Murder at Barclay Meadow

by Wendy Sand Eckel

  “I want to talk to you about something, too.” He crossed his arms and leaned back against the counter.

  “You first,” I said.

  He filled our mugs and handed me one. I slid the sugar canister over to him. “I’ve been doing some research—about the farm, I mean. That’s why I was borrowing your computer so much.”

  “What about the farm?”

  “There’s something called sustainable. It’s a higher rating than farming organic. It’s complicated, but I think we could pull it off.”

  I gripped my coffee with both hands. He said “we” now when referring to the farm.

  “We would have to get some livestock,” he continued. “I was thinking we could start with chickens.”

  “Chickens?”

  “Yeah, you know, they have feathers … lay eggs.”

  “Aren’t they an awful lot of work?”

  He stared at me, hard.

  “I’m sorry, Tyler. I really am. I’m just so tired lately.” I brushed my hair back from my face. I hadn’t combed it yet. “I didn’t mean to dismiss your idea. It sounds very interesting. If you could refer me to some information I could read up on it.”

  Tyler dumped his coffee in the sink and wordlessly left the room.

  I stared at the spot where he had stood. What was I doing? The distance growing between us would need the Bay Bridge to connect us again. I would tell him the next time I see him. I had to give him time to make arrangements.

  I walked back to the table, flopped into my seat, and stared out the window. I had propped the windows open earlier and the sweet scent of peonies drifted toward me. Goldfinches were fluttering around the feeder, their feathers already turning a bright marigold. At the end of the sloping lawn the river sped by, an occasional log caught in its current. I only had a few weeks and what had I accomplished?

  I brought my computer back to life. I had to see this investigation through. We were close and yet miles away. I thought about my conversation with Glenn. We were underutilizing our best weapon—Facebook. Maybe I could lure the killer out—whomever he or she may be. I rolled my shoulders back and logged onto Facebook as Megan. After clicking on the box “what’s on your mind?” I typed:

  Megan Johnston

  I didn’t want to die. Why did you kill me?

  FORTY-SIX

  I was surprised how quickly I reverted back to the person I had once been. It started on the Capital Beltway. I darted in and out among the best of the aggressive drivers, squeezing into nonexistent spaces, and took the curves toward the Wisconsin Avenue exit as well as any NASCAR driver. As I drove into Bethesda where I was to look at apartments, I checked my hair and decided I was due for a new style. Yes, I thought as I hit the gas. Time for a change. Maybe I would cut it all off, dye it red.

  The first apartment was in an elegant high-rise just north of Western Avenue. It was beautifully lush, and there was a Saks Fifth Avenue a few doors down, but I barely looked around. I could never live somewhere that required an elevator to get outside. And a window box does not a garden make.

  I was already enervated and it was only one o’clock. I spotted a coffee shop and went in. I watched as a young woman manipulated the coffee machine. I could do that job, I thought. Mr. Miele and I should hit the road.

  Outside, the sky had filled with an unending line of gray clouds, heavy with rain, anxious to unload their burden. Daffodils bloomed down the median of Wisconsin Avenue while Jags, sporty Mercedes, and glossy black BMWs sped down the busy road.

  “Rosalie!”

  I turned and saw my dear friend Amy charging toward me, dressed in yoga pants and a tight sweatshirt.

  “Amy—it’s wonderful to see you.”

  She brushed my cheek with a kiss. “You look incredible. I love your hair longer. And … have you lost weight? Look at you. My God, I positively hate you.”

  “It’s the divorce diet and I don’t recommend it,” I said. “Tell me what’s new with you.”

  “I miss you.” She flashed me a little pout. “I got stuck with the Cancer Society golf tournament. It’s totally stressing me out.”

  “I left notes.”

  “I know. But that doesn’t mean you’re doing it.”

  I sipped my latte through the small hole in the plastic lid. “Do you have any help?”

  “A little. But enough about that. What brings you into the city? I thought you were living on a farm.” She gave me a once-over. “You don’t look like you’ve been living on a farm. Where did you get those jeans? Damn, they look good.”

  “I am grateful for Annie’s hand-me-downs.”

