Murder at Barclay Meadow

by Wendy Sand Eckel

  “Merry Christmas,” I said and handed her a mug of eggnog.

  “Spiked?”

  “Rum,” I said. “That was a good idea.”

  She dropped her phone into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and accepted the mug. I watched as she eyed the tree. It had begun to list to one side and a new layer of needles littered the floor.

  I put my arm around her. “It’s like Charlie Brown’s tree. It just needs a little love.”

  “A little?” she said, but she was smiling.

  “Let me show you what I found.” I walked over to a stack of boxes and lifted the lid of one. “Look at these ornaments.”

  “Wow,” she said. “They’re so old and beautiful.”

  “Shall we?”

  Tyler was right about the attic. Every box had been neatly labeled, and not only did I find a tree stand, but boxes of antique ornaments, the glass so thin Annie and I handled them gingerly as we secured them onto the spindly branches.

  After we finished the tree, we sat down to dinner by candlelight. I had made her favorite: eggplant Parmesan (with extra sauce) and Caesar salad. We shared a bottle of chianti and her cheeks glowed with a tint of pink as we ate. She smiled more as she caught me up on all the events in her life, filling in the details that I could never glean through Facebook. As I listened and laughed along, my heart swelled with love and pride for her. She was beautiful. She was resilient. We would survive this.

  After dinner we curled up in front of the fire with mugs of hot chocolate and watched A Christmas Carol, with George C. Scott. “Maybe Dad will get visited by some ghosts tonight,” Annie said and we burst into giggles. While admiring the tree, we decided to end the evening with A Charlie Brown Christmas. We sang along with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” tears streaming down both our faces. Once we turned off the television, I presented Annie with her empty stocking. She hung it on the solitary hook Tyler had drilled into the mantel and, as was our family tradition, said, “Happy Birthday, Jesus.”

  We hugged good night and I warned her to not come downstairs until the following morning. When her door clicked shut, I poured a glass of port and went about the house playing Santa. As I reached for her stocking, I thought about Ed. It had always been his job to stuff Annie’s stocking. He even made the purchases and prided himself on the practicality of his choices—pens, rolls of tape, a printer cartridge, lip balm, a thick pair of mittens, and of course a foil-wrapped chocolate orange for heft. I don’t know what Annie enjoyed more, the chocolate or the tightly wound bundle of cash he always tucked in the toe.

  I placed one of Annie’s packages under the tree. Needles sprinkled on to it. I wondered if Ed was thinking about us—missing our traditions. Was our house as warm and cozy without his wife and daughter? Then I realized. He wasn’t there. That’s why he had Annie come to Cardigan. He was avoiding any of those emotions and focusing on that woman. Did he buy her something expensive? Something sparkly in a robin’s egg blue box wrapped with white silk ribbon?

  I huffed out a sigh and fell into the sofa. The room was lit by the dying fire and the sparse lights draped on the tree. I hummed “Silent Night.” It had been my favorite carol as a child. I thought about my brother, Oliver, my partner in crime when we would search for the hidden presents. I longed for my mother. I went to all the sad places and cried and sang and sipped more port. Then I doused the fire and my tears, as well, combed my hands through my hair, and declared the wallowing was over. I was going to give Annie the Christmas vacation she deserved.

  For the next six days I did exactly that. We took the candlelight tour of Cardigan’s historic homes and ate at an inn along the water. We played in the woods and built a fort out of loose logs. We swam in the college pool and ran along the river every morning. Tyler taught us how to catch rockfish off the dock, but after four hours in the cold, we gave up and came inside. We watched movies and giggled by the fire. She beat me in a three-hour game of Scrabble and we lingered over every home-cooked dinner. On an unseasonably warm day, we packed an extravagant picnic lunch, piled onto Tony’s sailboat, and explored the Cardigan from the water. “It’s totally different from out here,” I said, wind in my face.

  “You have to get one of these, Mom,” Annie called back.

  On her last night, I topped the kitchen table with Charlotte’s hand-tatted lace tablecloth and her floral Haviland china. Burning tapers painted the room in a soft, warm glow. Shadows danced on the walls as the flames flickered.

  “Wow. New England clam chowder,” Annie said. “My favorite.” She scooped up a spoon full and tasted it. “Holy crap, Mom. This is amazing.” She tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the soup, and popped it in her mouth. “What kind of bread is this?”

