Murder at Barclay Meadow (34 page)

“More or less. But like I said, I think it's a phase that will pass.”

“But would you agree there is some serious corruption going on around here?”

“Where are you headed, Rosalie?”

“Do you do any work for the college? Or the county commissioners, for that matter?”

“Why?” he asked warily.

“Well…” I leaned forward. “Do you?”

“I have several clients that work for the college, but no, the county commissioners and I just see each other at parties.”

“Do you ever do any pro bono work?”

He laughed. “Not if I can help it. You can take a guy out of the city…”

“What if you could get your name in the
Washington Post
as someone who has done something wonderful for this town?”

He set his pen down for the first time since I arrived. “I'm listening.”

*   *   *

When the bank clerk shut the door, I turned the key in door 103 and slid out the long, metal box. It was stuffed with a pack of trifolded papers. I hadn't expected to find anything of value. My aunt had been buried with her wedding ring and I had already received my grandmother's and great-grandmother's jewelry. It was all locked in my own safety deposit box in Chevy Chase for Annie.

I unfolded the papers. It was the deed to Barclay Meadow. Some of the documents were over one hundred years old. I handled them delicately and was surprised to see a handwritten note to me paper clipped to the top.

Dearest Rosalie,

It seems you have decided to sell Barclay Meadow. As much as I hoped you would find a way to keep it in the family, I am sure you have a very good reason to sell it. I hope I have not burdened you in any way. I remember how much you loved it here as a little girl. I remember you growing so tan from your time outdoors your mother would tease that she didn't recognize you. Remember picking blackberries and then washing them in the sink? They would be so juicy we had to hold napkins under our chins.

But now you are a mature woman with a lovely family and so Barclay Meadow must go. I have one request, although I know I have probably worn out my welcome when it comes to favors. I hope by now you have met Tyler Wells. His family has been with Barclay Meadow for generations and they are a lovely, hard-working family. I have asked Tom Bestman to try to find a way to sell the farm to him. If this in any way compromises your financial stability, then pretend you never saw this letter. But if there is some way his lease payment could go toward buying the house, then maybe he could make a go of it.

Thank you for all that you have done. You were the daughter I never had and I loved you more than I ever thought possible.

Charlotte

I clutched the papers to my chest. I looked up at the ceiling. “I'm so sorry, Aunt Charlotte.” I put the papers back into the box, slid it back into place, and locked it.

*   *   *

“You were out all night Saturday,” Tyler said from behind me.

I minimized my computer screen so he wouldn't see I was looking for apartments. The nutty, rich scent of brewing coffee filled the kitchen. “That smells divine,” I said and walked over to him.

He stood with his hands on his hips waiting for Mr. Miele to press out a fresh batch of Gold Coast blend. “Things seem to be going well with your new acquaintance,” he said.

“No. That's not what I was doing.” I pulled two mugs from the cabinet as the last burst of steam spat out of the coffeemaker. “Tyler, I need to talk to you about something.”

“I want to talk to you about something, too.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.

“You first,” I said.

He filled our mugs and handed me one. I slid the sugar canister over to him. “I've been doing some research—about the farm, I mean. That's why I was borrowing your computer so much.”

“What about the farm?”

“There's something called sustainable. It's a higher rating than farming organic. It's complicated, but I think we could pull it off.”

I gripped my coffee with both hands. He said “we” now when referring to the farm.

“We would have to get some livestock,” he continued. “I was thinking we could start with chickens.”

“Chickens?”

“Yeah, you know, they have feathers … lay eggs.”

“Aren't they an awful lot of work?”

He stared at me, hard.

“I'm sorry, Tyler. I really am. I'm just so tired lately.” I brushed my hair back from my face. I hadn't combed it yet. “I didn't mean to dismiss your idea. It sounds very interesting. If you could refer me to some information I could read up on it.”

Tyler dumped his coffee in the sink and wordlessly left the room.

