Murder at Barclay Meadow Read online

  Rhonda’s long fingers clutched her martini glass like talons. She watched me carefully, gauging my reaction like a predator sizing up her prey. Had she told me too much?

  “So, Rhonda,” I said. “It must have been very difficult for you being so close to the Johnstons when you disliked Megan so much.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I never said I disliked her.”

  I returned her gaze, the vodka boosting my height. “You didn’t have to.”

  Rhonda wadded her napkin and set it on the table. She rolled her shoulders back and said, “Bill adored her enough for all of us. That’s all that matters.” She bit into another olive. “So, Rosie dear, are you still interested in how she died?”

  “I am.”

  “Why, exactly? You never knew her.”

  “I found her. She came to me and no one else seems to be interested in how such a lovely young girl had to die.”

  “Now who’s the drama queen?”

  “There is evidence indicating her death might not have been an accident.”

  “Honey…” She reached over and patted my hand. “You’re a housewife, not a detective. Maybe you should stick to vacuuming.”

  I started to defend myself, to tell Rhonda how much I knew, but stopped. She was warning me away. Despite her haughty veneer, it struck me that Rhonda was a dilettante at the sophisticated persona. Give her time and the real Rhonda comes through, and there she was, claws bared.

  “You’re right.” I folded my hands tight in my lap. “Maybe I should focus on getting a date.”

  “Good girl.” She raised her almost empty glass. “Here’s to your freedom.” She started to sip but stopped. “And to a good roll in the sack. God knows we could both use one.”

  ELEVEN

  Janice Tilghman has sent you an event invitation.

  I spent the morning following up on the applications I submitted around town, but it was starting to feel futile. It was an unspoken reality that any job opening would go to a local first. Maybe I could do something over the phone. Telemarketing? I shuddered at the thought and went up to my room to find a sweater.

  Earlier that day I had washed and refilled every one of Aunt Charlotte’s spice bottles, adding a bottle of my favorite homemade seasoned salt and a bottle of garam masala. I scrubbed the cabinets and canisters and replaced the sugar, flour, and tea. A clean, fresh kitchen stirred my love for cooking. But since I didn’t have anyone to cook for, I decided to bake.

  My aunt’s bread recipe was written on a yellowed index card in a crippled script. I hoped I got the proportions right. It was a complicated recipe with several types of flour, rolled oats, and honey. Not long before she died, Aunt Charlotte and I had made plans to get together once a week to make bread, just like the old days. She suggested I pick a day I didn’t drive carpool, come to visit her, and we could immerse ourselves in the immensely therapeutic process of bread making. I was so looking forward to it. But it never happened. Life, or should I say death, got in the way.

  My iPod played the original Broadway version of Les Misérables. Trumpeting songs urging men to revolution seemed to be the perfect accompaniment to kneading bread.

  Once I had mixed the ingredients, I removed the sticky dough from the bowl and plopped it onto a wooden board. The scent of fermenting yeast met my nose, triggering warm, distant thoughts of family and home. After dusting my hands with flour, I pushed with the heels of my hands, putting my entire body weight into my efforts. I flipped and shoved, squeezed with both hands, dusted it with flour, and turned it again. The drums grew louder, the horns blared. I punched the dough with a fist. Then the other. I picked it up and flipped it again. As I worked to the music, the dough grew smoother. Muscle memory kicked in. I used to be pretty good at this.

  The music softened. Sweet violins. Cosette began to sing in a crystal clear soprano, “I saw him once…” I froze. Oh, no. What was I thinking? Ed and I saw Les Misérables in three different cities, including London on our honeymoon. All three times he reached for my hand when this song began. It was our song. Marius sang, “A heart full of love…”

  My knees weakened. I lowered myself into a chair and dropped my head on my arms. The ache in my chest squeezed my heart.

  I don’t know how long I sat there. The sleeves of my sweater were soaked with tears. The phone rang incessantly. The answering machine clicked on.

