Murder at Barclay Meadow (27 page)

“Maybe he was just happy to see you.”

“I'm glad you find this so amusing, but the whole thing was pretty terrifying.” I rubbed my arms.

“Well, you got no victim and no perp.” He eyed the quaint, quiet street. “So, we don't have a crime. Oh, wait…” He looked over at my car. “Will you look at that. Someone forgot to put money in the meter again.”

“Sheriff. I'm serious. This boy is dangerous. I have his license plate number. He's probably on his way to I-95. You could put out an APB.”

“For what, exactly?” He rubbed his chin. “A guy I never saw?” He made quotations marks when he said “guy.”

“He wrote a threatening note on my friend's wall,” I said.

“He wrote on her wall? With what? A
crayon
?”

“No.” This was futile, but I had to give it a shot. If Tim Collier was our killer, he could kill again. I looked up at the sheriff. How did this man always make me feel so inconsequential? “He wrote a threatening post on her
Facebook
wall.”

“Oh, this is rich, Hart.” He hoisted up his pants.

“He wrote on Megan Johnston's wall, too. The day she died.” I paused, waiting for it to sink in. My eyes never left his. “If you actually investigated her death, you would already know that.”

“You ever gonna shut up?” His face darkened. “I've had it with you and that girl.”

“He could kill again.” I lifted my chin. “And this time it will be your fault.”

“
Again?
” His eyes smoldered.

“He stalks people on the Internet, then figures out where they live.”

“You got a body?”

“No. I already told you. I scared him away with what I knew.”

“You're certifiable, you know that? You should be in the loony bin.” A terrifying smile curled up his lips. “I just had an idea.”

I brushed my hair back from my face. “I know, Sheriff.”

He was still smiling. “No, you don't.”

“Yes, I do.”

“I don't have time for your games, Hart.”

“I know everything,” I blurted out. “I know that Nick Angeles was sleeping with Megan. I know the college wanted you to drop the investigation to protect him. And I know why you were willing to do it.” I stepped closer and lowered my voice. “I know what they have on you.”

“You don't know
nothin
'.” There it was. The whiskey-saturated breath.

“Then why are you harassing me?”

“You're freakin' nuts. Bonkers.” He pointed up. “Elevator don't make it to the top.”

I swallowed hard. “I have evidence.”

“Ha! You know how much that matters?'” He towered over me. “You're nothing more than a drop in the Chesapeake Bay.”

“I'd like to get in my car.”

“You're out of warnings.” He blocked my way with his girth.

I could feel the blood drain from my face. I had showed enough bravado for the one day. For one life. “I'm going home now.”

I stepped around him and slid into the seat of my car. The lights continued to swirl. Vertigo spun in my head. I grabbed the steering wheel to steady myself and turned the key. I jumped when I heard a knock on the passenger window. After I buzzed it down, the sheriff rested his arms on the door and peered in. I had half a mind to put it back up. Maybe I would catch his head in the window.

“What?” I said.

“One more thing.”

I waited. The car was in drive. I gripped the wheel tighter.

“I just wanted to tell you,” he said in a slow drawl. “You'll be real easy to find when it's time.”

 

T
HIRTY
-
SEVEN

Tony and I agreed to meet in town a few days later. Although I was worried I'd run into Sheriff Wilgus, it was a warm, sunny day and I was low on vitamin D.

“How's Sue?” Tony said as we strolled toward the small park in the center of Cardigan. We had purchased fountain sodas from the drugstore. Mine was a cherry cola and Tony had ordered a root beer float.

“Amazingly okay,” I said.

We sat on a bench bathed in sunlight. A few stubborn leaves still clinging to the oak trees rustled above us. I took a loud sip from my drink.

“I wish you could have learned more from Bill Johnston,” I said.

“Oh, I think I learned enough to know he could have done it. He screamed narcissist.”

“Still…” I sipped again, disappointed my drink was almost gone. “We could use some more evidence.”

“Hey…” Tony nudged my arm. “Isn't that Glenn?”

I looked up. Glenn was scurrying toward us, arms pumping as he speed-walked through the square. His hair was askew and his face was dotted with red blotches.

“Glenn?” I said. “Are you all right?”

“Better than all right.” He flopped onto the bench between us. His chest heaved as he tried to catch his breath.

“Spill, Pops,” Tony said.

“Lila has finally opened up about the police report.” His chest rose and fell. “Megan”—he hesitated, seeming to want to savor his triumph—“did not drown.”

I slapped my hand over my mouth.

“What did she say?” Tony said.

“There was no fluid in her lungs or air passages—none of that frothy foam from drowning.”

“So, they did an autopsy after all?” I said.

“No.” Glenn shook his head. “No, the family was adamant.”

“So, how do they know?” Tony said.

