Murder at Barclay Meadow (26 page)

“I sort of made up the recipe. I've been experimenting. Annie loved cinnamon toast when she was little, so I thought, What better flavor for a muffin? Right? Besides, baking can be very healing.” I smiled. “Tell me more about the houses.”

Glenn leaned in. “The college wants to build two dormitories—state-of-the-art to keep those tuition dollars flowing. Kids expect that now, you know. They want private bathrooms and kitchenettes and maid service. No more cinder block cells with squeaky bunk beds.”

“Can I ask why you're so interested?”

“It just doesn't seem right. I think the college should have to pay them their due. That land is valuable to them. And I don't understand the zoning. Something is fishy.”

“It's all that time at Birdie's. You're getting attached to this town, aren't you?”

“This investigation appears to be uncovering more than just a potential murder. I'm starting to see how things operate here. It just doesn't seem kosher.”

“Janice has led me to believe there are powers that be around here. Do you think that's true?”

“The sheriff doesn't follow his own laws. The college seems to have undue influence over things. Which makes me think it goes higher. Maybe a judge or a county commissioner. Or maybe the mayor.”

“What are you going to do, Glenn?”

“I don't know yet. But I can't sit by and watch injustice. If those people can't advocate for themselves, then someone has to do it for them.” Glenn's brow was deeply furrowed.

“Good luck with that.” Tyler strode into the kitchen. He set his coffee cup on the counter and turned to face us, one hand on his hip. “Lots of people have tried to change the way things work here. Especially newcomers. But they soon learn it's like trying to change the direction of the Cardigan. Some things are just how they are.”

*   *   *

After saying good-bye to Glenn, I scrubbed the kitchen clean and sat at my desk with yet another cup of coffee. As always, my first stop was Facebook.

Shelby Smith has tagged you in a photo.

Annie Hart

These are great, mom. Maybe you could pick one for your profile. That silhouette is creepy: /

Sue had joined Tyler and me for dinner a few days before. After eating my homemade cream of crab soup dusted with Old Bay Seasoning, corn bread, and a walnut and pear salad, the three of us lingered at the table and talked for hours.

The image was of me in my apron and oven mitts holding up the soup tureen. It was a flattering photo, which wasn't always the case when you're tagged on Facebook. Dim lighting is great for erasing crow's feet and the parentheses that seem to frame my mouth these days. Maybe I would actually have a face on Facebook.

I clicked on Sue's timeline in order to thank her. Three hours ago, she had posted the following status update.

Shelby Smith

Still in my P.J.s reading a can't-put-it-down mystery.

Thirty minutes later this was posted:

Tim Collier

I'm coming to you. I know where you are. Destiny has chosen this moment.

It was one o'clock.

“Call Sue Ling,” I said into my phone as I ran out the door. I prayed to God she hadn't changed her number again. I got in my car and tore down the driveway. Gravel popped and ricocheted off the wheels and a cloud of dust mushroomed behind me. As I skidded onto the main road, my car fishtailed and I almost lost control. Answer, Sue. Come on. Voicemail. Damn. I ended the call and redialed. On the fifth ring, she finally picked up.

“Are you all right?” The turbo roared as I swerved around a tractor. I glanced in the rearview mirror. The driver gesticulated something offensive at me.

“I'm great,” Sue said. “I'm in the middle of a Lee Child and didn't want to answer my phone. Reacher is kicking butt.” She giggled. “I'm still in my pj's.”

“Is your door locked?”

“I don't know. Geez, Rosalie. What the heck is wrong?”

“Lock your door.” My heart was pounding. Please let me be in time. “Now!”

“Okay, okay.” I could hear her muffled footsteps and finally a click. “There. It's locked. Are you going to tell me why you're freaking out?”

“Thank God.” I exhaled a sigh of relief. “Oh, oops,” I said as I avoided a cyclist. “Sorry, Sue. I almost got a new hood ornament.”

“Rosalie, are you in your car? Hang up and call me when you're—”

“No! Go to your Facebook wall.”

“Why?” Her voice was high and thin.

