The link was to a sports blogger’s page. The same picture of Megan appeared but with a different caption. This one read “Check out the best new thing to come out of Delaware. This chick is hotter than holy hell. Come to Papa, Meggie.”
“After he posted this”—Sue clicked on another link—“the photo spread like a virus. Guys have it on their Facebook pages, blogs, porn sites, you name it.”
“That’s awful.” I sat back in my chair. “What a violation.”
Sue glanced over at me. “It got worse.” She clicked on another link. “This is from the local newspaper. Apparently after the word spread that Megan was so beautiful, guys started showing up at her games with cameras and telephoto lenses. Everyone wanted to get a picture of her for their blogs. The stands would be crammed full of voyeurs.”
“How could she possibly play?”
“That’s the amazing part. The article says she never lost focus. They won the championship again last year.”
“Rosalie?”
I turned around to see Professor Angeles standing behind us, a wide grin spread across his face. He was dressed in a blazer with a tight-fitting T-shirt underneath. He held a leather iPad case under his arm and his curls tumbled loose around his head.
“Professor Angeles.” I stood quickly, positioning myself in front of the computer screen.
“Please, call me Nick. After all, we’re Facebook friends now.”
“Okay,” I said. There was that cologne again. “How are you, Nick?”
“That’s better.” He stepped closer.
“Hi, Professor Nick.” We turned to see a fresh-faced coed in a short denim skirt and fleece boots approaching. Her friend, dressed in similar boots, skin-tight leggings, and a snug sweater pulled down over her thighs, stood next to her. “Kaitlin and I were wondering if there is a movie in human sexuality class tonight.” She clutched several books to her chest.
“I believe there is,” he said.
“Okay.” She grinned hard.
Nick waited. “Is there anything else, Ashley?”
“Nope.” She giggled. “See you tonight.”
Once she was out of earshot he said, “Mine is the only class where students want to attend when you show a video.”
“Sex sells,” I said.
“And what have you decided?” he said. “Are you going to enroll in one of my classes?”
“I’m definitely considering it. In fact, I was just looking at the application process.”
“Really?” He peered around my shoulder. I followed his gaze. Sue was playing a game of hearts.
“Yes.” I gripped the back of the chair. “Really.”
“Rosalie,” Sue said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I need to get back to work.”
“I won’t keep you.” Nick handed me a business card. “Give me a call and let’s have that drink.”
I accepted the card. Should I do it? Maybe it would help the investigation. Maybe I would learn something. I looked up into those velvet brown eyes. “I would like that … Nick.”
“I’ll see you then.”
I watched him go.
“Wow,” Sue said. “He really is hot.”
“I know.” I sat down. “And he sure doesn’t act like a murderer. He seems kind of nice.”
“He likes you, Rosalie.”
I rolled my eyes. “He likes everyone and anyone.”
“Sooo…” She eyed me. “Are you really going to have a drink with him?”
“I’m considering it. I might get him to open up after a cocktail or two.” I fanned myself. “How long do you think he’d been standing there?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he saw what we were doing?”
“I sure hope not.” Sue studied me. “Rosalie, you have to be careful.”
“We all have to be careful.”
She checked her watch. “Here’s what you need to log onto Megan’s Facebook page.” She handed me a small piece of paper with an email address and password. “You have to log on from her email address. It’s a Yahoo account and here’s the password. Once on Facebook, the password is the same. Also, someone set up a memorial page. Anyone can go to it and write a post. Just type in her name while logged on as yourself and the memorial page will come up. There could be some clues there, as well.” She closed her computer and tucked it into her tote. “Thank you so much for the soup and bread. I can’t wait to eat it.” She looked over at me. “Rosalie?”
“What, honey?”
“I am absolutely certain we will find who killed Megan somewhere on her wall.”
Shelby Smith
Tony and Glenn: Click on this newspaper article about Megan.
Tony Ricci
Whoa! Good work, Suzy Q.
Glenn B
That bursts this investigation wide open. One of those gawkers could easily become a suspect.
Shelby Smith
I agree. And I’m on it. I sent Megan a friend request as Shelby Smith. Then I logged onto her page as Megan and accepted the request. So now I’m her “friend.”
Rosalie Hart
Sue, won’t that show up in the news feed that you and Megan are now friends? That could freak some people out.
Shelby Smith
I took care of that.
Tony Ricci
I’m not even going to ask how.
Shelby Smith
Anyway, now that I’m her friend, I’ve been friending her other friends. I even chatted with a few last night. There’s one guy that jumps out at me.
Tony Ricci
Hey—went for a cruise in the dinghy. Tried to figure out where Megan went in based on the current. Could have been from the other bank—Queen Anne’s side. You get a lot of debris around your dock, Princess?
I typed quickly.
Rosalie Hart
Yes, Tony, tons. Sue, are you sure that’s a good idea? Don’t put yourself in danger. He could be the killer.
Within two minutes Sue wrote:
Shelby Smith
Exactly.
