Murder at Barclay Meadow (22 page)

Bill Johnston

I will be in Cardigan in a few hours.

Annie left early New Year's Eve. As I walked her to the car, I thought about how we had both benefited from our week in Cardigan. Our faces had been warmed by the sun, our lungs expanded to breathe in the crisp, clean air. We had laughed and frolicked and loved and were ready to start the New Year on a good note. As she closed the car door, it occurred to me that I was settling in here better than I ever expected to. I waved to Annie and crossed my arms. And yet Annie hated me living here. Oh, my girl. Who knows what the future holds for either of us?

Annie Hart

Just spent a fab week with my mom in Cardigan then rocked in the New Year with my homies from CC. Happy New Year everyone!!!!

17 people like this

Brittany Purcell

Back at ya Annie! It was awesome to see you! Love ya! xoxoxo

Jody Beckett

It was awesomesauce!!!

Connor O'Malley

Get back here to NC so we can bring in the NY the way it's meant to happen.

The comments went on and on and my heart warmed. I hit “like” and wanted to hit it several more times, but apparently you can only “like” something once. I wanted to write something, too, but thought better of it. I knew there were entire Web sites devoted to “Moms on Facebook.” And although I was dying to know about her relationship with Connor O'Malley, the boy from the rugby game, I decided to let Annie have her privacy, such that it was.

I went to our private group and typed:

 

T
WENTY
-
NINE

Rhonda rushed past me into the house, raincoat over her head. She stomped her pumps on the mat. “Christ, what a day.” She handed me her raincoat. “I must look awful.”

“Not a hair out of place.”

She set her Chanel bag on the small table in the foyer and headed for the living room. Her wide eyes took in my house. “Rosalie, you never said…”

“Said what?” I hung up her coat and followed. I had started a fire to take the damp chill out of the air and the living room was toasty warm.

“How spectacular this place is.” She surveyed the room.

“It's old,” I said. “And on a day like this, it feels like it. I think a log cabin would have fewer drafts.”

“Are you serious?” She scowled back at me. “This is history. Houses don't get much older in this country, so who cares about a little breeze?”

“It's more than that. At night when I can't get to sleep I stare at how the ceilings and the walls don't quite match up and it drives me crazy.”

Rhonda crossed her arms. “And why exactly are you living here?”

“I told you, my husband left me and—”

“Rosalie, please. I remember. Don't hash over all that again.” She continued into the kitchen, stopped, and traced her fingers over the stonework surrounding the fireplace. “You could roast a pig in here.”

“I haven't tried that yet.”

She eyed Mr. Miele. “And what is that supposed to be?”

“It's a coffee pot,” I said, making no effort to hide my defensiveness.

“It's the elephant in the living room.”

“Well, maybe you should taste my coffee before you decide that.”

“Rosalie, dear, do you know where I live?”

“Wilmington.”

She turned to face me. “I live in a two-year-old house crammed onto about one eighth of an acre of land. If my neighbor coughs I know it and I probably will get his cold. It's perfectly nice, but it's got the history of a fart. You really have something here.”

“It's just a house.”

“If you ever think of selling, I know an excellent Realtor.” Her penciled-in eyebrows rose into perfect arches. “You know, houses like these fall into a unique market.”

“It's a farm. There are acres and acres of crops out there.”

“Even better,” she said.

“You know someone looking for a farm?”

“God, no. But with all that waterfront…”

“Yes?”

“Well…” she said in a honey-thick voice. She shot me a devious smile, peach lipstick glossed her lips. “Haven't you ever heard of a little thing called subdivision?” She continued to smile, waiting for my reaction. “You and I could become very wealthy women. Just picture it—Barclay Meadow homes. We would keep the original farmhouse and put the rest on big, spacious lots. They would have to be Colonial homes to fit with the whole feel of this place.” She stared out at the river veiled by the heavy rain. “Each house could have its own pier. My God, we could lure all kinds of rich boaters here from Philly, Baltimore, D.C. And Cardigan is such a cute little town. So safe and pretty.”

I stood next to her and stared out. Not so safe, I thought. Not always so safe. A cool rush of air snuck down my back. I felt as if the dead were trying to communicate with me. Megan? Aunt Charlotte? “How about some lunch,” I said, “before we start bulldozing the soybeans?”

“All right.” She smiled over at me. “I'm famished.”

I grilled cheese and tomato sandwiches on slices of my homemade bread and topped them with a pesto mayonnaise. I tossed a mixed greens salad and placed a small mound next to each sandwich.

“Don't forget the wine,” she said.

I popped open a crisp pinot grigio. Rain spattered against the window while we ate.

Ten minutes laster, Rhonda licked her fingers. There wasn't a crumb left on her plate. “This is the best sandwich I've ever eaten. You should start your own restaurant. I would definitely pay for that sandwich. Those thick slices of bread—I feel healthier just eating that stuff.”

“Well, it's loaded with goodies. And I got the tomatoes at the farm stand in town.”

“Who has tomatoes in January?”

“He gets his produce as locally as he can. I think these are from South Carolina. It's all part of the green movement—you know, the more local food you eat, the fewer emissions from trucking. Tyler and I are growing organic grains and…” I stopped. Rhonda was frowning. “Too much information?”

“Honey, I drive a Range Rover. My carbon footprint is more like a boot print.”

I gathered our plates and carried them to the sink. After pouring coffee, I set a small plate of chocolate muffins on the table. Rhonda was gazing out at the river. I sat down again and tucked my legs beneath me.

