Murder at Barclay Meadow (9 page)

I hadn't cooked a meal since I moved in. And yet, I loved to cook. It wasn't unusual for me to go to the market several times a week to secure fresh produce and ingredients for a new recipe. And on the rare times Ed, Annie, and I were all together for dinner, I would top the table with a cloth and a pair of tapers and cook a three-course meal. The candlelight encouraged conversation and lingering. Those were the happiest times for me—when Ed was engaged with Annie and we discussed everything from politics to rap music to the latest Nationals trade.

I set my bag on the counter and decided maybe a glass of wine would help motivate me to cook. A coffee mug sat in the sink. Tyler had taken me up on my offer and was helping himself to coffee throughout the day. I noticed his paperback on the kitchen table.
Dante's Inferno.
He certainly had unique literary tastes for a farmer.

After dropping a bouillon cube and a cup of brown rice into a pot of water, I sat at the table, combed my fingers through my hair, and allowed myself to think about Ed. I sipped my wine as the familiar ache of tears worked their way up my throat. I was still clinging to the belief that our marriage had been good. Ed always said I smoothed out his rough edges. His business aggression sometimes got in the way of his social encounters. It wasn't unusual for him to say what he thought before stopping to consider the effect it had on others. Some found him brusque and a little critical. And that's where I came in. My one skill—people liked me. Whenever I sensed Ed was about to blurt out a judgmental thought, I would simply tuck my arm through his and tell a funny story. I would feel his tensed muscles relax and later he would thank me. You know me so well, he would say.

“Yeah, right,” I said and wiped a tear from my cheek.

“Come again?” I was startled to see Tyler standing in the kitchen. “Your rice is boiling over.”

“Rats.” I leapt up and flipped the burner knob. The bubbles immediately died away. I looked at him. “Are you finished for the day?”

“It's getting dark. I just came in for my lunch.” He stared at the pot and frowned. “You're having brown rice for supper?”

“No,” I said. “I mean, I haven't decided yet. I was thinking about a stir fry.” I slid a finger under my lower lashes, wondering if my mascara had smeared.

Tyler walked over to the sink. I detected the scent of overturned earth and skin warm from the sun. I watched as he scrubbed the imbedded seams of dirt from his palms. He dried his hands, folded the towel, and hung it neatly on the oven door handle.

The odor of charring food filled the room. Tyler slid the pot to a different burner. He glanced up at me. “You might want to rethink the rice.”

“My idea to cook a meal was a fleeting one. I'm already thinking cottage cheese.”

He took me in. I wondered what he saw. Did he find me pathetic? I wanted to defend myself, tell him I used to be a pretty fun person, that I was active and generous, that my friends envied my life. Our eyes met. Despite the tightening in my throat, I held them steady with his. “My husband left me for another woman, Tyler. He had sex with her in our bed. That's why I'm here.”

His chin lifted a little. “Okay.”

“Okay,” I said. I walked over to the pot, picked it up, and dumped the rice in the trash. I put the pot in the sink and filled it with water. An acrid smell filled the room. Tyler watched as I poured out the water and dropped the pot in the trash with a loud thud.

Tyler picked up his book. “I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, okay.” I crossed my arms and stared at the floor.

“What are you going to eat?”

I looked up. “That all depends on the sell-by date on the cottage cheese.”

He nodded and stuffed his paperback in his back pocket.

“How's the book?” I asked, realizing I wasn't ready for him to leave.

“A lot can happen when you learn you've chosen the wrong path.”

My mouth fell open.

Tyler started for the door. He stopped and turned to face me. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's all right. You weren't necessarily talking about me.” I shrugged. “Although you probably were.”

“Pardon?” He pulled his cap tight on his head. “I'm sorry about your
husband
. And what he did. That's rough.”

“Oh. Thank you, Tyler. Thank you for saying that.”

He hesitated a moment, then walked out the door.

*   *   *

At 8:00 p.m. I signed on to Facebook. The number one was on my friend icon. I clicked on it.

Nicholas Angeles has sent you a friend request.

Whoa. He's Facebook friends with his students? I hesitated, wondering if this was a good idea. But he was our first suspect. I might get some information that could help the investigation. I clicked accept and shuddered.

After following Sue's instructions, I joined our private group. The first post was from Glenn.

I stared at the screen. This was a disaster. We were all typing at the same time. Answers were popping up before anyone had a chance to read the last post.

 

T
EN

Rhonda and I agreed to meet at a small cafe halfway between Wilmington and Cardigan. With an Internet search, I had discovered a quaint little restaurant that served organic, local food. I was pleasantly surprised when I arrived. It had large, inviting windows, linen tablecloths, and was decorated in warm, earthy tones.

