Murder at Barclay Meadow (24 page)

“No.” I crossed my arms. “Not really.”

He started to walk away, but stopped. “Look, Rosalie, it's nice to see you. But my life is complicated right now. Maybe we can get together in a few weeks.” He seemed to have gained his composure. “Do you like to sail?”

“Sail?”

“I have a boat, remember? You were so interested that first time we met. I assume you like to sail.”

“Of course I remember.” I tried to smile. “I was just thinking it would have to warm up first, right?”

“Oh, it will be plenty warm.” He leaned in and kissed my cheek. He stepped back. “Chanel Coco Mademoiselle?”

“Yes. That's my perfume.”

“Memorable,” he said. “Like you. Oh, and nice sweater.”

I started to explain that my sweater was a gift, that I didn't deliberately wear red, but he was walking away. His phone was to his ear when he pushed the door open to go outside.

I returned to a scowling Janice.

“What did you just do, Rose Red? Have a quickie on the pool table?”

“Ha ha,” I said and finished my drink.

While I listened to the strumming guitars and a newly added mandolin, I thought about Nick. He was angry with me. He was a lot of things with me—flirtatious, worried, perplexed. And who did he need to call all of a sudden?

The waitress approached with three glasses of a deep red wine. “These are for you, ladies,” she said. “From a friend.”

Janice picked up her wine as soon as the waitress set it on the table. “I can have one glass.” She took a healthy sip. “You're driving me to drink, Rose Red.”

After the second set, Janice jangled her keys. “Ready?”

Dede and I put our coats on and followed her. I glanced in the corner, but Nick and his youngster were gone. The new patrons had lit the candle.

“Coming?” Janice called from the door.

I hurried after her. Once outside, I skidded on a brand-new inch of snow. I grabbed on to the wall and righted myself. Janice's headlights illuminated a flurry of flakes. She stared ahead, but Dede looked at me with concern. I held up my hand to signal I was okay. I must have looked like a drunk, but I felt dreadfully sober. I started to walk again, treading carefully. When I was almost to the car, I noticed a police cruiser inching by. I glanced down the sidewalk and saw Nick getting ready to cross the street. I looked back at the cruiser, although I already knew who was behind the wheel.

 

T
HIRTY
-
ONE

Glenn and Lila sat in adjacent chairs, each with their feet extended, hands clasped over their stomachs.

“Good morning, Lila,” I said. “Morning, Glenn.”

“Morning,” they said in unison.

I set a loaf of bread on the counter.

“How do you like the snow?” Doris said.

“Better now that I'm in practical shoes.”

“Thanks for the bread,” Doris said. “It won't last very long, though. People have been coming in here asking for it.”

“Really?”

Doris perched on her stool and folded her arms. “I think you could sell it, if you want the truth. I think folks would buy it.”

“Sell it here? Would you
do
that?”

She shrugged. “I sell just about everything else. Why not bread?”

“Okay,” I said. “You take half of the proceeds.”

“Not necessary.”

“Oh, yes it is.” I nodded.

“If you insist.” Doris had a playful grin on her face. She was an entrepreneur at heart.

I glanced over at Glenn. He gave me a quick, surreptitious wink. I knew he wouldn't want me to linger because Lila was there. Glenn was so anxious to find out about the police report, he was spending a part of every day in Birdie's.

“I'll bring you several loaves tomorrow, Doris. But yours will be free.”

“Deal,” she said.

I waved good-bye and stepped back into the brightness of the day. After slipping on my sunglasses, I started for my car. A gust of wind tousled my hair. Maybe a warm front was coming in. I smoothed my hair away from my face. The snow was already melting under the rays of my precious Maryland sun. I stopped abruptly. Sheriff Wilgus was next to my car, an arm resting on the parking meter. I started to turn away, but he came to attention. I couldn't see his eyes behind his aviator sunglasses, but I knew they were zeroed on me.

“Sheriff,” I said warily.

He touched the brim of his hat. “Missus Hart.”

A ticket flapped under my windshield wiper.

“I guess I was in Birdie's longer than I expected.”

He stepped to within inches of me. He hooked his thumbs in his belt and leaned in closer. “What makes you think you don't have to follow the rules?”

His breath was hot on my ear, making a whooshing sound as if he were speaking into a conch shell. It was heavy with mint and a trace of something else. Whiskey?

“I don't think that.”

“You sure?”

I nodded.

“I'm not gonna warn you again, Hart. You got that?”

“I think so.”

“You
think
so?” He was inches from my head. My eyes darted around, wondering if anyone was watching us, but the streets were quiet.

“Sheriff…” My voice quivered. “I'm not sure I know what I did wrong. I mean, besides not putting money in the meter.”

“You want a list?” he growled.

“Okay.” I made an attempt at a smile.

He grabbed my arm. “Mind who you keep company with.”

“I can't go out with my friends? Is that it?”

He squeezed harder. “You know who I'm talking about.”

“You're hurting me.”

“I'm smarter than you, lady,” he said through gritted teeth. “And don't you forget it.” A wad of saliva landed on my lapel.

“Why do you care if I talk to Nick Angeles?”

“Shut
up.
”

“What do they have on you?”

His grip tightened.

“You're hurting me.” I tried to wrench my arm away. My fingers were growing numb.

“Scared?”

“Yes.”

“Why don't you call a cop? Oh … wait. I am a cop.” He shoved me into my car and walked away.

