Murder at Barclay Meadow (5 page)

“Is Bill your husband?”

“I don't have one of those anymore.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand in front of my face. “Bill is Bill Johnston, Megan's stepdad. See? You don't remember everything I tell you.”

“Rhonda, I don't suppose I could give you my number? Maybe we could stay in touch.” I pulled an old gas receipt out of my purse and wrote my number on it. My pen made holes in the thin paper. I handed it to her. She creased it down the middle and placed it in her purse.

“Deal. I'd love to keep up with your nosing around. Make sure you tell me everything you find out. Oh, and here's my contact info.” She handed me a colorful business card on which a younger-looking Rhonda smiled up at me, her head in that Realtor angle that made them all look as if they had an inner-ear disorder. “Okay, well, gotta run!” She turned and started for the parking lot, her stilettos clicking on the pavement. She stopped when Megan's stepfather emerged from the church. He walked over to her and spoke close to her ear. They embraced for a noticeably long time. Then Rhonda brushed his cheek with a kiss, patted his arm, and walked away. He watched her go.

I startled when he looked my way. His gaze intensified. He studied me, as if trying to discern who I was. Unsure what to do, I smiled my most sympathetic smile and hurried to my car.

*   *   *

As I drove back to Cardigan, I reflected on my conversation with Rhonda. I felt energized that my suspicions were right—there was a lot more to this story than the sheriff's department was willing to uncover. My first conversation with someone who knew Megan and I already learned of a possible suspect: a psychology professor who sleeps with students. And what about Rhonda? She was completely irreverent about Megan's death. I wondered … was there an envy lurking, a jealousy of Megan's beauty and popularity? And what about her relationship with Bill? Their embrace revealed a shared intimacy that went way beyond friendship. And why did Megan transfer her senior year? Why would she leave the soccer team?

Maybe I should tell the sheriff what I learned. We could collaborate—brainstorm about some possibilities. He could reopen the case. No. Bad idea. He and his deputies already found me ridiculous. If I went to them with this, they would laugh about it for the next decade.

An unequivocal clarity heightened my senses. If Megan Johnston was murdered, then a killer was on the loose. The sun was dipping toward the horizon and the sky was streaked with indigo and vermillion. I pulled the visor down and hoped I would beat rush hour. I checked my mirror and merged onto I-95. “I'm going to figure this out, Megan,” I said softly. “It might take some time, but I won't give up until I know the truth.” I was sick to death of lies and secrets and betrayal. The turbo kicked in and I blew past a tractor trailer. Megan Johnston came to me for a reason and it was up to me to find out how.

*   *   *

When I arrived home, I went straight to my computer without turning on a light. I sat down and noticed a check on the table. Tyler. I picked it up and studied it. Not so fast, Ed, I thought, and smiled. Maybe Tyler Wells was the Marlboro Man, after all.

I set the check down and hummed a little as my computer came to life. Ignoring my one hundred and thirty-seven new emails, I logged onto Facebook hoping to chat with Annie.

Rhonda Pendleton has sent you a friend request.

That was fast. I accepted her friendship and a message appeared in my inbox.

Hi Rosie! So glad we're “friends!” OK, well, the scene at the house after the funeral was positively dreadful. Corinne was on tranquilizers and Bill drank most of the Ketel One. He really leaned on me and I was so glad I was there. Guess what he told me? He's the one who told the police he didn't want an autopsy or investigation. He didn't say why but can you stand it? So dishy!

Sent from a mobile unit

I reread Rhonda's message and clicked my fingernails on the table. Why would a father not want to know how his daughter died? And how on earth did he get the police to close the investigation? There were so many unanswered questions.

I stared out the window. It was a black, moonless night. Somewhere in that darkness the Cardigan was racing by. No one rescued Megan from that cold, gray water. And with the recent events in my life, I had an idea how it must feel to drown. Struggling for breath, clawing to get your head above water.

I looked back at my computer screen and updated my status.

