Murder at Barclay Meadow (7 page)

“Of course. And if you want to end it, you toss her over the side. Good thinking, Rosalie. In this business, what may seem trivial can often be the most significant.”

“I know, right? This is good. We're getting somewhere.” A rare feeling of elation tickled my neurotransmitters. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt happy. “Glenn, do you think we might figure this out? I mean, look at us—you're a retired businessman, and I'm a…” I frowned. “What exactly am I? A work-in-progress? A piece of work?”

Glenn chuckled. “It's all in how you sell it. I would rather say that I am an analyst and you are an exceptional observer of people. Put those two together and you have the makings of a savvy detective.”

“Ha! Nice spin.” I jostled my shoe again. “I'm so glad you're helping me.”

“It is I who should be thanking you.”

Detecting a subtle change in his tone, I said, “Glenn, what happened to your wife?”

He tucked away his notepad and rubbed his palms on his corduroy pants. “She passed six years ago of breast cancer.”

“I lost my mother to the same thing. I think it's an epidemic.”

“Molly never knew she had it until it was too late.” Glenn stared off. His voice was strained with emotion. “She found a lump. After three years of telling her it was nothing, the doctor told her it was something. She died three months later.”

“That's awful. I'm so sorry.”

He removed his glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I miss her every moment of every day.”

“Of course you do.” I patted his arm.

Once he had composed himself, Glenn said, “You should get annual mammograms, Rosalie.”

“Believe me, I do.” I gripped my cup with both hands. “Oh.”

“Oh, what?”

“I just realized I'm going to need health insurance once my divorce is final. Gosh, I wish I could find a job.”

“You don't believe your husband will impoverish you, do you?”

“He seems to be on that track. Let's just hope Tom Bestman's lawyering is as good as his smile.” I took a sip of coffee, hoping it would taste better than the last sip. I grimaced.

Glenn eyed me. “Not enjoying the coffee?”

“Are you?”

“I haven't touched it since the first sip.”

“I don't know how a restaurant can so consistently make bad coffee.” I set the cup down again. “Do you think searching for Megan's killer can help us with our grief?”

“It certainly could.”

“I hope so.” I smiled over at him. “I really enjoy your company, Glenn.”

“And I yours.” He returned my smile. “Maybe it wasn't a coincidence her body surfaced on your shoreline.”

“I've had that thought, too.”

Glenn tapped the face of his gold watch. “It's almost time for your appointment.”

“Oh.” I hopped up from the bench. “How do I look? Smart? Professional?”

“All of the above.” Glenn frowned. “Um…”

“Yes?”

“Your buttons.” He pointed to my blazer. “They're uneven.”

“How embarrassing,” I said as I fiddled with them.

“Perfect,” Glenn said. “Are you sure you'll be all right?”

“Of course.” I fluffed my hair. “I'm about to meet with a murder suspect. What could go wrong?”

*   *   *

Professor Nicholas Angeles was the best-looking man I'd ever seen.

I swallowed hard as I gazed into a pair of rich, chocolate eyes. His dark hair curled loosely around his head. He smiled when he opened the door and I detected the slightest gap between his front teeth.

“Dr. Angeles.” I extended my hand. “I'm Rosalie Hart.”

“Please come in.” He gestured to the chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.”

I sat down, crossed my legs, and glanced around the room. I started to pop my pump off and on again, but stopped myself. Be cool. Be a detective.

Shafts of light poured in through a large, paned window with a sweeping view of the campus. Dust motes danced in the beams. Several diplomas hung on the forest green plaster and a wall of bookshelves stretched behind him. I cocked my head and read the spines. There was an entire row of books by Alfred Kinsey.

A subtle smile appeared on the professor's face. I looked away and noticed a photograph of a strikingly thin woman flanked by two small boys on his desk. It was one of those professional photographs where everyone was dressed in beige, a golden retriever panting in the middle, a sandy beach in the background. She was pretty in the classic sense, a dark brown bob, manicured hands draped over each boy. I looked up at the professor. He was watching me closely.

