Murder at Barclay Meadow Read online

  Glenn B

  So our theory that she was deliberately pushed into the water is holding up. And she didn’t go in the river at that party.

  Tony Ricci

  I’m wondering about the stepfather again. If Megan was sleeping with a professor she may have had daddy issues.

  Glenn B

  I still want to see that police report. I wonder if it’s on the Internet somewhere. It seems everything is these days. Also, what you learned at the party means the professor is still a viable suspect. I have an idea of what to do next.

  SIXTEEN

  Glenn and I waited on the dock while Tony untied his dinghy from the back of his sailboat. Sue had opted out of our mission, claiming her computer skills would be of more use to us.

  With the absence of city lights, I was dazzled by the wall-to-wall stars strewn across the sky. A harvest moon illuminated surface ripples on the water. It was 1:00 a.m. I pulled my jacket tighter.

  “All aboard,” Tony called.

  “Tony,” I said as Glenn and I walked to the end of the dock. “Your sailboat is called Honey Pot?”

  He shook his head and looked down. “It’s a long story.”

  “Spill,” I said, making no effort to suppress my grin.

  “I got the boat right after we got married.” He looked up. “I was feeling like I’d found my pot of honey, you know—new boat, new wife—life is good. I used to call her that, too—honey pot. So that’s what I named the boat.”

  “Makes sense to me,” Glenn said.

  “Okay, Pooh Bear,” I said.

  “Cut with the Pooh Bear.”

  “You know,” Glenn said. “Pooh is very Taoist.”

  “Yeah, well, he’s also pudgy. And I’m a little sensitive these days.” Tony patted his stomach. “Too many pizzas.”

  “When you put it that way, I will never call you Pooh again.” I smiled over at him. “You’re not pudgy. And I love that you were so in love. That’s a rare thing these days.”

  “Are you two ready to get in the damn boat?” Tony stood and held my arm as I stepped into the dinghy. Once I was seated he reached for Glenn. The boat wobbled as Glenn hopped aboard in a pair of rubber-soled shoes.

  Glenn sat next to me while Tony yanked on the cord. “This outboard is a lot like a woman,” he said. “Only sparks up when the mood suits her.” Tony gave it another hard tug. When it at last sputtered to life, Glenn untied the lines, dropped them into the boat, and shoved us off. The water was inky black. I wondered if Megan died on a night similar to this, swallowed up in the river, held down for days by what lay beneath. Was she pushed and left to drown? Was she aware she was dying?

  “Most of the houses around the professor’s have their own piers,” Tony said, one hand on the rudder.

  “I marked the professor’s house from the street, but everything looks different from the water.” Glenn peered hard at the shoreline, studying each house as we chugged along. “There.” He pointed to a narrow white clapboard house. “It’s that one. I’m sure of it.”

  Tony cut the motor and the current ferried us to the dock.

  “I’m having second thoughts,” I whispered. “How will we see anything? And even if there is some evidence, surely he would have gotten rid of it.”

  Glenn stared at the dock as if willing the boat to get there faster. “We’ll find something,” he said. “The professor wasn’t expecting three detectives to come looking around for clues.”

  “Detectives?” I said. “That’s a bit of a stretch.”

  Glenn ignored me and looped a line over a weathered piling covered with bird droppings. He pulled the dinghy closer and hopped on the dock with a loud thud.

  “Shush,” I hissed.

  The Angeles’s sailboat was a few feet shorter than Tony’s live aboard. A dome lined with small windows indicated a cabin. The sails had been secured and wrapped in a royal blue canvas. Halliards slapped against the metal mast like an eerie wind chime.

  Glenn handed Tony and me small flashlights. “You’ll need to conceal the light with your palm like this.” He cupped his hand around the end. After stepping out of his shoes he boarded the sailboat.

  Just as he reached for the cabin door, I said, “Glenn, wait.” I pulled three pairs of garden gloves from my pocket and tossed him a set.

  “Good thinking.” He slipped on the gloves and tried the door. “It’s locked,” he called.

