Murder at Barclay Meadow (14 page)

He leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. “Cardigan must seem really small to you after living in the city.”

“I grew up in the country, but yes, I miss Chevy Chase a lot. But I think the hardest part about living here is you aren't exactly a permeable crowd.”

“You're not finding folks to be all that friendly?”

“Friendly enough, just not very welcoming. It feels like a gated community, only I don't have the pass code.”

Tyler's lips set into a small frown. “You just need to understand where we're coming from. People move here thinking this is the perfect little town to settle into. They buy a house and join the country club. But what we've come to realize is most of you don't stay. Not for long. So we've learned to not get attached.”

“Was your wife from away?”

Tyler walked over to the sink and picked up a bar of industrial-strength soap. It seemed I had crashed into that gate again. And here I thought we were getting to know one another. I wondered if the Eastern Shore had a rule book.

“You sure spend a lot of time on that computer,” he said as he dried his hands. “You on Spacebook again?”

“It's Facebook. And yes, I'm waiting for my daughter to log on.”

He folded the towel and looped it through the oven handle. “She doesn't have a cell phone?”

“Kids these days like to text and type.”

“Sounds a little backward. Isn't that why they invented the phone?”

“Phones are outdated. I'm lucky if she listens to my voicemails.”

His eyebrows arched. “And that's
okay
with you?”

“I haven't really thought about it. But thanks to Facebook, I know every day that she is alive and well. I can see right here where she liked what someone posted. For instance, someone shared a photo from the SPCA. Annie liked it three hours ago. I just hope she hasn't adopted a kitten.”

Tyler shrugged. “Seems to me you're the parent.”

I snapped my computer shut and stood. I wasn't going to take the bait this time. “I look forward to you and Annie getting to know one another. She'll be here for Thanksgiving.” I crossed my arms. “You actually have a lot in common.”

He frowned as he rolled the sleeves of his work shirt down and buttoned the cuffs. “She's good looking, then?”

I smiled and shook my head. “Wait…” I said when he started to leave. “I have something for you.” I picked up a foil-wrapped loaf of bread still warm from the oven.

He palmed it like a football. “I don't suppose this is Miss Charlotte's recipe?”

“Yes, I've been making a lot of it lately.”

“Best damn bread I ever had.”

“I hope it's as good as hers,” I said.

Tyler brushed his hair off his forehead and picked up his empty lunch box. Dickens came to alert and trotted over to him. I glanced at the clock. It was nearing 8:00—time for the What Ifs.

“I've finished the planting,” he said. “You won't see me for a while.”

“So soon?” My heart sank at the thought of not having Tyler around. “What will you do?”

“Not sure. Maybe cut some deer or try and find where the rockfish are hiding.”

“Tyler, I noticed my aunt had you on a salary.”

His posture stiffened. “I worked hard around here.”

“I'm not questioning your work ethic. I just wondered what you did for her. I feel as if this house is disintegrating around me.”

“You can't neglect a house this old.”

“I'm doing the best I can.”

Tyler's mouth curved into a small smile. “You're doing the best you can to neglect it?”

“No, I didn't mean that,” I said, flustered. “I mean I'm trying my best to take care of it.”

“You sure get defensive. Is that a city thing?”

“I think it's a Tyler Wells thing. Look, Tom Bestman said my aunt left some money in a trust account. I'm not sure how much is in it, but it's designated for the upkeep of the house. Would you be interested in staying on? If there's enough money to pay you, I mean.”

“Beats going out on the water every day. I'll be here tomorrow. You see what you can do on your end.”

“Wonderful. I'll have the coffee pot ready.”

Tyler turned to leave, but stopped. “Don't you mean ‘Mr. Miele'?”

Tony and I filled the others in on the party.

 

S
IXTEEN

Glenn and I waited on the dock while Tony untied his dinghy from the back of his sailboat. Sue had opted out of our mission, claiming her computer skills would be of more use to us.

With the absence of city lights, I was dazzled by the wall-to-wall stars strewn across the sky. A harvest moon illuminated surface ripples on the water. It was 1:00 a.m. I pulled my jacket tighter.

“All aboard,” Tony called.

“Tony,” I said as Glenn and I walked to the end of the dock. “Your sailboat is called
Honey Pot
?”

He shook his head and looked down. “It's a long story.”

“Spill,” I said, making no effort to suppress my grin.

“I got the boat right after we got married.” He looked up. “I was feeling like I'd found my pot of honey, you know—new boat, new wife—life is good. I used to call her that, too—honey pot. So that's what I named the boat.”

“Makes sense to me,” Glenn said.

“Okay, Pooh Bear,” I said.

“Cut with the Pooh Bear.”

“You know,” Glenn said. “Pooh is very Taoist.”

“Yeah, well, he's also pudgy. And I'm a little sensitive these days.” Tony patted his stomach. “Too many pizzas.”

“When you put it that way, I will never call you Pooh again.” I smiled over at him. “You're not pudgy. And I love that you were so in love. That's a rare thing these days.”

“Are you two ready to get in the damn boat?” Tony stood and held my arm as I stepped into the dinghy. Once I was seated he reached for Glenn. The boat wobbled as Glenn hopped aboard in a pair of rubber-soled shoes.

Glenn sat next to me while Tony yanked on the cord. “This outboard is a lot like a woman,” he said. “Only sparks up when the mood suits her.” Tony gave it another hard tug. When it at last sputtered to life, Glenn untied the lines, dropped them into the boat, and shoved us off. The water was inky black. I wondered if Megan died on a night similar to this, swallowed up in the river, held down for days by what lay beneath. Was she pushed and left to drown? Was she aware she was dying?