  “Walk with me. I’m on my way to Saks. We’re going to the opera with Jay’s boss and I need a killer dress.” Amy walked in long strides and I hurried to keep up with her. She was short and physical with a cute angled haircut that bounced as she walked. “So, spill. Why are you here?”

  “I’m looking for a place to live.”

  “Really?” She stopped. “That’s awesome news!” After embracing me with another quick hug, she started walking again. “Oh, Rosie, I’ve missed you so much. You don’t know what it’s like around here since you left. Everything has changed.”

  “I’m sorry, Amy.”

  “I just want you and Ed to be together again. That woman has changed everything.”

  “I’ve only seen her once,” I said. “What’s she like?”

  Amy glanced over at me. “You really want to know?”

  “It can’t be any worse than my imagination.” My latte bounced out of the hole as we walked. Caramel rings were polka-dotting the sleeve of my white top.

  “She just kind of floats around batting her eyes.”

  “She bats her eyes?”

  “Well, sort of. Jay thinks she’s hot. I can’t believe my husband is lusting after a thirty-year-old home wrecker. I mean, seriously,” Amy said. “Since when is tall and bone-thin hot?”

  “Since forever.”

  She rolled her eyes. “But she’s not all that beautiful. It’s more how she flirts, in subtle ways. I mean, at parties she’s always with the men and she’ll wear blouses that are cut low, you know the style? The ones where if she turns a certain way a guy could peek inside? So all the men in the room are watching her every move to see if they’ll catch some eye candy.”

  “Wow.” I stepped out of the way of an oncoming pedestrian who was unwilling to yield the right of way. I caught up to Amy again. “She sounds like she’s pretty good at it.”

  “The thing is, she’s changed everything. Our parties used to be a lot of fun, remember? We all got along and laughed and enjoyed each other. Now there’s this competitive thing going on and everyone is tense and stiff and the women are mad at their husbands and oh … Rosalie, come home.” She gave me a sad smile.

  “I’m sorry Ed has done this.”

  “I think he’s enjoying it. I think Ed loves that every guy in the room wants to go to bed with his girlfriend.” She checked my reaction. “Sorry to be so harsh.”

  “Sometimes reality is pretty darn harsh.” I tossed my cup into a wrought-iron trash bin.

  Amy looked at her watch. “Rosalie, I have got to get into Saks. Come with me?”

  “I have another apartment to see. But I would much rather shop with you.”

  We hugged. “Let me know the minute you move back. I’m throwing a big old party and I’m not inviting Ed.” She stuck out her tongue a little and laughed. “’Bye—I love you!”

  Just as Amy disappeared through the revolving brass doors, the rain began. There were no warning drops, no prelude of rain-scented wind. It started right with the main course as if the bottom had fallen out of the clouds.

  I ran to my car, where my umbrella was tucked neatly under the seat. Amy and I had walked over two blocks and by the time I leapt inside I was drenched. I shivered as I started the engine. How could I tour an apartment when I was completely sodden? I glanced down at the digital clock. Maybe I could swing by my house and grab some clothes. E
d wouldn’t be there in the middle of the afternoon and I still had my key. I put the car into gear and merged onto Wisconsin Avenue. My house was less than a mile away and I needed some spring clothes anyway.

  I parked in front and stared up the steps. I had lived there for close to ten years. It was still beautiful—with white cedar siding and floor-to-ceiling windows. Narcissus and grape hyacinths filled the flower beds and two dogwoods rich with white, velvety blooms graced the lawn. I hurried up the steps, wrung out my shirt, and went inside.

  So little had changed—the table by the door still held my silk flower arrangement, although it needed dusting. An umbrella with a carved wooden handle was still in the blue-and-white ceramic stand. My mother’s grandfather clock stood in the corner, the pendulum stationary.

  I gazed into the living room—a still life of the beautiful decor I had worked to get just right. Up until then, I thought I would claim some of this furniture for my new apartment. But as I scanned the room, I thought better of it. This was Annie’s home and I couldn’t divide up yet another part of her world. I had been in houses where the couples were divorcing, one wing chair instead of two, no kitchen table, indentations in the rug where a coffee table had once been. They looked sad and diminished. No, I would hit up Pottery Barn instead.

