Murder at Barclay Meadow Read online

  “This is private property, Tyler.” I looked up at him. His face was tan and slightly weathered. His vivid green eyes held my gaze.

  He pulled a boxy cap lower on his head. “You running this place?”

  “Yes.” I shrugged. “Sort of. But why are you standing in my driveway?”

  “Doris said you were finally putting this land back to work.”

  “Doris?”

  “Doris Bird—Birdie’s shoe store.” He crossed his arms tight to his chest. Biceps bulged under his shirt. “Unless you’ve leased it to someone else.”

  “Honestly? I was kind of hoping everyone would forget about that.”

  He narrowed his laser-beam eyes. “Ma’am?”

  “Why are you calling me ‘ma’am’? I may be cresting the hill, but something tells me you are too. And just how did you get here? I don’t see a vehicle. It’s like poof, all of a sudden you and your dog are in front of me.”

  “My truck is at the end of the lane.”

  “Why didn’t you drive up to the house?”

  “You ask a lot of questions.”

  “Well, you took me by surprise.”

  He shifted his weight, kicking up a puff of dust. “And who are you, exactly?”

  “I’m Rosalie Hart, Charlotte’s niece.” I put my hands on my hips. “Wait a minute … Tyler. I remember that name. You leased these fields from my aunt, didn’t you?”

  He gave his head one sharp nod.

  “She used to talk about you.” I stared down at the gravel. “She liked you very much.” I huffed out a sigh and looked up at him, taking in his rugged good looks. “I don’t suppose you’d like some coffee?”

  “All right.”

  I started toward the house. Tyler followed with the dog trotting at his side. Gravel crackled under his boots. Why did the Marlboro Man have to show up when I was in spandex?

  Once inside I pulled two mugs from the cabinet, filled them from the carafe, and held one out to him. He opened his fist. My iPod lay cradled in his wide palm. “You dropped this.”

  “Thank you.” I wondered if it still worked.

  “Actually,” he said and accepted the mug, “I’m pretty sure you threw it.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s a long and not very compelling story.” I blew on my coffee to cool it. “Where’s your dog?”

  “The stoop.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Dickens.”

  “Oh.” I smiled. “He gets into trouble, does he? You can bring him inside if you’re worried he’ll run away.”

  “As in Charles Dickens. And he isn’t going anywhere.”

  I took a sip of coffee. It scalded the tip of my tongue. I set the cup on the counter and looked up at Tyler. “So, how does this work exactly?”

  “I lease the land from you and keep the profits,” he said. “That’s all you really need to know.”

  “Good grief. I take it you’re not fond of tact?”

  “Waste of time.” He walked over to a drawer, removed a spoon, opened the sugar canister, and scooped several mounds of the fine white crystals into his coffee. His familiarity with my kitchen was unnerving.

  “You’ve owned this place for two years.” He turned to face me. “Why show up now?”

  “Like I said…” I brushed a stray hair from my face. “It’s a long story.”

  He leaned back against the counter and sipped his coffee. He looked down at it, paused for a moment, and took another sip. “You let a lot of good farmland go to waste.”

  “Haven’t we already been over that?” I secured the lid back on the copper canister. “Were you close with my aunt?”

  “Miss Charlotte was a classy lady.”

  “She was the best.”

  “Funny.” He cocked his head. “I don’t remember seeing you around here.”

  “I … well, we emailed almost every day, but I guess I didn’t see her as much as I would have liked. I’m … well, I was very busy.”

  “And now you’re not?”

  “That’s right. Now I’m not.” I rolled my shoulders back and lifted my chin. “So, Tyler, what do you need from me? Do I have to buy you seeds? Do I even have any farm equipment? I never looked. I wonder if I have a tractor.”

  “You don’t have to do anything.” He drained his coffee and set the mug in the sink. I was still waiting for mine to cool. “Look, I’d like to get started right away. It’s going to take some time to get these fields back in shape. But I could get some cover crops planted if I hustle.”

  “Do I need to get my lawyer to draw up a contract?”