  Janice Tilghman began leaving a message. “I know you’re there, Rosalie. You’re screening your calls. If you don’t pick up, I’m coming over.”

  I lifted my head and brought the room into focus. I sniffled, walked over, and picked up the phone. “How do you know these things?”

  “It’s my business to know. What are you doing? Are you wallowing?”

  I coughed out a laugh. “Maybe a little.” I checked my reflection in the toaster. Mascara striped my cheeks. I dried my face with a dish towel covered with flour. Now that’s really going to help.

  “I knew it,” Janice said in her trademark raspy voice. Although she had never smoked, she sounded as if she was up to three packs a day. “I sent you an invitation on Facebook. Did you even see it?”

  Janice and I had been friends as children. She grew up on the farm next to Barclay Meadow. Her ancestors had lived on the Eastern Shore since before the Bay Bridge was built. And although she had attended boarding schools and now bopped up to New York to shop when the mood suited her, she was definitely a native.

  She and her husband lived on a beautiful estate farther down the river. They farmed the land and hunted the Canada geese that drank from their pond. Although neither of them needed to work, they were both active in the community and always busy with one project or another. They had four children and raised them all with common sense and practicality.

  “I saw it. I’m sorry, Janice. I’m doing my best. It’s just … well, I was having a teeny little melt down.”

  “Hm. Bad?”

  “Chernobyl?”

  “Okay. That’s why you have to come to my party—mix it up.” Janice said. “I want you to meet some people.”

  “Thanks for thinking of me, but I’m not really up for a party.” I propped the phone in the crook of my neck and picked up the bread. It had started to dry. I began to knead again.

  “What are you listening to? I can hardly hear you.”

  “I was fighting the French Revolution. Only I lost.”

  “You’re helpless.” She laughed. “Almost.”

  I yanked my iPod out of the docking station. There was a paper-thin crack down the center of the screen. “Thanks for the invite, but—”

  “You know me better than that, Rose Red. No one says no to Janice Tilghman. Besides, there’s a very nice dentist I think you should meet.”

  “Absolutely not,” I said. “No fix-ups. It’s way too soon.”

  “Okay, okay. He’ll be at the party, but I won’t tell him about you. If you happen to meet, well, what can I say? We’ll leave it to destiny.”

  Ha, I thought. Janice didn’t believe in destiny unless she was the one predetermining it. “Are you sure you don’t mean ‘dentistry’?”

  “Yeah.” She laughed. “That, too.”

  Our banter brought back memories. When we were children, I was Rose Red and she was Snow White. We played endless pretend games with dress-up clothes and imaginary princes. But with a strong older brother and an innate need to please, I was easy prey for Janice’s strong will. Whenever I insisted on contributing at least one idea to our game, she would say, “tit for tat,” and add yet another of hers.

  I thought for a moment and was struck with an idea. “Tit for tat,” I said and flipped the dough. A light snowfall of flour sailed through the air. “I’ll come to your party if you invite Sheriff Wilgus.” My stomach tightened at the thought of talking with the man again, but I had an investigation to lead.

  “He’s already on my list,” she said. “Hey, you just said you weren’t ready.”

  “It’s not about that.”

&nbs
p; “You sure? Because there’s no judgment coming your way. He is kinda hot in a Rock Hudson sort of way. But remember, Rosie, you fart in this town and everyone smells it.”

  “Rock Hudson?”

  “James Garner?” she said.

  “Geez, Janice, what are you, seventy?”

  “Wilgus is just sort of retro, you know?”

  “I guess, but he’s not really my type,” I said.

  “Good,” she said. “Gives my dentist a fighting chance. By the way, what’s that banging noise?”

  “I’m kneading dough. I haven’t made bread in years.”

  “You used to cook all the time.”

  “Ed was a carbophobic. No bread in the house. I think he was worried I’d get fat.”

