Read Murder at Barclay Meadow for Free Online

another story and, as always, full of drama.” Rhonda glanced around. The mourners were dispersing. Cars were leaving and the limo idled nearby. Puffs of gray smoke billowed around the exhaust pipe. “I should get to the house. I promised Bill I’d pick up some Ketel One. I’m sure he could use the whole bottle right about now.”
    â€œIs Bill your husband?”
    â€œI don’t have one of those anymore.” She wiggled the fingers of her left hand in front of my face. “Bill is Bill Johnston, Megan’s stepdad. See? You don’t remember everything I tell you.”
    â€œRhonda, I don’t suppose I could give you my number? Maybe we could stay in touch.” I pulled an old gas receipt out of my purse and wrote my number on it. My pen made holes in the thin paper. I handed it to her. She creased it down the middle and placed it in her purse.
    â€œDeal. I’d love to keep up with your nosing around. Make sure you tell me everything you find out. Oh, and here’s my contact info.” She handed me a colorful business card on which a younger-looking Rhonda smiled up at me, her head in that Realtor angle that made them all look as if they had an inner-ear disorder. “Okay, well, gotta run!” She turned and started for the parking lot, her stilettos clicking on the pavement. She stopped when Megan’s stepfather emerged from the church. He walked over to her and spoke close to her ear. They embraced for a noticeably long time. Then Rhonda brushed his cheek with a kiss, patted his arm, and walked away. He watched her go.
    I startled when he looked my way. His gaze intensified. He studied me, as if trying to discern who I was. Unsure what to do, I smiled my most sympathetic smile and hurried to my car.
    *   *   *
    As I drove back to Cardigan, I reflected on my conversation with Rhonda. I felt energized that my suspicions were right—there was a lot more to this story than the sheriff’s department was willing to uncover. My first conversation with someone who knew Megan and I already learned of a possible suspect: a psychology professor who sleeps with students. And what about Rhonda? She was completely irreverent about Megan’s death. I wondered … was there an envy lurking, a jealousy of Megan’s beauty and popularity? And what about her relationship with Bill? Their embrace revealed a shared intimacy that went way beyond friendship. And why did Megan transfer her senior year? Why would she leave the soccer team?
    Maybe I should tell the sheriff what I learned. We could collaborate—brainstorm about some possibilities. He could reopen the case. No. Bad idea. He and his deputies already found me ridiculous. If I went to them with this, they would laugh about it for the next decade.
    An unequivocal clarity heightened my senses. If Megan Johnston was murdered, then a killer was on the loose. The sun was dipping toward the horizon and the sky was streaked with indigo and vermillion. I pulled the visor down and hoped I would beat rush hour. I checked my mirror and merged onto I-95. “I’m going to figure this out, Megan,” I said softly. “It might take some time, but I won’t give up until I know the truth.” I was sick to death of lies and secrets and betrayal. The turbo kicked in and I blew past a tractor trailer. Megan Johnston came to me for a reason and it was up to me to find out how.
    *   *   *
    When I arrived home, I went straight to my computer without turning on a light. I sat down and noticed a check on the table. Tyler. I picked it up and studied it. Not so fast, Ed, I thought, and smiled. Maybe Tyler Wells was the Marlboro Man, after all.
    I set the check down and hummed a little as my computer came to life. Ignoring my one hundred and thirty-seven new emails, I logged onto Facebook hoping to chat with Annie.
    Rhonda Pendleton has sent you a friend request.
    That was fast.