Murder at Barclay Meadow (21 page)

She dropped her phone into the front pocket of her sweatshirt and accepted the mug. I watched as she eyed the tree. It had begun to list to one side and a new layer of needles littered the floor.

I put my arm around her. “It's like Charlie Brown's tree. It just needs a little love.”

“A
little
?” she said, but she was smiling.

“Let me show you what I found.” I walked over to a stack of boxes and lifted the lid of one. “Look at these ornaments.”

“Wow,” she said. “They're so old and beautiful.”

“Shall we?”

Tyler was right about the attic. Every box had been neatly labeled, and not only did I find a tree stand, but boxes of antique ornaments, the glass so thin Annie and I handled them gingerly as we secured them onto the spindly branches.

After we finished the tree, we sat down to dinner by candlelight. I had made her favorite: eggplant Parmesan (with extra sauce) and Caesar salad. We shared a bottle of chianti and her cheeks glowed with a tint of pink as we ate. She smiled more as she caught me up on all the events in her life, filling in the details that I could never glean through Facebook. As I listened and laughed along, my heart swelled with love and pride for her. She was beautiful. She was resilient. We would survive this.

After dinner we curled up in front of the fire with mugs of hot chocolate and watched
A Christmas Carol,
with George C. Scott. “Maybe Dad will get visited by some ghosts tonight,” Annie said and we burst into giggles. While admiring the tree, we decided to end the evening with
A Charlie Brown Christmas.
We sang along with “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” tears streaming down both our faces. Once we turned off the television, I presented Annie with her empty stocking. She hung it on the solitary hook Tyler had drilled into the mantel and, as was our family tradition, said, “Happy Birthday, Jesus.”

We hugged good night and I warned her to not come downstairs until the following morning. When her door clicked shut, I poured a glass of port and went about the house playing Santa. As I reached for her stocking, I thought about Ed. It had always been his job to stuff Annie's stocking. He even made the purchases and prided himself on the practicality of his choices—pens, rolls of tape, a printer cartridge, lip balm, a thick pair of mittens, and of course a foil-wrapped chocolate orange for heft. I don't know what Annie enjoyed more, the chocolate or the tightly wound bundle of cash he always tucked in the toe.

I placed one of Annie's packages under the tree. Needles sprinkled on to it. I wondered if Ed was thinking about us—missing our traditions. Was our house as warm and cozy without his wife and daughter? Then I realized. He wasn't there. That's why he had Annie come to Cardigan. He was avoiding any of those emotions and focusing on that woman. Did he buy her something expensive? Something sparkly in a robin's egg blue box wrapped with white silk ribbon?

I huffed out a sigh and fell into the sofa. The room was lit by the dying fire and the sparse lights draped on the tree. I hummed “Silent Night.” It had been my favorite carol as a child. I thought about my brother, Oliver, my partner in crime when we would search for the hidden presents. I longed for my mother. I went to all the sad places and cried and sang and sipped more port. Then I doused the fire and my tears, as well, combed my hands through my hair, and declared the wallowing was over. I was going to give Annie the Christmas vacation she deserved.

For the next six days I did exactly that. We took the candlelight tour of Cardigan's historic homes and ate at an inn along the water. We played in the woods and built a fort out of loose logs. We swam in the college pool and ran along the river every morning. Tyler taught us how to catch rockfish off the dock, but after four hours in the cold, we gave up and came inside. We watched movies and giggled by the fire. She beat me in a three-hour game of Scrabble and we lingered over every home-cooked dinner. On an unseasonably warm day, we packed an extravagant picnic lunch, piled onto Tony's sailboat, and explored the Cardigan from the water. “It's totally different from out here,” I said, wind in my face.

“You have to get one of these, Mom,” Annie called back.

On her last night, I topped the kitchen table with Charlotte's hand-tatted lace tablecloth and her floral Haviland china. Burning tapers painted the room in a soft, warm glow. Shadows danced on the walls as the flames flickered.

“Wow. New England clam chowder,” Annie said. “My favorite.” She scooped up a spoon full and tasted it. “Holy crap, Mom. This is amazing.” She tore off a piece of bread, dipped it in the soup, and popped it in her mouth. “What kind of bread is this?”

“Pumpernickel. I added some coffee granules to make it richer.”

“It's always about the coffee with you.”

“Yeah, right?” I laughed.

“Geez, Mom, the food has been so great this week, I've probably gained five pounds.” She took a long sip of water. “You know, if I were Dad, I would have stayed married to you just to eat your food.” Annie's eyes widened. She stared down at her plate. “That was weird to say.” She looked up at me with a sheepish expression, her shoulders hunched in worry about my reaction.

“A little bit weird,” I said.

“Sorry.”

I ignored the lurch in my stomach, reached over, and gave her back a quick scratch. “If we had a manual on how to do this, know what to say, what not to say, it might be a lot easier.”

She smiled in relief.

“But just so you know…” I returned her smile. “I would have stayed married to me for that reason, too.”

“Thanks for everything this week, Mom.” She tore apart her last portion of bread. “I had fun and all, but it's been weird not seeing my friends at home. I've just finished my first semester away at college and haven't seen anyone. I mean, they have all been together for a week now. The stories have all been told, the reconnections made. By the time I get there everyone will have moved on.” She dropped the bread onto her plate, wadded up her napkin, and tossed it on the table. “Is it always going to be like this? Me shuffling from one house to the other?”