  I dropped my keys in the rattan tray, my wet clothes sapping the warmth from my body. I walked down the hall to the kitchen. A pungent smell hung in the air. An orange, I thought. An orange is moldy. A box of clementines sat on the counter. I knew if I dug through to the bottom I would find the source of the smell. But this kitchen was no longer mine to maintain.

  The thought struck a deep and very sad chord in my heart and I realized instantly it had been a mistake to come here. A scarf that was not mine was draped over the back of a chair. Two wineglasses sat in the sink with drying burgundy circles in the bottom, one with a distinct lipstick print. A sugar bowl had been placed next to the coffeemaker. Ed and I drank our coffee black. I glanced over at the pine hutch that held my good dishes. It was painted white. White? Ed loved that hutch. He would never paint it. We had discovered it together at an antiques show at the D.C. armory. Our first apartment had no cabinet space so we splurged our budget and brought it home.

  I jumped when I saw a figure in the archway. “What are you doing here?” I said.

  Rebecca folded her arms. “Better question, what are you doing here?”

  “I needed some dry clothes. I got caught in the rain. I didn’t expect anyone to be home.” I hesitated. “Why are you here?”

  “Seriously? I live here.” Her hair was in a high ponytail and without her expertly applied makeup she looked surprisingly plain and very young. She was dressed in a loose blouse over a pair of skinny jeans.

  “I forgot.” I held her gaze. “But now I remember. Annie told me you lived here.”

  “What else did she say?” Rebecca pursed her lips. “Is she your little spy?”

  “Spy? Annie? I would never do that to my child. Don’t tell me you’re threatened by her?”

  “I barely even know her.”

  My eyes narrowed. “Then shame on you.”

  “Spare me,” Rebecca said. “Oh, your clothes are in garbage bags in the cellar if you’re looking for them.”

  I had to clench my teeth to stop them from chattering. I felt invaded and foreign at the same time. “No,” I said. “I’ll buy new.” I walked past her. I stopped when I reached the door. I took a deep breath and turned around. She was standing in the hallway with a smirk on her face. “You need to keep your bony little hands off my things. Don’t you dare paint or move another thing until the divorce is final, do you understand? And you’ll be stripping my hutch.”

  Her mouth dropped open. “Who do you—”

  I grabbed my keys and pulled the door open. “Oh, and Rebecca?”

  She cocked her head.

  “Button up,” I said, and strode out the door.

  * * *

  It took me over two hours to get home. I think I hyperventilated at one point on the beltway, but since it was gridlocked in rush-hour traffic no one noticed. It was Friday and the Western Shore folks were crowding to get to their boats and beaches. I waited forty-five minutes in an inching line for the Bay Bridge even in the EZ Pass lane and, with the heater on full blast, I eventually dried out. The clouds parted as I crested the bridge and prisms of light shafted through with biblical drama. I felt surprisingly calm. That was the end of it, I thought. I was getting a divorce. The next chapter of my life was starting now. Relief soothed my nerves and I felt as if the rain had washed away the last of my old life.

  When I finally reached the quiet, two-lane road that led to Cardigan, I pulled over, turned off All Things Considered, and buzzed the convertible top down. I could smell the scent of spring onions from a freshly mowed lawn. The setting sun was completely unveiled and the birds were singing their lullaby songs. I took three, yoga-depth breaths, eased the car back on the road, and drove fifty-five miles per hour the rest of the way.

  * * *

  Birdie’s was on my way home so I stopped in for my papers. “Good afternoon,” I said to Doris. “It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

  “It’s about over, now. But it was all I could do to not close up shop and go sit on a bench out there in the park.”

  “I have something for you.” I reached in my tote and pulled out a package wrapped in foil. “The sheriff hasn’t been around here today, has he?” I glanced out the window.

  “Nope. Just Lila. She’s mad at Joe for forcing you to stop selling stuff.”

  I placed the parcel on the counter. “He can’t stop me from giving gifts, right?” I hesitated. “At least I don’t think he can. Anyway, these are for you.”