  “Pumpernickel. I added some coffee granules to make it richer.”

  “It’s always about the coffee with you.”

  “Yeah, right?” I laughed.

  “Geez, Mom, the food has been so great this week, I’ve probably gained five pounds.” She took a long sip of water. “You know, if I were Dad, I would have stayed married to you just to eat your food.” Annie’s eyes widened. She stared down at her plate. “That was weird to say.” She looked up at me with a sheepish expression, her shoulders hunched in worry about my reaction.

  “A little bit weird,” I said.

  “Sorry.”

  I ignored the lurch in my stomach, reached over, and gave her back a quick scratch. “If we had a manual on how to do this, know what to say, what not to say, it might be a lot easier.”

  She smiled in relief.

  “But just so you know…” I returned her smile. “I would have stayed married to me for that reason, too.”

  “Thanks for everything this week, Mom.” She tore apart her last portion of bread. “I had fun and all, but it’s been weird not seeing my friends at home. I’ve just finished my first semester away at college and haven’t seen anyone. I mean, they have all been together for a week now. The stories have all been told, the reconnections made. By the time I get there everyone will have moved on.” She dropped the bread onto her plate, wadded up her napkin, and tossed it on the table. “Is it always going to be like this? Me shuffling from one house to the other?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie. I came out here because I had to. I couldn’t stay in our house and this one was here, sitting empty. I guess neither of us know what the future holds, if your dad will…” I stopped. “Your father has asked for a divorce. We both have lawyers, I don’t know if you knew that. So … yes, you probably will be going to two houses for Christmas.”

  “But will you always be so far away?” She looked over at me with watery eyes. “I mean, I hate that Bay Bridge. It’s so scary. And knowing I have to cross it in order to see you freaks me out. It’s like this giant gulf between us.”

  My mouth fell open. “I had no idea, Annie. You hate the Bay Bridge?”

  “Who doesn’t? But more importantly, Mom, there’s nothing to do here.”

  “I thought we had fun this week.” I struggled to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.

  “We did. I mean, you’re like my best friend. But it’s only you here.” She stuffed her fists in her lap.

  “At least you get to spend a few days with your dad before you go back to school.”

  “Mom? I hope it’s okay to tell you this, but … well … I can’t stand being in our house when she’s there.”

  “Why? What does she do?”

  Annie rolled her eyes. “What doesn’t she do? She’s totally cold and arrogant. And Dad is all tense and unnatural. He’s always watching to make sure I’m nice to her. Then he tries to come up with things for us to do. He wanted us to get pedicures together. That’s about the only thing we have in common.”

  “Liking pedicures?”

  “No. We both have toes.”

  “Oh, Annie.”

  “The day after I got home, he suggested Rebecca and I go to Saks and get our makeup done. Since when have I been into makeup? Does he
even know me? But then I started to think maybe he wants me to wear makeup, like I’m not pretty enough or something.

  “Plus, I don’t think she even knows how to cook. She leaves her stuff everywhere. And when I’m there she gives off this vibe, like, aren’t you ever leaving? It’s my house!”

  “Is she always there?”

  “She lives there. Mom! Hello?”

  I placed my palm over my heart. “I didn’t know.”

  She looked over at me, gauging my reaction.

  I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I’m okay,” I said. “Back to you.”

  “I don’t know. I just feel like it isn’t even my house anymore—like I’m the guest. And when I come here you’re so great, but it’s here. Or should I say nowhere. There isn’t even a Starbucks here.”

  “I’m so sorry, honey. I will keep all of that in mind while I figure out what I’m going to do. Okay?” I patted her back again. “But for now, I think this is a good place for me to be. I’ve made some friends, as you know. And I’m taking classes and cooking again. I’m getting the farm back in shape so that I can sell it. For now I feel I have a purpose here. I’m giving myself a year.”

  “A year? Really?”

  “That’s what I’ve decided. Why?”

  “Well, what about the summer? Where will I be?”

  “Here?” I said.

  “No way.” She shook her head. “Besides, I want to go back to my old job at the gym.” She picked at the wax on one of the candlesticks. “Will you at least consider coming back to Chevy Chase?” She started to pile the dried drippings in the center of the table.

  “Yes, of course. I’ve lived in Chevy Chase most of my life.”