“There was no foam.”

“But…” I thought for a moment. “Then they should have had to do an autopsy. That means she was murdered.”

“Well, it's not that simple. First of all, I think this town is so corrupt we are only scratching the surface. But also, the father said she had been depressed and that he found a suicide note.”

“So, there
was
a note,” I said. “You know, I did see an envelope in the evidence bag.”

“Lila never saw a note. She checks in all the evidence. Someone must have intervened. Anyway, when the sheriff was getting ready to order an autopsy, something happened and he closed the investigation.”

“The college,” Tony said. “That's when the college put the kibosh on it to protect”—he made quotations marks with his fingers—“Nicky.”

“And their reputation. So, yes, I believe that's exactly what happened.”

“But if there was really a note,” I said, “then she did commit suicide.”

“Not so fast,” Glenn said. “There are still facts that don't add up. No one ever saw a note. Bill just claimed there was one. And he said his wife was so distraught an investigation could do her in. But as we have learned, the man isn't overly concerned about his wife's well-being. So if there was an envelope, it wasn't necessarily a suicide note. Plus, Bill could have his own reasons to stop an autopsy from occurring. Didn't you say the college president notified the Johnstons? Bill could have skedaddled down there before the police had finished with the crime scene. It's all entirely possible.” Glenn smoothed his hair back into place. His breathing had finally slowed. “There's another thing. According to Lila, the sheriff saw some things on the body, including some bruises on her neck. But even more important, he thought it odd she was dead before she went in the water. I mean, how do you die by suicide and end up in the water if you didn't drown? It would take an awful lot of jerry-rigging.”

“That's true,” I said.

“So this Lila chick told you all that?” Tony said.

“Yes.” Glenn crossed his legs and hugged his knee. “The more interested I was, the more she talked. Funny thing is, she thinks she's protecting her sheriff, that he was unjustly prevented from doing his job. I don't think she realizes he could be incriminated, as well.”

I fell back against the bench. “I was right,” I said. “I was right all along. Megan was murdered.”

“It's looking that way,” Glenn said. “We have to keep up this investigation.”

“Glenn,” I said as I stared over at Birdie's. “Did Lila see you run over here?”

“No. She had already gone. I was finishing my paper and munching on one of those chocolate muffins you're selling and then I spotted you two. I folded up shop and got out of there.”

“Do you think Doris is watching us right now?” I said.

We all looked over at the dark glass, the peeling letters that spelled
BIRDIE'S SHOE STORE.

“Oh,” Glenn said. “Perhaps I should have waited and told you in our private group.”

 

T
HIRTY
-
EIGHT

I turned Nick's business card over in my hands and traced the raised lettering of his phone number. I had to do this. The trail was growing cold and we finally knew for certain that Megan had been murdered. I slid my finger over the screen of my iPhone, took a deep breath, and tapped out his number.

“Nicholas Angeles…”

Shoot. I was hoping for voicemail. “Uh, ahem. Hi, Nick. It's me. Rosalie.”

Silence.

“How are you?” I said quickly.

“Busy, actually.”

“Oh. Okay. I'm sorry to bother you. I—”

“You're not bothering me, Rosalie. I didn't mean that.”

“I was just wondering if you wanted to get that drink we talked about. I've been doing a little better, you know, since my separation, and I think it would be good for me to get out. Is the offer still open?”

Another silence. I started to speak and then …

“I have a better idea. Let's take that sail. The weather is warming up. How does that sound?”

“A sail?” I bit my thumbnail. “I don't know a thing about sailing. I know I asked you about your boat, but—”

“Even better.”

Better?

“Let me check my calendar and get back to you,” he said. “It would be lovely to spend time with you. Are you in?”

“Yes,” I said while my nerves bundled into a ball of terror. “I look forward to hearing from you.”

“Rosalie?” he said. “I'm glad you're ready to get out and live again.”

I ended the call and stared at the phone. I would need a planning session with the What Ifs, for sure. So many things could go wrong alone on a sailboat with Nicholas Angeles. I chewed on my thumbnail again. How on earth could I pull this off? I looked out the window. The sun was higher in the sky. Daylight Savings Time was finally over and I could adjust to the rhythms of the sun again. It cast a warm glow over the river, as if the tarnished gray had been brushed with a gilt of gold. The river. Megan. Yes, Megan, I hear you. I will do this. I trembled, feeling as if someone was sharpening a knife on my spinal cord.

I needed an Annie fix. I opened my computer and clicked on the blue F icon. Annie wasn't available for a chat, so I decided to go to her timeline to see what she'd been up to. She was taking her last midterm that afternoon and was scheduled to drive up to Chevy Chase tomorrow for spring break. After Thanksgiving, I insisted she get her car back and we secured a parking permit for the following semester.