Murder at Barclay Meadow (12 page)

“What, honey?”

“I am absolutely certain we will find who killed Megan somewhere on her wall.”

I typed quickly.

Within two minutes Sue wrote:

 

T
HIRTEEN

The day of Janice's party I decided to get my hair styled and touch up my roots. The Curling Iron was the only salon with an opening on such short notice and a few hours later I sat perched in Brenda Baker's chair.

Brenda pumped her foot on the metal brace under the chair. I bounced around as if on a plane making a less-than-smooth landing. When I was at the desired height she stood behind me and looked critically at my hair, lifting layers, and letting them fall again. “You got a lot of hair, hon.”

“Yes, I know.” I gave her a friendly smile.

She continued to pick through my hair like a chimp. I noticed Brenda had a lot of hair, too, although hers was lacquered into a henna-colored bob with bangs that had been carefully sprayed into place. She had a pretty face accented with blue and green eye shadow and a plump set of lips. A petite diamond adorned her left hand and photos of a young boy and girl in soccer uniforms were tucked in the mirror.

“You want a trim, too?” Brenda asked.

“Maybe just the ends. I like the style. The layers seem to help calm down the volume a little.”

“Yeah.” Brenda cracked her gum. A puff of mint met my nose. “You go curly?”

“Wavy, I guess.”

She fingered my hair some more, examining the cut. She frowned. “You get this cut here in town?”

“Bethesda. Quite a while ago, actually,”

She eyed me in the mirror. “The other side of the bridge?”

“Yes,” I said. “I live, or I
used
to live, in Chevy Chase.”

“It's a good cut. Somebody knew what they were doing. It falls nice, you know? And it's good around your face—brings out your big, brown eyes.”

“Thanks,” I said, feeling genuinely flattered. I thought I had just been dismissed when she realized I wasn't from Cardigan. But she probably knew that the moment she saw my name on the appointment book.

She stretched a pair of gloves over her hands and I marveled at how her long, crimson nails didn't pierce the thin latex. After mixing the color, she pinned my hair up with several large clips. She slipped a piece of aluminum foil under a section and painted a dab of white goop onto my hair.

“So, where you living?” she said.

“Just outside of town on River Road. Do you know where Barclay Meadow is?”

“Hon, if your house has a name, then it ain't anywhere near mine.” My scalp felt cool where she painted another section.

“Oh, I didn't name it. It's been in my family for—”

“Wait, is that the place where the dead girl washed up?”

I exhaled. “Yes. That's the place.”

“No way,” she said. “Did you find her?”

I nodded.

“Shut up.” She stopped her work and regarded me with renewed interest. “What was it like?”

“Horrific,” I said.

“So, how did she end up in the river?”

“They said it was an accident.”

“How did she fall in? Did she trip? You know you don't just fall in a river.”

“I guess she was at a college party and the keg was at the end of a dock.”

“Well, then, someone would fish you out, right?” Brenda said.

“Maybe. It was at night.”

“But you would still call the Coast Guard or the sheriff or someone. You should see what happens when someone gets caught in the river—they call in the freakin' cavalry—the river clogs with rescue boats and the choppers come with searchlights.” Brenda clipped another section. “I'm not buying that no one even heard a splash.”

“I find it hard to believe, too.”

“So there must be some clues. Like what was she wearing?”

“Oh, that was hard to see. She'd been in the water a few days.”

Brenda stopped painting. Her eyes narrowed. She listened hard.

“She was bloated,” I continued. “Her clothes were stretched so tight they had started to rip.”

“Get out of town.”

Did she just say that to me?

“But you must have an idea,” Brenda said. “Was she wearing jeans, skirt, top, bathing suit?”

“Come to think of it, she was in a dress. It was dark, black maybe, and above the knee.”

“Like a cocktail dress?”

“Yes, now that you mention it, I think it was.”

“That doesn't make sense. I thought you said she was at a college keg party. Who wears a cocktail dress to one of those?”

“Brenda, you ask some very good questions.”

“I watch a lot of
CSI.
Miami and Las Vegas.” She picked up another piece of foil and folded the end. “I'm not a big fan of the New York one, though. I don't like the chick. She's too smug.”

“So, what do
you
think happened?” I said.