Once we were seated, I smoothed my napkin over my lap and looked over at Rhonda. “So,” I said. “Tell me all about you.”

“What's to tell?” She was dressed in a tailored business suit and pumps with three-inch heels. Her light brown hair had been professionally brightened with streaks of honey gold and her face displayed an array of expertly applied makeup: concealer under the eyes, neutral tones on her lids, tweezed and penciled eyebrows, and a soft peach blush on the hollow under her prominent cheekbones.

“Let's see…” She took a sip of ice water. “I've lived in Wilmington my whole life, got divorced seven years ago, and, forced to support myself and my children's expensive lives, got my real-estate license and have been working my butt off ever since.” She rested her elbows on the table. “I have two kids, both in college, and well, I guess that's it. What about you?”

“I have a daughter who started college this fall. She's at Duke and loving it. And … well … I just moved into a very old house. My aunt left it to me in her will.”

“How old?”

“Close to two hundred years. And the farm is huge. I have someone leasing it and—”

“How huge?” Her eyes narrowed. “Like how many acres are you sitting on?”

I shook my head. “I'm not really sure. Over a hundred, I think.”

“Is it near the river?” She sipped more water.

“It's on the Cardigan. Remember? That's where I found Megan.”

“Right.” She gave me a sly smile. “If you ever want to sell it, I know a good Realtor.” She winked. “So, why did you move? You don't strike me as an Eastern Shore–type of gal.”

“It's complicated.”

“I see a wedding ring but you haven't mentioned a husband.”

I stuffed my hands in my lap. I still wasn't accustomed to admitting the truth about my marital status. Saying I was getting divorced felt like wearing ill-fitting shoes—it rubbed and squeezed and pinched at my heart. “He was having an affair. He still is,” I added. “I moved out about a nanosecond after he confessed.”

“So…” She folded her hands over the menu. “Dish—what happened?”

“Rebecca happened.”

“Midlife crisis,” she pronounced and leaned back in her chair. “Let me guess, he's around forty?”

“Forty-eight.”

“How old is Rebecca?”

“Do I have to tell you?” I sipped my water. “Early thirties. And she weighs about thirty pounds, too.”

“Don't do that.” Rhonda glanced around for the waitress, impatience pursing her lips.

“Do what?”

She looked back at me. “Compare yourself to her. You're not the reason he strayed.”

“How could you know that?”

“I just know.” The waitress approached our table looking harried. “Finally,” Rhonda said.

I smiled up at the young woman, trying to compensate for Rhonda's curt manner.

After ordering the butternut squash soup and a club sandwich, Rhonda slapped her menu closed and looked over at me. “How about a nice, juicy martini? It's Friday and I've had a bear of a week.”

I shrugged. “Okay.”

“Two Belvederes on the rocks, three olives.”

I ordered the soup and a watercress salad and handed my menu to the waitress. I looked over at Rhonda. “You were about to explain why Ed left.” I leaned in. “Please—enlighten me.”

“It's totally and completely about him. You could be Angelina Jolie and he still would have had the affair.”

I sat back and shook my head. “We both know that's not true.”

“Oh, yes it is.” She pulled a piece of bread from a basket and ripped it in two. “Let me guess, he's successful? Makes a lot of cash?”

“Only recently.”

“So, here's the deal. The old four-oh comes around and he starts thinking, Am I only going to have sex with the same woman for the rest of my life? And here I am in my prime, good-looking, lots of dough. So he takes it all out for a test drive.” She buttered the bread.

“That all sounds so trite.”

“Honey, you aren't the first chick this has happened to.”

I watched as the waitress set two sweating martinis on the table. Rhonda's comments were getting under my skin. Seeing Ed's actions as a midlife crisis seemed to trivialize our entire marriage. I picked up the glass and took a swig of vodka. Whoa, I thought. So that's what a martini tastes like.

Rhonda was eyeing me. “Divorce isn't so bad, Rosalie. It's not the end of the world.”

“Then why does it feel like it?” My throat was tight from the alcohol.

She slid an olive off a hot pink plastic sword with her teeth. “Look at the bright side—being a divorc
é
e is sort of exotic. You get to say dishy things like ‘my
first
husband.' And no more dirty underwear on the bathroom floor, snoring in the middle of the night.”

“Ed never did those things. He's neat as a pin.”

“So…” she said, eyebrows raised. “Would you take him back?”

My fingers fluttered over my spoon. I avoided her eyes, glancing around at the other patrons. After a deep breath I said, “Yes.” I centered my glass on the small napkin. I looked up at her. “How desperate do I sound?”