Murder at Barclay Meadow

by Wendy Sand Eckel

  Unable to read more, I closed my computer, set it on the ottoman, and stood. After slipping into my shoes, I pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto the damp grass. A flock of Canada geese honked overhead, the V formation just visible in the evening light. Their haunting, out-of-sync honks faded as they flew away. I hadn’t been to the river since the day I found Megan. But after reading the ragged pain and anguish caused by her death, I felt pulled toward the water.

  The constant rush of the river grew louder as I started down the gentle slope. Muscle memory of the day I discovered Megan kicked in and I filled with nausea. I hesitated, but it was movement in a nearby shrub that stopped me cold. I spun around. A large, hulking man stood among the hydrangea bushes.

  I froze. What should I do? Run, you idiot. But would I make it back to the house before he grabbed me? If only my legs would move. Okay, Rosalie, run into the house, lock the door, and call the police. The police … “Sheriff Wilgus?”

  He stepped out of the shadows. His badge glinted in the moonlight, one hand on the pistol sagging his belt. His navy uniform shirt was open at the neck, several buttons unfastened, exposing his barrel-size chest. He wasn’t smiling.

  “Is there something I can do for you, Sheriff?” I pulled my sweater tighter around me.

  “You wanna help me?” He crossed the distance between us in a few long strides. His heavy boot grazed my toe. “I’ll tell you how to help me: quit sticking your nose where it don’t belong.” His words slurred. Sweat glistened on his face.

  “I haven’t broken any laws.” I inched back toward the house.

  He started toward me again. I backed up as quickly as I could, but he matched me step for step as if in a tango. I backed hard into the side of the house. He towered over me. “Why are you here?” His whiskey-saturated breath was hot on my face.

  I was in suspended animation. Fear had tensed every muscle in my body. “I’m just trying to survive.”

  He leaned in close. Round peas of perspiration dotted his upper lip. “I told you to mind your own business and yet there you are, still asking about the dead girl.”

  I concluded at that moment this conversation could only end badly. I needed to break away. Sliding against the house I started to raise my leg over an azalea. In two steps I could …

  His palm slammed against the house next to my head. I glanced in the other direction. Even if I could escape, I would be running away from the house. But if he was as drunk as I suspected … I started to move. His other palm slammed next to my ear. My hair was trapped. My scalp burned.

  “This is your one and only warning.” His black eyes sliced into me. “You continue snooping around, I can’t guarantee your safety. And that’s my job, remember?” His mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. “Keeper of the peace?”

  “This isn’t right. You know as well as I do Megan was murdered. Who are you protecting?”

  “You’re not listening.”

  “Why are you doing this?” My eyes widened. “You know! Oh my gosh. You know who killed her.”

  “Shut up!” He slapped a sweaty palm over my mouth. His gun dug into my thigh. His badge poked through my sweater. “You’re all alone out here,” he whispered. “There’s nobody to hear you scream.”

  I couldn’t breathe.

  “Go back to where you belong.” His face was so close my vision blurred.

  I squeezed my eyes shut.

  “Well?” He pushed his palm harder over my mouth. “What’s it gonna be?”

  I wanted to run. I wanted to do what he asked. But I couldn’t breathe. He’s going to smother me.

  He shoved his hand one last time and let go.

  I gasped for air.

  “Get the hell out of my town.”

  EIGHTEEN

  Persistent banging roused me from a heavy sleep. I had been up most of the night listening for the sheriff. Although I locked my bedroom door, I startled awake countless times, certain I heard a creak on the stairs or the soft whine of the front door.

  I sat up: 6:00 a.m. I pulled on my robe and hurried down the steps. “Who is it?” I called.

  “Who do you think?”

  Tyler. I fiddled with the dead bolt and pulled open the door. I squinted out at him. “Sorry.”

  He brushed past me, Dickens loping at his heels. “Since when do you lock the door?”

  I tightened my robe and followed him. “It just seemed like a good idea.”

  “No one locks their doors in Devon County.”

  “Is that a law?”

  Tyler ignored me and started up Mr. Miele. His cap was wedged into his jeans pocket and he wore a white thermal shirt beneath his usual dark green T.

  “I would like a cup, too, please.”