I stared at the spot where he had stood. What was I doing? The distance growing between us would need the Bay Bridge to connect us again. I would tell him the next time I see him. I had to give him time to make arrangements.

I walked back to the table, flopped into my seat, and stared out the window. I had propped the windows open earlier and the sweet scent of peonies drifted toward me. Goldfinches were fluttering around the feeder, their feathers already turning a bright marigold. At the end of the sloping lawn the river sped by, an occasional log caught in its current. I only had a few weeks and what had I accomplished?

I brought my computer back to life. I had to see this investigation through. We were close and yet miles away. I thought about my conversation with Glenn. We were underutilizing our best weapon—Facebook. Maybe I could lure the killer out—whomever he or she may be. I rolled my shoulders back and logged onto Facebook as Megan. After clicking on the box “what's on your mind?” I typed:

Megan Johnston

I didn't want to die. Why did you kill me?

 

F
ORTY
-
SIX

I was surprised how quickly I reverted back to the person I had once been. It started on the Capital Beltway. I darted in and out among the best of the aggressive drivers, squeezing into nonexistent spaces, and took the curves toward the Wisconsin Avenue exit as well as any NASCAR driver. As I drove into Bethesda where I was to look at apartments, I checked my hair and decided I was due for a new style. Yes, I thought as I hit the gas. Time for a change. Maybe I would cut it all off, dye it red.

The first apartment was in an elegant high-rise just north of Western Avenue. It was beautifully lush, and there was a Saks Fifth Avenue a few doors down, but I barely looked around. I could never live somewhere that required an elevator to get outside. And a window box does not a garden make.

I was already enervated and it was only one o'clock. I spotted a coffee shop and went in. I watched as a young woman manipulated the coffee machine. I could do that job, I thought. Mr. Miele and I should hit the road.

Outside, the sky had filled with an unending line of gray clouds, heavy with rain, anxious to unload their burden. Daffodils bloomed down the median of Wisconsin Avenue while Jags, sporty Mercedes, and glossy black BMWs sped down the busy road.

“Rosalie!”

I turned and saw my dear friend Amy charging toward me, dressed in yoga pants and a tight sweatshirt.

“Amy—it's wonderful to see you.”

She brushed my cheek with a kiss. “You look incredible. I love your hair longer. And … have you lost weight? Look at you. My God, I positively hate you.”

“It's the divorce diet and I don't recommend it,” I said. “Tell me what's new with you.”

“I miss you.” She flashed me a little pout. “I got stuck with the Cancer Society golf tournament. It's totally stressing me out.”

“I left notes.”

“I know. But that doesn't mean you're doing it.”

I sipped my latte through the small hole in the plastic lid. “Do you have any help?”

“A little. But enough about that. What brings you into the city? I thought you were living on a farm.” She gave me a once-over. “You don't look like you've been living on a farm. Where did you get those jeans? Damn, they look good.”

“I am grateful for Annie's hand-me-downs.”

“Walk with me. I'm on my way to Saks. We're going to the opera with Jay's boss and I need a killer dress.” Amy walked in long strides and I hurried to keep up with her. She was short and physical with a cute angled haircut that bounced as she walked. “So, spill. Why are you here?”

“I'm looking for a place to live.”

“Really?” She stopped. “That's awesome news!” After embracing me with another quick hug, she started walking again. “Oh, Rosie, I've missed you so much. You don't know what it's like around here since you left. Everything has changed.”

“I'm sorry, Amy.”

“I just want you and Ed to be together again. That woman has changed everything.”

“I've only seen her once,” I said. “What's she like?”

Amy glanced over at me. “You really want to know?”

“It can't be any worse than my imagination.” My latte bounced out of the hole as we walked. Caramel rings were polka-dotting the sleeve of my white top.

“She just kind of floats around batting her eyes.”

“She bats her
eyes
?”

“Well, sort of. Jay thinks she's hot. I can't believe my husband is lusting after a thirty-year-old home wrecker. I mean, seriously,” Amy said. “Since when is tall and bone-thin hot?”

