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school groups, senior citizens on bus tours, and the other visitors who showed up to see the period rooms, costumes, displays of artifacts, and crafts shed. She had decided not to hire a new assistant immediately, waiting instead to complete the planning for the new Swanson Center so she could evaluate what kind of work the expanded facilities would require. In the meantime, she had taken upon herself most of the work, and she had to admit that she was beginning to tire of the relentless pace of tour-giving.
    Especially today. With the emotions of Mary Ellen’s violent death so raw, the hard work of organizing and carrying off yesterday’s successful Fourth of July concert behind her, and the need to follow up on so many details, this was a day Julie would have preferred to spend quietly at work in her office. She was still amazed at how much paperwork the job required: correspondence, budgets, bill paying, volunteer scheduling. But she had a tour organized for ten o’clock and another at one, and if the enthusiasm of the summer crowds following yesterday’s concert was meaningful, she would probably have to slip in at least one more to accommodate people staying on in Ryland for the long holiday.
    A little before ten she took a call from Mike. “The state guys say they’ve done what they can to the site,” he told her. “They’llremove the tapes this morning, so you can tell Luke Dyer it’s okay to start digging.”
    â€œThat’s great! Did they find … ?”
    â€œThe missing shovel? No. And I’ve been through the woods with a fine-tooth comb, but then I never expected it to be there anyway. It’ll turn up.”
    â€œSo you think it was the murder weapon?”
    â€œDid I say I thought so?”
    â€œNo, but you’re looking for it.”
    â€œLet’s just say I’d be happy to find the shovel. Meantime, you can tell Luke to get started.”
    â€œThanks, Mike. And I’m not pushing or anything, but did you have a chance to check at the inn?”
    â€œAt the inn? Oh, your alibi. Sorry. Yeah, Brian Handley says you were there giving him a hard time. So I’m satisfied.”
    â€œI’m not a suspect?”
    â€œNever said you were, but you know I have to tie up all the loose ends.”
    Of course she knew he hadn’t suspected her, but Julie was relieved to hear that her alibi was confirmed. And relieved to hear him joke about her giving Brian Handley a hard time. She called Luke Dyer’s office and left a message. Mrs. Detweiller came to the office door to remind Julie that it was time for her tour. She headed to Holder House, the building farthest down Main Street and the one containing the gift shop, as well as the historical displays in the large room where she did the welcome and orientation.
    Over the past year, Julie had developed labels to describe tour groups. “Polyester” meant senior citizens, the women in pantsuits and the men in golf shirts, almost always on bus tours of northern New England and looking for a rest stop where the bathrooms were clean and the tour content inoffensive. “Backward caps” were the teenagers herded by middle- and high-school teachers,happy to be out of class but rarely interested in the history of Ryland. “Cuties” referred to the elementary students who, though as much prisoners as the teenagers, showed genuine excitement in how people lived in older times. “Buffs” were the self-styled experts on local history, those who couldn’t resist correcting or amplifying Julie’s comments. The “Triple A” crowd consisted of travelers—retirees during the fall, families in the summer—who were passing through Ryland or spending a weekend there and had read the description of the museum in the Maine edition of the AAA guide. They were the most mixed: gangling teenagers clearly embarrassed to be with their parents or grandparents,