  He glanced over at me. “Isn’t it a little early for you to be up?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But someone was banging on my door.”

  “Because someone locked the darn door.”

  “I had no idea you were so grouchy before your coffee.”

  I watched as he slammed a few cabinets and shoved the silverware drawer shut with his hip. As much as I wanted to tell him about being threatened by Sheriff Wilgus, have him protect me, keep me safe, sleep on my sofa every night with a shotgun, I knew I couldn’t. Tony, Glenn, Sue, and I agreed that we would keep this to ourselves. Although I trusted Tyler, I had to keep my word. If anyone accidentally found out what we were up to, it could endanger us all.

  “I’ll give you a key,” I said.

  “I already have one.”

  Once the coffee was ready, he filled the mugs, set them on the table, and sat down. Spreading yesterday’s Post out on the table, he leaned on his elbows and studied the front page.

  I sat across from him and patted my thigh. Dickens trotted over and rested his head on my leg. He gazed up at me with his droopy brown eyes. “Does it ever bother you to be a day behind all the time?” I sipped my coffee. “I mean, it doesn’t do you any good to know yesterday was sunny with an afternoon breeze.”

  “I don’t read the weather report.” He continued to look down at the paper. “I don’t need a paper or a phone, for that matter, to tell me what the weather is. I simply walk outside.”

  I eyed him over my coffee mug. “I don’t suppose your horoscope will do you much good, either.”

  He exhaled. “Are you sure you don’t need more sleep?”

  “Nope. I’m picking up your check today, by the way. I’ll pay you what Aunt Charlotte paid you with an adjustment for inflation.”

  He kept reading.

  I finished my coffee and glanced around the room. “Do you want some eggs?”

  He looked up. “Are you having some?”

  “I’m in the mood.”

  “You won’t burn them?”

  “Ha ha. How was the bread?”

  He hesitated. “Damn good.”

  I stood and walked over to the refrigerator. After rifling through the contents I realized I didn’t have much to work with, just a half dozen eggs and a tub of feta cheese. “Any chance you planted herbs in any of the fields?”

  Tyler looked over at me. “Miss Charlotte had an herb garden around the side of the house. You might find a few perennials still struggling in the weeds.”

  I opened the door and headed outside. Ten minutes later Tyler and I sat down to an omelet of feta cheese, fresh oregano, chives, and a few snips of rosemary. I added a thick slice of my bread, warmed and slathered with butter. When he finished, he stood, set his plate in the sink, and turned to face me. “How about I weed that garden out for you this afternoon?”

  I watched him go. When he shut the door, I set my plate on the floor and Dickens licked it clean.

  NINETEEN

  With all of his resourcefulness, I was surprised Glenn had yet to discover Birdie’s shoe store. When I told him about the array of newspapers, he wanted to see if he could get the Philly paper. Somehow The Baltimore Sun, a newspaper that was thinning faster than a receding hairline, wasn’t fulfilli
ng his daily news requirements.

  Doris had my Post waiting. The bell tinkled as the door swung shut behind us. An older woman with fiery red hair sat perched in the chair closest to Doris. She wore large neon pink sneakers on feet that didn’t quite touch the floor.

  “Good morning, Doris,” I said. “My friend was wondering if you could get The Philadelphia Inquirer.”

  I turned to introduce Glenn, but he was already bent over the tiered row of papers. “You have The Wall Street Journal?” He looked up at Doris.

  “You bet,” she said.

  “Every day?”

  Doris chuckled. “Every day it comes. And I get the Inquirer, but only on Sundays. The boaters from Philly like to read it.”

  “Madam, you have just returned a long-lost friend to me.” Glenn’s knees cracked as he stood. He extended his hand. “Glenn Breckinridge.” Doris’s eyes danced behind those thick glasses.

  Glenn selected a Wall Street Journal, a Post, and the local weekly. He studied the headlines.

  “You eat at the cafe?” Doris said while she collected my money.

  I nodded. “Although the food is less than desirable. How do you burn French fries?”

  Doris backed onto her stool. “Most people just go there for the coffee and doughnuts.”

  “I’ll know better next time. There aren’t many places in town where you can sit down for lunch. Oh, speaking of food, I brought you some bread.” I removed a loaf wrapped in plastic from my tote.