THIRTEEN
The day of Janice’s party I decided to get my hair styled and touch up my roots. The Curling Iron was the only salon with an opening on such short notice and a few hours later I sat perched in Brenda Baker’s chair.
Brenda pumped her foot on the metal brace under the chair. I bounced around as if on a plane making a less-than-smooth landing. When I was at the desired height she stood behind me and looked critically at my hair, lifting layers, and letting them fall again. “You got a lot of hair, hon.”
“Yes, I know.” I gave her a friendly smile.
She continued to pick through my hair like a chimp. I noticed Brenda had a lot of hair, too, although hers was lacquered into a henna-colored bob with bangs that had been carefully sprayed into place. She had a pretty face accented with blue and green eye shadow and a plump set of lips. A petite diamond adorned her left hand and photos of a young boy and girl in soccer uniforms were tucked in the mirror.
“You want a trim, too?” Brenda asked.
“Maybe just the ends. I like the style. The layers seem to help calm down the volume a little.”
“Yeah.” Brenda cracked her gum. A puff of mint met my nose. “You go curly?”
“Wavy, I guess.”
She fingered my hair some more, examining the cut. She frowned. “You get this cut here in town?”
“Bethesda. Quite a while ago, actually,”
She eyed me in the mirror. “The other side of the bridge?”
“Yes,” I said. “I live, or I used to live, in Chevy Chase.”
“It’s a good cut. Somebody knew what they were doing. It falls nice, you know? And it’s good around your face—brings out your big, brown eyes.”
“Thanks,” I said, feeling genuinely flattered. I thought I had just been dismissed when she realized I wasn’t from Cardigan. But she probably knew that the moment she saw my name on the appointment book.
She stretched a pair of gl
oves over her hands and I marveled at how her long, crimson nails didn’t pierce the thin latex. After mixing the color, she pinned my hair up with several large clips. She slipped a piece of aluminum foil under a section and painted a dab of white goop onto my hair.
“So, where you living?” she said.
“Just outside of town on River Road. Do you know where Barclay Meadow is?”
“Hon, if your house has a name, then it ain’t anywhere near mine.” My scalp felt cool where she painted another section.
“Oh, I didn’t name it. It’s been in my family for—”
“Wait, is that the place where the dead girl washed up?”
I exhaled. “Yes. That’s the place.”
“No way,” she said. “Did you find her?”
I nodded.
“Shut up.” She stopped her work and regarded me with renewed interest. “What was it like?”
“Horrific,” I said.
“So, how did she end up in the river?”
“They said it was an accident.”
“How did she fall in? Did she trip? You know you don’t just fall in a river.”
“I guess she was at a college party and the keg was at the end of a dock.”
“Well, then, someone would fish you out, right?” Brenda said.
“Maybe. It was at night.”
“But you would still call the Coast Guard or the sheriff or someone. You should see what happens when someone gets caught in the river—they call in the freakin’ cavalry—the river clogs with rescue boats and the choppers come with searchlights.” Brenda clipped another section. “I’m not buying that no one even heard a splash.”
“I find it hard to believe, too.”
“So there must be some clues. Like what was she wearing?”
“Oh, that was hard to see. She’d been in the water a few days.”
Brenda stopped painting. Her eyes narrowed. She listened hard.
“She was bloated,” I continued. “Her clothes were stretched so tight they had started to rip.”
“Get out of town.”
Did she just say that to me?
“But you must have an idea,” Brenda said. “Was she wearing jeans, skirt, top, bathing suit?”
“Come to think of it, she was in a dress. It was dark, black maybe, and above the knee.”
“Like a cocktail dress?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, I think it was.”
“That doesn’t make sense. I thought you said she was at a college keg party. Who wears a cocktail dress to one of those?”
“Brenda, you ask some very good questions.”
“I watch a lot of CSI. Miami and Las Vegas.” She picked up another piece of foil and folded the end. “I’m not a big fan of the New York one, though. I don’t like the chick. She’s too smug.”
“So, what do you think happened?” I said.
“Me? Geez, I don’t know. Folks drown a lot around here because of the current. But that’s usually when people are trying to swim. So who’s going to go for a swim in a dress, especially in October?” She dipped the brush into the bowl. “But either way, don’t you think the kids at the party would have said something?”
“Unless one of them was responsible.”
“Yeah, like if he had something to hide. Kind of creepy, you know? To think somebody dropped a body in the Cardigan. They could be right on campus, for all we know.”
“Well, I guess we’ll never know. The police ruled it an accident plain and simple.”
“Yo, Bren,” a woman called from the front desk. “Your three o’clock is here.”
“What are you taking out on your nails?” Brenda pumped the chair back down. “Why don’t you get a manicure while you process? Larissa’s open.”
Once I learned a manicure only cost ten dollars, I sat across from Larissa and extended my hands. She shook her head as she went to work on my cuticles. I looked over at Brenda. She was telling her three o’clock about my finding Megan. The woman was rapt and I could see by the animated expression on Brenda’s face she was probably embellishing some of her own CSI details. The women on either side were wide-eyed and listening with “oh”s formed on their lips. Brenda held court while I felt like exhibit A. Larissa kept her head down, but her eyes darted around. I could tell she was listening, too, as she painted my nails with Plum Like It Hot.