  Tony finished securing the lines and looked over at me. “You just going to sit there?”

  Every muscle in my body ached with tension. We were trespassing. I was about to commit a crime. I’d never so much as crossed a toe over the line of the law. I’d been that way since I was born. I was the teacher’s pet five out of my six years of elementary school, and that was only because my fifth grade teacher thought I was too perfect and spent the entire year trying to find reasons to give me an A minus.

  Tony continued to look my way. After a deep breath and a short prayer, I climbed onto the dock and crawled over to him on all fours. We had agreed to dress in dark clothing and I was wearing my black spandex running suit. “You look like Catwoman,” he said.

  “Don’t call me Catwoman,” I said. “She has too many issues.” I looked around the deck. “We’re not going to find anything. I think we should go.”

  “Chill, Princess, you got us into this.”

  “I’m not a princess.”

  “Why don’t you two look through the cabin windows and see if there’s anything out of the ordinary,” Glenn said. “I’ll inspect the dock.”

  Tony shone his flashlight through the first window, shielding the light the way Glenn had instructed. We studied the objects appearing and disappearing in the concentrated beam. “What’s that?” I said. Tony reversed the path of the light and settled it on a clean ashtray.

  “Did Megan smoke?” he asked.

  “I doubt it—she was a really good soccer player.”

  “What about the professor?”

  “The only thing I smelled on him was some very nice cologne.”

  “Oh, really?” Tony shone the flashlight in my face.

  “Stop it.” I covered my eyes. “Someone will see.”

  “Quiet, you two,” Glenn said. “I hear something.”

  We froze as a spotlight on the back of Nick’s house blazed on.

  “Oh my gosh,” I whispered.

  “Drop,” Glenn said.

  Tony and I flattened on the dock. I peered up at the house and watched as Nick creaked the back door open. He was in a pair of plaid boxers, his hair disheveled.

  “This was such a bad idea,” I said.

  “Hush,” Tony said.

  Nick carried a small, fluffy white dog. He set it on the ground and waited as it sniffed the grass. The dog lifted its head, ears perked.

  “Go wee wee, Alfred,” Nick said. The dog looked back at him, lifted his leg, and waited to be picked up. Nick stared out at the dock.

  “Freakin’ full moon,” Tony said and pressed harder into the wood.

  After what seemed an eternity, Nick picked up the dog, and went inside. When the light at last flipped off, we inched over to the boat and fell inside.

  * * *

  Tony’s sailboat rocked gently, the water lapping lazily against the hull. We huddled around the small table affixed to the floor. I took a sip of the single-malt whiskey Tony had poured. The smoky liquid burned my throat and instantly warmed me from the inside out, numbing my frazzled nerves like a welcomed shot of Novocain.

  “That was terrifying,” Tony said. He slugged back some whiskey. “And freaking awesome.”

  The evidence we collected lay on the table before us like a cadaver in an autopsy. Glenn had his notebook open and peered at it through the glasses he had fished from his pocket.

  “So, what do we have, Pops?” Tony said.

  “First, let’s discuss what we observed.”

  “That sailboat was spotless,” I said. “Someone had recently scrubbed it from stem to stern. I
t reeked of bleach. He already tried to erase any sign of a struggle.”

  “I don’t know,” Tony said. “Boaters are pretty anal. I’ve seen guys hosing down their rigs after a five-minute cruise to the fuel dock.”

  “Oh, really?” I glanced around Tony’s disorderly cabin. A computer had been crammed onto the galley counter and books and papers were scattered on the floor. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and a laundry bag overflowing with clothes sat propped in a corner.

  He shrugged. “Most boaters.”

  “I think Rosalie has a point,” Glenn said. “The boat was spotless. What did you notice inside the cabin?”

  “The ashtray,” I said.

  “Right,” Glenn said. “Sailors don’t smoke inside cabins because the fumes can build up. Either way, they don’t need an ashtray because they can flick their ashes in the water.”

  “Unless you’re cozied up in the cabin with a coed,” Tony said.

  Glenn made a note on his pad. “Did either of you see any evidence of alcohol?”

