Murder at Barclay Meadow (37 page)

“What did you
do
?” Her brow knitted as if she couldn't quite take in what she was hearing.

“She was having an affair,” he said. “With a professor! She told me that, right there on the dock.”

“Oh, God,” she said. Her arms were weakening.

“Oh, God,” I echoed in a faint whisper.

“It's because
you
let her go to that awful school,” he hissed. “This is all
your
fault. If she would have stayed here, I could have prevented this.”

My ear cocked to the sound of a distant siren.

“Tell me,” Corinne demanded.

“I don't think you need to hear—”

She pointed the gun at a spot on the wall just to the right of his head and fired. The sound was deafening. Drywall dust snowed through the air.

Bill covered his head. “Jesus, Corinne. What are you doing?”

She pointed the gun back at Bill.

Hunched in fear, he continued. “She
liked
telling me about him. She was smiling, like sleeping with this man was her way of getting back at me.” Sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. “I couldn't make her shut up,” he said. “I had to make her shut up. Don't you see? She was intentionally tormenting me.”

I placed my hand over my mouth.

Corinne flinched as the siren grew louder. “Then what?” she demanded.

“I … I grabbed a line from the dock. I put it around her neck. I didn't mean to squeeze so hard.” He began to sob. “But she had to shut up.” Bill's head spun around. Police lights flashed in the window. He looked at me. “What have you…” He turned and lunged at Corinne. Wrenching the gun from her hand, he swung around and aimed at me. The front door burst open. Bill started to squeeze the trigger just as Corinne flung the full force of her weight into him, tackling him to the ground. The bullet hit a lamp, knocking it off the table with a crash. The room went dark.

“In here!” I shrieked as I ducked behind a chair.

A flashlight blinded Bill. A police officer planted a boot on his arm and kicked the gun away with his other foot.

“Oh my God,” I said and collapsed.

 

F
ORTY
-
EIGHT

The next day Tyler stood, hands on hips, and watched as I got out of my car. A dusting of brown dirt covered his jeans and T-shirt.

“What's wrong?” I juggled several reusable bags filled with groceries.

“What's wrong with you?”

“Me?” I stopped before him and set my bags on the stoop. “Let's just say I had a stressful day yesterday.”

Sweetie Pie trotted around the corner with a goldfinch in his mouth. “Oh,” I said. “No, Sweetie Pie. Drop that.”

He opened his mouth and the bird plopped onto my foot.

“That's his third one today,” Tyler said. “That feeder of yours is more like a cat feeder than a bird feeder.”

I looked down. “Is it dead?”

“Uh, yes.” Tyler tucked his hands in his back pockets. “I saw your note this morning that you had a cat called Sweetie Pie, but I've renamed him.”

I reached down and scratched Sweetie's ears. “Are you supposed to do that?”

“That cat is no sweetie pie. He's a ruthless killer.” Tyler gazed down at my new pet. “I'm calling him Sweeney. As in Sweeney Todd.”

“He's just trying to adjust.” Sweetie serpentined through my legs. I picked him up. He purred relentlessly as he kneaded my shoulder. “Maybe he's never been outside before. Give him time.”

Tyler shook his head and started to walk away. He stopped when he saw a vehicle coming toward us kicking up dust.

Sheriff Wilgus climbed out of his cruiser. Tyler stood at alert.

“So, Hart,” he said as he slammed the door and headed over to us, “I just spent the day with the Wilmington police.”

I stole a glance at Tyler. “And?”

“Bill Johnston has been charged with second-degree murder.” He looped his thumbs in his belt. “Seems they got the whole confession on the phone, thanks to you.”

I smiled weakly. “That's wonderful news.”

“I'm not even going to ask why you were at their house,” the sheriff said.

“Corinne invited me. She was ready to know what I had learned.” Our eyes met. “I felt a duty to tell her the truth.”

“They may have some more questions for you.” He looked at me warily.

I turned to Tyler. “This is about—”

“I know,” he said.

“You know?”

“Annie told me a long time ago,” Tyler said. “She wanted me to look out for you. She was worried.”

“But you never said anything.”

He shifted his weight. “And this surprises who?”

I looked back at the sheriff. It was a cloudy day. No reflecting sunglasses. His eyes were a deep brown, almost black, and questioning.

I thought about the sheriff's role in all of this, his agreeing to not conduct an investigation, his threatening me, throwing me in jail. “Would you like some coffee?” I said. “I think you and I need to have a conversation.”

Without a word, he followed me into the house.

I filled two cups and joined him at the table. He was looking out at the river. “Sheriff Wilgus?”

“Feeling some d
é
j
à
vu,” he said and turned to face me.

I smiled. “Me, too.”

He leaned back in his chair. “What do you want to know, Hart?”

“What happened in Delaware?”

He shook his head. “I don't know what you're getting at.”

“Yes, you do.”

“There's nothing to tell.” He avoided my eyes.

“Are you going to be able to keep your job?”

“What?”

I flattened my back against my chair. The man still sent shivers down my spine. “Are they looking into what happened here in Cardigan? I mean, you know, because there was no investigation?”

“So far, no one has asked me anything about that.” He narrowed his eyes. “And I don't expect them to start. You got that?”

