Murder at Barclay Meadow

by Wendy Sand Eckel

  “It’s throbbing,” I said.

  “That’s good.” She handed him a cup of water with a straw. “We need to keep giving you these tranquilizers. It will help the blood flow.”

  “Okay by me.”

  After swallowing the pills, he laid his head back on the pillow. The nurse checked his hand. It was elevated in a sling. “The temperature is good,” she said. “That means the blood is flowing into the finger.”

  “Amazing,” I said.

  “It is, isn’t it?” She smiled over at me. “It takes two whole teams. One group works on the finger and the other on the hand. I watched it once.”

  “I chose not to,” Tyler said.

  “You mean you were awake?”

  He nodded.

  “Oof,” I said. “I don’t know if I could do that.”

  “Do you have children?” the nurse said.

  “Yes,” I said. “A daughter.”

  “Were you awake during her birth?”

  “Wide awake.”

  “See? You could do it.” She checked Tyler’s dressing and looked back at me. “Do you need anything? I can bring you a pillow and blanket. Maybe some dinner?”

  “That would be wonderful,” I said. “But I don’t think I’ll need a blanket.”

  “We have to keep it warm in here. It’s the most important thing right now—to get the blood flowing in that hand.” She smiled. “I’ll see if I can find some food.”

  Once she left, I looked back at Tyler. Pain etched his forehead. “Would you like to watch some television?”

  “No,” he said in a tight voice.

  I looked around the sparse room, the pale green walls, the machines pumping and beeping. “Say, you wouldn’t believe my day.”

  He turned toward me, a curious expression on his face.

  “Well, first was that helicopter ride. Do you have any idea how terrified I am of heights?”

  He shook his head.

  “You wouldn’t believe the people I saw in the ER.” A small smile appeared on Tyler’s face. “I had to stay with the paramedics until they did their transfer of care, you know, as next of kin.” I smiled. “Well, you should have seen this one lady. She had cuts on her face and they had strapped her down—and she was very old. She kept yanking her gown open and the paramedics told her to stop. They were all shielding their eyes.”

  Tyler’s smile widened.

  “So, they asked her what happened and she said she fell out of bed. And then they asked her how much she had to drink today. Remember, this is two o’clock in the afternoon. And she said ‘just one drink,’ and they asked ‘a drink of what,’ and she said…” I waited.

  “Well?” Tyler’s voice was hoarse.

  “‘Just one pint of Bacardi.’”

  Tyler exhaled a laugh. “No way.”

  “Honest to God.” I held up my hand as if to swear on it. “Welcome to Balmer.”

  I flinched when I felt his good hand on mine.

  “I forgot to tell you,” I said. “Janice took Dickens home with her. You worry I spoil him? We’ll have to put him on a diet when we get home.”

  “Thank you,” he said, his eyes moist.

  “You’re welcome.”

  As Tyler drifted off to sleep, I thought back over the day. I’d never been tested in that way before. I always wondered if I’d be brave. I smiled to myself and stroked Tyler’s hand, grateful for his presence in my life. “Sweet dreams,” I whispered.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Tyler and I arrived back at Barclay Meadow a few days later. I had fixed up the guest room for him. He injured himself on my property and although his worker’s compensation would pay for everything, I felt obligated to nurse him back to health. Once I had him settled in bed, I propped some pillows under his hand and dosed out his medications. He had to take blood thinners. “No salads,” I said as I read the insert in the pharmacy bag. “Did you know that?”

  “Know what?”

  “Foods with vitamin K clot the blood. Anything dark green.”

  “I can manage fine without anything green,” he said. “Hey, it doesn’t say anything about coffee, does it?”

  I scanned the orders. “Yes.” I looked up at him. “I’m sorry—no caffeine—it restricts the blood flow.”

  His head fell back on the pillow. “That might kill me.”

  “I’ll find something.”

  “Rosalie, you don’t need to wait on me. It makes me tense.”

  “You can’t take care of yourself and keep your hand elevated at the same time. Besides, I want to do this. I feel responsible.”