“Just do it.”

“Okay. Hang on. Oh!”

“It's him, isn't it.”

“Oh my gosh. Rosalie … it's exactly…”

“Exactly what he said to Megan the night she died. How did he find you?” She didn't respond. “Sue? Are you
there
?”

“I … I told him some things.”

“Oh, no.” Dread coursed through me. “Why would you do such a thing?”

“We were failing,” she said. “The investigation was stuck and no one seemed to care. He wasn't writing to me as much and I wanted to keep him engaged. Oh, Rosalie. I had to do something. Don't you see? We were giving up on Megan.”

“I'm almost to town. I'm just passing the country club.” I tried to peer around the Lincoln Town Car that was snailing down the road in front of me. “Are you alive?” I said.

“
What?
” Sue said.

“Oh, gosh, I'm sorry. I was yelling at the car in front of me. Oh, good. He's turning. And you're right, honey. We were giving up on Megan. Okay … I'm almost to your street.” After waiting at a light, I turned onto Sue's block. She lived in the upstairs of a house; the bottom flat was vacant, but Sue said she preferred it that way. It was a small clapboard house close to the street with a gravel driveway leading to the backyard. A rusty car sat in front of the house. Delaware license plates. He's already here. My heart fisted in my chest. “Sue, hang on, I'm going to put the phone down for a moment.”

“Rosalie, no!”

I dropped my phone in my lap and tried to act nonchalant as I eased past. A pounding bass vibrated my car. Long strands of brown, stringy hair curtained the face of the young man in the driver's seat. He was staring at something in his lap.

I picked up my phone. “Sue?”

“Rosalie,
please
don't put your phone down again.”

“Honey, he's here. He's sitting in a car in front of your house.”

“Oh, my God,” she screamed.

“I'm going to put you on hold while I call the sheriff. One sec.”

“Don't call the sheriff.”

“Why not? Sue!”

“Just please don't.”

I drove around the block and parked behind the boy. The hard, angry rap thundering from the car increased in volume when he pushed the door open and climbed out. It muffled again when he slammed the rusty door shut. “Sue,” I whispered. “He just got out of the car.”

The boy's jeans were low on his hips. Plaid boxers billowed out of the top. He held his pants on with one hand as he walked to the sidewalk. I started to get out, although I had no clue what I would do. I stopped when he leaned against his car. He parted his hair with his hands and gazed up at Sue's window. I chewed on a fingernail. “He's a greasy boy. I don't think he's washed his hair in a month.”

“Rosalie. What should we do?”

“We should call the sheriff, but barring that … I'm thinking. Hey, don't go to your window. He's staring up at your house. He must know you're on the second floor. How would he know that? Oh, wait.” I squinted to try and see better. “He's reaching in his pocket.”

He held a half-smoked joint tight in his fingers, sparked a lighter, and puffed it lit. He inhaled deeply, his eyes closed, and held it in. After a few seconds, he exhaled a long, steady stream of smoke. He paused, then took another hit. Tilting his head back, he studied the inertness of Sue's house with narrowed eyes.

“He's smoking a J,” I said. “Isn't that what they're called? Or is it ‘doobie'?”

After another toke, the boy knocked the ember onto the sidewalk and stepped on it. He licked his fingers, stubbed out the joint, and put it back in his pocket. As he walked around the back of his car, I kept the phone to my ear and pretended to be in an animated conversation. The door creaked shut. He picked something up off the passenger seat and hunched over it. The bass continued to thump like a heartbeat in a stethoscope. Clouds of dirty blue-gray smoke puffed out of the tailpipe and quickly dissipated.

“He won't try anything, right?” Sue said. “It's the middle of the day. Aren't there people around?”

“Well … there's a very old woman walking a ball of matted fur and another woman running by with one of those jogging strollers. I don't think they would be much help.” I gripped the steering wheel and watched carefully. “Well, maybe the woman with the stroller. She's pretty buff.”

