Breaking Ground by William Andrews Page A

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.
    â€œAbout 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.
    â€œWell, she had some ideas, and I guess she wanted to talk to you about them. But you didn’t see her?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œDr. 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.
    â€œOf course, Ben. It’s so good to see you again. And please, call me Julie. We’ve missed you over the winter!”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œThank you for that. And for your nice words about Mrs. Swanson.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œYou can say that again!”
    â€œIt must have been terrible for you …”
    â€œHoward 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.”
    â€œOh, 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.”
    â€œYou’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