Murder at Barclay Meadow (2 page)

“Megan?” My eyes shot up. “Her name is Megan?”

“Now why is that so interesting?”

“I guess hearing her name makes it all the more real.”

“Finding a dead body didn't make it real enough for you?”

“Yes, of course. But … well … now I'm thinking about the poor mother who chose such a pretty name for her daughter. She'll be devastated. It's the worst thing that can happen to a parent. Do you have children, Sheriff?”

He ignored my question, reinforcing my feeling of being considered an outsider. This was the Eastern Shore of Maryland, a flat stretch of land between the Chesapeake Bay and the Atlantic Ocean, dotted with farms and quaint little towns. It was known as “the land of pleasant living,” a simple place where people prided themselves on being unguarded, friendly, and, beyond anything else, loyal. People like me from the other side of the Chesapeake Bay were viewed as interlopers who breezed through on their way to the coast, or, far worse, settled on the pristine land the locals believed belonged to them.

Two more officers shuffled into the room. “We're about done, Sheriff,” the taller man said. “Body's on its way to the coroner.”

“All right.” The sheriff pushed himself up to a stand.

The other deputy twirled his hat in his hands. He was young—baby-faced; sweat bubbled along his hair line. “Boss?” he said. “With the way she was bloated, you figure she was in there a few days?”

“I'm guessing three.”

“Probably from that college party we busted up down on the water Friday night,” the taller deputy said. “Those dumb kids had the keg at the end of the dock. I'm surprised they all didn't fall in.”

“But if she was at a party…” I stood quickly. “Wouldn't someone have noticed her missing?”

The sheriff looked over at me. “You ever go to college?”

“Yes.”

“You ever stay out all night?”

My face warmed. “You said the party was three days ago. Surely someone has missed her by now.”

“They didn't miss her enough to notify me.”

“But—”

“You see, Missus Hart,” the sheriff interrupted, “you can conjure up all kinds of theories, but in police work, we only know what we know.” He fixed his hat on his head. “Now, I'd like you to put this whole incident behind you. It's no longer your business.”

The taller deputy smirked. He elbowed the other one. “Sounds like somebody's been watching a few too many
Law and Order
marathons.”

I frowned. Then I noticed Megan's backpack in his hand. The colors were muted by the muddy river and the cloth had dried. He held a Ziploc bag in his other hand. I looked closer, trying to make out the contents through the plastic. An accordion of condoms stood out among otherwise benign possessions—a lip gloss tube, a small brush, a Smartphone that couldn't possibly work anymore. So much for evidence. I looked harder. There was something in the back of the bag. An envelope with blurred, handwritten lettering. No address. No stamp. Maybe a name? I tried to read. Two words. Was the first letter an “I”?

“Hey…” The deputy ducked the bag behind his back. “What do you think you're looking at?”

“What does it say on that envelope?” I said.

I felt the sheriff's eyes on me. I stole a glance at him. A scarlet red flush was working its way up his neck.

“I believe I just told you this was no longer your business.” He looked at the deputy and held out his hand. The young man knew to give him the evidence bag. Without another word, Sheriff Wilgus headed toward the front door. The deputies fell in behind, and the three officers walked through my adopted home in a slow, deliberate, almost possessive cadence. They glanced into rooms as they passed, their eyes traveling over the diminished wallpaper, the cut crystal in the corner cabinet, the sepia-enhanced photographs of my ancestors.

“Whatever happened to old Missus Gardner?” a deputy said. “She pass or what?”

Sheriff Wilgus stopped and appraised the woodwork around the front door. “Had a stroke or something, I think. Good thing Tyler'd been checking up on her. She could've been dead for weeks before somebody found her otherwise.”

 

T
WO

The only place to buy a
Washington Post
in Cardigan was Birdie's shoe store. At first I missed not having my paper in the driveway every morning, but after just a week of isolation, the trip into town helped me establish a routine in my otherwise aimless days.

A bell clanked on the glass door as I stepped inside. I was met with the strong scent of shoe polish and a trace of lurking mildew. A card table had been set up in a corner, offering an array of handmade doll clothes with price tags pinned to them, while a long wall displayed a variety of magazines and comic books. And although a few pairs of sensible, outdated shoes sat on a low rack, the traffic in the store was almost entirely drawn by the candy, newspapers from several major cities, and the guaranteed source of local gossip.

Doris Bird had my paper ready. “Hello, Miss Rosalie,” she said. Her wiry gray hair framed a kind face. Thick glasses magnified her eyes, giving her a look of perpetual wonderment. “So, I hear you've decided to farm your land.”

I stared at her in disbelief. How could she know so soon? I had just said that to appease the sheriff. Now they expected me to actually follow through with it?

An impish grin appeared on her face. The idea seemed to please her.

“Out of curiosity,” I said. “How did you hear?”

“Lila.” Doris backed herself onto a tall stool and crossed her arms. Much-handled photos of a multitude of grandchildren were taped on the wall behind her. I had already learned the names and ages of each one.

“Lila?”

“She's the secretary over at the sheriff's department. Drives that pink Beetle with the eyelashes over the headlights.”

“I've seen that car.” I reached for a pack of spearmint gum and set it on top of my paper. “Sheriff Wilgus was out at my house the other night. That must be how she heard.”

“Shame about that girl,” she said. “It's in the paper.”

“The
Post
?”

“I don't know about that,” Doris said. “But it's in the
Devon County News
.”

I selected one of the local weekly papers from the tiered rack next to the counter. “John Adams Psychology Professor Receives Prestigious National Grant” spread across the top of the page. I glanced up at Doris. “I don't see it.”

She opened the paper and tapped a stubby finger on an article on page three. “Here.”

“Student dies in accidental drowning,” I read. “So, they ruled it an accident. I wonder how they can be so certain.”

Doris shrugged. “Lila said the girl must a been drunk and fell in the water.”

“It just seems strange no one heard a splash.”

“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.”