  I trotted downstairs in search of food. When I found some herbal tea, I put the kettle on the burner. I sorted through the mail while I waited. As I stood over the desk, the events of the previous days flashed through my mind: hearing Tyler scream, picking up his finger. One minute I was sitting at my desk, the next everything changed. There is a fine line between before and after, separating the two, demarcating who I was before and who I was now. I tried to remember exactly what I was doing before it happened. I had been on the Internet. Had I logged off? I jiggled the mouse, but my computer was powered down. Maybe Janice had turned it off. Our What Ifs group was private. No one had access but us. And yet, if my computer was open to that page, could the sheriff have seen it? I looked around, feeling as if someone was watching me. I jumped when the shrill whistle of the tea kettle filled the house.

  * * *

  “I feel ridiculous,” Tyler said when I brought him dinner. “I am perfectly capable of moving around.”

  “You are not a very good patient.” I set the tray on the side of the bed. “Besides, I won’t have it any other way, so stop complaining. You need your finger to heal and it won’t if you’re walking around. Anyway, I’m being selfish. If you don’t get better, who will work the farm?”

  He pushed himself up in bed. “I’m bored out of my skull.”

  I opened the window and a warm breeze billowed the curtains. “It’s really nice out this evening.”

  “That just makes me tenser,” he said. “I should be out there getting the plow ready.”

  “You really are a bad patient.”

  “Yeah, well, I know what you’re thinking,” he said.

  “Okay, what am I thinking?”

  “You’re thinking I should have let you buy a new saw.”

  “Wrong again.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “I like your frugality. So,” I said, “what are we going to do with you?” I glanced around the room. “Do you want me to try and bring the television up here?”

  “No,” he said. “I’m not a fan. Besides, watching television would only make me more depressed about sitting here on my ass.”

  “Well, we certainly don’t need you to get any grumpier.” I walked over to a bookshelf stuffed with my aunt’s books. “I have an idea.”

  He eyed me. “You’re making me nervous.”

  I selected a book and spun around. “I’m going to read to you. How about a little Harper Lee?”

  His face softened. “Are you sure?”

  I sat down next to him. “Just lean back and close your eyes.”

  * * *

  The food started arriving the next day: casseroles, salads, desserts, and three different types of lasagna. Doris Bird had spread the word about what I had done for Tyler. I met the biggest smiles and friendliest faces I had ever seen since moving here. Everyone asked to see Tyler and would glance around the house as they made their way to the stairs. Women clutched my hands and thanked me. Some stayed for coffee and others said they wouldn’t impose. But the biggest surprise was when two men showed up at the door in canvas coveralls and boxy caps and asked to speak to Tyler. The next thing I knew, they were firing up the tractor, the windows rattling from the clattering diesel engine.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  Glenn B

  I have news from Birdie’s. It doesn’t have anything to do with Megan but it’s interesting.

 
; Rosalie Hart

  Come for breakfast tomorrow!

  Shelby Smith

  Does anyone have any news about the investigation?

  Rosalie Hart

  Not me. I’ve been too busy with Tyler. Anyone else?

  Shelby Smith

  We’ve been running this investigation for months and we haven’t gotten anywhere. I’m worried we will fail.

  Rosalie Hart

  We know a lot, Sue. We’ll figure this out.

  Shelby Smith

  When??? We have to step it up. We have to break something loose.

  Glenn sat at my kitchen table reading the paper while I kneaded dough on the bread board my aunt had used, the wood dried with age and years of frequent use. My arms had become toned and strong, my fingers practiced and efficient as I squeezed and punched and flipped the pliable mound.

  The sun streamed through the windows, bathing the kitchen in light, illuminating the paper for Glenn and warming the room. I had placed a basket of apple cinnamon muffins and chopped kiwi on the table. Mr. Miele was busy brewing us a Kenyan roast blend. The scents of freshly ground coffee and baked cinnamon stirred my morning hunger.

