay wagons and other floats from local businesses; marching Boy and Girl Scouts; clowns tossing candy that little kids ran into the street to retrieve; the high school marching band; a contingent of American Legion old-timers in military uniforms gasping to keep pace; and finally the flotilla of fire trucks, a pumper and ladder truck from Ryland and pumpers from a half-dozen outlying communities. Julie remembered from last year that the trucks, their sirens on and lights flashing, to the delight of the children, signaled the parade’s end—or at least the end of its first phase, since all the vehicles and marching groups except the fire trucks took a turn around the Common and came back down Main.
“I better go check on the band,” Julie said as the last of the fire trucks passed.
“I’ll stake out a spot by the gazebo for us,” Rich said.
At exactly eleven, the American Legion group that had shuffled through the parade marched with greater confidence onto the Common and presented the colors as the people rose from their blankets to sing “The Star-Spangled Banner.” When they finished and the honor guard marched out, Julie walked to the microphone and gave her welcome, including the dedication of the concert to Mary Ellen Swanson. Then she found Rich on a blanket by the gazebo and sat down to enjoy the concert.
As the band launched into a medley of patriotic songs, Julie surveyed the scene. After only a year in Ryland, she was pleased at how many faces were familiar. All the trustees were there: Dalton with Nickie Bennett, Howard and his wife, Loretta and her husband, Henry and his family, Clif with several children and grandchildren, many of the volunteer guides, Tabby Preston from the library, and even Mrs. Detweiller with a man Julie supposed was Mr. Detweiller, though Julie had never met him.
When the band took a brief break, the crowd rose nearly as one and stretched by their blankets or walked lazily around to greet neighbors. At the edge of the crowd Julie was surprised to see Steven Swanson talking with a man she at first didn’t recognize, and then recalled as Frank Nilsson, the developer Luke Dyer was working with on the Birch Brook condos. Julie considered walking over to talk with him since she still hadn’t expressed her condolences in person, but before she could decide, the bandleader waved to her to indicate they were ready to resume. That was also Julie’s signal to remount the gazebo and remind the crowd of the cookies and lemonade awaiting them afterwards.
As the band broke into the collection of Sousa marches to end the concert, Julie leaned over to Rich and told him she needed to head to the society to be sure everything was ready. She slipped away as unobtrusively as she could and sprinted across the street. Standing by the first table by himself, with a glass of lemonade in his hand, was Steven Swanson.
“Mr. Swanson,” Julie said formally and reintroduced herself. “I’m so very sorry about your loss. It’s a loss for all of us who knew your mother. Please accept my condolences.”
“I remember you, Julie,” Swanson said. “And please call me Steven. Thanks for your sympathy—and for dedicating the concert to Mom. I’m sure she would have been very pleased. Hope you got my messages, by the way.”
“I did. Thanks. I hated to bother you at such a time.”
“It’s all so complicated and strange,” he said. “I realized Mom was getting along and that eventually she’d, well, obviously we all will. But not like that. God, it’s just so hard to think about.” He rubbed his hand across his eyes and then stood silently again.
“I’m sure it is. I talked to your mother just the day before, and I know how much she was looking forward to the groundbreaking. It’s so hard to accept she’s gone. She was so …”
“Lively?” he suggested. “That’s just what I was thinking. I mean, she was seventy-four, and I know that’s not old today, but she acted more like she was in her fifties. Dad was almost ten years older, and so when he died it didn’t seem so strange. That was almost five years ago. And then he went … well, he died at home.” Not murdered, Julie thought, and had to stop herself from saying it aloud. “Not like Mom,” he concluded. “Anyway, you said you saw Mom the day before, but I thought she was going to see you yesterday morning—at the tent, before the groundbreaking.”
“Really?” she said, feigning surprise. “Your mother didn’t say anything to me about getting together then, but of course she might have decided to come by. Was there something she wanted to talk to me about?”
“My mother always had something to talk to someone about, didn’t she?” Steven smiled and laughed slightly. “But she did say, at breakfast, that she couldn’t dawdle because she had to meet you at the tent. Maybe she hadn’t told you. That would be typical of Mom, just assuming what was in her head was in yours.”
Julie laughed and asked again if his mother had mentioned if she had something specific to meet about.
“About her contribution to the historical society,” he said.
