Midsummer Murder by Shelley Freydont Page B

his finger but could see nothing but trees.
    “And we have our own resident archaeologists. I think Van Zandt has been here as long as some of the fossils he’s looking for. They haven’t found anything but a bunch of oyster shells, but they keep plugging away year after year.”
    “I don’t suppose they would be too enthused about any development of the area, either.”
    “Just mention developers and Van Zandt goes berserk. His crew have had more than a few run-ins with the locals over it.”
    “The locals? They’re in favor of development?”
    “Mainly they’re afraid that if the archaeologists do find something, the Indians will claim the land and put up a casino. This is a depressed area. Has been for years. First the sawmills shut down. Then all the young people started moving away. When the highway came through, they hoped it would boost the local economy, but nothing materialized.
    All the money-making ventures seemed to spring up all around here but just out of reach. The locals figure if anyone is going to make money off the land, it had better be them.”
    “I can’t believe that anyone who lives in such a beautiful place would be willing to sacrifice it for a few extra tourist dollars.”
    “I think most people would sacrifice just about anything to make life better for themselves or their children. Fortunately, I’ve never had to make a choice like that, and I’m not eager to judge those who do.”
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    Midsummer Murder
    Lindy regarded him thoughtfully. Until now, Ellis had seemed shallow and ineffectual, though he was entertaining. But this small window into his thoughts, and the unexpected compassion she had found there made her readjust her opinion of him. It also made her angry to think that one man was intent on bringing his family to grief.
    “Is that why Sheriff Grappel is so antagonistic?” she asked.
    Ellis expelled an explosion of air. “Byron Grappel is an ass—in the Equus sense, mind you.”
    Lindy didn’t know if he meant the genus or the play by Peter Schaffer.
    “ Equus asinus ,” Ellis clarified. “But to answer your question.
    There are a few movers and shakers in town who have their eyes on the property. Some parcels could be sold off within the terms of the trust, and they would love to put up ski resorts, shopping outlets, and a theme park. And the sheriff, being a paid county employee, wouldn’t mind feathering his own nest. But the reason for his
    ‘antagonism’, as you understate it, doesn’t have to do with the land.” Ellis brushed his hands together. “How did we get onto such a sordid topic? I shouldn’t have distracted you.”
    “I’m glad you did, I enjoyed talking with you.” Lindy rose from the bench and rubbed the front of her thighs. “But I’d better get going. I’m already getting stiff from sitting too long.”
    Ellis nodded. “Another twenty minutes down the path, there’s a bridge where you can dip your toes into the stream.”
    “Sounds heavenly.” She continued her jog down the path while Ellis walked slowly back toward the theater.
    She passed under a canopy of trees and swatted at a few mosquitoes that buzzed around her face in the damp air. The path wound slowly downward—through thick forest, then past a meadow filled with blue bachelor buttons and into the woods again.
    After half an hour she slowed her pace, sweat dripping into her eyes.
    She’d be sore tomorrow. She had no idea where she was; she hadn’t come to the bridge. Perhaps, she had gotten off the main path, there were no signs here. She had left the graveled path some minutes ago, and only hardened earth, deeply rutted with erosion, met her feet.
    Once again she found herself on a ledge of rock, and below her was a rushing, stream swollen from the recent rain. To the right 69

    Shelley Freydont
    were the bridge and the path that wound back into the woods.
    She had taken a detour and it would take her forever to retrace her steps and then continue to the water. Her