Murder at Barclay Meadow (6 page)

That morning, after three cups of weak hotel coffee, I had put some effort into my appearance. I wanted Annie to be proud when she introduced me to her friends. Although I was in a pair of jeans Annie had left behind, they were cut right and faded in places the designer intended. My hair was styled, my lips glossed, and I had looped a scarf around my neck. My only compromise was a pair of sensible shoes. I had wanted to wear a pair of high-heeled boots, not only to accent the outfit but to give me a little boost of height. But the rain-soaked grass was already turning to muck, so I settled on a pair of plain black flats.

I looked around at the crowd. Duke students and their parents dotted the sidelines. I thought of Megan's parents who probably never missed her soccer games. I wondered how they could possibly endure such a tremendous loss. I shrugged off a shiver and looked for Annie.

Two girls clutched the top of her shorts and lifted her into the air.

“Oh, my.” I slapped my hand over my mouth. Annie caught the tossed ball and before I could discern what happened, there she was again on the ground in the fetal position.

“Slam her down,” a voice called.

I turned around. “Why don't they wear helmets?” I asked one of the boys. “Or some sort of padding?”

“Because this is rugby, man,” he said, slurring his words, eyelids at half mast. “Kill her!” Spittle sprayed from his mouth.

I turned back to the game. Annie was on the sidelines. She pulled her jersey over her head and handed it to a girl waiting to go out on the field. I gasped. Annie was in nothing but a small pair of navy rugby shorts and a sports bra. Surely Duke could afford an adequate number of jerseys.

“Hey, is that your daughter down there?” one of the boys said from behind me.

“Yes.” I relaxed a little when I saw a girl hand Annie a T-shirt.

“She's awesome.”

I looked back at him. He appeared to be more sober than the others and was the only one without a cap pulled low over his eyes. “Thanks.” I smiled and faced the field again.

“Hello, Rose.”

My mouth fell open as I stared into my husband's face.

“Quite a game.” He was smiling, his teeth white against his tanned skin. He wore a brown suede jacket with elbow patches I had never seen before. A Ralph Lauren logo was stitched on the pocket. Apparently he still had access to the bank accounts.

A tall, thin blonde stood next to him. He brought her
here
? I stole another glance at her. She was the complete opposite of me—skinnier, blonder, and younger. Smooth, straight hair framed a pretty but expressionless face. She was dressed in a tweed blazer. A wool skirt hugged her ridiculously narrow figure and fell to a very expensive pair of chocolate brown boots with spiky, mudless heels. Well, of course she would be able to pull off the heels.

“Annie's playing great,” Ed said. “She's definitely the one to pass to.”

“It's a pretty brutal game,” I said, fighting hard to keep my voice from quivering.

“She can handle it,” Ed said. “Oh, Rose, this is Rebecca.”

Rebecca finally meets the ghost wife. Our eyes locked—a flash of connection like flint igniting the ache burning in my gut. We both looked quickly away. He brought her here. She would meet my Annie. He really was in love with her.

I cleared my throat. “I didn't realize you were coming.”

“Of course I came. Our daughter is going to Duke. I couldn't wait to get here.” He was being overly enthusiastic. I wanted him to shut up. Yes, she got into Duke, something I helped her do while he was in our bed with his paramour.

The crowd roared. Annie was clutching the ball. She had scored a goal. Her much taller teammates pounded her back and smacked her head. Annie grinned while she tried to stay on her feet. I waved. She saw me and waved back. Then she saw her dad. For a brief moment the smile disappeared as she took in the undomesticated scene. But it returned and she trotted over to her team.

I looked back at Ed. I wanted to speak, but my larynx had locked up. This was all wrong. It was our only daughter's first parents' weekend and instead of meeting her roommates and getting to know the other parents, I was standing face-to-face with the woman my husband ended twenty-three years of marriage for. The ache rose into my throat. I wasn't up to this. Not yet. Not ever.

Rebecca examined her French manicure.

“So, how are you?” Ed said. “You look wonderful. Have you lost weight?”

“What did you say?”

“I said you look wonderful.”

“Ed—are you kidding me?”

