Murder at Barclay Meadow (15 page)

“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.”

 

S
EVENTEEN

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 Kurtz 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!

Unable to read more, I closed my computer, set it on the ottoman, and stood. After slipping into my shoes, I pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the damp grass. A flock of Canada geese honked overhead, the V formation just visible in the evening light. Their haunting, out-of-sync honks faded as they flew away. I hadn't been to the river since the day I found Megan. But after reading the ragged pain and anguish caused by her death, I felt pulled toward the water.

The constant rush of the river grew louder as I started down the gentle slope. Muscle memory of the day I discovered Megan kicked in and I filled with nausea. I hesitated, but it was movement in a nearby shrub that stopped me cold. I spun around. A large, hulking man stood among the hydrangea bushes.

I froze. What should I do? Run, you idiot. But would I make it back to the house before he grabbed me? If only my legs would move. Okay, Rosalie, run into the house, lock the door, and call the police. The police … “Sheriff
Wilgus
?”

He stepped out of the shadows. His badge glinted in the moonlight, one hand on the pistol sagging his belt. His navy uniform shirt was open at the neck, several buttons unfastened, exposing his barrel-size chest. He wasn't smiling.

“Is there something I can do for you, Sheriff?” I pulled my sweater tighter around me.

“You wanna
help
me?” He crossed the distance between us in a few long strides. His heavy boot grazed my toe. “I'll tell you how to help me: quit sticking your nose where it don't belong.” His words slurred. Sweat glistened on his face.

“I haven't broken any laws.” I inched back toward the house.

He started toward me again. I backed up as quickly as I could, but he matched me step for step as if in a tango. I backed hard into the side of the house. He towered over me. “Why are you here?” His whiskey-saturated breath was hot on my face.

I was in suspended animation. Fear had tensed every muscle in my body. “I'm just trying to survive.”

He leaned in close. Round peas of perspiration dotted his upper lip. “I told you to mind your own business and yet there you are, still asking about the dead girl.”

I concluded at that moment this conversation could only end badly. I needed to break away. Sliding against the house I started to raise my leg over an azalea. In two steps I could …

His palm slammed against the house next to my head. I glanced in the other direction. Even if I could escape, I would be running
away
from the house. But if he was as drunk as I suspected … I started to move. His other palm slammed next to my ear. My hair was trapped. My scalp burned.

“This is your one and only warning.” His black eyes sliced into me. “You continue snooping around, I can't guarantee your safety. And that's my job, remember?” His mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Keeper of the peace?”

“This isn't right. You know as well as I do Megan was murdered. Who are you protecting?”

“You're not listening.”

“Why are you doing this?” My eyes widened. “You know! Oh my gosh. You know who killed her.”

“Shut up!”
He slapped a sweaty palm over my mouth. His gun dug into my thigh. His badge poked through my sweater. “You're all alone out here,” he whispered. “There's nobody to hear you scream.”

I couldn't breathe.

“Go back to where you belong.” His face was so close my vision blurred.

I squeezed my eyes shut.

“Well?” He pushed his palm harder over my mouth. “What's it gonna be?”

I wanted to run. I wanted to do what he asked. But I couldn't breathe. He's going to smother me.

He shoved his hand one last time and let go.

I gasped for air.

“Get the hell out of my town.”

 

E
IGHTEEN

Persistent banging roused me from a heavy sleep. I had been up most of the night listening for the sheriff. Although I locked my bedroom door, I startled awake countless times, certain I heard a creak on the stairs or the soft whine of the front door.

I sat up: 6:00 a.m. I pulled on my robe and hurried down the steps. “Who is it?” I called.

“Who do you think?”

Tyler. I fiddled with the dead bolt and pulled open the door. I squinted out at him. “Sorry.”

He brushed past me, Dickens loping at his heels. “Since when do you lock the door?”

I tightened my robe and followed him. “It just seemed like a good idea.”