Murder at Barclay Meadow (3 page)

“Megan? You mean the dead girl you found?” Tom said. “Why are you so curious, Rosalie?”

“Oh, not so curious.” I tore open the pack of gum and offered him a piece. “I guess I'm just trying to learn the ropes of small-town living.”

“Good for you,” he said as he opened the wrapper. “Rosalie, don't make any decisions you'll regret later, okay?” He folded the gum into his mouth.

“Well, that's not a problem. I can barely decide what to eat for breakfast.”

“Hey…” Tom stepped closer. “I heard you're going to plant some crops.”

“You, too?”

“I hope it's true,” he said. “You know, things happen for a reason.” He cracked his gum. “I, for one, am glad to know you're settling in here. We need folks like you—folks with a history. Folks who want to keep the Eastern Shore the way it's always been.”

*   *   *

As I drove home along the winding road that echoed the river's curves and bends, I felt a slow burning in my gut. I couldn't stop thinking about Ed. I felt as if I didn't even know him anymore. I wondered if our friends had been surprised by our separation or if perhaps they had seen the signs, the cracks in the foundation that I'd been blind to. Like with a Seurat painting, sometimes just a small step of distance can bring things into focus. I pushed harder on the accelerator. The wind restyled my hair.

The day my marriage shattered, I had been making plans for a trip to Napa Valley. We had recently delivered Annie to Duke University, and I thought a romantic getaway would be the perfect opportunity to acknowledge the next phase of our lives. As much as I would miss my girl, I was looking forward to our empty nest and hoped it would rekindle the romance that seemed to have cooled without my noticing.

It was a lovely Saturday afternoon, one of those pleasant weekend days when we each engaged in parallel, domestic activities. Ed was upstairs getting ready to clean out the gutters when his phone vibrated on the counter. It sat next to his keys, a receipt, and a mound of loose change.

“Ed…” I called as I clicked on a bed-and-breakfast website. It buzzed again. “Ed … your phone.”

I was struck with the thought it might be Annie. Although she was more likely to text me with day-to-day issues, if it was an emergency, she knew her father's phone was always close to his heart. I glanced down at the screen. “Rebecca.” The vibrating stopped.

Ed came into the kitchen while pulling a faded orange University of Virginia sweatshirt over his head.

“There you are,” I said. “Hey—I just found this adorable bed-and-breakfast.” I looked back at my computer and scrolled down the page.

“Bed-and-
breakfast
?”

“Yeah. It looks really cute. It has a package deal: bike rentals, wine and cheese every evening. Oh, and a hot-air balloon ride. Well, nix the balloon ride, but what do you think?” I looked up at him. When our eyes met my first thought was how handsome he was. His tortoiseshell glasses sat low on his nose and his graying sideburns seemed to deepen the tan of his skin. “I could try and find something nicer if you don't want to stay in a B-and-B.”

“I don't care.” He turned to fill a glass with water from the refrigerator dispenser.

I studied his back, trying not to feel hurt by his lack of interest. Maybe I should step outside my comfort zone and take that balloon ride. “Oh, Ed, someone named Rebecca just called. Is she the new—”

“Did you answer it?” He rushed to his phone and snatched it up. Water sloshed out of his glass.

“Ed?” I said, trying to subdue the tremble in my voice. “What's wrong?”

He stared down at the screen. “I can't do this anymore.”

I tried to swallow. “Exactly what can't you do?”

“Rose…” He looked up at me. Pain etched his face. “I'm in love with someone else. I have been for several months.”

A cloud blocked the sun, darkening the room. I couldn't move. I had always known I wouldn't last longer than the first bullet in a war. And I had just been shot through the heart. My head felt light and my joints had stiffened. How fast does rigor mortis set in, I wondered, after you've died?

*   *   *

Later that afternoon I brewed some Brazilian coffee—a nutty blend with a hint of cocoa—and sat at the kitchen table. Air breezed in the open window and I caught the scent of burning leaves. Halloween was in just a few days. I hadn't even bought a pumpkin.

I took a sip. No melancholy, I chastised. But the idleness of my new life was wrecking havoc on my nerves. The remoteness of this decaying house, the utter stillness, was as haunting as the humming golden calm before a tornado touched down.

