“Connor O’Malley.”
“That’s a good name,” I said. “I’m a Finnegan.”
“Well, Mrs. Finnegan…” He held out his hand and helped me to stand up. “You look like you could use a beer.”
* * *
Annie and I walked arm-in-arm back to her dorm. The scent of dust and drying sweat emanated from her clothes. “I didn’t know, Mom, I swear. He never said he would be bringing her.”
“I know, honey. I’m so sorry. It can’t be too much fun for you, either.” Our pace was brisk and I appreciated the chance to move. I pulled her closer to me.
“He wants to have dinner tonight, but I told him I already had plans with you.”
“Oh, Annie.” I brushed a stray hair from her face. I noticed a tear atop her dirty cheekbone. “This isn’t fair. It’s your first parents’ weekend. We have no business putting you through this.”
Lampposts popped on as it grew dark. Annie’s cleats clicked on the sidewalk. “It totally sucks,” she said. “I can’t believe he’s doing this to us.” She brushed the tear away and wiped it on her shorts.
I wanted to side with her, align against Ed. After all, we were both victims. But I knew better. I’d seen too many divorces where the parents argued through their children, sucking them into the middle, dividing their loyalties and forcing them to make choices a child should never have to make.
“He didn’t intend to hurt you.”
“Are you actually defending him?” She stopped walking.
“God, no. But, well, I don’t know. This is between us. Something went wrong, and I guess this is how it has to be now, as hard as it is.”
“Something? You don’t even know, do you?” She shook her head. “Why are you letting him do this? Mom, you always taught me to be strong—to stand up for myself. ‘Annie,’ you said, ‘you have to go after what you want. Don’t expect it to find you.’”
“And you are.” I smiled.
“And you aren’t,” she said, her voice pleading. “Mom…”
“I’m trying. Honestly, I am.” I studied her face. “I just don’t want you to be in the middle. I want you to enjoy your first year of college and not worry about your parents. Can you do that?”
“It’s hard. But the rugby is helping.”
“Of course.” I tucked my arm through hers. We started walking again. “You get to knock people down.”
“Exactly.”
“Annie…” I swallowed hard. “If you want, we can go to dinner with your father tonight. I can swing it if you can.”
“No.” She squeezed my arm. “I want you all to myself. Dad and I, and apparently that woman”—Annie made quotation marks in the air—“are having brunch tomorrow.”
“I would go for you if I could.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“Maybe you could accidentally tackle her.”
“Mom!” Annie rubbed her arms. I noticed chill bumps on her legs.
I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and picked up the pace. “We need to get you out of those clothes.”
“Okay.” She leaned in close. “Hey, you know that guy you were talking to at the match? He asked for my number.”
“You mean Connor O’Malley? He offered me a beer just when I needed it. Well? Did you give it to him?”
“No. But I told him he could friend me. I like to peruse the Facebook wall before I agree to a date.”
“Smart girl,” I said, pulling her closer, breathing her in, feeling grounded again for the first time in months. She was here with me. And she was alive.
SIX
The following Monday Glenn and I sat on a bench along a red-brick walkway that cut a diagonal path through the heart of the John Adams campus. Bright crimson leaves rustled in the Japanese maple above us, occasionally releasing one in an unhurried flight to the ground.
“I bought you a coffee,” Glenn said. “From Brower’s.”
I popped off the lid and set the cup on the sidewalk.
“I’ve never known you to turn down coffee.”
“Just letting it cool.” I crossed my legs. “Okay, so what’s my shtick?”
“You have decided to go back to college and pursue a degree in psychology.”
I hugged my purse, nervous at the thought of encountering the mysterious professor—our first suspect. I had dressed up in an A-line black skirt and scarlet red blazer for our meeting. “Do you think he’ll buy it?” I popped the heel of my pump off and on. “A forty-five-year-old woman returning to college?”
“It makes perfect sense. You’ve just emptied your nest.” Glenn removed his notepad from his shirt pocket and studied it. “I’ve been looking into this man.”
“Glenn,” I said. “I believe you’re getting as obsessed as me.”
“I can get a little single-minded about things, I’m afraid. It served me well in business. But research is our best weapon.”
“So, are you certain we have the right guy?”
A fresh gust of wind exposed Glenn’s bald spot. He fixed his hair back in place and examined his notes. “Absolutely. Not only has he recently received a prestigious grant, he’s the only professor teaching four hundred-level psychology courses. Oh, and all the other psychology professors are women.”
“Well, that certainly narrows it down. Anything else?”
“Let’s see.” Glenn flipped a page. “He’s forty-seven, married, and has two elementary school-age children.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “Those are young children for a man that age. Maybe a second marriage?”
“If he sleeps with his students that wouldn’t come as a surprise.”
“Yes.” Glenn nodded. “That’s a good theory.” He looked back at the spiral pad. “He’s only been with the college three years. They hired him away from a small liberal arts college in New York.”
“I wonder why he left.” I picked up my coffee. “Glenn, how did you find all this out?”
