Murder at Barclay Meadow (10 page)

“You're practically an invertebrate. Well, if you do take him back, you better be damn sure because if the bastard did it once, he'll do it again. Either way, make sure you get a little action first.”

My eyes widened. “I'm so not ready for that.”

“You have to even the score. Otherwise you'll resent him. You'd be doing it for the marriage.” She winked. “Besides, divorced sex is divine. It's not about obligation anymore. Just think, you have a fabulous dinner, a nice roll in the sack, and then he picks up his clothes and waits for
you
to call
him
.”

“Oh. I haven't gotten that far. I still feel very married.”

“You know what you are?”

I straightened my spine. “What?”

“You're the kind of woman who only plays her ‘a' side. You know, the old records? There's an ‘a' side and a ‘b' side. You only play the sure thing—the song everyone likes. But sometimes the ‘b' side can be more interesting.” She took a long sip. “You getting this? Take some risks, girlfriend. We all have a dark side. And it's kind of fun to embrace it.”

I studied her, the tiny lines tensing her eyes, the purse of her lips, all betraying the pain beneath her flippant facade. Would that be me in a few years? Hardened by my loneliness? “Well,” I said. “It certainly sounds as if you've got it figured out.”

“Divorced sex does have a
few
drawbacks. I'd forgotten how much you have to keep everything shaved and moisturized and wrinkle free.” She studied me. “I suppose you did all that anyway.”

I gripped my glass with both hands. “I really liked being married.”

“Well…” She glanced around for the waitress again. “The man … what's his name?”

“Ed.”

“Ed is a fool.”

That was the second time someone had said that to me.

While the waitress delivered our soups, Rhonda ordered another round of drinks. I was surprised. I still had most of my first one, and the alcohol was already speeding through my veins like a snort of cocaine.

“Wait…” I said to the waitress as she turned to leave. “I'll just have some coffee. Black,” I added. I avoided Rhonda's gaze and ladled a spoonful of soup. I was growing weary of discussing my marriage. “So, speaking of strain in a marriage, how are Megan's parents holding up?”

“Not good.” She dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin, leaving a bright red smudge on the white linen.

“How could they be?” I tried to detect the spices in the soup. Cumin? Maybe a little curry?

“It's not like it was the perfect marriage before Megan died. I mean, Corinne is a complete mouse—plain, meek, and boring. Bill ruled that family, including Megan.”

“Even as her stepfather?”

“Bill is the only father she ever knew, remember?” Rhonda dipped the corner of her sandwich into her soup. “And they were very close. He taught her to play soccer. In fact, Bill and I used to carpool and organize the other parents.” She eyed me. “Did you happen to see Bill at the funeral?”

“Just from a distance.”

“He's the best-looking man I've ever seen.” She stared off. “He's deliciously tall.”

“So, he adored Megan?”

Rhonda hesitated. “Something like that. I don't really know how to describe it.” She leaned back in her chair. “It was more like he was obsessed with her.”

“What do you mean?”

“Once she entered high school, it was as if he had to control everything she did.” Rhonda looked down at her soup. Was that a tear in her eye? She took a deep breath and brought me back into focus. “Managing Megan's life took up so much of his time he abandoned everything else.”

“How did Megan feel about that?”

Rhonda shrugged. “I don't really know. I never heard her complain. He spoiled her rotten, so why should she?”

“It sounds like he went a little overboard. Right when she was ready to launch, you know?” I paused. I'd just said “overboard.” Was that a sign?

Rhonda finished chewing a bite of her sandwich. “She did get very rebellious there at the end. It was driving Bill crazy. He even reached out to me.” Another smile, this one was softer. “I was so glad he thought I could be of help to him.”

I watched Rhonda closely. Every time she mentioned Bill her eyelids fluttered and she stared off as if recalling a pleasant memory. She was in love with the man. I needed to keep her talking.

“Chelsea must miss Megan very much,” I said.

