Murder at Barclay Meadow (11 page)

“Wilgus is just sort of retro, you know?”

“I guess, but he's not really my type,” I said.

“Good,” she said. “Gives my dentist a fighting chance. By the way, what's that banging noise?”

“I'm kneading dough. I haven't made bread in years.”

“You used to cook all the time.”

“Ed was a carbophobic. No bread in the house. I think he was worried I'd get fat.”

“Dumb jerk,” Janice said. “Give the dough an extra sock for me.”

I clicked off the phone, leaving a white thumb print on the talk button. After punching it one last time, I placed the abused dough in a bowl and covered it with a towel, tucking the edges underneath.

It was an unseasonably warm day and I had opened the windows. Tyler's tractor hummed somewhere in the distance. I was learning a lot about his relationship with Aunt Charlotte. Not just from her files but from Doris Bird, as well. Tyler had been the one to find my aunt after an unexpected stroke. Unwilling to wait for an ambulance, he had picked her up, carried her out to his truck, and drove her to the emergency room. Although I was speeding to get to the hospital, it was a two-hour drive and by the time I got there, Aunt Charlotte was dead. Tyler had already gone home. I must remember to thank him for not letting her die alone.

Now that he was helping himself to coffee, I awoke every morning to an earthy smell of freshly ground beans. We were experimenting with different blends and concluded that the Italian roast was the best for early mornings. Lying in bed listening to his work boots on the floorboards below softened my loneliness. It was soothing to have another presence in this old house. He had gotten in the habit of sitting at the kitchen table and reading yesterday's
Washington Post
with his coffee. Crumbs from a slice of toast would be littered over the sports page, some of the print highlighted in darkened circles from his buttery fingers.

After scraping the dough from my fingers, I dried my hands and crossed “make dough” off my to-do list. I had also written “let dough rise” and “put bread in oven.” It made me feel more accomplished.

Worry about my financial status was ever present, despite Tyler's checks. Ed and I had both come from humble beginnings. And while I embraced my modest roots, Ed had tried to sever his from the day he'd moved out of his family home in West Virginia. I had always worked. I always
had
to work. But when he sold his software company for a very large profit everything changed. He was suddenly status conscious and wanted to upgrade it all: the cars, the house, the private school, and a status wife, one who scheduled an active social calendar, squeezing in several philanthropies on the side.

Was it love at first sight like Marius and Cosette? Maybe. Although I found him attractive when we first met, it was more like a shifting—an acknowledgment settling in: this was someone I would know a very long time.

“Enough, Rosalie,'” I said softly. I felt something on my foot and looked under the table. Dickens had rested his head on my sneaker. I scratched his velvety ears. “Hi,” I said, wondering how he had gotten in the house. His soft brown eyes smiled up at me. I petted him again.

A few hours later the room was filled with the toasty aroma of freshly baked bread. I was seated at the table buttering a slice when Tyler walked in. He stopped in his tracks when he saw Dickens eating his own very large chunk of bread. I looked over at Tyler and then down at Dickens. I patted his head. “I found someone to bake for.”

 

T
WELVE

After our first night of disorganized typing, the What Ifs had finally developed a rhythm to our discussions. We slowed down, for one, and did our best to direct questions to specific people. Most of the time, at least.

I began by filling them in on my lunch with Rhonda.

“What's this?” Sue said.

“Lunch. I've been baking a lot of bread, so I brought you a fresh loaf and a bowl of minestrone.” I set the bag on the floor next to Sue. “Lots of veggies and beans—good stuff.”

“Rosalie, I'm a pescatarian.”

“No worries. The soup is vegetarian.”

“Soup rarely is. It's the—”

“I used vegetable broth. You're good to go.”

“How did you know?”

I smiled. “I'm not really sure.”

Sue was seated at a table in the John Adams library. She opened her laptop, logged onto the Wi-Fi, and waited for Safari to open.

“So, tell me, Sue, why do you live in Cardigan? I would think it awfully small for someone as young as you.”

She looked over at me, her dark eyes perfectly lined, her high cheekbones framed by a heart-shaped face. “I like that it's small.” She tucked her hair behind an ear. “My mother would really like me to come back to California.”

“I would, too, if I were her,” I said. “We moms like to be near our daughters.”

“Actually, I miss California, but I can't move back right now.”

I studied her. The realization that this young woman had many secrets was settling in. “It almost sounds as if you're hiding out.”

Her eyes flashed. “Why would you say that? Rosalie, please don't ask me any more questions. I love this investigation. And I really want to help. For a lot of reasons. I just can't say what they are. Do you understand?”

“Not really, but I will respect your request.” I patted her arm. “And I am very glad to have you onboard.”

She checked her phone and set it on the table. “I have another new phone number, by the way.” She looked back at the computer screen.

“Why are you using prepaid phones?” I said.

“Tight budget.”

I glanced down at her cobalt blue Tory Burch handbag. “Okay,” I said. “I know you have to get back to work. Let's see what you've discovered.”

