Murder at Barclay Meadow

by Wendy Sand Eckel

  “Why?” Her voice was high and thin.

  “Just do it.”

  “Okay. Hang on. Oh!”

  “It’s him, isn’t it.”

  “Oh my gosh. Rosalie … it’s exactly…”

  “Exactly what he said to Megan the night she died. How did he find you?” She didn’t respond. “Sue? Are you there?”

  “I … I told him some things.”

  “Oh, no.” Dread coursed through me. “Why would you do such a thing?”

  “We were failing,” she said. “The investigation was stuck and no one seemed to care. He wasn’t writing to me as much and I wanted to keep him engaged. Oh, Rosalie. I had to do something. Don’t you see? We were giving up on Megan.”

  “I’m almost to town. I’m just passing the country club.” I tried to peer around the Lincoln Town Car that was snailing down the road in front of me. “Are you alive?” I said.

  “What?” Sue said.

  “Oh, gosh, I’m sorry. I was yelling at the car in front of me. Oh, good. He’s turning. And you’re right, honey. We were giving up on Megan. Okay … I’m almost to your street.” After waiting at a light, I turned onto Sue’s block. She lived in the upstairs of a house; the bottom flat was vacant, but Sue said she preferred it that way. It was a small clapboard house close to the street with a gravel driveway leading to the backyard. A rusty car sat in front of the house. Delaware license plates. He’s already here. My heart fisted in my chest. “Sue, hang on, I’m going to put the phone down for a moment.”

  “Rosalie, no!”

  I dropped my phone in my lap and tried to act nonchalant as I eased past. A pounding bass vibrated my car. Long strands of brown, stringy hair curtained the face of the young man in the driver’s seat. He was staring at something in his lap.

  I picked up my phone. “Sue?”

  “Rosalie, please don’t put your phone down again.”

  “Honey, he’s here. He’s sitting in a car in front of your house.”

  “Oh, my God,” she screamed.

  “I’m going to put you on hold while I call the sheriff. One sec.”

  “Don’t call the sheriff.”

  “Why not? Sue!”

  “Just please don’t.”

  I drove around the block and parked behind the boy. The hard, angry rap thundering from the car increased in volume when he pushed the door open and climbed out. It muffled again when he slammed the rusty door shut. “Sue,” I whispered. “He just got out of the car.”

  The boy’s jeans were low on his hips. Plaid boxers billowed out of the top. He held his pants on with one hand as he walked to the sidewalk. I started to get out, although I had no clue what I would do. I stopped when he leaned against his car. He parted his hair with his hands and gazed up at Sue’s window. I chewed on a fingernail. “He’s a greasy boy. I don’t think he’s washed his hair in a month.”

  “Rosalie. What should we do?”

  “We should call the sheriff, but barring that … I’m thinking. Hey, don’t go to your window. He’s staring up at your house. He must know you’re on the second floor. How would he know that? Oh, wait.” I squinted to try and see better. “He’s reaching in his pocket.”

  He held a half-smoked joint tight in his fingers, sparked a lighter, and puffed it lit. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closed, and held it in. After a few seconds, he exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke. He paused, then took another hit. Tilting his head back, he studied the inertness of Sue’s house with narrowed eyes.

  “He’s smoking a J,” I said. “Isn’t that what they’re called? Or is it ‘doobie’?”

  After another toke, the boy knocked the ember onto the sidewalk and stepped on it. He licked his fingers, stubbed out the joint, and put it back in his pocket. As he walked around the back of his car, I kept the phone to my ear and pretended to be in an animated conversation. The door creaked shut. He picked something up off the passenger seat and hunched over it. The bass continued to thump like a heartbeat in a stethoscope. Clouds of dirty blue-gray smoke puffed out of the tailpipe and quickly dissipated.

  “He won’t try anything, right?” Sue said. “It’s the middle of the day. Aren’t there people around?”

  “Well … there’s a very old woman walking a ball of matted fur and another woman running by with one of those jogging strollers. I don’t think they would be much help.” I gripped the steering wheel and watched carefully. “Well, maybe the woman with the stroller. She’s pretty buff.”