“I don't know, sweetie. I came out here because I had to. I couldn't stay in our house and this one was here, sitting empty. I guess neither of us know what the future holds, if your dad will…” I stopped. “Your father has asked for a divorce. We both have lawyers, I don't know if you knew that. So … yes, you probably will be going to two houses for Christmas.”

“But will you always be so far away?” She looked over at me with watery eyes. “I mean, I hate that Bay Bridge. It's so scary. And knowing I have to cross it in order to see you freaks me out. It's like this giant gulf between us.”

My mouth fell open. “I had no idea, Annie. You hate the Bay Bridge?”

“Who doesn't? But more importantly, Mom, there's nothing to do here.”

“I thought we had fun this week.” I struggled to keep the defensiveness out of my voice.

“We did. I mean, you're like my best friend. But it's only you here.” She stuffed her fists in her lap.

“At least you get to spend a few days with your dad before you go back to school.”

“Mom? I hope it's okay to tell you this, but … well … I can't stand being in our house when she's there.”

“Why? What does she do?”

Annie rolled her eyes. “What doesn't she do? She's totally cold and arrogant. And Dad is all tense and unnatural. He's always watching to make sure I'm nice to her. Then he tries to come up with things for us to do. He wanted us to get pedicures together. That's about the only thing we have in common.”

“Liking pedicures?”

“No. We both have toes.”

“Oh, Annie.”

“The day after I got home, he suggested Rebecca and I go to Saks and get our makeup done. Since when have I been into makeup? Does he even know me? But then I started to think maybe he wants me to wear makeup, like I'm not pretty enough or something.

“Plus, I don't think she even knows how to cook. She leaves her stuff everywhere. And when I'm there she gives off this vibe, like, aren't you ever leaving? It's my house!”

“Is she always there?”

“She
lives
there. Mom! Hello?”

I placed my palm over my heart. “I didn't know.”

She looked over at me, gauging my reaction.

I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly. “I'm okay,” I said. “Back to you.”

“I don't know. I just feel like it isn't even my house anymore—like
I'm
the guest. And when I come here you're so great, but it's
here.
Or should I say nowhere. There isn't even a Starbucks here.”

“I'm so sorry, honey. I will keep all of that in mind while I figure out what I'm going to do. Okay?” I patted her back again. “But for now, I think this is a good place for me to be. I've made some friends, as you know. And I'm taking classes and cooking again. I'm getting the farm back in shape so that I can sell it. For now I feel I have a purpose here. I'm giving myself a year.”

“A
year
? Really?”

“That's what I've decided. Why?”

“Well, what about the summer? Where will I be?”

“Here?” I said.

“No way.” She shook her head. “Besides, I want to go back to my old job at the gym.” She picked at the wax on one of the candlesticks. “Will you at least
consider
coming back to Chevy Chase?” She started to pile the dried drippings in the center of the table.

“Yes, of course. I've lived in Chevy Chase most of my life.”

“Okay. I guess that's the best you can do.” Annie gazed out the window as she took her last bite of bread. Outside the moon was low. A gauzy curtain of fog rose from the river. “Do you think about her much?” she said.

“Aunt Charlotte?”

“No.” She looked over at me. “The girl you found. What was her name … Megan?”

I folded my hands and rested them on the table. “All the time.”

“Did they ever figure out how she drowned?”

“Honestly, Annie? I'm not convinced she did.”

“What the heck?”

I worried I would tell Annie more than she wanted to know. But I would never lie to my child. Never. “I've been looking into it.” I hesitated. “Do you want to know more?”

While we ate our entree of Annie's second favorite dish: baked ziti (with extra sauce), I told her about the investigation. When I explained how Sue hacked into Megan's Facebook page, Annie's eyes widened.

“Can I see it? Maybe I could help.”

“Absolutely.” I hopped up and flipped on the light. I scooted my chair closer to Annie's and set my laptop on the table. Once on Facebook, I typed in Megan's password.

“Wow. She's so pretty,” Annie said.

“Yes, she was. People are still writing on her wall. Even after all this time.”

Annie reached over to the touch pad and scrolled through the endless posts of grief. “This is so sad.”

“Heartbreaking.”

“Click on her private messages, Mom. There might be something there to help you.”

I stared over at her. “I never thought to do that. I wonder if Sue ever checked. She's been so busy friending all of Megan's contacts, maybe she didn't think of it.”

“Doesn't sound like Sue,” Annie said.

“I know. But she's uncovered so much already. Okay, let's see what we have.” We opened the list of conversations.

“Do you recognize any of these people?” she asked.

I shook my head. “It all seems pretty benign.”

“Go farther back,” Annie said.

I browsed through the list until I saw Bill Johnston's photo. “This is her stepfather. He's a suspect.”

Annie frowned. “Suspect, Mom? Really?”

“I'm serious,” I said. “I'm going to figure this out.”

“Okay.” She shrugged. “Let's see what you have here.”

We huddled over my computer, reading simultaneously. Annie's mouth fell open a few times. I gasped once or twice and when we finished, I fell back into my chair. Bill Johnston had just stepped boldly onto center stage and the entire six feet, four inches of him was front and center in the spotlight.

 

T
WENTY
-
EIGHT

“He wouldn't have left it at that,” Annie said. “Go back to her wall.”

I clicked out of the message chain and scrolled through the endless posts on Megan's wall that were written after she died. I had to hit “see earlier messages” at least a dozen times. And there it was.