* * *
After being out all day I was anxious to connect with Annie. Although Tony was due to pick me up in less than an hour, I had a mother’s instinct she was upset about something. I tapped on my keyboard, careful not to smudge my nails.
Annie
Finally. Where have you been? Guess who sent me a friend request?
Rosalie
Who?
Annie
You know.
Rosalie
Rebecca?
Annie
Your friendly neighborhood home wrecker.
Rosalie
What are you going to do?
Annie
Ignore it, of course! I’m leaving her in limbo. It’s the worst insult on Facebook.
Rosalie
Maybe that’s not a good idea.
Annie
Mom!!!!!!!!!! WAKE UP!!!!
Rosalie
Please don’t shout.
Annie
????
Rosalie
All caps—it feels like shouting to me.
Annie
I’m sorry. It’s the chat. I was angry. I would never have said that to your face.
Rosalie
But you felt it just the same. Typing something as opposed to saying it doesn’t make it less potent.
Annie
You’re pretending this hasn’t happened. But it has. Dad’s ruining our family and you’re just living in Siberia.
Rosalie
Ok. I get it. Have you heard from him lately?
Annie
You’re doing it again.
FOURTEEN
A few days before Janice’s party I had stood on the scale and was shocked to see I’d lost 4.2 more pounds. My body was a lot like my psyche—hating change. Welcome to the divorce diet, I thought.
The evening of the party I rifled through the dresses in my closet. Every one I tried on was loose and baggy. As if I didn’t feel frumpy enough. I decided on black pants and a cream silk blouse. I stood in front of a cloudy antique mirror that made me look like I was in an Impressionist painting. I could hear Annie’s voice … “You need a pop of color, Mom.” But how? Ugh. I found a floral scarf and draped it around my neck. Nope. I decided to tie it. Way too eighties. Another ugh. Desperate, I wove it through my pant loops. Good enough. With my mother’s pearls and my new hairdo, I was presentable. I slipped into my faithful black pumps and walked through a cloud of perfume.
* * *
“You look nice,” Tony said as I slid into the front seat of his Mazda Miata.
I was relieved Tony agreed to come to the party. I secretly hoped he would be my fluoride to keep the dentist away. He shifted into gear and maneuvered the car down my narrow lane, an occasional cedar branch smacking against the window.
“Thanks,” I said. “These clothes are ancient.”
Tony downshifted and turned onto the main road. “Why do women do that?”
“Do what?”
“I say you look hot and you tell me how old your clothes are.”
“Technically you didn’t say ‘hot.’ You said I looked ‘nice.’”
“Either way, all you have to say is, ‘thank you, Tony.’”
“Thank you, Tony. You look very nice, also.”
He glanced over at me. “But you didn’t say ‘hot,’ either.”
“Tony.” I turned in my seat to face him. “Tell me more about you. Why do you live on a sailboat?”
“Divorced,” he said. “Second time. My wife got the house.” Tony shrugged. “I run my own consulting firm, so I figured I already had a place with a heater, head, and coffee pot. Why pay
rent somewhere else?”
“Why Cardigan?”
“We lived in Wilmington and kept the boat here—came down on weekends. A lot of people from that area keep their boats in Devon County.”
“Isn’t it lonely?”
Tony looked over at me. “You already know the answer to that.”
“Mm. There’s some truth.” I folded my hands in my lap. “So, why are you taking this memoir class?”
“It has a lot to do with the aforementioned marriages.”
“I’m not sure I follow.”
“My old man is on number five.”
I thought for a moment. “Five? You mean he’s been married five times?”
Tony nodded. “And the way this one is turning out, he may very well be on his way to number six. The guy has prenups down to a science.”
“Okay. I think I understand. By writing a memoir you can figure out how to avoid being like your father.” I smiled over at him. “Is that right?”
Tony downshifted. “You got it.” The Mazda squealed onto the lane approaching Janice’s estate. I peered out the window. The last slice of daylight hovered over the horizon. A small whistle escaped from Tony’s lips. “Nice piece of acreage she’s got here.”
Janice stood in her immense two-story foyer under a dazzling crystal chandelier. The house was already humming with conversations and laughter. We brushed one another’s cheeks, keeping our lipstick to ourselves, and Tony handed her a bottle of Moët. Janice had a round face framed with highlighted blonde hair and blue eyes that looked as if she was thinking up something mischievous. And most of the time she was.
“Snow White,” I said.
“Rose Red,” she replied.
“Your house is stunning.”
“Come in, come in. There are so many people I want you to meet.”
“This is Tony,” I said. “I hope you don’t mind I brought a friend.”
“I didn’t know there was a friend.” She winked.
“No, it’s nothing like that,” I said. “We’re in a writing class together.”
Murder at Barclay Meadow Page 9