“But … the things you did.” I willed myself to hold his gaze. “A young woman was murdered.”

“I wanted to conduct an investigation. I don't know why you think I didn't.”

I huffed out a laugh. “Because you didn't actually do it.”

“You already know what happened.” His voice was quieter. His anger seemed to have dissipated. He took a swig of coffee.

“The college could do it again, you know. Blackmail you, use what they have over you.”

He finished his coffee and stared down at the cup. “Damn, that's good coffee.”

I picked up his cup, walked over to Mr. Miele, and refilled it. I set it down in front of him but remained standing behind my chair. I liked feeling taller than him at last.

“They can't do it again,” he said.

“Why not?” I said. “What's to stop them?”

Our eyes met. “Because that problem is fixed.”

“It is?” I shook my head. “How?”

His chin lifted. “Twelve steps. How else?”

“That's wonderful!” I squeezed the top of the chair, feeling thrilled at the news. “So this means David Carmichael can't control you anymore.”

“It does.”

“This is so great,” I said. “You can continue being the sheriff and you and I don't have to hate each other anymore.” I smiled broadly. “So, Sheriff, can I call you ‘Joe' now?”

“You may not.”

“Oh.” I stepped back. Just when I thought we were making progress. I stared at the floor, feeling confused by the myriad of feelings swirling around inside. I looked up. “Since we're being honest with one another, I have a question. Did you shoot through my window on Thanksgiving?”

He stirred more sugar into his coffee, the spoon clanking against the sides. “I already told you. It was a hunter tracking a deer. It happens more often than you think.”

My mouth fell open. “You mean it wasn't you?”

He shrugged. “You were lucky, that's all.”

“Doesn't sound like me,” I said.

“Actually…” He said and set the spoon on a napkin. “It sounds a lot like you.”

 

F
ORTY
-
NINE

The Washington Post
ran a four-part series about corruption in a small town on the Eastern Shore. Headlines above the fold read “Cardigan, Maryland: Sleepy Eastern Shore Town or Bed of Corruption? The first segment in a series of articles by Pulitzer Prize winner Richard Burke.”

Tom Bestman represented the owners of the row houses and they were compensated properly for their land. The college offered to help finance some low-income housing for the tenants. The row houses wouldn't be razed until the apartments were complete.

Once President Carmichael had agreed to the deal, the spotlight shifted away from him and blazed on the county commissioners. In addition to trying to force out the uneducated owners of the row houses, it was discovered that they were accepting bribes from a big-box store trying to weasel its way into the small county. The county commissioners had been busy bending zoning laws and smart growth legislation in order to bring in the discount store that would have put most of the shops on Main Street out of business. Sheriff Wilgus personally escorted them out of the municipal building.

I worried that people would blame me for all the uproar, but the next time I saw Doris Bird she came out from around the counter and grabbed me in a bear hug. Turns out people were relieved. The corruption was rampant, but no one had quite figured out how to expose it while keeping their necks. “It took a couple of outsiders,” she said, “to put things right.”

The What Ifs planted a tree in Megan's memory on the banks of the river. A Russian olive—my mother's favorite tree—with silver leaves that fluttered delicately in the breeze, catching the light and sparkling like tinsel.

I felt as if I should thank Megan somehow—for what she gave me—waking me from my complacency, from my solitude and victimization. She struggled hard, I now know, to break free from a life of tyranny. She did not make it. But I could carry on her cause, through my daughter's life and my own.

 

F
IFTY

A few weeks later, Ed called. He had ended things with Rebecca. Apparently, she had an affair with someone richer. He began calling me nightly, wanting to chat about everything from what I was eating for dinner to his business plan. He had been trying to connect with Annie, but she was still rebuffing him. She's hurt, I told him, and he agreed. When I suggested he friend her on Facebook, he scoffed at the idea. But then a few days later he opened an account, sent her a friend request, and slowly but surely eased back into her life.

Edward Hamilton Hart has sent you a friend request.

Janice Tilghman has sent you an event invitation.

Janice Tilghman

You're coming to the party, Rose Red, just so you know.

Rosalie Hart

Oh, no you don't. Been there, done that.

Janice Tilghman

Our dentist is engaged.

Rosalie Hart

Good for him. So who is it then?

Janice Tilghman

Who said there was anyone? Just come. It'll be an awesome party—outside with a whole bunch of grills going. What do you think about some jerk chicken, a Caribbean theme, maybe some fireworks over the water and a marimba band? Good times. Hey, you ever play corn hole?

I started to type a response, but stopped. Someone once asked me if I felt more or less connected now that I was a member of the Facebook community. It was a hard question to answer. On the positive side, I was much more in tune with the people closest to me. I could share Annie's daily thoughts and activities despite the physical distance between us. And I'm up to date on what people are doing, including those who I wouldn't otherwise have contact with. I even had another friend request from an old boyfriend the other day, although not the one in the denim jacket. Of course, Corinne Johnston had tracked me down on Facebook and I'd almost gotten shot in her study. That's a little too connected for my taste. So … do the benefits outweigh the costs? A definite yes. You've got to put yourself out there if you want connection, adventure, and maybe even love.