“How else? I Googled him.”
“Of course you did.” I laughed.
The campus was dotted with students enjoying the sunny day. A pack of boys passed by kicking soccer balls and jostling one another, their cleats strung over their shoulders. One exceptionally tall and gangly boy kicked his ball into Glenn’s shin. It thudded and ricocheted into the grass.
“Sorry, dude,” the boy said and trotted away to fetch his ball.
Glenn rubbed his leg. “Did he just call me ‘dude’?”
“He did. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Actually, I like being out here among these college students.” He nudged his glasses back up his nose. “Waterside Village is nice enough. My townhouse is adequate and I have a view of the river. And I certainly don’t miss mowing the lawn. But you know the problem with living in an over-fifty-five community?”
I smiled at him. “What?”
“Everyone is the same age. It’s not an accurate slice of the world. I miss watching a child ride his bike down the street or a teenager learning to parallel park. Sitting here with you is just what I needed.”
“I never thought of it that way. You sure you’re okay?”
“Couldn’t be better.”
“Back to Professor Angeles. Does he live in town?”
“One of those historic homes on the Cardigan. You can see it as you cross the bridge into town.”
“On the water?” I took a sip of coffee.
“Yes. Why?”
“Glenn…” I nibbled on my bottom lip. “What if the professor has a boat?” I turned to face him. “If he does, then maybe he took Megan out on it. What better way to keep an affair under wraps than on a boat?”
“Of course. And if you want to end it, you toss her over the side. Good thinking, Rosalie. In this business, what may seem trivial can often be the most significant.”
“I know, right? This is good. We’re getting somewhere.” A rare feeling of elation tickled my neurotransmitters. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt happy. “Glenn, do yo
u think we might figure this out? I mean, look at us—you’re a retired businessman, and I’m a…” I frowned. “What exactly am I? A work-in-progress? A piece of work?”
Glenn chuckled. “It’s all in how you sell it. I would rather say that I am an analyst and you are an exceptional observer of people. Put those two together and you have the makings of a savvy detective.”
“Ha! Nice spin.” I jostled my shoe again. “I’m so glad you’re helping me.”
“It is I who should be thanking you.”
Detecting a subtle change in his tone, I said, “Glenn, what happened to your wife?”
He tucked away his notepad and rubbed his palms on his corduroy pants. “She passed six years ago of breast cancer.”
“I lost my mother to the same thing. I think it’s an epidemic.”
“Molly never knew she had it until it was too late.” Glenn stared off. His voice was strained with emotion. “She found a lump. After three years of telling her it was nothing, the doctor told her it was something. She died three months later.”
“That’s awful. I’m so sorry.”
He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I miss her every moment of every day.”
“Of course you do.” I patted his arm.
Once he had composed himself, Glenn said, “You should get annual mammograms, Rosalie.”
“Believe me, I do.” I gripped my cup with both hands. “Oh.”
“Oh, what?”
“I just realized I’m going to need health insurance once my divorce is final. Gosh, I wish I could find a job.”
“You don’t believe your husband will impoverish you, do you?”
“He seems to be on that track. Let’s just hope Tom Bestman’s lawyering is as good as his smile.” I took a sip of coffee, hoping it would taste better than the last sip. I grimaced.
Glenn eyed me. “Not enjoying the coffee?”
“Are you?”
“I haven’t touched it since the first sip.”
“I don’t know how a restaurant can so consistently make bad coffee.” I set the cup down again. “Do you think searching for Megan’s killer can help us with our grief?”
“It certainly could.”
“I hope so.” I smiled over at him. “I really enjoy your company, Glenn.”
“And I yours.” He returned my smile. “Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence her body surfaced on your shoreline.”
“I’ve had that thought, too.”
Glenn tapped the face of his gold watch. “It’s almost time for your appointment.”
“Oh.” I hopped up from the bench. “How do I look? Smart? Professional?”
“All of the above.” Glenn frowned. “Um…”
“Yes?”
“Your buttons.” He pointed to my blazer. “They’re uneven.”
“How embarrassing,” I said as I fiddled with them.
“Perfect,” Glenn said. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
“Of course.” I fluffed my hair. “I’m about to meet with a murder suspect. What could go wrong?”
* * *
Professor Nicholas Angeles was the best-looking man I’d ever seen.
I swallowed hard as I gazed into a pair of rich, chocolate eyes. His dark hair curled loosely around his head. He smiled when he opened the door and I detected the slightest gap between his front teeth.
“Dr. Angeles.” I extended my hand. “I’m Rosalie Hart.”
“Please come in.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”
I sat down, crossed my legs, and glanced around the room. I started to pop my pump off and on again, but stopped myself. Be cool. Be a detective.
Shafts of light poured in through a large, paned window with a sweeping view of the campus. Dust motes danced in the beams. Several diplomas hung on the forest green plaster and a wall of bookshelves stretched behind him. I cocked my head and read the spines. There was an entire row of books by Alfred Kinsey.