  “Lawyer?” He shook his head. “No need for one of them.”

  “So, there’s no contract?”

  “Your aunt kept a copy of the lease in a filing cabinet. It should be sufficient.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you threw it away. You seem to like throwing things.” I was pretty sure I detected a faint smile on his face.

  “I haven’t even opened the filing cabinet.” I picked up a pen and looked around for a piece of paper. I wrote “find contract” on a napkin.

  “There’s one more thing. Miss Charlotte and I were farming organic—trying some experimental methods.” Tyler cleared his throat. “I’d like to continue that.”

  “I didn’t realize…”

  “Look…” He started for the door. “You find the contract and I’ll get a check to you tomorrow morning. I start early. Don’t be surprised if you hear the plow before six.”

  “It all sounds so interesting,” I said as I followed him through the house. “Planting things is optimistic, don’t you think? Did you know Eleanor Roosevelt said, ‘Where flowers bloom, so does hope’? And farming organic—that’s so great.”

  He stopped and looked back at me. “So, now all of a sudden you’re interested?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I’m a quick study. If you catch me up to speed, I—”

  “The way I see it…” He picked his cap up from the antique demilune next to the door and secured it on his head. “You don’t really need to study up. I’ll just do my job and you do whatever it is that you do.” He straightened his posture. “What exactly do you do?”

  “Me? Well … I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”

  Tyler opened the door.

  “Wait, you never said if I have a tractor.”

  “I have my own.”

  “Okay.” I extended my hand. “I guess we’re partners now.”

  He reared back a little, hesitated, and then gave my hand a stiff shake.

  As he turned to leave I noticed a paperback jutting from the rear pocket of his faded jeans. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter.

  “That’s for damn sure,” I whispered. The door closed with a heavy thud and I was alone again.

  Rosalie Hart

  will be planting winter wheat

  Amy Pickering

  Oh dear god! Come home!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

  Annie Hart

  you’re scaring me mom: /

  THREE

  Megan Johnston’s funeral was held in a large Episcopal church in an upscale area of Wilmington. After backing into a parking space, I killed the engine and watched as people arrived. The parking lot filled quickly. Several carloads of college students emptied out, each with a deer-in-the-headlights look about them. Their protective bubble of immortality had burst.

  Megan’s parents arrived in a black funeral home limousine. The mother was small and thin. She hurried toward the church steps, unsteady in her patent pumps. Her head dipped forward and she clutched a handkerchief to her nose. The father followed a few paces behind, his hands deep in his overcoat, his steps heavy. He was tall with broad, hunched shoulders and deep bags under his eyes.

  I followed them inside, slid into a back pew, muted my cell phone, and folded my hands over my purse. The casket was sealed but photographs of Megan at various stages of her life had been placed on easels and on the altar. The largest was her high school graduation photo, the same one that had been in the paper, but in
color. Flowing blonde hair graced her bare shoulders, a dainty string of pearls encircled her long neck, and those playful eyes were a piercing crystal blue. In one photo, she was dressed in a soccer uniform holding an enormous trophy. In another, she was being pulled by her father in a wooden sled, a fur-lined snow suit snug around her face. In every shot, she stared confidently back at the camera. This was a girl who loved life and had no interest in dying.

  * * *

  “Are you a friend of the family?” the woman next to me asked as we waited our turn to exit the church.

  “No,” I said. I smiled briefly and turned away. I was hoping to get out of there unnoticed. I felt a tap on my shoulder.

  “So, who are you?”

  I looked up. Her thin, penciled eyebrows had risen to expectant arches.

  “I’m … well … I’m…”

  “A stutterer?”

  “No.” I coughed out a laugh. “Not usually.”

  “Well, you’d never know it.” She was still smiling, her lips coated in a rich, wine-colored lipstick.

  “I found Megan,” I said. “She was in my marsh grasses.”

  “Seriously? Oh my God.” She placed a hand on my arm.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” said the man behind us. “The line is moving.”

  “Come on,” she said. “Let’s talk outside.”