She checked her bangs, ignored the coffee, and poured herself another glass of wine. “I hope you don't mind,” she said. “I never used to drink during the day, but lately my nerves are jumping.” She took a long sip, set her glass down, and eyed me. “So, Rosalie, are you still looking into Megan's death?”

I hesitated. “A little.”

“Why? Megan is dead.” She crossed her arms. “I told Bill about you.”

“What did you say?”

“I said I'd met someone who thinks Megan was murdered and was looking into a bit.” She shrugged.

“What was his reaction?”

“He was livid.”

“So, why did you tell him?”

“That's my business. But the bottom line is this: Megan was distraught about having to leave Delaware and being stalked by a bunch of creepy guys. She committed suicide. As sad as that may be, it's reality. Everybody knows it but you. And you nosing around just stirs up all that pain.”

I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug. “Don't you think telling him about me might have stirred up some pain?”

“Of course. Which is why you need to stop.”

“But how do they know it was a suicide? Was there a note?”

Rhonda rolled her eyes. “There you go again.”

“But Rhonda … what if we figured out it wasn't a suicide. Wouldn't her father want to know?”

“We?”

“Did I say ‘we'? That was silly.” I smiled sheepishly.

“Who else knows what you're doing?” She crossed her arms and flattened her back again the chair.

“Just you. And now Bill.” I held my eyes steady with hers.

“I'm trying to tell you as nicely as I can, Rosalie, you need to stop.” She shot me a stern look, one eyebrow a little higher than the other. “No more of this foolishness. Okay?”

“I would never want to hurt anyone.”

“Good. Case closed.” Rhonda puffed out some air, causing her carefully sprayed bangs to lift and fall. “Bill needs to get on with his life.” She filled my wineglass, knocked hers against it, and drank the rest in one swallow. She slapped the glass back on the table and scrutinized my face. “Technically he could sue you.”

I stared back. “I didn't realize you and Bill were such close friends.”

She clicked her fingernails on the table. “Can I tell you something?”

“Of course.”

“Bill and I? We had an affair. It lasted almost six years. It's why my marriage ended.”

“Does Corinne know?”

She shrugged. “I sure didn't tell her.”

“Why did it stop?” I said, trying to subdue my urgency to hear more.

More fingernail clicking. “I never really figured it out. He just ended it. I was heartbroken. I was hoping we would both leave our spouses and be together. He used to say that's what would happen. But when our girls hit high school he got very distracted. He broke dates and there were a few no-shows. But now, lately, he's been reaching out to me again. Ever since I told him about you.” She looked over at me, a puzzled look on her face. “I have no idea why I'm telling you this.”

“I'm glad you feel you can trust me.” I smiled.

“Is that why?” She frowned. “Doesn't sound like me. Sometimes you look at me with those big brown eyes of yours and I start blabbing. How do you do that?”

“I just listen, is all.” I started to fill her glass, but she covered it with her hand. “No. I think that's why I told you. The vino. It's the great truth serum.” She stood. “Well, girlfriend, this has been delish, but I should head home before it gets dark.” She glanced out the window. “Everything is one deadly shade of gray today, isn't it? I sure hope this rain doesn't freeze.”

Tyler burst into the front door, rain dripping from a dark green poncho. He pulled it over his head and stomped his boots. He stopped abruptly when he saw Rhonda. “Oops,” he said.

“No worries,” I said. “Coffee?”

“I'm out of WD-40. I think there's another can in here.” He pulled open a drawer. His sandy hair tumbled onto his forehead. His muscles were outlined through his thermal shirt. After rifling through the drawer, he picked up a blue-and-yellow canister. “That old table saw is a real bugger.” He bumped the drawer closed with his hip, nodded to Rhonda, and walked back outside.

Rhonda's mouth hung open. “And who, my dear, was
that
?”

“My handyman.”

“You have a handyman?” She grinned mischievously. “And what exactly is he handy at doing?”

I cocked my head. “Everything.”

“How nice for you. I've always wanted a pool boy in a tight little Speedo. Funny thing about that is I don't have a pool.” Rhonda picked up her purse and headed for the door. Before she left, she turned to look at me. She made a motion as if she were zipping her lips. “Let's make a deal. Between friends? I'll keep your hot handyman a secret if you don't tell anyone about my confession.”

“Of course, Rhonda. It's not my secret to tell.”

“Exactly. Besides, who would you tell? You're out here in the middle of nowhere rattling around in an old house. And I'm glad you agreed to stop all this detective nonsense. It's time, isn't it?”

“What can I say?” I said. “As usual, you are much wiser about these things than me.”

*   *   *

After spending most of the day cooking for and entertaining Rhonda, I was anxious to check on Annie. I opened my computer and typed in my password. I was glad the What Ifs were scheduled to chat. Rhonda telling Bill about me was unsettling, to put it mildly. If he was the killer, he won't be happy to learn that I believe Megan was murdered. I glanced down at my exceptionally warm feet. Dickens. Tyler was still here. At least for now I was safe.

Annie Hart is in a relationship with Connor O'Malley

I went to Annie's profile. She had posted a new photo album. I clicked on the first one and then the next. Photo followed photo of Annie entwined with Connor. It was definitely him—the one from the rugby game. Had I brought them together? How weird was that? I paused at a photo of them in a very physical kiss. I clicked out of her album. Parents aren't supposed to see this stuff, but Facebook had changed everything.