“I wouldn't go that far. My poor Chels was sick to death of living in Megan's shadow.” The waitress brought our beverages and as soon as she walked away, Rhonda picked up her glass and took a long drink. She closed her eyes for a moment, as if waiting for her blood-alcohol level to inch up another notch. She opened them and zeroed in on me. “Megan brought on her own problems.” Another sip. “Bill was right to have her transfer to John Adams.”

“Megan must have hated transferring.”

“Of course she did. She was one of the most well known students on the entire campus. And once she got to John Adams, the drama got worse.” Rhonda roller her eyes. “Bill regretted his decision almost immediately. It drove him crazy to have her so far away and out of his control. But if you ask me, the man was better off having the distance. He was past due to let her destroy her own life once and for all.”

Rhonda's long fingers clutched her martini glass like talons. She watched me carefully, gauging my reaction like a predator sizing up her prey. Had she told me too much?

“So, Rhonda,” I said. “It must have been very difficult for you being so close to the Johnstons when you disliked Megan so much.”

Her eyes flashed. “I never said I disliked her.”

I returned her gaze, the vodka boosting my height. “You didn't have to.”

Rhonda wadded her napkin and set it on the table. She rolled her shoulders back and said, “Bill adored her enough for all of us. That's all that matters.” She bit into another olive. “So, Rosie dear, are you still interested in how she died?”

“I am.”

“Why, exactly? You never knew her.”

“I found her. She came to me and no one else seems to be interested in how such a lovely young girl had to die.”

“Now who's the drama queen?”

“There is evidence indicating her death might not have been an accident.”

“Honey…” She reached over and patted my hand. “You're a housewife, not a detective. Maybe you should stick to vacuuming.”

I started to defend myself, to tell Rhonda how much I knew, but stopped. She was warning me away. Despite her haughty veneer, it struck me that Rhonda was a dilettante at the sophisticated persona. Give her time and the real Rhonda comes through, and there she was, claws bared.

“You're right.” I folded my hands tight in my lap. “Maybe I should focus on getting a date.”

“Good girl.” She raised her almost empty glass. “Here's to your freedom.” She started to sip but stopped. “And to a good roll in the sack. God knows we could both use one.”

 

E
LEVEN

Janice Tilghman has sent you an event invitation.

I spent the morning following up on the applications I submitted around town, but it was starting to feel futile. It was an unspoken reality that any job opening would go to a local first. Maybe I could do something over the phone. Telemarketing? I shuddered at the thought and went up to my room to find a sweater.

Earlier that day I had washed and refilled every one of Aunt Charlotte's spice bottles, adding a bottle of my favorite homemade seasoned salt and a bottle of garam masala. I scrubbed the cabinets and canisters and replaced the sugar, flour, and tea. A clean, fresh kitchen stirred my love for cooking. But since I didn't have anyone to cook for, I decided to bake.

My aunt's bread recipe was written on a yellowed index card in a crippled script. I hoped I got the proportions right. It was a complicated recipe with several types of flour, rolled oats, and honey. Not long before she died, Aunt Charlotte and I had made plans to get together once a week to make bread, just like the old days. She suggested I pick a day I didn't drive carpool, come to visit her, and we could immerse ourselves in the immensely therapeutic process of bread making. I was so looking forward to it. But it never happened. Life, or should I say death, got in the way.

My iPod played the original Broadway version of
Les Mis
é
rables
. Trumpeting songs urging men to revolution seemed to be the perfect accompaniment to kneading bread.

Once I had mixed the ingredients, I removed the sticky dough from the bowl and plopped it onto a wooden board. The scent of fermenting yeast met my nose, triggering warm, distant thoughts of family and home. After dusting my hands with flour, I pushed with the heels of my hands, putting my entire body weight into my efforts. I flipped and shoved, squeezed with both hands, dusted it with flour, and turned it again. The drums grew louder, the horns blared. I punched the dough with a fist. Then the other. I picked it up and flipped it again. As I worked to the music, the dough grew smoother. Muscle memory kicked in. I used to be pretty good at this.