Rosalie Hart

Is wondering how a young college student, armed with athleticism, gorgeous looks, and a promising future, came to be facedown in the chilly currents of the Cardigan River.

 

F
OUR

Introduction to Memoir Writing class was held on Thursday evenings in a drafty room with a high, stamped metal ceiling in the oldest building on the John Adams College campus. I arrived fifteen minutes early for class and purposely sat in the third and last row. This was our second of eight classes. The first night I had been surprised to learn we were supposed to have already written five pages of a memoir. And because it was such a small class, four students and one very young teacher, tonight we were each going to read what we had written aloud and receive feedback from our classmates.

Glenn Breckinridge was next to arrive. A little over seventy, he was dressed in a crisp, blue oxford shirt, professionally creased khaki pants, and a bow tie. I had been drawn to him immediately. Not only because he had such a kind, gentle demeanor, but because we were in similar circumstances. He also recently moved to Cardigan and, like me, was looking for ways to fill his time. I hoped Glenn was as desperate for friendship as me.

“Hello, Rosalie.” The newspaper tucked under his arm was open to a crossword he was working on in pen. He slid into the seat and turned sideways to face me. “How did the writing assignment go?”

“Not so well, it turns out. Apparently you're supposed to have done something significant in order to write a memoir. Who knew?”

“I'm sure you'll have something compelling to say,” Glenn said in his deep, sonorous voice.

“How about you? Any luck?”

“I already had one hundred pages. I just tidied the first few up a bit. I've intended to write a business memoir since I retired from IBM. I'm shooting for an airport read, the kind of book a businessperson can pick up and finish in one trip.” Glenn nudged his wire-rimmed glasses higher up his nose. “Perhaps my plans are a bit grandiose.”

“I would buy it,” I said. “Can I preorder?”

“Ha ha. It's nice to have your confidence. So? What are
you
going to write about?”

“No clue. Do you know I've never even kept a journal?” I leaned in. “I might start now, though. Did I tell you I discovered a dead body in the river?”

“That was your place? Good heavens, I read about it in the paper. How dreadful for you.”

“It was pretty horrific. She was a lovely young woman. Her death was such a tragedy. And all I can think about is my Annie away at college. So, well…” I hesitated.

“What?” he said, his tone encouraging me to continue.

“I think her death being ruled an accidental drowning is suspicious. There are some circumstances that don't add up. For instance, she switched schools in her senior year even though she was the star of the University of Delaware soccer team. She had only been at John Adams for a short time. And the biggest thing is she may have been having an affair with a professor.” I searched Glenn's face, worried he would think I was past nuts.

“What are you saying, Rosalie?”

“The police have already closed the case. And I can't stop asking myself: What if it wasn't an accident? So, well, I've been looking into it a little.”

“This is fascinating. The paper said she drowned, but you aren't buying it?”

I shook my head. “She was also terrified of the water. So…”

Tony Ricci bustled in the door. Although still in a sport coat, he looked as if the day had gotten the better of him. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone and part of his shirttail had loosened from his pants. He juggled a briefcase and a cup of coffee with a corrugated sleeve all while keeping a phone to his ear. He stopped and finished his conversation. “Yeah, Joe, I heard you the first time … No, I can't FedEx the report because I haven't finished it yet … Well, screw 'em…” Tony glanced up. We stared back. “Look, I have to go. I'll call you later.”

After stowing the phone in his shirt pocket, he nodded to us and said, “How's everyone doing?” in a thick New England accent.

Tony was an attractive man with thick hair and wide brown eyes that drooped a little at the corner. He was of average height with a strong frame that he carried with a confident ease. When he gave me a quick wink, I looked away. Had I been staring? Good Lord. I was forty-five years old and had been married to the same man for the last twenty-three. He must think I'm pathetic. Or desperate. Isn't that what they say about divorced women?

Tony walked over and sat in the seat in front of me. He had been on the other side of the room the first night. “How you doin'?” he said again.

“Fine, thanks,” I said. “And you?”

