Murder at Barclay Meadow (32 page)

Dear Rosalie,

If for some reason I don't get around to putting this all in some sort of order, I hope you will. Barclay Meadow is a treasure and I hope you find it to be, as well. If not, here is a key to a safety deposit box. Tom Bestman can tell you where it is located if he hasn't already. Thank you for taking care of our family's home.

All my love,

Charlotte

I pulled the key from the yellowed paper and turned it over in my hands. I set it on the end table next to me and began to read the documents—family trees, old deeds, house plans, and crop histories.

As I read, I learned the Barclay clan sailed over from Scotland in the late 1700s. They bought the land and planted tobacco. The original house was torn down in 1810 and this house was built in its place. During the Civil War when many of the farmers in Devon County wanted to keep their slaves, Fuller S. Barclay set his free. He was threatened and harassed, but held true to his convictions and sent his sons to fight for the Union while other county residents were sneaking off to fight for the South. Due to their education, all were officers and Fuller lost only one. The other two went on to become professionals in Baltimore. Fuller was the last Barclay to live in the house and died in 1895. After his death, the house was used as a summer resort and the farmland leased by locals. I was shocked to learn Tyler's family had been leasing these lands for three generations.

Charlotte moved in after the Second World War, which had taken her new husband. She was young and widowed, but brought the house back to its original splendor. She restored the antiques and hung the portraits that had been stored in the attic. In the 1990s, she enlarged the kitchen and installed new cabinetry and countertops that didn't detract from the original decor, but made it inviting and livable.

I looked up from my reading and rubbed my forehead. It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust, but eventually I took in the clock. It was after ten. Other than one lamp, the house was dark, the fire only glowing embers. I walked out to the kitchen and flipped on the spotlight I had asked Tyler to install after my encounter with the sheriff. It was triggered by motion, so after a few seconds it clicked off again. I readied Mr. Miele and made my way up to bed. In the middle of the night I jolted up. The lawn was illuminated. The spotlight had been activated. I counted—it stayed lit for twelve minutes.

 

F
ORTY
-
THREE

Corrine Johnston has sent you a friend request.

Glenn and I sat on a bench on the pristine John Adams campus. New spring grass, thick with nitrogen, glowed a neon green. Sweet, redolent cherry trees stood behind us, heavy with plush pink blossoms. Velvety petals swirled around us as a cool breeze carried the last remnants of the fading winter.

Glenn and I gazed across the street at a row of dilapidated houses. The paint had loosened from the wooden planks and the front porches sagged as if the houses were too tired to hold them up anymore. Odd pieces of furniture with exposed batting and rusty springs lounged on the porches. The contrast in settings was not lost on us.

“How are you, Rosalie?”

“Me? Oh, I'm good.”

Glenn glanced over at me. “Really?”

“A little jumpy, is all.”

“I can only imagine. Have you heard from Professor Angeles?”

“No, thank goodness.” Another gust of wind tousled our hair. More petals pirouetted onto the grass.

“Good.” Glenn crossed his legs, cupping a knee with both hands. “You've been through so much. I am impressed at your resilience.”

“You think I'm resilient?” I looked at Glenn.

“Rosalie, do you realize how many things could have gone wrong Friday night?”

“I believe I've imagined every horrific scenario.”

“My point is, I think you should focus on what you did right. How you got out of there alive still baffles me. But whatever you did, it was smart and savvy and thank the Lord you are sitting next to me right now.”

“This probably won't come as a surprise to you, but I never looked at it that way.” I smiled over at him. “Thank you for that perspective. I guess I did do all right. And we learned something, right?”

“Oh, yes. That man is hiding something and we will have to be very careful with our next move. I don't think you meeting with him again is the answer. I think it has to be more subtle.” He rubbed his chin and frowned. “But what?”

“Facebook?” I said.