I opened the local paper and read the entire article about Megan Johnston. There was nothing more about the cause of death, just the details of her life and surviving kin. My chest tightened at the memory of her bloated body, adorned with that cheerful, feminine backpack. After calling 911, I had gone back down to the shore and waited for the police to arrive. Although I kept a safe distance—at least enough to be able to breathe—I couldn't leave her alone in that cold, unfriendly water.

I looked back at the article. The funeral was to be held in Wilmington, Delaware. I was struck with an impulse to drive up there. Maybe it would help if I could just say good-bye—pay my respects. Besides, it would be good to take a road trip out of Cardigan.

I wrote the address on a scrap of paper. The furnace clanked and groaned, trying to come to life, but then nothing. I would have to call someone. Later, I thought, and flipped open my laptop to search the Wilmington papers for more information. I clicked on Facebook first to see if Annie was available for a chat.

I typed quickly. I was particularly happy to chat with Annie today of all days. Ever since finding Megan, the mother lion in me was roaring.

I hesitated, not wanting to upset her. Mass shootings, suicides, and rapes were occurring on school campuses. All I wanted was for my girl to feel safe and loved, but even that had been disrupted now that her parents were getting divorced. I decided to spare her any details.

Parents' weekend. I had made a hotel reservation in Durham for Ed and me the day Annie received her acceptance letter.

I had to think for a moment.

I stared at the screen. Until I found a job, I needed something to fill my time. I had scoured the continuing education classes offered by John Adams College. With a degree in creative writing, I was hoping for a journalism class, but they were filled. Memoir was the only course offering I could find that would allow me to hone my rusty writing skills. I had never thought about writing a memoir before, but who knew? Maybe I would come up with something.

Before I could finish typing that I loved her, she had posted her new status:

Annie Hart

is in search of chocolate

Worry for Annie nagged at me. She never talked about the divorce. I wondered if she was pretending it never happened or maybe just hoping her father would come to his senses. That's how my friends reacted. “It's just a phase,” my best friend Amy had said. “Ed will be begging you back in no time. Pull a Hillary,” she added. “Forgive the man and get on with your life.” But Ed wasn't asking for forgiveness. And I'd never seen him beg for anything.

I slapped my computer closed and stood. I needed to move.

After changing into a tank and jogging shorts, I snatched up my iPod and headed out the front door. Sunlight peeked through the rows of cedar trees, dappling the lane to the main road with shadow and light. Yes, I thought, vitamin D.

I surveyed the grounds as I walked. A mowing crew had kept up the lawn, but the rest of the property was a disordered mess. The fields were dotted with sweet gum saplings and an array of wildflowers—goldenrod, the scarlet tufts of Indian paintbrush—that bent to the demands of the autumn breeze. A sign at the start of the lane read
BARCLAY MEADOW
. Perhaps with my neglect, this property was living up to its name.

I inserted my ear buds and clicked my iPod on shuffle. I bent my neck from side to side, felt a satisfying crack, and broke into a run. This was good. Exercise activated endorphins. Endorphins elevated moods. Electric guitars started up. An organ ran the keys. A jazzy saxophone joined the mix. I picked up the pace, moving with the cadence of the music. Boy, did I need this.

I stopped abruptly, skidding in the gravel. I yanked on the ear buds and threw my iPod on the ground. “No!” I covered my mouth. Bruce Springsteen had begun the intro to “Rosalita.” Ed and I danced to the song at our wedding. He used to call me that—Rosalita—when he was feeling affectionate. I pushed the heels of my hands over my eyelids. When had he stopped? My mind raced. When had he
stopped
?

“Ma'am?”

It took a few seconds before a sandy-haired man came into focus. “Who are you?” I brushed a tear from my cheek.

“Tyler Wells,” he said as if I should already know.

He was tall with wide shoulders and wore a denim shirt, the rolled-up sleeves exposing muscular forearms. A chocolate Labrador with graying fur sat next to him. I glanced around, remembering how isolated I was. The nearest neighbor was a half mile down the road. There were no sounds of traffic, not even an airplane overhead. The only noise, other than my panting, was a red-winged blackbird sitting on a fence post clearly taken with the sound of his trilling.

“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.”