  “Dumb jerk,” Janice said. “Give the dough an extra sock for me.”

  I clicked off the phone, leaving a white thumb print on the talk button. After punching it one last time, I placed the abused dough in a bowl and covered it with a towel, tucking the edges underneath.

  It was an unseasonably warm day and I had opened the windows. Tyler’s tractor hummed somewhere in the distance. I was learning a lot about his relationship with Aunt Charlotte. Not just from her files but from Doris Bird, as well. Tyler had been the one to find my aunt after an unexpected stroke. Unwilling to wait for an ambulance, he had picked her up, carried her out to his truck, and drove her to the emergency room. Although I was speeding to get to the hospital, it was a two-hour drive and by the time I got there, Aunt Charlotte was dead. Tyler had already gone home. I must remember to thank him for not letting her die alone.

  Now that he was helping himself to coffee, I awoke every morning to an earthy smell of freshly ground beans. We were experimenting with different blends and concluded that the Italian roast was the best for early mornings. Lying in bed listening to his work boots on the floorboards below softened my loneliness. It was soothing to have another presence in this old house. He had gotten in the habit of sitting at the kitchen table and reading yesterday’s Washington Post with his coffee. Crumbs from a slice of toast would be littered over the sports page, some of the print highlighted in darkened circles from his buttery fingers.

  After scraping the dough from my fingers, I dried my hands and crossed “make dough” off my to-do list. I had also written “let dough rise” and “put bread in oven.” It made me feel more accomplished.

  Worry about my financial status was ever present, despite Tyler’s checks. Ed and I had both come from humble beginnings. And while I embraced my modest roots, Ed had tried to sever his from the day he’d moved out of his family home in West Virginia. I had always worked. I always had to work. But when he sold his software company for a very large profit everything changed. He was suddenly status conscious and wanted to upgrade it all: the cars, the house, the private school, and a status wife, one who scheduled an active social calendar, squeezing in several philanthropies on the side.

  Was it love at first sight like Marius and Cosette? Maybe. Although I found him attractive when we first met, it was more like a shifting—an acknowledgment settling in: this was someone I would know a very long time.

  “Enough, Rosalie,’” I said softly. I felt something on my foot and looked under the table. Dickens had rested his head on my sneaker. I scratched his velvety ears. “Hi,” I said, wondering how he had gotten in the house. His soft brown eyes smiled up at me. I petted him again.

  A few hours later the room was filled with the toasty aroma of freshly baked bread. I was seated at the table buttering a slice when Tyler walked in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Dickens eating his own very large chunk of bread. I looked over at Tyler and then down at Dickens. I patted his head. “I found someone to bake for.”

  TWELVE

  After our first night of disorganized typing, the What Ifs had finally developed a rhythm to our discussions. We slowed down, for one, and did our best to direct questions to specific people. Most of the time, at least.

  I began by filling them in on my lunch with Rhonda.

  Glenn B

  Interesting, Rosalie. Trust your gut. If you got a weird vibe about Rhonda and Bill, then we need to explore it. Would she meet with you again?

  Rosalie Hart

  I’m pretty sure. She wants to know what I know. And she tried to get me to stop the investigation. I think that’s significant.

  Tony Ricci

  I got the creeps just reading what you wrote about her stepdad. I’ll do some research on his business. Unless Sue can hack into his computer. Suzy Q?

  Shelby Smith

  I might be able to. But I’m better at Facebook. I’ll see if he has a page.

  Rosalie Hart

  Anyone up for a party?

  Tony Ricci

  Always.

  Glenn B

  Are you hosting?

  Rosalie Hart

  An old friend. And there will be a very special guest.

  Shelby Smith

  Who?

  Rosalie Hart

  The one and only Sheriff Wilgus!

  Tony Ricci

  Nice going, Princess! I’m in!