The music softened. Sweet violins. Cosette began to sing in a crystal clear soprano, “
I saw him once
…” I froze. Oh, no. What was I thinking? Ed and I saw
Les Mis
é
rables
in three different cities, including London on our honeymoon. All three times he reached for my hand when this song began. It was our song. Marius sang, “
A heart full of love
…”

My knees weakened. I lowered myself into a chair and dropped my head on my arms. The ache in my chest squeezed my heart.

I don't know how long I sat there. The sleeves of my sweater were soaked with tears. The phone rang incessantly. The answering machine clicked on.

Janice Tilghman began leaving a message. “I know you're there, Rosalie. You're screening your calls. If you don't pick up, I'm coming over.”

I lifted my head and brought the room into focus. I sniffled, walked over, and picked up the phone. “How do you know these things?”

“It's my business to know. What are you doing? Are you wallowing?”

I coughed out a laugh. “Maybe a little.” I checked my reflection in the toaster. Mascara striped my cheeks. I dried my face with a dish towel covered with flour. Now that's really going to help.

“I knew it,” Janice said in her trademark raspy voice. Although she had never smoked, she sounded as if she was up to three packs a day. “I sent you an invitation on Facebook. Did you even see it?”

Janice and I had been friends as children. She grew up on the farm next to Barclay Meadow. Her ancestors had lived on the Eastern Shore since before the Bay Bridge was built. And although she had attended boarding schools and now bopped up to New York to shop when the mood suited her, she was definitely a native.

She and her husband lived on a beautiful estate farther down the river. They farmed the land and hunted the Canada geese that drank from their pond. Although neither of them needed to work, they were both active in the community and always busy with one project or another. They had four children and raised them all with common sense and practicality.

“I saw it. I'm sorry, Janice. I'm doing my best. It's just … well, I was having a teeny little melt down.”

“Hm. Bad?”

“Chernobyl?”

“Okay. That's why you have to come to my party—mix it up.” Janice said. “I want you to meet some people.”

“Thanks for thinking of me, but I'm not really up for a party.” I propped the phone in the crook of my neck and picked up the bread. It had started to dry. I began to knead again.

“What are you listening to? I can hardly hear you.”

“I was fighting the French Revolution. Only I lost.”

“You're helpless.” She laughed. “Almost.”

I yanked my iPod out of the docking station. There was a paper-thin crack down the center of the screen. “Thanks for the invite, but—”

“You know me better than that, Rose Red. No one says no to Janice Tilghman. Besides, there's a very nice dentist I think you should meet.”

“Absolutely not,” I said. “No fix-ups. It's way too soon.”

“Okay, okay. He'll be at the party, but I won't tell him about you. If you happen to meet, well, what can I say? We'll leave it to destiny.”

Ha, I thought. Janice didn't believe in destiny unless she was the one predetermining it. “Are you sure you don't mean ‘dentistry'?”

“Yeah.” She laughed. “That, too.”

Our banter brought back memories. When we were children, I was Rose Red and she was Snow White. We played endless pretend games with dress-up clothes and imaginary princes. But with a strong older brother and an innate need to please, I was easy prey for Janice's strong will. Whenever I insisted on contributing at least one idea to our game, she would say, “tit for tat,” and add yet another of hers.

I thought for a moment and was struck with an idea. “Tit for tat,” I said and flipped the dough. A light snowfall of flour sailed through the air. “I'll come to your party if you invite Sheriff Wilgus.” My stomach tightened at the thought of talking with the man again, but I had an investigation to lead.

“He's already on my list,” she said. “Hey, you just said you weren't ready.”

“It's not about that.”

“You sure? Because there's no judgment coming your way. He is kinda hot in a Rock Hudson sort of way. But remember, Rosie, you fart in this town and everyone smells it.”

“
Rock Hudson
?”

“James Garner?” she said.

“Geez, Janice, what are you, seventy?”