  Glenn peered through his glasses at the financial page while he munched on an electric green kiwi slice. I was grateful for his presence in my life. I wondered if Sue was right—that we were abandoning the investigation. But lately I felt a surprising hint of contentment. I was happy caring for Tyler, baking for others, and enjoying my friendships. As much as I didn’t want to give up on the investigation, I was relieved not to think about it as much. Even the sheriff seemed to be leaving me alone. I glanced over at Glenn and smiled. The absence of fear and violence in my everyday thoughts was refreshing—I felt lighter and a few steps closer to finding a new version of happy.

  I covered the bread with a cloth towel, poured us coffee, and settled in across from Glenn. “So, what’s your news from Birdie’s?”

  Glenn looked up and brushed the crumbs from his hands. “The college is going to raze those row houses across from campus on Church Street.”

  “Well, that will be an improvement.”

  “Not for the people living there.” He helped himself to another muffin. “It will displace all those poor—and mostly black—families.”

  Tyler shuffled in, Dickens in close pursuit. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I smelled the coffee and, well, I always seem to be to interrupting you.”

  “Tyler, you know Glenn, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Glenn said.

  “I hope you don’t mind if I skip the handshake.”

  “Of course not,” Glenn said. “How’s the finger?”

  Tyler smiled. “It’s there.”

  “Thank the Lord,” Glenn said.

  “Thank Rosalie.” He removed a mug from the cabinet with his left hand and filled it with coffee.

  “Join us,” I said. “I’ll get you a plate.”

  “That’s the worst of it.” Tyler sat next to Glenn. “She won’t stop waiting on me.”

  “I think she enjoys it,” Glenn said. “And you don’t want to miss out on these muffins. I’m on my third.”

  “What have you been up to today?” I said as I set a plate down in front of Tyler.

  “I’ve been on your computer all morning.”

  “Don’t tell me you have a Facebook page?” I smiled. “We should be friends.”

  “Whatever you do, don’t start that mafia wars nonsense,” Glenn said. “It’s as addicting as crack.”

  “No Facebook. I like to look a person in the eye when I’m speaking with him. Or her,” he added.

  “So, what have you been doing?” I said and sat down. “Solitaire? Hearts?”

  “Research.” Tyler sipped his coffee.

  “You’ve lived in Cardigan a long time, Tyler,” Glenn said.

  “All my life and then some,” Tyler replied.

  Glenn smiled. “I might have stayed here, too, if I had been born in Cardigan.” He leaned back in his chair. “Do you know the owner of those row houses across from the college?”

  “Leroy Chalmers.” Tyler was having difficulty unwrapping his muffin. I started to reach for it, but he shot me a warning look. After studying it for a moment, he finally peeled it off with his teeth. He looked over at Glenn. “Leroy’s about as old as those places, too.”

  “Did you know the college is buying him out?”

  “Good. Maybe Leroy can move to Florida and sit in a lounge chair for the rest of his life.”

  “He’ll be lucky if he can find a place to live. They’re paying him a pittance.”

  “How can they get away with that?” I said. “Can’t he hire a lawyer?” I rolled up my napkin and placed it under Tyler’s arm. “Keep it elevated.”

  “With what?” Glenn said. “They’re living off the rent they receive and what crumbs Social Security throws their way. And believe me, they aren’t getting a whole lot of rent.”

  “It’s probably the only low-income housing left in this county, what with all the boaters and folks from the city moving in and…” Tyler glanced over at me. “Well, it’s true.” Tyler stood. “Mind if I use your computer a little longer?”

  “Of course not,” I said. “But keep your hand elevated. And put your feet up. You look pale.”

  Tyler carried his plate to the sink. As he walked out of the room he mumbled, “God, I hate this.”

  I smiled over at Glenn. “Bad patient.”

  “Anyone with drive and a will to work makes for a bad patient. Now, Rosalie, where did you learn to make these muffins?”

