Read Murder at Barclay Meadow for Free Online Page B

circumstances that don’t add up. For instance, she switched schools in her senior year even though she was the star of the University of Delaware soccer team. She had only been at John Adams for a short time. And the biggest thing is she may have been having an affair with a professor.” I searched Glenn’s face, worried he would think I was past nuts.
    â€œWhat are you saying, Rosalie?”
    â€œThe police have already closed the case. And I can’t stop asking myself: What if it wasn’t an accident? So, well, I’ve been looking into it a little.”
    â€œThis is fascinating. The paper said she drowned, but you aren’t buying it?”
    I shook my head. “She was also terrified of the water. So…”
    Tony Ricci bustled in the door. Although still in a sport coat, he looked as if the day had gotten the better of him. The top two buttons of his dress shirt were undone and part of his shirttail had loosened from his pants. He juggled a briefcase and a cup of coffee with a corrugated sleeve all while keeping a phone to his ear. He stopped and finished his conversation. “Yeah, Joe, I heard you the first time … No, I can’t FedEx the report because I haven’t finished it yet … Well, screw ’em…” Tony glanced up. We stared back. “Look, I have to go. I’ll call you later.”
    After stowing the phone in his shirt pocket, he nodded to us and said, “How’s everyone doing?” in a thick New England accent.
    Tony was an attractive man with thick hair and wide brown eyes that drooped a little at the corner. He was of average height with a strong frame that he carried with a confident ease. When he gave me a quick wink, I looked away. Had I been staring? Good Lord. I was forty-five years old and had been married to the same man for the last twenty-three. He must think I’m pathetic. Or desperate. Isn’t that what they say about divorced women?
    Tony walked over and sat in the seat in front of me. He had been on the other side of the room the first night. “How you doin’?” he said again.
    â€œFine, thanks,” I said. “And you?”
    â€œI’m wondering if this class might be a bunch of crap. I don’t think our fearless leader has one inkling about how to write a memoir.” He rested his arm on the back of his chair. “You write anything yet?”
    I shook my head. “Nothing.”
    Sue Ling hurried into the classroom. Sue was a lovely, twentysomething Korean-American. She gave us a shy smile and perched in the desk in front of the instructor’s. After pulling a stylish pair of glasses from her bag, she slid them onto her nose and began perusing a stack of paper, making an occasional mark with a tightly held pen.
    â€œRosalie…” Glenn said. “I would like to hear more about—”
    Our instructor’s entrance interrupted him. Frazzled and haggard, Jillian dropped a stack of books on the desk and slumped into her seat. She had black, spiky hair dyed purple on the ends and a row of silver earrings climbing up her ear. She wore loose cotton clothing and a long hobo purse hung from her shoulder. A graduate student, she was working toward her master’s in Fine Arts and was less than enthusiastic about teaching our memoir class to supplement her income. “Is everyone here?” she said as if she wasn’t particularly interested in the answer.
    â€œI certainly hope she can count to four,” Tony whispered over his shoulder.
    â€œOkay,” Jillian said. “Who wants to read first?”
    Sue raised her hand and began to read. Glenn pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and jotted something on it. He tore off the sheet and slipped it to me. I am very interested in this murder. I would like to help you. I think we should start with this professor. My eyes shot up. Glenn smiled broadly and faced the front of the classroom.
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