As she drove out of town toward the Black Crow Inn, Julie felt pleased that the few breathing exercises she had forced herself to do before and after entering the safe and placing the letters there had had the intended effect. She was also feeling a kind of high about what she had found; it was the very same feeling she got when she clicked the last piece of a difficult jigsaw puzzle into place or entered the Latin name for raccoon in a crossword. But then, she asked herself, what had she actually learned? That the ownership of the Birch Brook property was contested, tangled in family feuds and perhaps more, was hardly fresh news. Nothing in Dr. Tabor’s reports to his distant brother explained exactly what had gone on between the Swansons and the Dyers.
So what had she learned, she asked herself again as she pulled off the highway and entered the drive up the hill toward Dalton’s. And more to the point, she reminded herself, what did it all have to do with Mary Ellen’s murder? That was the trouble with historical research, she thought as she parked her car: it’s so much fun, but a lot of the time you have no idea where it’s going. If anywhere.
Dinner was good. Running the Black Crow Inn had turned Dalton Scott into a very respectable cook, another example of Julie’s belief that men were taking over in the kitchen. Conversation over dinner was led by Nickie, whose current obsession was what she considered the high-handed approach of Ryland’s planning board in the implementation of the town’s new sign ordinance.
“It’s a good approach,” Nickie said. “Dalton was on the committee that developed it, and it’s very reasonable. But the way the planning board is handling these cases is just crazy. They’re letting the motels put up all sorts of crap—really ugly signs—but then when I present my request they turn it down flat. Too big, wrong colors, too close to the road. I mean, Dalton designed the sign, and he knows the standards better than anyone.”
“But you did make some changes in my design,” Dalton interjected.
“A few, but still. I just think the planning board is a bunch of idiots.”
Neither Dalton nor Julie had a good counter to that observation, and Nickie seemed to realize that her interest in the topic far outpaced theirs. “So you’re having the house painted?” she asked Julie, whose blank stare promoted a refinement in the question. “Did you say that, Dalton, or did I dream it up?”
“I think I guessed that,” Dalton replied before turning to Julie: “You didn’t say, but since you needed a place for the night I assumed you were having some work done at Harding House.”
“I didn’t want to get into it on the phone,” Julie said, and then explained to them about the break-in.
“My God!” was Dalton’s response when Julie finished.
“Holy shit!” was Nickie’s. “You must have been terrified. You poor thing! What did they take? Do you have antiques or something?”
“Well, that’s another story, and sort of a long one.”
“To the deck!” Nickie commanded. “Leave these dishes and I’ll clean up later, Dalton. And bring us some brandy; I think we’re going to need it.”
On the deck overlooking the woods behind the inn, Julie told them about the missing letter and her guess that whoever broke into the house took her copy. Although she had talked before to Dalton about her suspicions, she had to go back a bit and bring Nickie up-to-speed. It was a longer story than she meant it to be, but the brandy helped. She didn’t mention the two Tabor letters because she still didn’t know what they proved.
“So you think Nilsson or Dyer or maybe both of them killed Mary Ellen to stop her from backing out of the land deal,” Nickie summarized. “And then one of them, or again, maybe both, found out that the deed to the property was in question anyway. And then that you had a copy of the letter that proved that. Wow!”
“I guess that’s it in a nutshell, but there are too many loose ends here. Like whether Nilsson and Dyer have alibis for last night or for the morning Mary Ellen was killed.”
“I assume Mike’s checking on that,” Dalton said. Until now he had listened quietly to Julie’s recounting of the incidents.
“He said he was going to, but I haven’t heard. I hate to keep bothering him.”
“Hell, it was your house that was broken into,” Nickie said. “You have a right to know.”
“But Mike doesn’t want you involved in the murder investigation, does he?” Dalton said.
“Obviously not.”
“Which doesn’t stop you, of course.”
“If the break-in and the murder are connected—and I’m sure they are—well, then, of course I’m involved. I have to be.”
“Mike would say you don’t have to be involved, Julie. And he’d be right.”
“And Rich says the same.”
“Then there you are,” Dalton said.
“Did I tell you Frank Nilsson invited Rich and me to dinner tomorrow night?” Dalton shook his head. “Oh, and about the diary. I didn’t tell you that, either.” So she filled them in.
“This really is bizarre,” Nickie said when Julie finished this new portion of the story. “Fights over land, murder, missing letters, a break-in. Sounds like a TV show.”
“Or life in a small Maine town,” Dalton said. “Anyway, folks, it’s getting late, the mosquitoes are starting to bite even though it’s cooling down, and I need to clean up in the kitchen. So …”
“I said I’d do that, Dalton. You and Julie can go inside and continue this.”
Sitting in the lounge, Dalton repeated that he thought Mike and Rich were right, and that Julie should stop trying to do the policeman’s job. “And why would you even want to go to the Nilssons’ for dinner when you suspect him as a murderer and as someone who broke into your house?”
“Rich will be there. And you know how I love puzzles, Dalton,” she replied. “Besides, this really does involve me.”
“I don’t know …” he said, adding, “Hey, what’s happening about the missing shovel? I always heard that you can’t solve a murder without the weapon.”
Julie smiled. “See, you like puzzles, too. I think you can solve a case without the weapon, but it sure would help to locate that shovel. Mike and the state cops came up empty there. There’s got to be a simple explanation. A shovel just can’t disappear.”
“But the person who used it to kill Mary Ellen—assuming that’s what happened—could have taken it. And then hid it or got rid of it somewhere. That seems pretty logical to me: If you just bashed someone with a shovel, you wouldn’t exactly place it beside the body, would you?”
“Of course not, but then walking around Ryland with a bloodcovered shovel might attract a little attention.”
“It might. Then again, Ryland’s a funny town.”
“Not that funny, Dalton,” Nickie said as she came in from the kitchen to join them in the lounge.
“Except for the planning board,” Dalton pointed out.
“True. Maybe the planning board killed Mary Ellen!”
“I think it’s time for bed, Nickie,” Dalton said. “Let me show you your room, Julie, but don’t feel you have to turn in now just because we are. Stay here if you want to read or something. How about some more brandy?”