  “What kind of bread?” the woman in the chair said.

  I turned to look at her. “It’s multigrain. But it’s pretty tasty, if I do say so myself. I have a small jar of fig marmalade and some plastic knives if you two want to try it.”

  “Rosalie, do you know Lila?”

  “No, I don’t believe I do.” I smiled over at her.

  “Well, I know you,” she said, punctuating her words with a sharp nod. Her face powder was pancaked tight on her skin and she wore a vivid orange lipstick that matched her hair. “You’re the one whose land that girl washed up on. Somebody Hart. Right?”

  “Yes, that’s me.” I looked over at Doris. “I shouldn’t be surprised, should I?”

  Doris laughed. “Lila knows everything. She works over at the sheriff’s department.”

  Glenn’s head rose quickly. His eyes flashed to mine and then away.

  “It’s nice to meet you, formally.” I walked over and shook her hand. “And the name’s Rosalie.”

  “And I’m Glenn.” He stretched his back. “Oof. Would you mind if I sat down? I would love to finish this article, but at my age it’s hard to stand too long.”

  Lila patted the chair next to her. “Take a load off.”

  “Thank you,” Glenn said and eased into the chair. He adjusted his bow tie. “Is it Lila?”

  “As in Deelilah.”

  “What exactly do you do at the sheriff’s department?” Glenn settled in and crossed his legs.

  “Oh, I do everything from answering the phone to typing reports into the computer to making the coffee.”

  “A jack-of-all-trades, then. Or should I say Lila-of-all-trades.”

  “That’s me.” She gave an exaggerated nod. “I could retire if I want, but I like it. Besides, Joe needs me.”

  “She also gets to spend a lot of time right here,” Doris said.

  “You got that right,” Lila said. “But the way I look at it, when you got me around, who needs a newspaper.”

  “Indeed,” Glenn said. He was grinning broadly.

  TWENTY

  After reading through more posts on Megan’s wall, I signed off as Megan and back on as me. I could only get through a few of the messages at a time before the heartbreak expressed by her grieving friends overwhelmed me. Annie, I thought. Think about Annie. I clicked on my home page and checked to see if she had commented on my most recent status update.

  Rosalie Hart

  Is looking forward to seeing Annie over Thanksgiving and hosting dinner for my new friends.

  Annie Hart

  I can’t wait, Mom!!!!! :)

  Rhonda Pendleton

  I hope one of those new friends is spending the night.

  “Oh my gosh,” I said and quickly hovered over the upper-right corner of Rhonda’s comment, clicked “delete post,” and prayed Annie hadn’t seen it.

  * * *

  “He’s letting her drive my car.” Annie slammed a spoon down on the dining room table. “The Volvo is my car.”

  “I’m sorry, honey.” I bathed the turkey with a baster full of juices. It wasn’t in the All-Clad roaster I usually used. That was in Chevy Chase. This turkey was nestled in an aluminum-foil pan from the grocery store and I suspected it would tumble to the floor at some point.

  A knife slapped down. I worried about Charlotte’s antique cherry table. “Why doesn’t she have her own stupid car?”

  I closed the oven door and turned to face her. “Honey, I know you’re upset, but—”

  “Oh, Mom…” Annie slumped into a chair and buried her face in her hands. Her back heaved with sobs. I sat next to her and pulled her into my arms.

  “I hate him,” she said. “He’s ruined everything.”

  We sat there, rocking, for what seemed like most of the afternoon. I petted her hair until the tears finally slowed. “I’m so sorry,” I said. “Oh, baby, I’m so, so sorry.”

  Eventually she sat up and rubbed her eye with a knuckle. “So, who are these people coming to dinner?”

  “Friends from my writing class.”

  “Mom, you aren’t really going to stay here, are you? Aren’t you going back home?”

  “Probably. But not yet. Right now I’m just trying to survive.”

  “So … your friends?”

  I walked over to the counter and began peeling a russet potato. I described Sue, Glenn, and Tony to Annie. They were all coming to my house for Thanksgiving dinner. Glenn’s sons were visiting their in-laws and Sue couldn’t afford a plane ticket to California. Or so she said. And Tony had a sister in Boston, but she was going to join friends in Cape Cod.

