Murder at Barclay Meadow Read online

  “Maybe you should ask the sheriff about it.”

  “Oh, no.” I shook my head. “He makes me nervous.”

  “Joe hasn’t had an easy life,” Doris said. “But he’s a good lawman. Wrapped up this case pretty quick, don’t you think?”

  “Indeed,” I said, thinking his swiftness was precisely the problem. I looked back at the small black-and-white photo. The caption read: Megan Johnston, 21. Although the photo was blurry, it was clear she was stunning. Light hair, bright smile, round eyes that seemed to dare you to keep looking. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Downright shame.” Doris glanced at the photo. “Kids are too reckless these days. They think they’re immortal is what it is.”

  “I agree. Our children may move away but the worry never leaves us.”

  The bell clanked again. More customers. After paying for my purchases I turned and almost tripped over two small children who had already crowded the candy case, dollar bills tight in their fists.

  I hugged the papers and headed for my car. The convertible top was down and my hair was now a mass of windswept curls. This was a relatively new car. On my forty-third birthday, Ed had wrapped a bow around a cherry red Mercedes and parked it in the driveway. I had been happy driving a Prius. But Ed announced, “No wife of mine is going to be seen in a car preferred by senior citizens. Driving this baby,” he said as he dropped the keys in my palm, “will keep you young.” The car was everything I’m not—flamboyant, pricey, and impractical. I stopped walking and took it in. Why hadn’t I realized then Ed was in the market for a newer model?

  I tucked my hair behind an ear and glanced in the window of Brower’s cafe as I passed. The sheriff was seated at a table. Curious, I stepped closer to the window and peered in. He was talking intently to a man with salt-and-pepper hair, their heads dipped close together. Well, if you wanted to have a private conversation, Brower’s would be the place to have it. I tried their coffee the other day and it tasted like a recently paved road.

  The man slapped the table and pointed a finger in the sheriff’s flushed face. Oh, I would never do that, I thought. He might bite it. I tried to get a better view, but all I could see was the back of the other man’s head. My cheek was nearly touching the glass. I wondered who would have the guts to talk to him that way. The sheriff looked up at me. I panicked when his eyes narrowed in recognition.

  I jumped back and slammed into a passerby. “Oh, I’m so sorry.” I spun around. My gum slid onto the sidewalk.

  “Whoa, there…” Tom Bestman said. Tom was the executor of Aunt Charlotte’s estate and now my divorce lawyer. He was of average height and weight with brown eyes and a hairline that was taking its time to recede. He dressed casually for a lawyer and could be categorized as unremarkable. Until he smiled, that is. His was a smile so disarmingly warm and kind, it enabled one to trust him instantly. I was grateful to have him in my court. “You know, Rosalie…” There it was, that smile. “You can’t really read the menu through the window.”

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “Nope.” He bent down, picked up my gum, and set it on the stack of papers. “I’m glad to run into you.” He hesitated. “Literally, right?”

  “I’m very sorry.”

  “No worries,” he said. “Say, did you get my email?”

  “No. Have you heard from Ed’s attorney?”

  He avoided my gaze.

  “You have bad news.” I clutched the papers tighter.

  Tom rolled his shoulders back and shifted his weight. “It’s not great news, but—”

  “What?”

  “Well, Rosalie, it seems Ed has frozen all of your accounts. ATM, checking, credit cards, the whole shebang.”

  “Can he do that?” I searched his face.

  His eyes met mine. “Apparently so.”

  “But why? I haven’t done anything to him. He’s the one who—”

  “Apparently he wants you to sell the farm.”

  “But I’m living there. What does he expect me to do?” I stared at the ground. “He’s always hated the farm. He wanted me to sell it the day we read Aunt Charlotte’s will.” I looked up. “He said it was a money pit. And that he never wanted to own something on the…”

  “On the what?” Tom said.

  “You know what they say.” I shook my head. “I’m sorry to be crude. He said he didn’t want to own something on the ‘shit house side of Maryland.’”