“Rose…” He shoved his hands in his jacket pockets. “I was giving you a compliment.”

“First of all, I am anything but wonderful. And secondly…” I tried to breathe. My heart pounded. “You don't get to do that anymore.”

“Do what?” He lowered his voice. “Pay you a compliment? Do you mind telling me what's so wrong about that?” He enunciated the ‘T.' Staccato words. That was how Ed expressed anger. Snapping his consonants. No more. No less.

Rebecca placed a hand on his arm. A gesture of ownership. He glanced over at her and then back at me.

“I can't believe you're making a scene.” He stepped back and shook his head. “I guess it was a mistake to say hello. I'm sorry—”

“Are you, Ed?” My voice cracked. “Are you really sorry?” No tears, no tears, no tears … I hugged myself, trying to hold them at bay.

“Rose…” His blue eyes were cool and narrowed with, what? Anger? Revulsion? Regret? “I'm sorry this couldn't have been a more civilized encounter.” He turned away and guided Rebecca by her pointy elbow to the opposite end of the field.

My heart thudded harder against my rib cage. I couldn't breathe. “Oh, God.” I pushed the heels of my hands against my temples. I can't faint, not here. I eased onto the ground and hugged my knees. I was trembling. I couldn't stop. I was going into shock. No, I can't. Not here. Not now. I can't do that to Annie. I rested my forehead on my knees. Breathe, Rosalie. Breathe.

I felt a hand on my back. I gasped. There. Air. I took in some air. I looked up. A boy crouched next to me. “You okay?” It was the boy without the cap.

“Yes. I mean, no. Not really.”

“Who was that dude? He looked like a serious pant load.”

“What? Did you just call my husband a ‘pant load'?” I laughed. “Oh, my gosh,” I said, still laughing. I don't know why or how, but it was the release I needed. I looked up at him. “God bless you … What's your name?”

“Connor O'Malley.”

“That's a good name,” I said. “I'm a Finnegan.”

“Well, Mrs. Finnegan…” He held out his hand and helped me to stand up. “You look like you could use a beer.”

*   *   *

Annie and I walked arm-in-arm back to her dorm. The scent of dust and drying sweat emanated from her clothes. “I didn't know, Mom, I swear. He never said he would be bringing her.”

“I know, honey. I'm so sorry. It can't be too much fun for you, either.” Our pace was brisk and I appreciated the chance to move. I pulled her closer to me.

“He wants to have dinner tonight, but I told him I already had plans with you.”

“Oh, Annie.” I brushed a stray hair from her face. I noticed a tear atop her dirty cheekbone. “This isn't fair. It's your first parents' weekend. We have no business putting you through this.”

Lampposts popped on as it grew dark. Annie's cleats clicked on the sidewalk. “It totally sucks,” she said. “I can't believe he's doing this to us.” She brushed the tear away and wiped it on her shorts.

I wanted to side with her, align against Ed. After all, we were both victims. But I knew better. I'd seen too many divorces where the parents argued through their children, sucking them into the middle, dividing their loyalties and forcing them to make choices a child should never have to make.

“He didn't intend to hurt you.”

“Are you actually defending him?” She stopped walking.

“God, no. But, well, I don't know. This is between us. Something went wrong, and I guess this is how it has to be now, as hard as it is.”

“
Something
? You don't even know, do you?” She shook her head. “Why are you letting him do this? Mom, you always taught me to be strong—to stand up for myself. ‘Annie,' you said, ‘you have to go after what you want. Don't expect it to find you.'”

“And you are.” I smiled.

“And you aren't,” she said, her voice pleading. “Mom…”

“I'm trying. Honestly, I am.” I studied her face. “I just don't want you to be in the middle. I want you to enjoy your first year of college and not worry about your parents. Can you do that?”

“It's hard. But the rugby is helping.”

“Of course.” I tucked my arm through hers. We started walking again. “You get to knock people down.”

“Exactly.”

“Annie…” I swallowed hard. “If you want, we can go to dinner with your father tonight. I can swing it if you can.”

“No.” She squeezed my arm. “I want you all to myself. Dad and I, and apparently that woman”—Annie made quotation marks in the air—“are having brunch tomorrow.”