A subtle smile appeared on the professor’s face. I looked away and noticed a photograph of a strikingly thin woman flanked by two small boys on his desk. It was one of those professional photographs where everyone was dressed in beige, a golden retriever panting in the middle, a sandy beach in the background. She was pretty in the classic sense, a dark brown bob, manicured hands draped over each boy. I looked up at the professor. He was watching me closely.
“Your wife is lovely. Do you live here in town?”
“Yes.” He hesitated. “We moved here a few years ago.” He leaned back, straining the springs in the chair.
“Cardigan is such a nice place to raise a family. There’s so much to do—outdoors, especially, not all that manufactured entertainment you have in the suburbs. I would imagine you have a boat?”
“I have a sailboat.” He frowned. “Why would you ask me that?”
“It just seems everyone has a boat in Cardigan. Your children must love it.”
“You ask a lot of questions.” His eyes narrowed.
Slow down, I thought. He’s getting suspicious.
“Perhaps you could tell me why we’re meeting.”
“Well,” I cleared my throat. “I’m new to the area. I’ve recently separated from my husband and…” I stopped. Why did I just tell him that?
“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “These things are never easy. So, you’re new to the area…”
“Yes. I’m considering going back to school. I have a liberal arts degree from the University of Virginia and have already taken several psychology classes, including psychopathology.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. The closest I’d ever come to studying psychopathology was reading a Sylvia Plath poem.
“Why aren’t you meeting with admissions?” he said. “Why a personal meeting with me?”
“Um, well, I saw the article in the paper about your research grant. If I enroll I want to make sure I study with the best.”
“Rosalie…” He sat forward, narrowing the space between us. “Do you know what I’m researching?”
“It didn’t say in the article. Just that it was a very prestigious grant for the college to receive.”
“I’m studying human sexuality.”
“Excuse me?” I pressed my lower back into the chair.
“So … are you still interested?” He formed a teepee with his fingers.
“Yes.” I blinked a few times.
“Excellent.” He smiled.
“How exactly does one go about studying sex?”
“Not like you might think. I hope that’s not disappointing.”
Disappointing? Was he coming on to me? He couldn’t be. Get a grip, Rosalie. A trickle of sweat meandered down my spine. “What are you hoping to prove?”
“Primarily how our mating patterns are like that of animals—at least more than has previously been realized. There have been studies about pheromones and whether or not humans secrete them as much as other animals. But my research will delve a lot deeper. I’m focusing on the senses—particularly vision and smell—and the way they direct our desire.” His eyes met mine. “Did you know that when a sexual connection is made, our irises dilate, ever so slightly?”
“Really?” I looked away. A rash of heat worked its way up from my neckline. Did he say our irises? I looked back at him, hoping mine were back to normal. “I’ve been told there’s an internship.”
“Yes. I have enlisted the help of some students—administering questionnaires, that sort of thing—but the internship is reserved for a senior.”
“Do you already have someone?”
He looked surprised at my question. “No, I don’t.”
That’s right, I thought. Because that student is no longer alive. Okay, Rosalie, get on task. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “I hope I can help in some way. If I decide to sign up for classes, that is. How do you select your assistants? Is there a requirement?”
“You certainly are eager.” He cocked his head. “Ar
e you dating yet?”
“What?”
“You know, dating. Men.” He smiled. “Didn’t you say you were separated?”
“Oh, it’s much too soon for that.” The back of my blouse was drenched. Why are we talking about me again? I was really quite bad at this. “I won’t take up any more of your time.” I stood and straightened my blazer. “Thanks for meeting with me.”
“Leaving? We were just getting acquainted.” He rounded his desk and stood in front of me. “I’ve been admiring your jacket.” His fingers grazed my elbow. “Did you know there have been studies about how men react to women in red?”
I tried to step back, but I bumped into a bookshelf. I cringed, waiting for a book to land on my head.
“Careful,” he said. A trace of woodsy cologne belly-danced up my nose. “The color red draws men to women. They stand closer and are more likely to tell them a dirty joke.” A wide grin spread across his face. “And they smile more.”
“I honestly didn’t know that. I’ve had this jacket forever. It’s cool outside today and I—”
“Maybe we could have a drink sometime.”
“A drink?” My mouth had dried. “But you’re married.” I glanced back at the photo.
“Not for long,” he said.
“You’re getting a divorce?”
“My wife left me a month ago. She’s already filed. It looks like you and I have that in common.”
“Just a month ago?” Right before Megan died, I thought.
“There you go with the questions again.” He leaned in closer. “Think about that drink. And just so you know, your husband is a fool.”
“Oh, no, he’s actually very intelligent.”
He chuckled softly. “I mean he’s a fool for letting you go.”
“Oh.” I shrugged. “I guess there’s some truth to that.” I turned sideways and tried to edge past him. Our bodies brushed together. The points of contact sent a heat wave through my blood.
He reached around my waist and pulled the door open. “I hope you decide to enroll.”
“Yes.” I glanced back at him as I hurried out the door. “I’m very interested.”
Murder at Barclay Meadow Page 5