  “It’s nothing we Eastern Shore folk haven’t heard before.” Tom tucked his hands in the pockets of his khakis. “So, if he was so hot to sell it, why didn’t you?”

  “I was confused. I had recently lost my mother and then Aunt Charlotte and the last thing I wanted to do was hastily sell the last piece of history from Mother’s family.” I sunk my teeth into my lower lip. “But that was two years ago. Why would he force my hand now?”

  “If you ask me … well, don’t ask me what I think about it or I’ll be the one sounding crude.”

  “Isn’t there something I can do?”

  “I don’t know. He said he won’t unfreeze the accounts until you list the place with a Realtor.”

  “I can’t go back to Chevy Chase. Not yet.”

  “Rosalie,” Tom said. “Charlotte left a small trust to help keep the place up.” He patted my shoulder. “It may not put a whole lot of food on the table, but it should keep you warm.”

  “I have to do what he wants, then, don’t I?” I said. “After everything he’s done, now I have to sell my home.”

  “Hang on,” Tom said gently. “Let me see what I can do.”

  “But you said…” I glanced over at the Mercedes and frowned. “Maybe I could sell my car. I’ve never liked that car.”

  Tom’s brow furrowed. “Is the title in your name?”

  “No, it was a birthday gift. But … oh, my goodness.” I placed my palm over my heart. “I thought I was smarter than this. I never imagined I wouldn’t be married.”

  Tom gave me a sad smile. “Of course you didn’t.”

  The door to Brower’s creaked open. Sheriff Wilgus hiked up his belt as the man with the salt-and-pepper hair followed him out. The sheriff looked over at us. Tom waved. I hesitated, then waved, too. After a short, disinterested nod, the sheriff continued down the sidewalk. The other man, who was in a tailored navy wool suit, walked next to him.

  “The sheriff doesn’t look too happy, does he?” Tom said.

  “Happy doesn’t seem to fall into his range of emotions. He seems to be in a perpetual state of annoyance,” I said. “Who is the other gentleman?”

  “That’s David Carmichael.”

  “Are they friends?”

  “They don’t look to be all that friendly.”

  I watched them enter the next block. Their heads close, their bodies stiff with tension.

  “Honestly,” Tom continued. “I’ve never found the president to be all that affable.”

  “President?”

  Tom turned to face me again. “He’s the president of John Adams College.”

  “I wonder if they’re talking about Megan.”

  “Megan? You mean the dead girl you found?” Tom said. “Why are you so curious, Rosalie?”

  “Oh, not so curious.” I tore open the pack of gum and offered him a piece. “I guess I’m just trying to learn the ropes of small-town living.”

  “Good for you,” he said as he opened the wrapper. “Rosalie, don’t make any decisions you’ll regret later, okay?” He folded the gum into his mouth.

  “Well, that’s not a problem. I can barely decide what to eat for breakfast.”

  “Hey…” Tom stepped closer. “I heard you’re going to plant some crops.”

  “You, too?”

  “I hope it’s true,” he said. “You know, things happen for a reason.” He cracked his gum. “I, for one, am glad to know you’re settling in here. We need folks like you—folks with a history. Folks who want to keep the Eastern Shore the way it’s always been.”

  * * *<
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  As I drove home along the winding road that echoed the river’s curves and bends, I felt a slow burning in my gut. I couldn’t stop thinking about Ed. I felt as if I didn’t even know him anymore. I wondered if our friends had been surprised by our separation or if perhaps they had seen the signs, the cracks in the foundation that I’d been blind to. Like with a Seurat painting, sometimes just a small step of distance can bring things into focus. I pushed harder on the accelerator. The wind restyled my hair.

  The day my marriage shattered, I had been making plans for a trip to Napa Valley. We had recently delivered Annie to Duke University, and I thought a romantic getaway would be the perfect opportunity to acknowledge the next phase of our lives. As much as I would miss my girl, I was looking forward to our empty nest and hoped it would rekindle the romance that seemed to have cooled without my noticing.