  Glenn B

  You two should go as a couple. It will be a good cover. If we all traipse in together it could look a little suspect. I hope you can get some information from the sheriff. I’ve been trying to think of a way for us to see the police report. First and foremost I want to know if Megan was dead before she entered the water. There are very simple ways to know. Maybe you can get him to tell you. But be careful, Rosalie.

  Shelby Smith

  I agree, Glenn. Tony and Rosalie should go. I’m not very good at parties anyway. I’m on Megan’s Facebook page btw. Let’s meet soon, Rosalie, I need to show you some things.

  Tony Ricci

  Holy crap, Sue. How did you do that so fast?

  Shelby Smith

  Not a big deal. I’m just trying to be helpful.

  “What’s this?” Sue said.

  “Lunch. I’ve been baking a lot of bread, so I brought you a fresh loaf and a bowl of minestrone.” I set the bag on the floor next to Sue. “Lots of veggies and beans—good stuff.”

  “Rosalie, I’m a pescatarian.”

  “No worries. The soup is vegetarian.”

  “Soup rarely is. It’s the—”

  “I used vegetable broth. You’re good to go.”

  “How did you know?”

  I smiled. “I’m not really sure.”

  Sue was seated at a table in the John Adams library. She opened her laptop, logged onto the Wi-Fi, and waited for Safari to open.

  “So, tell me, Sue, why do you live in Cardigan? I would think it awfully small for someone as young as you.”

  She looked over at me, her dark eyes perfectly lined, her high cheekbones framed by a heart-shaped face. “I like that it’s small.” She tucked her hair behind an ear. “My mother would really like me to come back to California.”

  “I would, too, if I were her,” I said. “We moms like to be near our daughters.”

  “Actually, I miss California, but I can’t move back right now.”

  I studied her. The realization that this young woman had many secrets was settling in. “It almost sounds as if you’re hiding out.”

  Her eyes flashed. “Why would you say that? Rosalie, please don’t ask me any more questions. I love this investigation. And I really want to help. For a lot of reasons. I just can’t say what they are. Do you understand?”

  “Not really, but I will respect your request.” I patted her arm. “And I am very glad to have you onboard.”

  She checked her phone and set it on the table. “I have another new phone number, by the way.” She looked back at the computer screen.

  “Why are you using prepaid phones?” I said.

  “Tight budget.”

  I glanced down at her cobalt blue Tory Burch handbag. “Okay,” I said. “I know you have to get back to work. Let’s see what you’ve discovered.”

  “I’ll sho
w you how to get onto Megan’s Facebook page in a minute, but first I want you to see what came up in a Google search.” Sue’s small, rounded nails clicked on the keyboard. The Google home page appeared. “Did you know Megan was a student at the University of Delaware for three years before she came here?”

  I nodded. “Rhonda’s daughter played soccer with her there.”

  “Check this out.” Sue typed “University Delaware Megan Johnston soccer” and we waited for the results.

  “There are thousands of hits,” I said. “Was there another Megan Johnston at Delaware?”

  “No. The ‘T’ in Johnston narrowed it down.” She scrolled down the page. “Every one of these links is our Megan.” Sue moved her finger over the touchpad and tapped on one of the links. A page from the University of Delaware’s website appeared. A photograph of Megan centered over the caption “Women’s Soccer Team Division Champs.” Megan is on the soccer field, one foot poised on the ball. Her arms are in the air and her University of Delaware jersey is in her hand. She’s wearing a tight navy blue sports bra and her soccer shorts. It was a stunning picture. Her blue eyes stare straight into the camera, daring you to continue to look at her. With her arms in the air, a spot of cleavage dips into her bra, strands of her silky blonde hair loose in the wind. Her abs are defined, her waist small, curving in just above her shorts. The leg holding the ball in place is toned and shapely and the pose is completely feminine bordering on provocative.

  “Wow, what a photo,” I said. “She’s gorgeous.”

  “I know. And it’s not even photoshopped.” Sue clicked on another link. “Look at this.”