  We shook our heads.

  “He could have easily gotten rid of a bottle,” Glenn said. “Or maybe he slipped her one of those new drugs the fraternity boys are using.”

  “Roofies,” Tony said.

  “So that leaves us with this,” Glenn said.

  We all stared down at three long blonde hairs Glenn had found wrapped around a cleat on the dock.

  “The professor’s wife has dark hair,” I said. “And, of course, so does he.”

  “What about his kids?” Tony said.

  “Well, one was a towhead, but there’s no way his hair was that long.”

  “It could be a friend’s,” Tony said. “Or Megan’s.”

  “Exactly,” Glenn said. “Do you have a bag we could preserve these in? Because if we can get the police to pursue this case, they could test the DNA and prove it belonged to Megan.”

  “Do you think the police could admit it as evidence if we found it?” I asked.

  “Don’t be negative,” Tony said.

  “They could test it for DNA. It might be enough to get them to reopen the investigation. Besides, it’s all we have,” Glenn said. “Not much to hang your hat on, is it?”

  “Did I ever tell you Nick’s wife left him in October? That’s the same month I found Megan.”

  “Maybe that’s why she left,” Glenn said. “Because of the affair.”

  “Exactly.” I sipped my whiskey. “So let’s be better detectives, set the scene a little. Say Megan tries to curtail the affair and he ends up forcing himself on her. Afterward he gets scared, strangles her with one of the lines, and drops her in the water.”

  “Now we’re talking,” Glenn said. “Did you two happen to notice one of the lines on his boat was brand new? It was soft as silk and white as a freshly bleached sheet.”

  “No way,” Tony said. “Well, that would fit Rosalie’s theory. He replaced the line because it was evidence. And good lines ain’t cheap. You don’t replace a line unless it’s in bad shape.”

  “Surely the police checked to see if she’d been raped or drugged,” Glenn said. “And what if there were marks on her neck? Did you happen to notice, Rosalie?”

  “Oh, no. She was very bloated. Her skin was discolored and her clothes stretched tight. And, well…” I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “What?” they said in unison.

  I opened my eyes and noticed they were both several inches closer.

  “I think maybe the fish had found her.”

  “Whoa, Princess.” Tony recoiled. “I did not need to know that.”

  “And I did not need to see it. But if we’re going to do this, we need to know everything.”

  “So very sad,” Glenn said. “If this night produced anything, it’s motivation to solve this crime. Some Neanderthal thinks he can commit murder at will and no one seems to care. We need to know what little evidence the sheriff’s department collected.”

  “But how?” I said. “The sheriff has made it very clear he wants me to back off.”

  “Agreed. We won’t be getting any information out of him,” Glenn said. He took a slug of whiskey and smacked his lips. “Whomever Megan’s murderer is, he or she won’t want you asking questions. Our killer thinks they’ve gotten away with it. That’s our opportunity, right there.”

  “Unsuspecting,” Tony said. “I agree, Pops.”

  “I just got goose bumps,” I said. “You know, this detective work can leave you feeling a little paranoid. I mean, everything is a weapon, everyone is a suspect.”

  “Yes, that’s true, isn’t it?” Glenn said. “But the only things we can trust are the facts.”

  “That’s right,” I said. “Wasn’t it John Adams who said, ‘facts are stubborn things’?”

  “Funny,” Tony said. “You know, ironic? John Adams … John Adams College?”

  Glenn frowned. “I still can’t fathom why the police aren’t pursuing this. Look how much we’ve already come up with and we’re just writers.”

  I turned to Tony. “Why don’t you top us off?”

  Tony dropped a few more ice cubes in our glasses and filled them with whiskey. I raised mine. “Gentlemen—here’s to knowing what we know.”

  SEVENTEEN

  I maneuvered my car down the lane and noticed Tyler had trimmed the cypress trees. It was a welcome change to not be accosted by branches. Tom Bestman would now be cutting checks from Aunt Charlotte’s estate every month. There would be enough to pay Tyler and to keep me on the farm. At least for now. He worried I might still have to sell it in the divorce settlement, but I would think about that later.