“Since forever.”

She rolled her eyes. “But she's not all that beautiful. It's more how she flirts, in subtle ways. I mean, at parties she's always with the men and she'll wear blouses that are cut low, you know the style? The ones where if she turns a certain way a guy could peek inside? So all the men in the room are watching her every move to see if they'll catch some eye candy.”

“Wow.” I stepped out of the way of an oncoming pedestrian who was unwilling to yield the right of way. I caught up to Amy again. “She sounds like she's pretty good at it.”

“The thing is, she's changed everything. Our parties used to be a lot of fun, remember? We all got along and laughed and enjoyed each other. Now there's this competitive thing going on and everyone is tense and stiff and the women are mad at their husbands and oh … Rosalie, come home.” She gave me a sad smile.

“I'm sorry Ed has done this.”

“I think he's enjoying it. I think Ed loves that every guy in the room wants to go to bed with his girlfriend.” She checked my reaction. “Sorry to be so harsh.”

“Sometimes reality is pretty darn harsh.” I tossed my cup into a wrought-iron trash bin.

Amy looked at her watch. “Rosalie, I have got to get into Saks. Come with me?”

“I have another apartment to see. But I would much rather shop with you.”

We hugged. “Let me know the minute you move back. I'm throwing a big old party and I'm not inviting Ed.” She stuck out her tongue a little and laughed. “'Bye—I love you!”

Just as Amy disappeared through the revolving brass doors, the rain began. There were no warning drops, no prelude of rain-scented wind. It started right with the main course as if the bottom had fallen out of the clouds.

I ran to my car, where my umbrella was tucked neatly under the seat. Amy and I had walked over two blocks and by the time I leapt inside I was drenched. I shivered as I started the engine. How could I tour an apartment when I was completely sodden? I glanced down at the digital clock. Maybe I could swing by my house and grab some clothes. Ed wouldn't be there in the middle of the afternoon and I still had my key. I put the car into gear and merged onto Wisconsin Avenue. My house was less than a mile away and I needed some spring clothes anyway.

I parked in front and stared up the steps. I had lived there for close to ten years. It was still beautiful—with white cedar siding and floor-to-ceiling windows. Narcissus and grape hyacinths filled the flower beds and two dogwoods rich with white, velvety blooms graced the lawn. I hurried up the steps, wrung out my shirt, and went inside.

So little had changed—the table by the door still held my silk flower arrangement, although it needed dusting. An umbrella with a carved wooden handle was still in the blue-and-white ceramic stand. My mother's grandfather clock stood in the corner, the pendulum stationary.

I gazed into the living room—a still life of the beautiful decor I had worked to get just right. Up until then, I thought I would claim some of this furniture for my new apartment. But as I scanned the room, I thought better of it. This was Annie's home and I couldn't divide up yet another part of her world. I had been in houses where the couples were divorcing, one wing chair instead of two, no kitchen table, indentations in the rug where a coffee table had once been. They looked sad and diminished. No, I would hit up Pottery Barn instead.

I dropped my keys in the rattan tray, my wet clothes sapping the warmth from my body. I walked down the hall to the kitchen. A pungent smell hung in the air. An orange, I thought. An orange is moldy. A box of clementines sat on the counter. I knew if I dug through to the bottom I would find the source of the smell. But this kitchen was no longer mine to maintain.

The thought struck a deep and very sad chord in my heart and I realized instantly it had been a mistake to come here. A scarf that was not mine was draped over the back of a chair. Two wineglasses sat in the sink with drying burgundy circles in the bottom, one with a distinct lipstick print. A sugar bowl had been placed next to the coffeemaker. Ed and I drank our coffee black. I glanced over at the pine hutch that held my good dishes. It was painted white.
White?
Ed loved that hutch. He would never paint it. We had discovered it together at an antiques show at the D.C. armory. Our first apartment had no cabinet space so we splurged our budget and brought it home.