“Me? Geez, I don't know. Folks drown a lot around here because of the current. But that's usually when people are trying to swim. So who's going to go for a swim in a dress, especially in October?” She dipped the brush into the bowl. “But either way, don't you think the kids at the party would have said something?”

“Unless one of them was responsible.”

“Yeah, like if he had something to hide. Kind of creepy, you know? To think somebody dropped a body in the Cardigan. They could be right on campus, for all we know.”

“Well, I guess we'll never know. The police ruled it an accident plain and simple.”

“Yo, Bren,” a woman called from the front desk. “Your three o'clock is here.”

“What are you taking out on your nails?” Brenda pumped the chair back down. “Why don't you get a manicure while you process? Larissa's open.”

Once I learned a manicure only cost ten dollars, I sat across from Larissa and extended my hands. She shook her head as she went to work on my cuticles. I looked over at Brenda. She was telling her three o'clock about my finding Megan. The woman was rapt and I could see by the animated expression on Brenda's face she was probably embellishing some of her own
CSI
details. The women on either side were wide-eyed and listening with “oh”s formed on their lips. Brenda held court while I felt like exhibit A. Larissa kept her head down, but her eyes darted around. I could tell she was listening, too, as she painted my nails with Plum Like It Hot.

*   *   *

After being out all day I was anxious to connect with Annie. Although Tony was due to pick me up in less than an hour, I had a mother's instinct she was upset about something. I tapped on my keyboard, careful not to smudge my nails.

 

F
OURTEEN

A few days before Janice's party I had stood on the scale and was shocked to see I'd lost 4.2 more pounds. My body was a lot like my psyche—hating change. Welcome to the divorce diet, I thought.

The evening of the party I rifled through the dresses in my closet. Every one I tried on was loose and baggy. As if I didn't feel frumpy enough. I decided on black pants and a cream silk blouse. I stood in front of a cloudy antique mirror that made me look like I was in an Impressionist painting. I could hear Annie's voice … “You need a pop of color, Mom.” But how? Ugh. I found a floral scarf and draped it around my neck. Nope. I decided to tie it. Way too eighties. Another ugh. Desperate, I wove it through my pant loops. Good enough. With my mother's pearls and my new hairdo, I was presentable. I slipped into my faithful black pumps and walked through a cloud of perfume.

*   *   *

“You look nice,” Tony said as I slid into the front seat of his Mazda Miata.

I was relieved Tony agreed to come to the party. I secretly hoped he would be my fluoride to keep the dentist away. He shifted into gear and maneuvered the car down my narrow lane, an occasional cedar branch smacking against the window.

“Thanks,” I said. “These clothes are ancient.”

Tony downshifted and turned onto the main road. “Why do women do that?”

“Do what?”

“I say you look hot and you tell me how old your clothes are.”

“Technically you didn't say ‘hot.' You said I looked ‘nice.'”

“Either way, all you have to say is, ‘thank you, Tony.'”

“Thank you, Tony. You look very nice, also.”

He glanced over at me. “But you didn't say ‘hot,' either.”

“Tony.” I turned in my seat to face him. “Tell me more about you. Why do you live on a sailboat?”

“Divorced,” he said. “Second time. My wife got the house.” Tony shrugged. “I run my own consulting firm, so I figured I already had a place with a heater, head, and coffee pot. Why pay rent somewhere else?”

“Why Cardigan?”

“We lived in Wilmington and kept the boat here—came down on weekends. A lot of people from that area keep their boats in Devon County.”

“Isn't it lonely?”

Tony looked over at me. “You already know the answer to that.”

“Mm. There's some truth.” I folded my hands in my lap. “So, why are you taking this memoir class?”

“It has a lot to do with the aforementioned marriages.”

“I'm not sure I follow.”

“My old man is on number five.”

I thought for a moment. “Five? You mean he's been married
five
times?”

Tony nodded. “And the way this one is turning out, he may very well be on his way to number six. The guy has prenups down to a science.”

“Okay. I think I understand. By writing a memoir you can figure out how to avoid being like your father.” I smiled over at him. “Is that right?”

Tony downshifted. “You got it.” The Mazda squealed onto the lane approaching Janice's estate. I peered out the window. The last slice of daylight hovered over the horizon. A small whistle escaped from Tony's lips. “Nice piece of acreage she's got here.”