  After a few minutes, the boy climbed back out of the car and shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. One of the pockets hung low, heavy with something bulky. What if it’s a gun? I had to call the sheriff. I didn’t know what Sue was hiding, but it wouldn’t matter if she was dead.

  He pulled the hood over his head and walked purposefully toward the house. His face was shrouded, causing him to look like the grim reaper incarnate. He strode past the front door and walked toward the driveway.

  “I’m hanging up.”

  “Rosalie!”

  I hopped out and hurried to the sidewalk. “Tim?” I called, slightly breathless. “Hey, Tim.”

  He spun around. “Who the hell are you?”

  “Tim Collier, right?” I took a step closer, wobbling in my boots. Why was I in heels? “Aren’t you Tim Collier?”

  “Who wants to know?” His eyes darted around. The jogger had moved on. The older woman must have finally rounded the corner. We were alone.

  “I’m friends with Shelby. I just dropped by to see her.” I steeled my eyes into his. “I recognize you from Facebook.”

  “What the…” His voice was high in his throat. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I know, Tim.” I took another step and crossed my arms. “I know you write threatening messages on young women’s Facebook pages. And then you find them, is that right?” I cocked my head. Adrenaline bolstered my courage.

  “I don’t have to listen to this. I don’t have to listen to nobody. You got that?” He was yelling now. His eyes were wide, almost feral. “And I don’t care what you say, ’cause none of it matters anymore.” He jabbed a finger at me. “People suck.”

  My scalp tingled. This kid had probably posted a good-bye video on his Facebook wall trashing all the bullies of the world. He was going to kill me, Sue, and anybody else who got in the way.

  He came closer. An ashy, herbal scent met my nose. He clutched the weight in his pocket.

  THIRTY-SIX

  “What do you want, Tim?” Sue sounded calm and unafraid. She stood on the sidewalk in front of her house in a pair of drawstring flannel pants and a pink tank top.

  “Tim?” I said. His hand moved again. Perspiration trickled down my back. “I recognize you from Megan’s wall, too.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  “We’ve documented everything,” Sue said.

  Good one, I thought.

  “And the police are on their way,” she added. I prayed she meant it.

  His eyes darted from Sue to me, then back to Sue. “You said you loved me.” His voice was ragged.

  “No,” Sue said. “I didn’t.”

  “We both loved Megan. Remember?” he pleaded. “We can all be together.”

  Sue crossed her arms. “I never knew Megan. I made it all up.”

  “Why … you lying bitch. You…”

  A siren wailed. She did call the sheriff.

  Tim hesitated, then ran to his car. The engine revved and he tore out, leaving a patchwork of black tire treads on the pavement.

  Sue and I rushed to one another. “Thank God you’re all right.”

  “You were amazing, Rosalie. So brave.”

  “What about you?” I stepped back and looked her in the eye. “And you called the sheriff.”

  She nodded. “I had to. He could have hurt you.” The siren grew closer. Sue looked nervously in its direction. “I’m going upstairs. Call me down only if you need me, okay? But please, try not to mention my name.”

  “Honey,
what are you hiding?”

  “Rosalie, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.” She glanced down the street. “Be careful. The sheriff hates you.” She reached out and squeezed my hands. “You just saved my life.” Her mouth twitched. “But I have to go.”

  She trotted around the house just as the sheriff’s cruiser squealed around the corner, stopping within centimeters of my bumper. He killed the siren, but kept the lights on. The garish colors overwhelmed the cloudless blue sky.

  My shoulders fell. I was completely enervated from the adrenaline that had just coursed through my body like a bullet train. “Sheriff Wilgus.”

  He eased his bulk out of the cruiser, making no effort to hurry. “I got a call someone was threatening a Shelby Smith.”

  “Someone was.”

  “So?” He stepped onto the sidewalk and adjusted his belt. “Where is she? And who’s threatening her? You?”

  “Not me. A young man was here, but he got away.”

  The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”

  “He was stalking her on the Internet. And he showed up here this afternoon.” I bit my lower lip. “I think he had a gun.”

  He scowled. “Did you actually see a gun?”

  “No. But I’m ninety-nine percent certain he was carrying a pistol in his pocket.”