His head shot up. He looked over at me, eyes dancing. “Of course! We can lure him out on Facebook. Maybe Sue will have an idea. She really seems to understand social media way beyond any of our capabilities.”

“The What Ifs are scheduled for Monday night. We can both noodle some ideas before then.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” Glenn said.

I tucked my hands into my jacket pockets and looked back out at the houses. “They aren't the most elegant homes I've ever seen.”

“No.” Glenn exhaled. “But that's not really the point. The property is worth a lot of money. And that old couple has roots here. Their families have lived in this county for generations.”

“Prebridge?”

“Most definitely.”

A few weeks earlier I emailed a friend at the
Washington Post
. He had been a neighbor of ours for many years. He'd won a Pulitzer Prize for his investigative journalism and I hoped to tempt him with a juicy story about a sleepy little town on the Eastern Shore with a well-endowed liberal arts college.

“So, if John Adams kicks them off,” I said, “those families will lose their homes and the owners their income?”

“Exactly. I have no idea how the college has evaded paying them more, but maybe that is what your friend will discover.”

I checked my watch. “He said he'd meet us here at two.”

“Is he interested?”

“He's beyond excited. He's thinking another Pulitzer.”

“I like the sounds of that.” Glenn looked over at me. “Rosalie, are you still thinking of moving back to Chevy Chase?”

“Yes,” I said. “I need to find a place before Annie's semester is over.”

“I don't mean to be critical, but I really don't understand your decision.”

“Annie needs more stability—some semblance of family life. Her parents live in two different towns. She doesn't know where to call home. I shouldn't be making it so difficult for her.”

“Annie needs you, most definitely.” Glenn looked back across the street. “But maybe not quite in the way you think.”

I listened hard to Glenn. He was a wise friend and never failed to surprise me with his insights. But this time I wasn't seeing it. “Annie has been deeply hurt by our separation. I don't mind making sacrifices for her.”

“I admire that about you. I just … well, I think she may learn to like it here. And what have you learned, really? About yourself, I mean. Putting aside your needs again might put you right back where you started.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But what do I know? I'm not exactly the expert on getting along with one's children.”

“Glenn, you lost your wife whom you loved very much. And your sons have lost their mother. A family is a delicate system and yours has been thrown completely out of whack.” I placed my hand on his arm. “You will regroup, and then I'm sure you will reconnect with your sons.”

“Well, that was very well said.” Glenn clasped my hand. “I guess we've both learned something today.”

“We have?”

“We're much more astute about what the other should do with their families than with our own.” Glenn squinted in the direction of the street. “Look,” he said as a slightly disheveled man hurried over to us. “This must be your friend.”

*   *   *

A few hours later, I started my car and buzzed the convertible top down. The sun warmed my face and softened the leather seats. Once out of town I picked up speed and pushed on the radio. An Adele song was on the radio and I sang along with her throaty, passionate voice.

Woop … woop.

I glanced in the rearview mirror. Circling red-and-blue lights seared my corneas. I flipped on my blinker, hoping the cruiser would pass. I hadn't been speeding. At least I didn't think so. I eased the car onto the shoulder. Loose stones crunched under the tires. I watched with foreboding as the sheriff did the same. I turned off the radio, opened the glove box, and fished my registration out of the owner's manual. The sheriff remained in the car. I could see someone beside him. I chewed on my thumbnail, what was left of it, that is, and waited.

When he climbed out of the cruiser, I stiffened. The man was like the scary clown that ruined birthday parties. He walked around to the passenger side and stared down at me through his sunglasses. My eyes were level with his belt. I looked away. “I wasn't speeding,” I said and gripped the steering wheel. “It just looks like I am in this car.”

The sheriff reached inside, unlocked the door, and opened it wide. “Get out, Hart.”

“Why?”

“I said get the hell out of the car.”

I gripped tighter in an attempt to control my terror. “You have to tell me why.”

“I'm hauling your ass to jail. That a good enough explanation?”