Julie waited for more, but Steven turned silent again. Julie felt time slipping away—the concert would be over in a few minutes, the crowds would descend on the historical society’s grounds, and Julie would lose the chance to talk with Steven. “What about that?” she asked more abruptly than she knew she should.
“Well, she had some ideas, and I guess she wanted to talk to you about them. But you didn’t see her?”
“No.”
“Well, we’ll have to work this out. I need to talk to her attorney. Anyway, I’ve got to go now. I’ll be seeing you, I’m sure.”
Steven turned and walked away before Julie could say more. Howard Townsend was coming toward her. “You remember Mrs. Townsend,” the board chair said to her, and the two women shook hands. “Lovely concert, Dr. Williamson,” Mrs. Townsend said. “A little chilly, though,” she added, and Julie felt the need to apologize for the weather, in addition to asking Mrs. Townsend to call her Julie. “Well, it beats heat, doesn’t it?” Mrs. Townsend said, and hugged herself through the winter parka she was wearing. “Hot tea might be better than lemonade, don’t you think, Howard?” she said to her husband.
Not a word about Mary Ellen, Julie thought as the Townsends retreated in search of warmth. Unbelievable. You would assume, Julie thought, that at least Mrs. Townsend, seeing Julie for the first time since the murder, would say something—anything. She had known Mary Ellen for years, but she was as cold as her husband. Did anyone care? she wondered.
“Dr. Williamson,” a man’s voice said politely behind her. She turned to face Ben Marston, a longtime volunteer guide at Ryland Historical Society. Julie had been grateful to him last year when on one of his tours he had discovered a painting everyone thought had been stolen. She had seen him only a few times since. “I’m sorry to interrupt you,” Ben continued, “but I just wanted to say how terribly sorry I am about Mrs. Swanson. She was such a wonderful lady. Ben Marston, by the way,” he added.
“Of course, Ben. It’s so good to see you again. And please, call me Julie. We’ve missed you over the winter!”
“And spring, too,” he said. “We decided to stay down in South Carolina a little longer this year, but I’m back and ready to give tours.”
“Thank you for that. And for your nice words about Mrs. Swanson.”
“Oh, she could be a handful, couldn’t she? Had a few run-ins with her myself, but still and all, she was certainly generous to the society.”
“You can say that again!”
“It must have been terrible for you …”
“Howard Townsend is the one who found her, but, yes … well …” A vivid, complete image of the murder scene came so suddenly into Julie’s mind that she couldn’t finish her sentence.
Marston put his arm around her shoulder, lightly, and with a fatherly touch patted her once and then withdrew his arm. “I shouldn’t keep you,” he said. “You’ve got a lot to do here today. I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“Oh, no! I’m glad you brought it up. In fact, I’ve been so surprised at how little people say. It makes me think they just don’t care.”
“You’re not a Mainer, Dr. Williamson. It’s just how we are. My wife’s the same. She moved here from New Jersey when we got married, and that was almost forty years ago, and she says she still can’t believe how reserved we are—‘frosty’ is what she calls it. But I tell her it’s not how we are, just how we act. We’re afraid that if we showed our feelings, well, they’d get out of hand and sort of take over and run us. But people do care.”
“Thank you, Ben. That makes me feel better.”
“Better not show it, though,” he said and winked, and they both laughed. “Well, I’ve got to go find my New Jersey bride now. Take care of yourself; see you around.”
Marston’s comments made Julie feel so good that she found herself eager to talk to others, but, as she was moving toward the table with the treats, she was stopped by a burly man wearing a red flannel shirt and rough corduroy jeans. “We need to talk,” he said brusquely.
“Oh, Mr. Dyer,” Julie said. “Did you enjoy the concert?”
“Sure. Look, I’ve got to get my crew to Birch Brook. You find out from the cops if we can do the excavation by the weekend?”
“I talked to Chief Barlow, but he says it’s up to the State Police. I’ll check again today.”
“If we can’t do it tomorrow, I’ve got to pull that backhoe out. You let me know.”
Luke walked away. Julie wanted to find Mike but knew she should work the crowd first. She passed among the people lining up for lemonade and cookies and introduced herself and welcomed them to the Ryland Historical Society. It was the kind of work she enjoyed, putting a public face on the society, but she cut it short when out of the corner of her eye she saw Mike and Henry talking.
“Nice concert, Julie,” the attorney said when she approached them.
“Thanks.”