  It was a lovely Saturday afternoon, one of those pleasant weekend days when we each engaged in parallel, domestic activities. Ed was upstairs getting ready to clean out the gutters when his phone vibrated on the counter. It sat next to his keys, a receipt, and a mound of loose change.

  “Ed…” I called as I clicked on a bed-and-breakfast website. It buzzed again. “Ed … your phone.”

  I was struck with the thought it might be Annie. Although she was more likely to text me with day-to-day issues, if it was an emergency, she knew her father’s phone was always close to his heart. I glanced down at the screen. “Rebecca.” The vibrating stopped.

  Ed came into the kitchen while pulling a faded orange University of Virginia sweatshirt over his head.

  “There you are,” I said. “Hey—I just found this adorable bed-and-breakfast.” I looked back at my computer and scrolled down the page.

  “Bed-and-breakfast?”

  “Yeah. It looks really cute. It has a package deal: bike rentals, wine and cheese every evening. Oh, and a hot-air balloon ride. Well, nix the balloon ride, but what do you think?” I looked up at him. When our eyes met my first thought was how handsome he was. His tortoiseshell glasses sat low on his nose and his graying sideburns seemed to deepen the tan of his skin. “I could try and find something nicer if you don’t want to stay in a B-and-B.”

  “I don’t care.” He turned to fill a glass with water from the refrigerator dispenser.

  I studied his back, trying not to feel hurt by his lack of interest. Maybe I should step outside my comfort zone and take that balloon ride. “Oh, Ed, someone named Rebecca just called. Is she the new—”

  “Did you answer it?” He rushed to his phone and snatched it up. Water sloshed out of his glass.

  “Ed?” I said, trying to subdue the tremble in my voice. “What’s wrong?”

  He stared down at the screen. “I can’t do this anymore.”

  I tried to swallow. “Exactly what can’t you do?”

  “Rose…” He looked up at me. Pain etched his face. “I’m in love with someone else. I have been for several months.”

  A cloud blocked the sun, darkening the room. I couldn’t move. I had always known I wouldn’t last longer than the first bullet in a war. And I had just been shot through the heart. My head felt light and my joints had stiffened. How fast does rigor mortis set in, I wondered, after you’ve died?

  * * *

  Later that afternoon I brewed some Brazilian coffee—a nutty blend with a hint of cocoa—and sat at the kitchen table. Air breezed in the open window and I caught the scent of burning leaves. Halloween was in just a few days. I hadn’t even bought a pumpkin.

  I took a sip. No melancholy, I chastised. But the idleness of my new life was wrecking havoc on my nerves. The remoteness of this decaying house, the utter stillness, was as haunting as the humming golden calm before a tornado touched down.

  I opened the local paper and read the entire article about Megan Johnston. There was nothing more about the cause of death, just the details of her life and surviving kin. My chest tightened at the memory of her bloated body, adorned with that cheerful, feminine backpack. After calling 911, I had gone back down to the shore and waited for the police to arrive. Although I kept a safe distance—at least enough to be able to breathe—I couldn’t leave her alone in that cold, unfriendly water.

  I looked back at the article. The funeral was to be held in Wilmington, Delaware. I was struck with an impulse to drive up there. Maybe it would help if I could just say good-bye—pay my respects. Besides, it would be good to take a road trip out of Cardigan.

  I wrote the address on a scrap of paper. The furnace clanked and groaned, trying to come to life, but then nothing. I would have to call someone. Later, I thought, and flipped open my laptop to search the Wilmington papers for more information. I clicked on Facebook first to see if Annie was available for a chat.

  Rosalie

  Hi!

  Annie

  hi mom!

  I typed quickly. I was particularly happy to chat with Annie today of all days. Ever since finding Megan, the mother lion in me was roaring.

  Annie

  I still can’t believe you found a dead body!

  Rosalie

  I know!!!

  I hesitated, not wanting to upset her. Mass shootings, suicides, and rapes were occurring on school campuses. All I wanted was for my girl to feel safe and loved, but even that had been disrupted now that her parents were getting divorced. I decided to spare her any details.

  Rosalie

  I’m okay. And the police took care of everything. How are you?