My eyes widened. “You can't do that.”

“Looks like I'll be adding resisting arrest to your charges.”

“Charges?” I combed my hands through my hair and sunk my teeth into my lower lip.
Charges?

Once I got out of the car, the sheriff lumbered over to me. “Put your hands behind your back.”

“No!”

“Jesus effing Christ, do what I tell you the first time.”

I put my hands behind my back and he slapped on a pair of cuffs. I tried to look at him over my shoulder. “That hurts.”

He guided me to the car via my elbow, tucked my head down, although it wasn't necessary, and shoved me into the backseat. I tried to sit up, but I kept falling forward. The deputy in the front seat stared ahead. I recognized him from the night I found Megan. He was the one who dangled the evidence bag in front of me. He was the reason this whole mess started.

The sheriff eased into the car, slammed the door, and fired up the engine.

“My car,” I said. “You can't leave it here. It's supposed to rain. And my purse is still in there.”

The sheriff eyed the deputy. “The keys are in the ignition.” He winked. “Enjoy your ride.” Sheriff Wilgus glanced over his shoulder at me and back at the deputy. “If you think of it, put that fancy convertible top up when you get back.”

*   *   *

So, this is what a jail cell was like. I sat on a spindly cot and scooted back into the corner. I clutched my knees and tried to make myself as small as possible. A drop of water fell from a lime-encrusted spigot every seven seconds. It was oddly reassuring in its predictability.
Plop.
One thousand one …

Sickly fluorescent lights buzzed above me. A brighter light shone through a crack at the bottom of the door leading to the office. I noticed a second cell when the sheriff ushered me in, but it appeared to be empty. At least for now. I had no idea what time it was. The sheriff had taken all my jewelry. Even the belt from my jeans. He snapped my mug shots, front and profile, and read me my Miranda rights. It all seemed so surreal. I never broke a rule in a game, let alone a law. I loved rules and laws. They kept order and civility. And yet here I was. You've hit bottom, Hart. This is your bottom. At least I prayed it was. I had full knowledge that things could very well get worse from here.

When we had arrived at the station, the sheriff read me the charges with relish. I was breaking Maryland law by selling food not prepared in a commercial kitchen. I had risked the public's health. According to him, I could have killed someone. He read me a litany of regulations I failed to meet. In his twisted mind, I was a potential murderer. More irony. I hugged my knees tighter. Cardigan had no Saturday court. Or night court, for that matter. And Tom Bestman was on the golf course when I used my one phone call. I hoped he would get here and fix this whole mess. Surely you can't arrest someone for making muffins.

Plop.

Tyler wouldn't notice I was gone. It was Saturday. He never worked weekends. At least he hadn't for a long time. I should have called Glenn. He would have done something. I wondered if Annie was worried about me. I never missed a day without communicating with her in some way.

A loud clank sounded and the cell door slid open. The tall deputy came through the door carrying a McDonald's bag. His hair was windblown, his face red.

“What time is it?” I said timidly.

“Eight. Why, you going somewhere?” He chuckled at his own apparent wit.

His boots were heavy on the floor as he walked in the cell and dropped the grease-stained bag on the end of the bed. He set a waxy cup on the floor. “Sheriff said you seemed like a Diet Coke kind of girl.”

“Is anyone coming for me?”

“Sheriff wants you in here all night.”

“All
night
?”

He shifted his weight. “Can I get you anything else?”

I looked at him, trying to read his face. Was he being sincere? “I don't suppose you have any coffee.”

“Lila made a pot this afternoon.”

“Never mind,” I said.

“I can make a new pot.”

“Really? That would be very sweet of you.”

He stared down at his extremely large black boots.

“What is it?” I said.

“I'm sorry,” he said and looked up again. “I'm sorry you're in here. You want anything else besides coffee?”

“Do you have anything to read?”

A sheepish grin appeared on his face. “We got some
Playboy
s in the john.”