“I'll show you how to get onto Megan's Facebook page in a minute, but first I want you to see what came up in a Google search.” Sue's small, rounded nails clicked on the keyboard. The Google home page appeared. “Did you know Megan was a student at the University of Delaware for three years before she came here?”

I nodded. “Rhonda's daughter played soccer with her there.”

“Check this out.” Sue typed “University Delaware Megan Johnston soccer” and we waited for the results.

“There are thousands of hits,” I said. “Was there another Megan Johnston at Delaware?”

“No. The ‘T' in Johnston narrowed it down.” She scrolled down the page. “Every one of these links is our Megan.” Sue moved her finger over the touchpad and tapped on one of the links. A page from the University of Delaware's website appeared. A photograph of Megan centered over the caption “Women's Soccer Team Division Champs.” Megan is on the soccer field, one foot poised on the ball. Her arms are in the air and her University of Delaware jersey is in her hand. She's wearing a tight navy blue sports bra and her soccer shorts. It was a stunning picture. Her blue eyes stare straight into the camera, daring you to continue to look at her. With her arms in the air, a spot of cleavage dips into her bra, strands of her silky blonde hair loose in the wind. Her abs are defined, her waist small, curving in just above her shorts. The leg holding the ball in place is toned and shapely and the pose is completely feminine bordering on provocative.

“Wow, what a photo,” I said. “She's gorgeous.”

“I know. And it's not even photoshopped.” Sue clicked on another link. “Look at this.”

The link was to a sports blogger's page. The same picture of Megan appeared but with a different caption. This one read “Check out the best new thing to come out of Delaware. This chick is hotter than holy hell. Come to Papa, Meggie.”

“After he posted this”—Sue clicked on another link—“the photo spread like a virus. Guys have it on their Facebook pages, blogs, porn sites, you name it.”

“That's awful.” I sat back in my chair. “What a violation.”

Sue glanced over at me. “It got worse.” She clicked on another link. “This is from the local newspaper. Apparently after the word spread that Megan was so beautiful, guys started showing up at her games with cameras and telephoto lenses. Everyone wanted to get a picture of her for their blogs. The stands would be crammed full of voyeurs.”

“How could she possibly play?”

“That's the amazing part. The article says she never lost focus. They won the championship again last year.”

“Rosalie?”

I turned around to see Professor Angeles standing behind us, a wide grin spread across his face. He was dressed in a blazer with a tight-fitting T-shirt underneath. He held a leather iPad case under his arm and his curls tumbled loose around his head.

“Professor Angeles.” I stood quickly, positioning myself in front of the computer screen.

“Please, call me Nick. After all, we're Facebook friends now.”

“Okay,” I said. There was that cologne again. “How are you,
Nick
?”

“That's better.” He stepped closer.

“Hi, Professor Nick.” We turned to see a fresh-faced coed in a short denim skirt and fleece boots approaching. Her friend, dressed in similar boots, skin-tight leggings, and a snug sweater pulled down over her thighs, stood next to her. “Kaitlin and I were wondering if there is a movie in human sexuality class tonight.” She clutched several books to her chest.

“I believe there is,” he said.

“Okay.” She grinned hard.

Nick waited. “Is there anything else, Ashley?”

“Nope.” She giggled. “See you tonight.”

Once she was out of earshot he said, “Mine is the only class where students
want
to attend when you show a video.”

“Sex sells,” I said.

“And what have you decided?” he said. “Are you going to enroll in one of my classes?”

“I'm definitely considering it. In fact, I was just looking at the application process.”

“Really?” He peered around my shoulder. I followed his gaze. Sue was playing a game of hearts.

“Yes.” I gripped the back of the chair. “Really.”

“Rosalie,” Sue said. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but I need to get back to work.”

“I won't keep you.” Nick handed me a business card. “Give me a call and let's have that drink.”

I accepted the card. Should I do it? Maybe it would help the investigation. Maybe I would learn something. I looked up into those velvet brown eyes. “I would like that … Nick.”

“I'll see you then.”

I watched him go.

“Wow,” Sue said. “He really is hot.”

“I know.” I sat down. “And he sure doesn't act like a murderer. He seems kind of nice.”

“He likes you, Rosalie.”

I rolled my eyes. “He likes everyone and anyone.”

“Sooo…” She eyed me. “Are you really going to have a drink with him?”

“I'm considering it. I might get him to open up after a cocktail or two.” I fanned myself. “How long do you think he'd been standing there?”

“I don't know.”

“Do you think he saw what we were doing?”

“I sure hope not.” Sue studied me. “Rosalie, you have to be careful.”

“We all have to be careful.”

She checked her watch. “Here's what you need to log onto Megan's Facebook page.” She handed me a small piece of paper with an email address and password. “You have to log on from her email address. It's a Yahoo account and here's the password. Once on Facebook, the password is the same. Also, someone set up a memorial page. Anyone can go to it and write a post. Just type in her name while logged on as yourself and the memorial page will come up. There could be some clues there, as well.” She closed her computer and tucked it into her tote. “Thank you so much for the soup and bread. I can't wait to eat it.” She looked over at me. “Rosalie?”