  “Maybe he was just happy to see you.”

  “I’m glad you find this so amusing, but the whole thing was pretty terrifying.” I rubbed my arms.

  “Well, you got no victim and no perp.” He eyed the quaint, quiet street. “So, we don’t have a crime. Oh, wait…” He looked over at my car. “Will you look at that. Someone forgot to put money in the meter again.”

  “Sheriff. I’m serious. This boy is dangerous. I have his license plate number. He’s probably on his way to I-95. You could put out an APB.”

  “For what, exactly?” He rubbed his chin. “A guy I never saw?” He made quotations marks when he said “guy.”

  “He wrote a threatening note on my friend’s wall,” I said.

  “He wrote on her wall? With what? A crayon?”

  “No.” This was futile, but I had to give it a shot. If Tim Collier was our killer, he could kill again. I looked up at the sheriff. How did this man always make me feel so inconsequential? “He wrote a threatening post on her Facebook wall.”

  “Oh, this is rich, Hart.” He hoisted up his pants.

  “He wrote on Megan Johnston’s wall, too. The day she died.” I paused, waiting for it to sink in. My eyes never left his. “If you actually investigated her death, you would already know that.”

  “You ever gonna shut up?” His face darkened. “I’ve had it with you and that girl.”

  “He could kill again.” I lifted my chin. “And this time it will be your fault.”

  “Again?” His eyes smoldered.

  “He stalks people on the Internet, then figures out where they live.”

  “You got a body?”

  “No. I already told you. I scared him away with what I knew.”

  “You’re certifiable, you know that? You should be in the loony bin.” A terrifying smile curled up his lips. “I just had an idea.”

  I brushed my hair back from my face. “I know, Sheriff.”

  He was still smiling. “No, you don’t.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “I don’t have time for your games, Hart.”

  “I know everything,” I blurted out. “I know that Nick Angeles was sleeping with Megan. I know the college wanted you to drop the investigation to protect him. And I know why you were willing to do it.” I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “I know what they have on you.”

  “You don’t know nothin’.” There it was. The whiskey-saturated breath.

  “Then why are you harassing me?”

  “You’re freakin’ nuts. Bonkers.” He pointed up. “Elevator don’t make it to the top.”

  I swallowed hard. “I have evidence.”

  “Ha! You know how much that matters?’” He towered over me. “You’re nothing more than a drop in the Chesapeake Bay.”

  “I’d like to get in my car.”

  “You’re out of warnings.” He blocked my way with his girth.

  I could feel the blood drain from my face. I had showed enough bravado for the one day. For one life. “I’m going home now.”

  I stepped around him and slid into the seat of my car. The lights continued to swirl. Vertigo spun in my head. I grabbed the steering wheel to steady myself and turned the key. I jumped when I heard a knock on the passenger window. After I buzzed it down, the sheriff rested his arms on the door and peered in. I had half a mind to put it back up. Maybe I would catch his head in the window.

  “What?” I said.

  “One more thing.”

  I waited. The car was in drive. I gripped the wheel tighter.

  “I just wanted to tell you,” he said in a slow drawl. “You’ll be real easy to find when it’s time.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  Shelby Smith

  Tim Collier canceled his FB account. I searched everything I knew about him. Of course his name isn’t Tim Collier. That guy doesn’t exist. What do we do next?

  Rosalie Hart

  It was a scary day. Tim was there with very bad intentions, I’m sure of it. And then I had a rough time with the sheriff. This is getting dangerous.

  Tony Ricci

  We can drop this any time, Princess. It ain’t worth you getting hurt.

  Rosalie Hart

  No, I can’t quit. We’ve come this far. Maybe if we rule out everyone else then we know it was Tim. Did he go to Delaware? Megan must have known him if she accepted his friendship. Sue, I have faith in your computer skills. Don’t stop trying.

  Glenn B

  So let’s get busy. What next?

  Tony Ricci

  I know her dad is nuts. I went to his office.

  Rosalie Hart

  Tony, was that a good idea?

  Glenn B

  What did you learn?