Mike nodded but didn’t speak. Julie realized she had interrupted them, but Luke’s threat to abandon the site excavation troubled her, and she asked again when the site would be available. Mike said he’d check with the State Police that afternoon and let her know. Julie sensed the two men would prefer her to leave them to their conversation, but she decided to wait them out. Finally Mike said to the attorney: “I’ll get back to you about that, Henry. You home later today?”
Henry said he would be. He looked over to the refreshment table. “Better go keep a closer eye on my kids,” he added. “They’ll wipe out those cookies if I don’t.”
When Henry left, Mike said to Julie: “I see you were talking to Steven Swanson.”
“I hadn’t seen him to express my sympathy before,” Julie said.
“He say any more about that meeting you and his mother were supposed to have?”
“He brought it up. He admitted that Mary Ellen sometimes didn’t bother to tell people that she had an appointment with them. That’s just the way she was.”
“Did he tell you what his mother wanted to talk to you about?”
“Her ‘contribution to the society.’ I don’t exactly know what that means—if she meant in general or something in particular.”
“That’s what he told me, too. Henry’s the one who knows about all this, but I wasn’t able to finish my talk with him just now.”
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Don’t let me keep you if you want to talk to him now.”
“Better to see him in private anyway.”
As the police chief turned and walked off, Julie was tempted to yell out again that she was sorry about the interruption. She was sorry she had annoyed Mike, whom she both trusted and liked. At least he didn’t seem to be making so much of Steven’s statement that his mother had planned to meet Julie at the tent before the groundbreaking. But then he didn’t say anything about checking her alibi.
“We’ve met, Dr. Williamson,” the man who interrupted her thoughts said as he extended his hand. “Frank Nilsson,” he added.
“Yes, of course, Mr. Nilsson. Good to see you again. Hope you enjoyed the concert.”
“Always do. Glad you folks decided to dedicate it to Mary Ellen. God, what a tragedy! She was quite a woman.”
“Yes, we’ll miss her, and we’re all so grateful to her.”
“Very community-spirited. Generous. Especially to the historical society. I was just saying to her son this morning that we should try to wrap things up fast so you’ll get Mary Ellen’s gift as soon as possible. Don’t know how Steven’s going to handle it, but then I imagine his wife will have something to say about that.”
Julie looked at him blankly.
“Mary Ellen’s half-million, I mean. She really wanted to give it to you this summer, as soon as we closed. Fine with me. I’m eager to get it done, and I don’t see any problems now.”
“Sorry. I’m still a little confused.”
“The land deal. Thought everyone knew. Mary Ellen was selling me the land Dan owned out at Birch Brook. For a condo development.”
“I did hear something about that,” Julie said.
“She wanted to give the rest of her contribution as soon as possible, so you could get the new building up. So she was going to use the proceeds from the sale to do that. But then, well, you know Mary Ellen, always changing her mind, back and forth and back again. But the deal should go through now, if Steven cooperates, don’t know why he wouldn’t, and the money will be available right away. Might be a good idea if you let Steven know how important this is to the society, how much his mother wanted it. A word from you might help,” he said, and then excused himself.
The rest of the day was such a blur that Julie didn’t have time to consider Frank Nilsson’s comments. Although the tours for the day had been assigned to volunteers, Julie was busy right up to closing time at four o’clock, strolling around to chat with visitors, answering questions, and encouraging the volunteer guides. When the crowds dispersed she pitched in with the volunteers to clear the tables and restore order to the historical society’s grounds.
After dinner with Rich they talked about the day’s events, and Julie told him what Ben Marston had said. “It was so sweet of him, Rich. I was beginning to think no one really cared about Mary Ellen—for herself, I mean; they certainly care about her money. But I’m sure what Ben said is true—they’re just keeping their emotions in control, just being New Englanders.”
“Could be,” Rich replied. “I wouldn’t know.”
“But you’re a New Englander.”
“You think so because I’m so cold, but remember I’m from Boston.”
“That’s what I meant.”
“You haven’t figured it out yet, have you? I wonder how long you’ll have to live in Maine before you understand New England starts at the Portsmouth-Kittery Bridge? Anyway, I think you’ve had enough emotion—for a non–New Englander—to last you a few days. How about bed?”
“You’ll check the locks, won’t you?” were her last words as she climbed the stairs, and Rich wasn’t certain she even heard his answer. But he was careful to see the house was safely locked—as safely, he said to himself as he made his way upward to the bedroom, as an old house can be.