“Your wife is lovely. Do you live here in town?”

“Yes.” He hesitated. “We moved here a few years ago.” He leaned back, straining the springs in the chair.

“Cardigan is such a nice place to raise a family. There's so much to do—outdoors, especially, not all that manufactured entertainment you have in the suburbs. I would imagine you have a boat?”

“I have a sailboat.” He frowned. “Why would you ask me that?”

“It just seems everyone has a boat in Cardigan. Your children must love it.”

“You ask a lot of questions.” His eyes narrowed.

Slow down, I thought. He's getting suspicious.

“Perhaps you could tell me why we're meeting.”

“Well,” I cleared my throat. “I'm new to the area. I've recently separated from my husband and…” I stopped. Why did I just tell him that?

“I'm sorry,” he said softly. “These things are never easy. So, you're new to the area…”

“Yes. I'm considering going back to school. I have a liberal arts degree from the University of Virginia and have already taken several psychology classes, including psychopathology.” I chewed on the inside of my cheek. The closest I'd ever come to studying psychopathology was reading a Sylvia Plath poem.

“Why aren't you meeting with admissions?” he said. “Why a personal meeting with me?”

“Um, well, I saw the article in the paper about your research grant. If I enroll I want to make sure I study with the best.”

“Rosalie…” He sat forward, narrowing the space between us. “Do you know what I'm researching?”

“It didn't say in the article. Just that it was a very prestigious grant for the college to receive.”

“I'm studying human sexuality.”

“Excuse me?” I pressed my lower back into the chair.

“So … are you still interested?” He formed a teepee with his fingers.

“Yes.” I blinked a few times.

“Excellent.” He smiled.

“How exactly does one go about studying sex?”

“Not like you might think. I hope that's not disappointing.”

Disappointing? Was he coming on to me? He couldn't be. Get a grip, Rosalie. A trickle of sweat meandered down my spine. “What are you hoping to prove?”

“Primarily how our mating patterns are like that of animals—at least more than has previously been realized. There have been studies about pheromones and whether or not humans secrete them as much as other animals. But my research will delve a lot deeper. I'm focusing on the senses—particularly vision and smell—and the way they direct our desire.” His eyes met mine. “Did you know that when a sexual connection is made, our irises dilate, ever so slightly?”

“Really?” I looked away. A rash of heat worked its way up from my neckline. Did he say
our
irises? I looked back at him, hoping mine were back to normal. “I've been told there's an internship.”

“Yes. I have enlisted the help of some students—administering questionnaires, that sort of thing—but the internship is reserved for a senior.”

“Do you already have someone?”

He looked surprised at my question. “No, I don't.”

That's right, I thought. Because that student is no longer alive. Okay, Rosalie, get on task. I sat up a little straighter in my chair. “I hope I can help in some way. If I decide to sign up for classes, that is. How do you select your assistants? Is there a requirement?”

“You certainly are eager.” He cocked his head. “Are you dating yet?”

“What?”

“You know, dating. Men.” He smiled. “Didn't you say you were separated?”

“Oh, it's much too soon for that.” The back of my blouse was drenched. Why are we talking about me again? I was really quite bad at this. “I won't take up any more of your time.” I stood and straightened my blazer. “Thanks for meeting with me.”

“Leaving? We were just getting acquainted.” He rounded his desk and stood in front of me. “I've been admiring your jacket.” His fingers grazed my elbow. “Did you know there have been studies about how men react to women in red?”

I tried to step back, but I bumped into a bookshelf. I cringed, waiting for a book to land on my head.

“Careful,” he said. A trace of woodsy cologne belly-danced up my nose. “The color red draws men to women. They stand closer and are more likely to tell them a dirty joke.” A wide grin spread across his face. “And they smile more.”

“I honestly didn't know that. I've had this jacket forever. It's cool outside today and I—”

“Maybe we could have a drink sometime.”

“A
drink
?” My mouth had dried. “But you're married.” I glanced back at the photo.

“Not for long,” he said.

“You're getting a divorce?”

“My wife left me a month ago. She's already filed. It looks like you and I have that in common.”