“I'm wondering if this class might be a bunch of crap. I don't think our fearless leader has one inkling about how to write a memoir.” He rested his arm on the back of his chair. “You write anything yet?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

Sue Ling hurried into the classroom. Sue was a lovely, twentysomething Korean-American. She gave us a shy smile and perched in the desk in front of the instructor's. After pulling a stylish pair of glasses from her bag, she slid them onto her nose and began perusing a stack of paper, making an occasional mark with a tightly held pen.

“Rosalie…” Glenn said. “I would like to hear more about—”

Our instructor's entrance interrupted him. Frazzled and haggard, Jillian dropped a stack of books on the desk and slumped into her seat. She had black, spiky hair dyed purple on the ends and a row of silver earrings climbing up her ear. She wore loose cotton clothing and a long hobo purse hung from her shoulder. A graduate student, she was working toward her master's in Fine Arts and was less than enthusiastic about teaching our memoir class to supplement her income. “Is everyone here?” she said as if she wasn't particularly interested in the answer.

“I certainly hope she can count to four,” Tony whispered over his shoulder.

“Okay,” Jillian said. “Who wants to read first?”

Sue raised her hand and began to read. Glenn pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and jotted something on it. He tore off the sheet and slipped it to me.
I am very interested in this murder. I would like to help you. I think we should start with this professor.
My eyes shot up. Glenn smiled broadly and faced the front of the classroom.

By the time the two-hour class ended, I felt completely inadequate. Glenn was a beautiful writer, his words as crisp as his starched shirt. Sue's writing was flowery and descriptive and touching. I could picture her mother and father huddled on a small boat, Sue swaddled in her mother's arms as they fled North Korea. Even Tony had a few compelling pages. He was framing his story around a love for baseball—the successes and failures in his life paralleling those of the Boston Red Sox.

When it came to me, I explained my dilemma. How does one write about a life lived for others? Who would be interested in my experiences as a PTA president or volunteer in a school library? I had joked that I could write about my driving finesse on the beltway or how I could rock a Sudoku puzzle, but the only person who smiled was Tony, and I think he was trying to look down my blouse at the time.

Everyone asked questions trying to steer me in some sort of direction. But the crux of it was this: How do I write about a life I thought was ideal—the envy of others—when in fact it was all a lie? It was as if a tsunami had rolled over my world, washing away everything I assumed was solid and constant and true.

Jillian frowned. “Surely there is something interesting. I mean, did your daughter have any sort of medical problem—like allergies or a learning disability?”

The only thing I could come up with was that Annie had been slow to potty train and wore a pullup until she was three.

I left the class feeling completely humiliated. I flinched when I felt Jillian's hand on my shoulder. “Look, Rosalie, you'll come up with something. Don't go jump off a bridge or anything.”

 

F
IVE

Annie Hart

Can't wait for parents' weekend. Mom promised retail therapy after the rugby match!

You and four others like this.

Annie was on the ground, arms over her head, while a mass of much taller and broader young women pushed and shoved and kicked above her. I watched in terror as she crawled out of the melee.

“Kill her,” a voice shouted behind me. I looked over my shoulder. A group of very drunk college boys were lined up against a chain-link fence, each with one hand hooked in his jeans pocket and the other holding a plastic cup full of foamy beer.

I turned back to the match. Annie had gotten up. Dirt dotted her knees and strands of her silky brown hair were coming loose from the ponytail perched high on her head. A teammate tossed her the ball and she broke into a run. Get rid of it, I thought. Pass it! But another girl had already wrapped her arms around Annie's waist and slammed her to the ground. And there she was again, arms covering her head while the scrum continued.

The air was autumn crisp, just cool enough to invite wool sweaters and light jackets. Dried leaves dropped lazily from the trees and cirrus clouds streaked the turquoise sky. I was glad to see the sun. Last night's rain had been unending—the kind of night made for snuggling. But I was in my king-size hotel bed, feeling dwarfed and very alone. I had listened to heavy drops batter the window for hours, until they at last drummed me to sleep.