After a few minutes, the boy climbed back out of the car and shoved his hands in the pockets of his hoodie. One of the pockets hung low, heavy with something bulky. What if it's a
gun
? I had to call the sheriff. I didn't know what Sue was hiding, but it wouldn't matter if she was dead.

He pulled the hood over his head and walked purposefully toward the house. His face was shrouded, causing him to look like the grim reaper incarnate. He strode past the front door and walked toward the driveway.

“I'm hanging up.”

“Rosalie!”

I hopped out and hurried to the sidewalk. “Tim?” I called, slightly breathless. “Hey, Tim.”

He spun around. “Who the hell are you?”

“Tim Collier, right?” I took a step closer, wobbling in my boots. Why was I in heels? “Aren't you Tim Collier?”

“Who wants to know?” His eyes darted around. The jogger had moved on. The older woman must have finally rounded the corner. We were alone.

“I'm friends with Shelby. I just dropped by to see her.” I steeled my eyes into his. “I recognize you from Facebook.”

“What the…” His voice was high in his throat. “Just leave me alone.”

“I know, Tim.” I took another step and crossed my arms. “I know you write threatening messages on young women's Facebook pages. And then you find them, is that right?” I cocked my head. Adrenaline bolstered my courage.

“I don't have to listen to this. I don't have to listen to nobody. You got that?” He was yelling now. His eyes were wide, almost feral. “And I don't care what you say, 'cause none of it matters anymore.” He jabbed a finger at me. “People suck.”

My scalp tingled. This kid had probably posted a good-bye video on his Facebook wall trashing all the bullies of the world. He was going to kill me, Sue, and anybody else who got in the way.

He came closer. An ashy, herbal scent met my nose. He clutched the weight in his pocket.

 

T
HIRTY
-
SIX

“What do you want, Tim?” Sue sounded calm and unafraid. She stood on the sidewalk in front of her house in a pair of drawstring flannel pants and a pink tank top.

“Tim?” I said. His hand moved again. Perspiration trickled down my back. “I recognize you from Megan's wall, too.”

His mouth dropped open.

“We've documented everything,” Sue said.

Good one, I thought.

“And the police are on their way,” she added. I prayed she meant it.

His eyes darted from Sue to me, then back to Sue. “You said you loved me.” His voice was ragged.

“No,” Sue said. “I didn't.”

“We both loved Megan. Remember?” he pleaded. “We can all be together.”

Sue crossed her arms. “I never knew Megan. I made it all up.”

“Why … you lying bitch. You…”

A siren wailed. She did call the sheriff.

Tim hesitated, then ran to his car. The engine revved and he tore out, leaving a patchwork of black tire treads on the pavement.

Sue and I rushed to one another. “Thank God you're all right.”

“You were amazing, Rosalie. So brave.”

“What about you?” I stepped back and looked her in the eye. “And you called the sheriff.”

She nodded. “I had to. He could have hurt you.” The siren grew closer. Sue looked nervously in its direction. “I'm going upstairs. Call me down only if you need me, okay? But please, try not to mention my name.”

“Honey, what are you
hiding
?”

“Rosalie, there's a lot you don't know about me.” She glanced down the street. “Be careful. The sheriff hates you.” She reached out and squeezed my hands. “You just saved my life.” Her mouth twitched. “But I have to go.”

She trotted around the house just as the sheriff's cruiser squealed around the corner, stopping within centimeters of my bumper. He killed the siren, but kept the lights on. The garish colors overwhelmed the cloudless blue sky.

My shoulders fell. I was completely enervated from the adrenaline that had just coursed through my body like a bullet train. “Sheriff Wilgus.”

He eased his bulk out of the cruiser, making no effort to hurry. “I got a call someone was threatening a Shelby Smith.”

“Someone was.”

“So?” He stepped onto the sidewalk and adjusted his belt. “Where is she? And who's threatening her? You?”

“Not me. A young man was here, but he got away.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“He was stalking her on the Internet. And he showed up here this afternoon.” I bit my lower lip. “I think he had a gun.”

He scowled. “Did you actually
see
a gun?”

“No. But I'm ninety-nine percent certain he was carrying a pistol in his pocket.”