  I parked my car and noticed Tyler had cut the tree limbs and stacked them neatly for firewood. The smaller twigs were bundled for kindling. I wondered how he was with furnaces.

  Later that evening I sat on my screened porch and ate a dinner of baby carrots, crackers, and cheddar cheese. I also poured a glass of wine so that I would have the four basic food groups covered. I settled in the chaise lounge and switched on the lamp. The chair had been part of the house as long as I could remember, the paint chipping off and littering the floor. It was covered with chintz cushions, the once vivid pinks and sage greens long since faded. I had memories of my aunt sitting on this chair, her knitting in her lap, as she watched me trap fireflies in a Mason jar or march through the grass in bare feet, a sparkler stick sizzling in my grip.

  I kicked off my shoes and propped my legs up. It was times like these the loss of my mother swelled up like an unexpected storm. After her death three years ago, I reluctantly joined the ranks of motherless women. We’re a recognizable lot, if you look for the signs. There’s a sadness in our eyes, a hint of self-doubt in our movements, a cool breeze at our backs replacing the warmth from being unconditionally loved.

  I closed my eyes. Ending my marriage would have been so much easier to bear if my mother was still there to support me, to wrap those arms around me and tell me I would be all right. Since her death I felt as if the Earth had turned away from the sun. Maybe that was part of what went wrong with Ed and me. He had no idea what to do when she died. He missed her, too, I know. But after a while he expected me to be better. “How long?” he would say when he found me crying. “Shouldn’t you be better by now?”

  I shook my head and opened my eyes. A partial moon was rising, casting light on the river, the rippling black water reflecting a distorted crescent. Dusk was setting in and the trees and shrubs were blending into the night.

  “Enough,” I said quietly and opened my laptop. I took a deep breath and thought about Megan. Sue’s research had revealed another side to her—a young woman who had stood strong amid adversity. What determination and focus it must have taken for her to play soccer knowing she was surrounded by voyeurs.

  Once on Facebook, I decided to go to Megan’s memorial page. I waited for it to open and there she was—posing in a blue-and-white soccer uniform with long, windswept hair, a playful smile brightening her face. A girl named Petra Ku
rtz had written the introduction.

  This memorial page is to honor the life of a dear friend, Megan Frances Johnston. Her life ended prematurely but her love and enthusiasm for life will never die. Megan was beyond gorgeous, but that’s because her incredible spirit lit her up like a Christmas tree. She was talented, smart, and one of the best athletes to ever grace the soccer field of the University of Delaware. Her hardships came when she was objectified by a viral picture that flooded the Internet. Did the Internet kill her? In some way, yes. But we can fight back and keep her memory alive through our Facebook community. Please share your personal story of how you miss her, how your life will never be the same. For me, Megan was a gentle and kind spirit who graced this Earth with compassion, joy, and genuine love for her friends, family, animals, and God. My grief is gut wrenching. But I want her legacy to live on. Welcome to our memorial group!

  Wow, I thought. And so it begins.

  Barry Grossman

  Megan Megan Megan. I miss her so much it hurts. The sky is less blue, the sun not as warm.

  123 people like this

  Jessica Martel

  Omg! This is the worst thing that’s ever happened! First she left UD and then this! The soccer team sucks without her. I can’t believe I’ll never see her again—laugh with her again!!! GOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Chelsea Pendleton and 36 others like this

  Beth Hazelton

  Noah Kelly and I got engaged last night. Megan and I promised to be each other’s maids of honor. She was going to wear a navy dress in my wedding and I was going to wear hunter green in hers because she always wanted a December wedding. Now what do I do? Why did she have to die???? I hate this. Nothing is the way it’s supposed to be any more. I want her to give me a thumbs up on my new relationship status. I want her to throw my bachelorette party. I want her to help me pick out my dress. This sucks so bad.; (

  67 people like this

  My stomach stitched into a tight knot. So many loved her. So many were grieving now. I looked back at that smiling, innocent face. I wanted to warn her, don’t go near the river!