  We walked into the too-bright sunlight. I followed her over to a clump of euonymus bushes, their leaves burning a vivid red. She slipped on a pair of owl-eyed sunglasses. I squinted up at her. “I’m Rosalie, by the way.”

  “Rhonda. Oh, and I am a friend of the family.” She held a black Kate Spade clutch in both hands. “I can’t believe you found Megan’s body. How awful was it?”

  “It was devastating. I will never forget it as long as I live.”

  “No, probably not.” She frowned. “But why are you here?”

  “Finding her has touched me deeply. I have a daughter in college, too. I can’t imagine something like this happening to her. It’s a mother’s worst nightmare, right? I wanted—no, needed—to pay my respects. I would like to extend my sympathy to her parents, if that’s possible.”

  “Nothing personal, but I seriously doubt they want to talk to you.”

  “You’re right. I wouldn’t want to talk to me, either. It would be much too painful.” I hitched my bag higher up on my shoulder. “How are they holding up?”

  “Not well.”

  “Of course not. How could they be?”

  “I’ll be surprised if the marriage survives this one. It wasn’t exactly in great shape to begin with.” She glanced around and lowered her voice. “Did you know Bill is Megan’s stepfather?”

  “No, I didn’t. Where is Megan’s father?”

  “He was already married. When Corinne told him she was pregnant, he denied Megan was his child. I told Corinne to do the DNA thing, you know, make him get tested, but then she met Bill. After Bill adopted Megan she let it go. I still think she should have done it just to get some cash out of the bastard.”

  “You’ve known the family a long time?”

  “My Chelsea and Megan were best friends since they were toddlers.” She pulled a lipstick from her clutch and touched up her lips. “Sorry,” she said and snapped the cap back on. “It’s so dry this time of year.”

  “Your daughter must be crushed. Is she still in the church?”

  “Actually, Chelsea couldn’t make it.” Rhonda’s mouth twitched. “The University of Delaware soccer team had an important game and she couldn’t get away. I know that must sound terrible, but … well, Chelsea was on the bench most of the time until Megan…” She waved her long, manicured fingers at me. “I shouldn’t be getting into this now.”

  “Well, at least you’re here. I’m sure the family will understand why Chelsea couldn’t make it.”

  “You think?” She sounded skeptical.

  “I’ve been to my share of funerals lately. The grieving family appreciates the people who show—I don’t think they resent the ones who don’t.”

  Rhonda gave me a crooked smile. “Do you really believe that?”

  “Yes.” I nodded. “I do.”

  “Are you always this nice?”

  A loud sniffle distracted me and I looked over at two girls embraced in a tight hug, their faces tear-streaked and blotchy. A boy wrapped his arms around them and squeezed. A sob erupted from one of them. I looked back at Rhonda. “Can I ask you something?” I stepped closer. “What was your reaction when you heard she drowned?”

  “I couldn’t believe it. I can’t imagine Megan ever going near a river.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was terrified of the water. I know, a stellar athlete like her, but she had a bad experience. She fell in a pool and couldn’t swim. I had to fish her out.”

  “Really?”

  “We were at the club and, well, I didn’t have to watch Chelsea because she was already jumping off the board. Anyway, after that, Megan hated the water. I don’t think she ever learned to swim.”

  “Why…” I stared at the ground as this new information sunk in. I looked back up. “None of this makes any sense.”

  She frowned. “What are you getting at?”

  “The police said Megan fell off a dock and drowned and you say she was terrified of the water. And she hadn’t been swimming because her backpack was strapped on, and again, she wasn’t a swimmer. So, how did she end up in the river? It’s like you said; it wasn’t voluntary. Did someone push her?”

  “Wow.” She crossed her arms. “You’ve really thought about this.”

  “Do you think I’m crazy for doubting the police?”

  “Just between you and me…” Rhonda kept her voice low. “I think Megan could have easily been in some sort of trouble.”

  “Why?”

  “You may have noticed she was rather pretty?”

  “Stunning.”