“Most of the houses around the professor's have their own piers,” Tony said, one hand on the rudder.

“I marked the professor's house from the street, but everything looks different from the water.” Glenn peered hard at the shoreline, studying each house as we chugged along. “There.” He pointed to a narrow white clapboard house. “It's that one. I'm sure of it.”

Tony cut the motor and the current ferried us to the dock.

“I'm having second thoughts,” I whispered. “How will we see anything? And even if there is some evidence, surely he would have gotten rid of it.”

Glenn stared at the dock as if willing the boat to get there faster. “We'll find something,” he said. “The professor wasn't expecting three detectives to come looking around for clues.”

“Detectives?” I said. “That's a bit of a stretch.”

Glenn ignored me and looped a line over a weathered piling covered with bird droppings. He pulled the dinghy closer and hopped on the dock with a loud thud.

“Shush,” I hissed.

The Angeles's sailboat was a few feet shorter than Tony's live aboard. A dome lined with small windows indicated a cabin. The sails had been secured and wrapped in a royal blue canvas. Halliards slapped against the metal mast like an eerie wind chime.

Glenn handed Tony and me small flashlights. “You'll need to conceal the light with your palm like this.” He cupped his hand around the end. After stepping out of his shoes he boarded the sailboat.

Just as he reached for the cabin door, I said, “Glenn, wait.” I pulled three pairs of garden gloves from my pocket and tossed him a set.

“Good thinking.” He slipped on the gloves and tried the door. “It's locked,” he called.

Tony finished securing the lines and looked over at me. “You just going to sit there?”

Every muscle in my body ached with tension. We were trespassing. I was about to commit a crime. I'd never so much as crossed a toe over the line of the law. I'd been that way since I was born. I was the teacher's pet five out of my six years of elementary school, and that was only because my fifth grade teacher thought I was too perfect and spent the entire year trying to find reasons to give me an A minus.

Tony continued to look my way. After a deep breath and a short prayer, I climbed onto the dock and crawled over to him on all fours. We had agreed to dress in dark clothing and I was wearing my black spandex running suit. “You look like Catwoman,” he said.

“Don't call me Catwoman,” I said. “She has too many issues.” I looked around the deck. “We're not going to find anything. I think we should go.”

“Chill, Princess, you got us into this.”

“I'm not a princess.”

“Why don't you two look through the cabin windows and see if there's anything out of the ordinary,” Glenn said. “I'll inspect the dock.”

Tony shone his flashlight through the first window, shielding the light the way Glenn had instructed. We studied the objects appearing and disappearing in the concentrated beam. “What's that?” I said. Tony reversed the path of the light and settled it on a clean ashtray.

“Did Megan smoke?” he asked.

“I doubt it—she was a really good soccer player.”

“What about the professor?”

“The only thing I smelled on him was some very nice cologne.”

“Oh, really?” Tony shone the flashlight in my face.

“Stop it.” I covered my eyes. “Someone will see.”

“Quiet, you two,” Glenn said. “I hear something.”

We froze as a spotlight on the back of Nick's house blazed on.

“Oh my gosh,” I whispered.

“Drop,” Glenn said.

Tony and I flattened on the dock. I peered up at the house and watched as Nick creaked the back door open. He was in a pair of plaid boxers, his hair disheveled.

“This was such a bad idea,” I said.

“Hush,” Tony said.

Nick carried a small, fluffy white dog. He set it on the ground and waited as it sniffed the grass. The dog lifted its head, ears perked.

“Go wee wee, Alfred,” Nick said. The dog looked back at him, lifted his leg, and waited to be picked up. Nick stared out at the dock.

“Freakin' full moon,” Tony said and pressed harder into the wood.

After what seemed an eternity, Nick picked up the dog, and went inside. When the light at last flipped off, we inched over to the boat and fell inside.

*   *   *

Tony's sailboat rocked gently, the water lapping lazily against the hull. We huddled around the small table affixed to the floor. I took a sip of the single-malt whiskey Tony had poured. The smoky liquid burned my throat and instantly warmed me from the inside out, numbing my frazzled nerves like a welcomed shot of Novocain.

“That was terrifying,” Tony said. He slugged back some whiskey. “And freaking awesome.”

The evidence we collected lay on the table before us like a cadaver in an autopsy. Glenn had his notebook open and peered at it through the glasses he had fished from his pocket.

“So, what do we have, Pops?” Tony said.

“First, let's discuss what we observed.”

“That sailboat was spotless,” I said. “Someone had recently scrubbed it from stem to stern. It reeked of bleach. He already tried to erase any sign of a struggle.”

“I don't know,” Tony said. “Boaters are pretty anal. I've seen guys hosing down their rigs after a five-minute cruise to the fuel dock.”

“Oh, really?” I glanced around Tony's disorderly cabin. A computer had been crammed onto the galley counter and books and papers were scattered on the floor. Dirty dishes sat in the sink and a laundry bag overflowing with clothes sat propped in a corner.

He shrugged. “
Most
boaters.”

“I think Rosalie has a point,” Glenn said. “The boat was spotless. What did you notice inside the cabin?”

“The ashtray,” I said.

“Right,” Glenn said. “Sailors don't smoke inside cabins because the fumes can build up. Either way, they don't need an ashtray because they can flick their ashes in the water.”