  “I sort of made up the recipe. I’ve been experimenting. Annie loved cinnamon toast when she was little, so I thought, What better flavor for a muffin? Right? Besides, baking can be very healing.” I smiled. “Tell me more about the houses.”

  Glenn leaned in. “The college wants to build two dormitories—state-of-the-art to keep those tuition dollars flowing. Kids expect that now, you know. They want private bathrooms and kitchenettes and maid service. No more cinder block cells with squeaky bunk beds.”

  “Can I ask why you’re so interested?”

  “It just doesn’t seem right. I think the college should have to pay them their due. That land is valuable to them. And I don’t understand the zoning. Something is fishy.”

  “It’s all that time at Birdie’s. You’re getting attached to this town, aren’t you?”

  “This investigation appears to be uncovering more than just a potential murder. I’m starting to see how things operate here. It just doesn’t seem kosher.”

  “Janice has led me to believe there are powers that be around here. Do you think that’s true?”

  “The sheriff doesn’t follow his own laws. The college seems to have undue influence over things. Which makes me think it goes higher. Maybe a judge or a county commissioner. Or maybe the mayor.”

  “What are you going to do, Glenn?”

  “I don’t know yet. But I can’t sit by and watch injustice. If those people can’t advocate for themselves, then someone has to do it for them.” Glenn’s brow was deeply furrowed.

  “Good luck with that.” Tyler strode into the kitchen. He set his coffee cup on the counter and turned to face us, one hand on his hip. “Lots of people have tried to change the way things work here. Especially newcomers. But they soon learn it’s like trying to change the direction of the Cardigan. Some things are just how they are.”

  * * *

  After saying good-bye to Glenn, I scrubbed the kitchen clean and sat at my desk with yet another cup of coffee. As always, my first stop was Facebook.

  Shelby Smith has tagged you in a photo.

  Annie Hart

  These are great, mom. Maybe you could pick one for your profile. That silhouette is creepy: /

  Sue had joined Tyler and me for dinner a few days before. After eating my homemade cream of crab soup dusted with Old Bay Seasoning, corn bread, and a walnut and pear salad, the three of us lingered
at the table and talked for hours.

  The image was of me in my apron and oven mitts holding up the soup tureen. It was a flattering photo, which wasn’t always the case when you’re tagged on Facebook. Dim lighting is great for erasing crow’s feet and the parentheses that seem to frame my mouth these days. Maybe I would actually have a face on Facebook.

  I clicked on Sue’s timeline in order to thank her. Three hours ago, she had posted the following status update.

  Shelby Smith

  Still in my P.J.s reading a can’t-put-it-down mystery.

  Thirty minutes later this was posted:

  Tim Collier

  I’m coming to you. I know where you are. Destiny has chosen this moment.

  It was one o’clock.

  “Call Sue Ling,” I said into my phone as I ran out the door. I prayed to God she hadn’t changed her number again. I got in my car and tore down the driveway. Gravel popped and ricocheted off the wheels and a cloud of dust mushroomed behind me. As I skidded onto the main road, my car fishtailed and I almost lost control. Answer, Sue. Come on. Voicemail. Damn. I ended the call and redialed. On the fifth ring, she finally picked up.

  “Are you all right?” The turbo roared as I swerved around a tractor. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The driver gesticulated something offensive at me.

  “I’m great,” Sue said. “I’m in the middle of a Lee Child and didn’t want to answer my phone. Reacher is kicking butt.” She giggled. “I’m still in my pj’s.”

  “Is your door locked?”

  “I don’t know. Geez, Rosalie. What the heck is wrong?”

  “Lock your door.” My heart was pounding. Please let me be in time. “Now!”

  “Okay, okay.” I could hear her muffled footsteps and finally a click. “There. It’s locked. Are you going to tell me why you’re freaking out?”

  “Thank God.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Oh, oops,” I said as I avoided a cyclist. “Sorry, Sue. I almost got a new hood ornament.”

  “Rosalie, are you in your car? Hang up and call me when you’re—”

  “No! Go to your Facebook wall.”