“Just a month ago?” Right before Megan died, I thought.

“There you go with the questions again.” He leaned in closer. “Think about that drink. And just so you know, your husband is a fool.”

“Oh, no, he's actually very intelligent.”

He chuckled softly. “I mean he's a fool for letting you go.”

“Oh.” I shrugged. “I guess there's some truth to that.” I turned sideways and tried to edge past him. Our bodies brushed together. The points of contact sent a heat wave through my blood.

He reached around my waist and pulled the door open. “I hope you decide to enroll.”

“Yes.” I glanced back at him as I hurried out the door. “I'm very interested.”

Oh, my, I thought, as my pumps clicked on the linoleum. Woozy, I grabbed the railing and descended the stairs. Dr. Angeles, I thought, your study was a waste of time. I could tell you right now humans are like animals—triggered by scents and attractive features. And I was a defenseless peahen who had just been done in by one hell of a set of plumage. I stopped halfway down the last flight of steps. I gripped the railing tighter. Good Lord. Is this how he seduced Megan?

 

S
EVEN

Tyler Wells waited on my front stoop, hands in the back pockets of his jeans. He stood motionless as he watched me park my convertible and kill the engine. Dickens sat next to him focusing just as intently, his ears perked forward.

I picked up my bags, climbed ungracefully out of the car, and walked over to him. Two bottles of chardonnay clanked incessantly like tattling siblings. I looked up. His forehead was creased, his mouth pursed. He stared at me as if I'd grown a second head.

“What?” My voice was hoarse.

He took off a faded Baltimore Ravens cap and held it in both hands. His straw-colored hair tumbled onto his forehead. “It's not me I'm wondering about.”

“Who then?”

His eyebrows rose a little higher and he cocked his head. “It probably isn't my place to say, but you look a little wild-eyed, is all.”

I smoothed my hair. “Wild-eyed?”

“Just saying.”

I walked up to the door. The bottles clanked again. I turned to face him. “If you must know, an Alanis Morissette song came on the radio while I was driving. It's one of her older songs and I was”—I avoided his eyes—“singing along.”

He remained silent.

I looked up at him. “Did you need something, Tyler?”

“Coffee.”

“You mean you liked my coffee?”

“I wouldn't be asking if I didn't.”

“Of course I have coffee. I always have coffee.” I opened the door and caught the scent of engine oil as he passed. A dirty rag hung from the back pocket of his jeans.

I set my bag on the counter and the bottles clanked yet again. “It's too quiet on the Eastern Shore. Does it ever get to you?” I looked over at him. A white stripe ran across the top of his otherwise tanned face. “No, I guess it wouldn't.”

“Maybe some people like noise because it drowns out what's in their head,” Tyler said.

“I never thought of it that way.” I frowned. “Did you read that somewhere?”

“Nope.”

A farmer and a philosopher, I thought as I filled a mug with steaming-hot coffee. I waited while he scrubbed his hands at the sink. “I'm so glad you like my coffee. I always have some ready. I keep it in this carafe to keep it fresh.” I set the cup next to him and handed him a towel. “Today's brew is a dark-roast Moroccan—guaranteed to give you a swift kick in the shorts.” I took a small step back. “I'm sorry. I've already had several cups. And I'm afraid after the third I tend to get a little loquacious.”

He picked up his mug and carried it over to the row of canisters. I watched as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. It was only our second shared coffee and I was already learning his routines. “Do you want something to eat? I'm not sure what I have, but…” I started over to the refrigerator.

“No thanks.”

“Oh. Okay,” I said. “So, how's it going out there?”

“It's a lot like work.”

“At least the weather is good—lots of sun, not too cold.”

“We could use some rain.”

I leaned against the counter. I was working too hard. I crossed my arms. The pendulum of my aunt's grandfather clock ticked back and forth. Several cubes clunked out of the ice maker in the freezer. I waited, hoping he would say something. Tyler exuded strength and control. The absolute certitude in his every movement and minced word unnerved me. I was the complete antithesis of him in my current emotional state.