  “Okay. I guess that’s the best you can do.” Annie gazed out the window as she took her last bite of bread. Outside the moon was low. A gauzy curtain of fog rose from the river. “Do you think about her much?” she said.

  “Aunt Charlotte?”

  “No.” She looked over at me. “The girl you found. What was her name … Megan?”

  I folded my hands and rested them on the table. “All the time.”

  “Did they ever figure out how she drowned?”

  “Honestly, Annie? I’m not convinced she did.”

  “What the heck?”

  I worried I would tell Annie more than she wanted to know. But I would never lie to my child. Never. “I’ve been looking into it.” I hesitated. “Do you want to know more?”

  While we ate our entree of Annie’s second favorite dish: baked ziti (with extra sauce), I told her about the investigation. When I explained how Sue hacked into Megan’s Facebook page, Annie’s eyes widened.

  “Can I see it? Maybe I could help.”

  “Absolutely.” I hopped up and flipped on the light. I scooted my chair closer to Annie’s and set my laptop on the table. Once on Facebook, I typed in Megan’s password.

  “Wow. She’s so pretty,” Annie said.

  “Yes, she was. People are still writing on her wall. Even after all this time.”

  Annie reached over to the touch pad and scrolled through the endless posts of grief. “This is so sad.”

  “Heartbreaking.”

  “Click on her private messages, Mom. There might be something there to help you.”

  I stared over at her. “I never thought to do that. I wonder if Sue ever checked. She’s been so busy friending all of Megan’s contacts, maybe she didn’t think of it.”

  “Doesn’t sound like Sue,” Annie said.

  “I know. But she’s uncovered so much already. Okay, let’s see what we have.” We opened the list of conversations.

  “Do you recognize any of these people?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “It all seems pretty benign.”

  “Go farther back,” Annie said.

  I browsed through the list until I saw Bill Johnston’s photo. “This is her stepfather. He’s a suspect.”

  Annie frowned. “Suspect, Mom? Really?”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “I’m going to figure this out.”

  “Okay.” She shrugged. “Let’s see what you have here.”

  We huddled over my computer, reading simultaneously. Annie’s mouth fell open a few times. I gasped once or twice and when we finished, I fell back into my chair. Bill Johnston had just stepped boldly onto center stage and the entire six feet, four inches of him was front and center in the spotlight.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Bill Johnston

  You’re not returning my phone calls, texts, or emails so I have to write you here. This is unacceptable Megan. When I contact you I expect a response.

  Megan Johnston

  I’m busy with school, Daddy.

  Bill Johnston

  I want you to come home this weekend. I will come and get you. Your behavior is unacceptable. Transferring was supposed to help you get focused on your studies.

  Megan Johnston

  Please leave me alone. I’m not coming home. I’m spending the weekend with someone.

  Bill Johnston

  A boy? No. I won’t allow it.

  Megan Johnston

  I know you think you control me but you don’t anymore. I’m actually glad you forced me to leave UD. I feel as if I can finally breathe without you telling me when or how. I’m going out tonight whether you like it or not. I’m not going to write to you anymore. I want you to leave me alone for once. I’m not opening any more messages from you.

  “He wouldn’t have left it at that,” Annie said. “Go back to her wall.”

  I clicked out of the message chain and scrolled through the endless posts on Megan’s wall that were written after she died. I had to hit “see earlier messages” at least a dozen times. And there it was.

  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:

  Rosalie Hart

  Happy New Year, everyone! Welcome back to the Eastern Shore.

  Glenn B

  I can actually say I missed this town. Where are we in the investigation?

  Shelby Smith

  I still don’t think we know everything we need to know about Megan. Now that the students are back from the holidays, I’m going to start talking to some of them who may have known Megan.

  Rosalie Hart

  Very good idea, Sue. OK, Annie and I looked at Megan’s private messages. Bill Johnston threatened to cut off her cash flow the day she died. He said he was going to Cardigan that afternoon. Rhonda is coming for lunch on Friday because I think we need to take a clos
er look at Bill.

  Tony Ricci

  Good to have Mini-Me on the team.

  Shelby Smith

  Omg!!! I’ve been so busy engaging her friends I never looked at her pm’s. Annie is a genius. Btw, Tim Collier is hooked. I am getting him to pour his heart out to me and he is one creepy guy.

  TWENTY-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?”