  Rhonda rolled her eyes. “The girl was an attention magnet—always in the middle of some sort of predicament. It was like the television network, TNT: we know drama.”

  I bristled. How could she be saying such things about a young woman who just died? I hugged myself and rubbed my arms. Rhonda reminded me of the kind of person who might yank your chair away right before you sat down.

  “What?” She frowned. “You look shocked.”

  “I’m just taking it all in.”

  “You might as well know…” She shrugged. “I tell it like it is.”

  “I’m not a big fan of secrets, either.” A heavy, gray cloud shadowed the sun, instantly chilling the air. A breeze kicked up my skirt. I smoothed it down and looked up at Rhonda. “What sort of trouble could she have been in?”

  “The latest drama was with a professor at John Adams.” Rhonda pushed her sunglasses on top of her head. Her skin stretched tight across her cheekbones. “Megan was after this internship he was offering. I swear, she wanted to be the next Anna Freud. And apparently this guy is a big shot in the field—just got some fancy grant.” She lowered her voice to a whisper. “Megan was sleeping with him.”

  “Oh.” I reared back. “Did she report him?”

  “What’s to report? Sounds to me like it was her idea.”

  My mind went back to the headline: “Psychology Professor Receives Prestigious National Grant.” “Do the police know about the professor?”

  “The police? I don’t think anyone knew except Chels.”

  “Why did she transfer from Delaware?”

  Rhonda scowled. “How do you know about that?”

  “You just told me, remember?” I smiled. “You said Megan played soccer with your daughter.”

  She studied me for a moment. “I have a feeling people underestimate you.”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  “Uh-huh.” She gave me a wry smile. “Anyway, that’s another story and, as always, full of drama.” Rhonda glanced around. The mourners were dispersing. Cars were leaving and the limo idled nearby. Puffs of gray smoke billowed
around the exhaust pipe. “I should get to the house. I promised Bill I’d pick up some Ketel One. I’m sure he could use the whole bottle right about now.”

  “Is Bill your husband?”

  “I don’t have one of those anymore.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand in front of my face. “Bill is Bill Johnston, Megan’s stepdad. See? You don’t remember everything I tell you.”

  “Rhonda, I don’t suppose I could give you my number? Maybe we could stay in touch.” I pulled an old gas receipt out of my purse and wrote my number on it. My pen made holes in the thin paper. I handed it to her. She creased it down the middle and placed it in her purse.

  “Deal. I’d love to keep up with your nosing around. Make sure you tell me everything you find out. Oh, and here’s my contact info.” She handed me a colorful business card on which a younger-looking Rhonda smiled up at me, her head in that Realtor angle that made them all look as if they had an inner-ear disorder. “Okay, well, gotta run!” She turned and started for the parking lot, her stilettos clicking on the pavement. She stopped when Megan’s stepfather emerged from the church. He walked over to her and spoke close to her ear. They embraced for a noticeably long time. Then Rhonda brushed his cheek with a kiss, patted his arm, and walked away. He watched her go.

  I startled when he looked my way. His gaze intensified. He studied me, as if trying to discern who I was. Unsure what to do, I smiled my most sympathetic smile and hurried to my car.

  * * *

  As I drove back to Cardigan, I reflected on my conversation with Rhonda. I felt energized that my suspicions were right—there was a lot more to this story than the sheriff’s department was willing to uncover. My first conversation with someone who knew Megan and I already learned of a possible suspect: a psychology professor who sleeps with students. And what about Rhonda? She was completely irreverent about Megan’s death. I wondered … was there an envy lurking, a jealousy of Megan’s beauty and popularity? And what about her relationship with Bill? Their embrace revealed a shared intimacy that went way beyond friendship. And why did Megan transfer her senior year? Why would she leave the soccer team?

  Maybe I should tell the sheriff what I learned. We could collaborate—brainstorm about some possibilities. He could reopen the case. No. Bad idea. He and his deputies already found me ridiculous. If I went to them with this, they would laugh about it for the next decade.