  Annie

  I just did something rando

  Rosalie

  Rando?

  Annie

  yeah, random

  Rosalie

  OK, I’ll get this yet. So what did you do?

  Annie

  joined the rugby team!!!! :):)

  Rosalie

  What?!!

  Annie

  chill. it’s fun. soccer is too competitive so my roomie talked me into it. we have a game parents’ weekend.

  Parents’ weekend. I had made a hotel reservation in Durham for Ed and me the day Annie received her acceptance letter.

  Annie

  mom?

  Rosalie

  So, tell me everything. Are you walking with a buddy at night and staying away from fraternity houses?

  Annie

  **eye roll. you’re the one who’s getting into trouble. you need a hobby, ma. what are you doing with yourself?

  I had to think for a moment.

  Rosalie

  I signed up for a memoir writing class at the local college.

  Annie

  now who’s rando? what are you going to write about?

  I stared at the screen. Until I found a job, I needed something to fill my time. I had scoured the continuing education classes offered by John Adams College. With a degree in creative writing, I was hoping for a journalism class, but they were filled. Memoir was the only course offering I could find that would allow me to hone my rusty writing skills. I had never thought about writing a memoir before, but who knew? Maybe I would come up with something.

  Annie

  hello? jk! =) i’m sure you’ll have tons to write about. make me look good!

  Rosalie

  There’s also a knitting class at the library. I could try that too.

  Annie

  !!! mucho better. you could make me a scarf! i like blue. Haha g2g! xoxo ciao!

  Before I could finish typing that I loved her, she had posted her new status:

  Annie Hart

  is in search of chocolate

  Worry for Annie nagged at me. She never talked about the divorce. I wondered if she was pretending it never happened or maybe just hoping her father would come to his senses. That’s how my friends reacted. “It’s just a phase,” my best friend Amy had said. “Ed will be begging you back in no time. Pull a Hillary,” she added. “Forgive the man and get on with your life.” But Ed wasn’t asking for forgiveness. And I’d never seen him beg for anything.

 
; I slapped my computer closed and stood. I needed to move.

  After changing into a tank and jogging shorts, I snatched up my iPod and headed out the front door. Sunlight peeked through the rows of cedar trees, dappling the lane to the main road with shadow and light. Yes, I thought, vitamin D.

  I surveyed the grounds as I walked. A mowing crew had kept up the lawn, but the rest of the property was a disordered mess. The fields were dotted with sweet gum saplings and an array of wildflowers—goldenrod, the scarlet tufts of Indian paintbrush—that bent to the demands of the autumn breeze. A sign at the start of the lane read BARCLAY MEADOW. Perhaps with my neglect, this property was living up to its name.

  I inserted my ear buds and clicked my iPod on shuffle. I bent my neck from side to side, felt a satisfying crack, and broke into a run. This was good. Exercise activated endorphins. Endorphins elevated moods. Electric guitars started up. An organ ran the keys. A jazzy saxophone joined the mix. I picked up the pace, moving with the cadence of the music. Boy, did I need this.

  I stopped abruptly, skidding in the gravel. I yanked on the ear buds and threw my iPod on the ground. “No!” I covered my mouth. Bruce Springsteen had begun the intro to “Rosalita.” Ed and I danced to the song at our wedding. He used to call me that—Rosalita—when he was feeling affectionate. I pushed the heels of my hands over my eyelids. When had he stopped? My mind raced. When had he stopped?

  “Ma’am?”

  It took a few seconds before a sandy-haired man came into focus. “Who are you?” I brushed a tear from my cheek.

  “Tyler Wells,” he said as if I should already know.

  He was tall with wide shoulders and wore a denim shirt, the rolled-up sleeves exposing muscular forearms. A chocolate Labrador with graying fur sat next to him. I glanced around, remembering how isolated I was. The nearest neighbor was a half mile down the road. There were no sounds of traffic, not even an airplane overhead. The only noise, other than my panting, was a red-winged blackbird sitting on a fence post clearly taken with the sound of his trilling.