“I would go for you if I could.”

“I'll be all right.”

“Maybe you could accidentally tackle her.”

“Mom!” Annie rubbed her arms. I noticed chill bumps on her legs.

I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and picked up the pace. “We need to get you out of those clothes.”

“Okay.” She leaned in close. “Hey, you know that guy you were talking to at the match? He asked for my number.”

“You mean Connor O'Malley? He offered me a beer just when I needed it. Well? Did you give it to him?”

“No. But I told him he could friend me. I like to peruse the Facebook wall before I agree to a date.”

“Smart girl,” I said, pulling her closer, breathing her in, feeling grounded again for the first time in months. She was here with me. And she was alive.

 

S
IX

The following Monday Glenn and I sat on a bench along a red-brick walkway that cut a diagonal path through the heart of the John Adams campus. Bright crimson leaves rustled in the Japanese maple above us, occasionally releasing one in an unhurried flight to the ground.

“I bought you a coffee,” Glenn said. “From Brower's.”

I popped off the lid and set the cup on the sidewalk.

“I've never known you to turn down coffee.”

“Just letting it cool.” I crossed my legs. “Okay, so what's my shtick?”

“You have decided to go back to college and pursue a degree in psychology.”

I hugged my purse, nervous at the thought of encountering the mysterious professor—our first suspect. I had dressed up in an A-line black skirt and scarlet red blazer for our meeting. “Do you think he'll buy it?” I popped the heel of my pump off and on. “A forty-five-year-old woman returning to college?”

“It makes perfect sense. You've just emptied your nest.” Glenn removed his notepad from his shirt pocket and studied it. “I've been looking into this man.”

“Glenn,” I said. “I believe you're getting as obsessed as me.”

“I can get a little single-minded about things, I'm afraid. It served me well in business. But research is our best weapon.”

“So, are you certain we have the right guy?”

A fresh gust of wind exposed Glenn's bald spot. He fixed his hair back in place and examined his notes. “Absolutely. Not only has he recently received a prestigious grant, he's the only professor teaching four hundred-level psychology courses. Oh, and all the other psychology professors are women.”

“Well, that certainly narrows it down. Anything else?”

“Let's see.” Glenn flipped a page. “He's forty-seven, married, and has two elementary school-age children.” He peered over the top of his glasses. “Those are young children for a man that age. Maybe a second marriage?”

“If he sleeps with his students that wouldn't come as a surprise.”

“Yes.” Glenn nodded. “That's a good theory.” He looked back at the spiral pad. “He's only been with the college three years. They hired him away from a small liberal arts college in New York.”

“I wonder why he left.” I picked up my coffee. “Glenn, how did you find all this out?”

“How else? I Googled him.”

“Of course you did.” I laughed.

The campus was dotted with students enjoying the sunny day. A pack of boys passed by kicking soccer balls and jostling one another, their cleats strung over their shoulders. One exceptionally tall and gangly boy kicked his ball into Glenn's shin. It thudded and ricocheted into the grass.

“Sorry, dude,” the boy said and trotted away to fetch his ball.

Glenn rubbed his leg. “Did he just call me ‘dude'?”

“He did. Are you okay?”

“I'm fine. Actually, I like being out here among these college students.” He nudged his glasses back up his nose. “Waterside Village is nice enough. My townhouse is adequate and I have a view of the river. And I certainly don't miss mowing the lawn. But you know the problem with living in an over-fifty-five community?”

I smiled at him. “What?”

“Everyone is the same age. It's not an accurate slice of the world. I miss watching a child ride his bike down the street or a teenager learning to parallel park. Sitting here with you is just what I needed.”

“I never thought of it that way. You sure you're okay?”

“Couldn't be better.”

“Back to Professor Angeles. Does he live in town?”

“One of those historic homes on the Cardigan. You can see it as you cross the bridge into town.”

“On the water?” I took a sip of coffee.

“Yes. Why?”

“Glenn…” I nibbled on my bottom lip. “What if the professor has a boat?” I turned to face him. “If he does, then maybe he took Megan out on it. What better way to keep an affair under wraps than on a boat?”