  Tony Ricci

  For starters he’s arrogant and pompous and tried to sell me all kinds of stuff I don’t need. He had pictures of himself all over the place with “celebs.” He even framed his Delaware Blue Hens football jersey.

  Rosalie Hart

  Joe Flacco played for Delaware.

  Tony Ricci

  Princess … stay focused.

  Shelby Smith

  Did he mention Megan?

  Tony Ricci

  Not once. No sign of her anywhere.

  Glenn B

  So we’ve learned he’s unlikable. Doesn’t make him a killer. What else?

  Rosalie Hart

  I’m going to ask the professor out for a drink.

  Tony Ricci

  Princess?

  Rosalie Hart

  I’ll be okay. We’ll be in public. I just have to figure out what to say. But I need to provoke him into a confession of some sort.

  Glenn B

  In the meantime I’ll go to the restaurant at the marina Tony mentioned and show Megan’s picture around. Anyone care to join me for dinner? It’s on me.

  Shelby Smith

  Yes! =)

  Tony and I agreed to meet in town a few days later. Although I was worried I’d run into Sheriff Wilgus, it was a warm, sunny day and I was low on vitamin D.

  “How’s Sue?” Tony said as we strolled toward the small park in the center of Cardigan. We had purchased fountain sodas from the drugstore. Mine was a cherry cola and Tony had ordered a root beer float.

  “Amazingly okay,” I said.

  We sat on a bench bathed in sunlight. A few stubborn leaves still clinging to the oak trees rustled above us. I took a loud sip from my drink.

  “I wish you could have learned more from Bill Johnston,” I said.

  “Oh, I think I learned enough to know he could have done it. He screamed narcissist.”

  “Still…” I sipped again, disappointed my drink was alm
ost gone. “We could use some more evidence.”

  “Hey…” Tony nudged my arm. “Isn’t that Glenn?”

  I looked up. Glenn was scurrying toward us, arms pumping as he speed-walked through the square. His hair was askew and his face was dotted with red blotches.

  “Glenn?” I said. “Are you all right?”

  “Better than all right.” He flopped onto the bench between us. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

  “Spill, Pops,” Tony said.

  “Lila has finally opened up about the police report.” His chest rose and fell. “Megan”—he hesitated, seeming to want to savor his triumph—“did not drown.”

  I slapped my hand over my mouth.

  “What did she say?” Tony said.

  “There was no fluid in her lungs or air passages—none of that frothy foam from drowning.”

  “So, they did an autopsy after all?” I said.

  “No.” Glenn shook his head. “No, the family was adamant.”

  “So, how do they know?” Tony said.

  “There was no foam.”

  “But…” I thought for a moment. “Then they should have had to do an autopsy. That means she was murdered.”

  “Well, it’s not that simple. First of all, I think this town is so corrupt we are only scratching the surface. But also, the father said she had been depressed and that he found a suicide note.”

  “So, there was a note,” I said. “You know, I did see an envelope in the evidence bag.”

  “Lila never saw a note. She checks in all the evidence. Someone must have intervened. Anyway, when the sheriff was getting ready to order an autopsy, something happened and he closed the investigation.”

  “The college,” Tony said. “That’s when the college put the kibosh on it to protect”—he made quotations marks with his fingers—“Nicky.”

  “And their reputation. So, yes, I believe that’s exactly what happened.”

  “But if there was really a note,” I said, “then she did commit suicide.”

  “Not so fast,” Glenn said. “There are still facts that don’t add up. No one ever saw a note. Bill just claimed there was one. And he said his wife was so distraught an investigation could do her in. But as we have learned, the man isn’t overly concerned about his wife’s well-being. So if there was an envelope, it wasn’t necessarily a suicide note. Plus, Bill could have his own reasons to stop an autopsy from occurring. Didn’t you say the college president notified the Johnstons? Bill could have skedaddled down there before the police had finished with the crime scene. It’s all entirely possible.” Glenn smoothed his hair back into place. His breathing had finally slowed. “There’s another thing. According to Lila, the sheriff saw some things on the body, including some bruises on her neck. But even more important, he thought it odd she was dead before she went in the water. I mean, how do you die by suicide and end up in the water if you didn’t drown? It would take an awful lot of jerry-rigging.”