Murder at Barclay Meadow (35 page)

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.

 

F
ORTY
-
SEVEN

I hesitated before responding. Why would this poor grieving woman want to meet with me? As much as I had been driven to solve this crime, I never wanted to intrude on Corrine's unimaginable pain. I started to decline, but stopped. Bill had been at the end of my driveway. But why? Then I remembered the post I put up as Megan:
I didn't want to die. Why did you kill me?
I typed quickly.

Even with the help of my GPS, I made several wrong turns trying to find the Johnston home, arriving in cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac. There appeared to be four basic designs to the houses in their community, all variations on the same themes. The Johnstons' house had a brick front with beige vinyl siding. But unlike the other fertilized lawns and well-planned landscapes, their front yard was mostly crabgrass and clover with two spindly, undernourished azalea bushes flanking the stoop.

I had to wait a few minutes before Corinne opened the door. She peered out through a narrow crack.

“I'm Rosalie,” I said.

She sized me up before opening the door the rest of the way. Her face was pinched and pale and the dark roots of her hair hadn't been colored in months. I followed her into the living room. The room was dark, the blinds closed, allowing only thin strips of light to illuminate the small space.

“Can I get you something?” she said, her tone making it clear she hoped I would say no.

“No, thanks.” I clenched my fist around my purse strap. I had no idea what she wanted from me or what I should or could say. This must be how a witness feels being called to the stand. Answer only what she asks, I thought. Don't offer any more. And yet, as I looked into this woman's sad, lost eyes, I felt a responsibility to tell her more.

She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, which was void of makeup. Her eyes darted around the room as if she were unsure what to do next.

“Maybe we should sit down,” I said.

Corinne perched on a burgundy leather love seat and clutched her hands together, the knuckles stretched white. I sat stiffly in an identical one across from her. A large photograph hung over the mantel of the Johnston family as they had once been. Bill was seated in the center of the photo, the king, the lord of the castle, while Corinne and Megan stood behind the chair, each with a hand on his shoulder. My eyes were drawn immediately to Megan. Bright white teeth glowed from a wide smile. Next to Megan's beauty, her mother looked tired and small. Outdone. Outshone.

“I'm sorry for your loss.” I looked back at Corinne. “I can only imagine what you are going through.”

“No, you can't.” She tugged her skirt over her knees. I noticed an idle cell phone next to her on the table—the twenty-first-century umbilical cord to our children. But Corrine never even glanced at it. Her cord had been severed.

“Corinne,” I said. “Why did you want to meet?”

“I want to know everything.”

“Okay,” I said. “Let's start with what Rhonda has already told you.”

“She's told me very little. Basically that you had been looking into what happened to Megan. I still don't understand why.” She looked at me pointedly. “After she told me about you, I went to her Facebook page and found you on her friend list.”

“Of course,” I said. “You and Rhonda are friends.”

“Friends?
Rhonda
and me?”

“I mean on Facebook.”

“We nose into each other's business. That's what it means to be friends on Facebook.”

“Why do you think she told you about me? I would have preferred to let you grieve in peace.” I tried to convey the empathy I felt for her in my gaze. “I just don't know what purpose it serves. I mean, Rhonda telling you.”

“The only purpose it could possibly serve is to benefit Rhonda in some way. It certainly wasn't because she was being thoughtful or virtuous.” She picked at the hem of her skirt. “I don't know how well you know Rhonda Pendleton, but FYI … she doesn't have an honest bone in her body.” Corrine's voice had grown ragged. “Rhonda spent her life being jealous of my daughter and lusting after my husband. Did she tell you she was having an affair with him?” She shot me a challenging look, her chin lifted.

I remained silent.

“She ruined her marriage and it drove her crazy that Bill didn't end ours.” She tugged on the thread again, unintentionally unraveling the hem. She looked up at me. “They don't know it, but I saw them. I didn't always go to Megan's soccer games. I'm not really fond of open spaces.” She wrapped the thread tight around her finger. “But one afternoon, I had a particularly good therapy session, so I popped a Xanax and decided to go. I know it was hard for Megan, my condition. But I really wanted to see her play. She was in middle school, but already getting noticed.” Corinne's eyes welled with tears at the memory. “She was so beautiful. And understanding.” She stared off. “Megan never complained when I couldn't go to her games. She would just sit next to me when she got home and tell me all about it.” Corinne wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “She could describe it all in such vivid details. It was as if I were there. I always told her she should be a writer.” Corinne looked back at me. Tears escaped down her cheeks. “I think she wanted to study psychology to help me. To try and cure my agoraphobia.”