  “We sound like the island of misfit toys,” I said.

  “Seriously, Mom, this is a little nuts. I mean, I’m sure your friends are fine, but, well…” Annie folded a napkin and sighed. “I just wish we were with Dad and Grandma.”

  Oh, how I wanted to fall apart right then and there—tell her how I had to buy a new turkey baster, how my mother had always taken out the giblets and innards that triggered my gag reflex, how my hands had grown chapped and icy because I hadn’t thawed the turkey soon enough. I missed my dining room and the ivory linen tablecloth with the fall harvest inlay that I used every November. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I had to be strong for Annie. This was our first holiday since Ed and I separated. “I think you’ll like my friends,” I said. “And you and I are together. That’s what matters most.”

  Annie stood slowly and walked over to the china cabinet. “I can’t believe my parents are getting divorced.”

  * * *

  The delectable scents of Thanksgiving—roasted turkey, apple sausage dressing, pumpkin pie, baked rolls—permeated the air. We had finished dinner, but lingered in the candlelight, the sleepiness induced by our copious meal softening our voices. I had managed to successfully set my worries about the sheriff aside. If he showed up now, I would offer him some turkey and stuffing. Maybe I could win him over. Maybe I was going about this all wrong.

  “More pie, anyone?” I asked.

  “No, thank you,” Glenn said. He groaned and patted his stomach. “I am beyond satiated.”

  “I wouldn’t mind a little more of that wine,” Tony said. “That’s damn good wine.”

  “You mean the bottle you brought?” I said.

  Tony laughed and walked over to the sideboard. He pulled the stopper from the bottle. “Anyone else?”

  “Can I have some more, Mom?” Annie asked.

  I started to speak but Tony said, “Absolutely.” An impish
grin appeared on Annie’s face. Tony looked over at me. “Surely you don’t think the kid has never had alcohol? I know you’re naive, Princess, but come on.”

  “You think I’m naive?” I asked, feeling a little hurt.

  “In a good way,” Annie said and held her glass out to Tony. “You always think the best of people.”

  “Is there a lot of drinking at Duke?” Sue asked.

  “Oh, yeah. It’s college, right? The problems start when everyone hooks up. The drama is unbelievable.”

  “Hooks up?” Glenn said.

  Annie sipped her wine and avoided Glenn’s eyes. Her cheeks flushed a bright red.

  “She means fooling around—casual sex,” Tony said. “Or as the kids like to say, friends with benefits.”

  “Good Lord,” Glenn said. “Now I feel naive.”

  “Hey, Pops,” Tony said. “You never know, maybe there’s some hooking up going on at Waterside after bingo. You could be missing out.”

  Glenn leveled his eyes at Tony. His bow tie was tight around his neck. Silence carpeted the table. Just when I was about to say something, a sound escaped from Glenn. His shoulders shook and a roar of laughter spilled out. “Ha!” he said. “Ha!”

  Glenn’s face reddened, his eyes squeezed shut. His laughter was as contagious as a yawn, and soon we were laughing along with him. Tears trickled from Sue’s delicate eyes, and the width of Annie’s smile soothed my heart.

  After several more eruptions, Glenn removed his glasses and dabbed his eyes with his napkin. “Well, Mr. Ricci, you certainly know how to dumbfound a man, I’ll grant you that.”

  “Whew,” Tony said. “You had me worried there for a minute, Pops.”

  “I can’t laugh anymore.” Sue sipped some water. “My stomach is aching.”

  I watched Annie and my friends from my place at the head of the table. It felt strange to be seated there. I had taken over all of the tasks that were traditionally Ed’s: carving the turkey, uncorking the wine, saying the blessing. I was relieved to see Annie’s smile, her eyes dancing with delight at the recent outburst of frivolity. She was seated across from Sue and had been able to encourage Sue’s shy but witty sense of humor. Tony was instantly enamored with Annie, calling her “Mini-Me” because the two of us were so similar. Their playful banter had kept the rest of us entertained. And Glenn treated her as a young lady. I suspected he was trying out his grandfather shoes again. It would be a Thanksgiving miracle if my Annie was the impetus for Glenn to reunite with his family.