  She unfolded the foil to reveal four freshly baked muffins. She picked one up, peeled back the paper, and took a bite. “Mm,” she said and chewed. “Is that lemon?”

  “And rosemary,” I said.

  “Rosemary? Well, who woulda thought of that?” She took another bite, set the muffin down, and brushed the crumbs off her fingers. “These would sell out in a heartbeat.” She bent over and picked up my papers. After setting them on the glass counter, she folded her arms and looked over at me. “You okay?”

  “I think so. I haven’t seen the sheriff around. Maybe he’s finally going to leave me alone.”

  “He needs to pay attention to all the drugs the high school kids are selling in the park.”

  “That would be a better use of his time.” I smiled over at her. “Thank you, again, for what you did. I think I’ll tell you that every day I come in here.”

  She studied me over her glasses. “I don’t suppose you heard the news?”

  “News?”

  “Brower’s is closing.”

  “The cafe? That’s too bad.”

  “Maybe it is and maybe it isn’t.”

  I cocked my head. “You didn’t like their coffee, either?”

  “I think maybe your baked goods put them out of business.”

  “Really? That wasn’t my intention.”

  Doris’s eyes twinkled. “Those folks are going back to Philly. They weren’t from here.”

  “Another one bites the dust. No wonder the population in Cardigan has stayed the same for so long.” I set my money on the counter and picked up my papers. “I’ll see you tomorrow. I hope you get a chance to enjoy the sunshine.”

  Doris watched me closely. She pursed her lips and scratched her nose. “You know, Miss Rosalie…” She folded her arms again. “That space next door will be vacant. This town is short on restaurants as it is.”

  I turned to face her. Was she suggesting that I … no. That was madness. And yet I was deeply moved by the sentiment.

  “Thank you, Doris.” I waved good-bye and walked out the door. As I passed the diner, I stood close to the glass and peered into the empty restaurant. The window fogged. I cleared it with my sleeve and looked closer. It was a small space, but with wide, welcoming windows
. I wondered how it would look with Tuscan orange walls and blue-and-white tablecloths—maybe yellow daylilies on each table in small crystal vases.

  I shook my head. Get a grip, Rosalie. You’re leaving, remember?

  * * *

  When I arrived home, Tyler was nowhere to be found. He had finished for the day and the kitchen was spotless. His absence was palpable. I filled a glass with water and walked out onto the porch. Staring out at the river, I realized I would have to make Tyler understand. My leaving could be temporary. I could be back here before we knew it. I caught the scent of overturned earth on a light breeze. I had grown to love this farm—the smells, the sun, the quiet, slower pace of life.

  Needing to stretch my legs, I decided to fetch the mail. I trotted down the front steps and noticed at least a dozen flats of herbs along the shed. The herb garden. We were going to start an herb garden for my baking. They hadn’t been watered. The dill was already starting to yellow and droop.

  I headed down the long lane to the mailbox. The spring peepers had begun their trilling and the peace and beauty of Barclay Meadow warmed my heart. The intoxicating scent of lilacs in bloom caught my nose. I didn’t know I had lilacs. I would have to bring some inside. My mother had carried lilacs in her wedding bouquet.

  When I reached the road, I pushed up my sleeves and opened the large, dented mailbox, wondering how many times the poor thing had been a victim of a drive-by baseball bat. Maybe Tyler could replace it. Tyler. I had to find a way to repair the damage with Tyler.

  After removing several envelopes and a heavy load of catalogs, I turned and noticed a car parked across the road. A large man sat at the wheel. Probably another gawker, I thought. After all this time, people are still trying to get a view of where the dead girl was found.

  I looked again. Our eyes locked. Did I know this man? Recognition hit us at the same moment. Oh my gosh. He looked as shocked as I did. I could see him putting things together as he stared, his brow knitted in thought, his lips parting as he reached a conclusion. I held the mail close to my chest. I could see the blue-gray bags under his eyes. Clueless as to what I should do, I gave him a small wave. His eyes narrowed to two small slits of loathing. He started the car and revved the accelerator. Gravel spat out from under the tires and dust rose in a cloud behind the car as he drove away. I coughed and tried to wave away the smoke, but Bill Johnston was gone.