 

T
HIRTY
-
TWO

Bill Johnston has sent you a friend request.

I walked out to the shed with a fresh cup of Costa Rican blend for Tyler. He was measuring a piece of wood. Sawdust freckled his face.

“What are you up to?”

“I'm fixing the pier,” he said without looking up. “Some of the boards have rotted. I thought I'd take advantage of the snow melting.” He looked up at me. “That all right with you, boss?”

“Sounds lovely. Maybe we should get a boat.”

“I'm still having trouble with Miss Charlotte's old power saw. It tends to jam up, but I think I can keep it going. If not I'll have to go back home and get mine, which would be a royal pain in my ass.”

“How much does a new one cost?”

“No need to spend money on a new one,” he said. “Not when I can fix this one.”

“Feeling stubborn today?”

“‘Frugal' is the word. We're both on a tight budget.” He straightened and accepted the coffee. “You read my mind.”

I returned to my desk. A breeze laden with the scent of freshly cut wood fluttered through the open windows. The struggling power saw occasionally broke the silence. I had already driven into town and dropped ten loaves of bread off at Birdie's shoe store. I printed labels, pale blue with a chocolate brown font that read
ROSALIE'S HOME-BAKED GOODS
. The list of ingredients was in a smaller font and I secured the plastic wrap with a blue-and-brown gingham ribbon.

I opened my computer and logged onto the Internet to check the What Ifs.

“Shit!”

Tyler. I jumped up and ran out the door and into the shed. He clutched his hand. Blood pulsed out.

“What happened?”

“I cut off my finger.”

 

T
HIRTY
-
THREE

The entire index finger of his right hand was gone. I pulled my shirt over my head and wrapped it around the bleeding stump. “Put pressure on it. I'll get my keys.”

I ran into the house. At the last minute, I realized I was in my bra. I pulled on a denim jacket and grabbed more towels. I opened the car door. “Get in,” I said. “Keep it elevated. I'll be right back.” I ran into the house and grabbed a small cooler, filled it with ice, and headed out to the shed. Every part of me screamed to shut my eyes and hide, but I forced myself to act. I found Tyler's finger in a pile of wood shaving. I wrapped it in a wet paper towel, put it into a plastic bag, and buried it in the ice. Tyler eyed the cooler as I climbed into the car and squealed out of the driveway. On the way to the hospital I called 911. “We need to helicopter him to Baltimore.”

“You don't get to decide that, ma'am.”

“Yes, I do,” I said. “He needs to have his finger sewn on and I can guarantee no one at the local hospital has the skills or the equipment to do it. Call the helicopter. Stat.”

The turbo kicked in. “Did I just say ‘stat'?”

Tyler said nothing.

“Keep putting pressure on it.” I sped through a red light. “Does it hurt?”

He gave me a short, stiff nod.

To my surprise, they met us at the ER door and a helicopter was on its way. I gave them the necessary information and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. “Can I ride along?” I asked.

“Are you the next of kin?” the nurse asked.

I hesitated. Tyler was watching me closely. “Yes,” I said.

Among the many fears I confronted that day, blood and severed body parts being two, was an overwhelming fear of heights. As the helicopter lifted into the air, wobbling at first like the town drunk, I gripped the sides of my seat. Tyler was strapped on a gurney; the paramedic was starting an IV. Tyler's face was whiter than the sheet strapped over him, his eyes squeezed shut.

“His finger,” I shouted over the noise. “It's in this cooler.”

The paramedic nodded.

“Will there be a hand surgeon waiting?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he said. “They've got an OR all set up.”

I smiled. “Thank you for everything.”

He smiled back. “It's our job.” He injected Tyler with a heavy dose of morphine. He turned back to me. “Uh, ma'am…”

“Yes?”

He nodded toward my jacket. I looked down. I had never buttoned it.

“Oh, my gosh.” I pulled it closed. “Thank you for telling me.”

Once I buttoned up and recovered from my own injection of embarrassment, I looked out the window. We were flying over the Cardigan River. It was beautiful, pristine, almost innocent as it curved and snaked through the lush, green land. The river emptied into the wide, endless blue of the Chesapeake Bay. The beauty distracted me from my terror and, before I knew it, the tall buildings of Baltimore popped up like the Emerald City and the helicopter was easing itself onto the helipad.

*   *   *

Twelve hours later, Tyler's finger was reattached and he lay asleep in a private room. The surgeon said there was a chance the finger would survive and commended me for putting it on ice.

I stepped out into the cool, night air, my jacket buttoned up. The sounds and smells of inner-city Baltimore screeched and blared. I turned on my cell phone to see I had six missed calls from Janice.

“Geez, girl,” she said. “You had us all freaking out over here.”

“What do you mean?”

“I dropped by your place this afternoon and about passed out when I saw all that blood.”

“Oh, my. It's Tyler, he—”

“I know all that now. But I didn't until after I called the sheriff and he came out and started looking around. He finally called the hospital and they told him the whole story.”

“I'm so sorry. That must have been awful.”

“How's he doing?”

“He hasn't woken up yet. I'll call you in the morning.”

“You did right by him, didn't you, Rose Red?”

“I hope so,” I said.

*   *   *

It was close to midnight when I realized Tyler's eyes were open.

“Hey,” I said. “How are you?”

“It's throbbing.”

I buzzed the nurse and brushed his hair off his forehead. “She'll bring you something.”

“Well?”

“You have an index finger.” I smiled down at him. “The surgeon said it actually may work.”