Murder at Barclay Meadow Read Online Free PDF Page A

to get my lawyer to draw up a contract?”
    â€œLawyer?” He shook his head. “No need for one of them.”
    â€œSo, there’s no contract?”
    â€œYour aunt kept a copy of the lease in a filing cabinet. It should be sufficient.” He crossed his arms. “Unless you threw it away. You seem to like throwing things.” I was pretty sure I detected a faint smile on his face.
    â€œI haven’t even opened the filing cabinet.” I picked up a pen and looked around for a piece of paper. I wrote “find contract” on a napkin.
    â€œThere’s one more thing. Miss Charlotte and I were farming organic—trying some experimental methods.” Tyler cleared his throat. “I’d like to continue that.”
    â€œI didn’t realize…”
    â€œLook…” He started for the door. “You find the contract and I’ll get a check to you tomorrow morning. I start early. Don’t be surprised if you hear the plow before six.”
    â€œIt all sounds so interesting,” I said as I followed him through the house. “Planting things is optimistic, don’t you think? Did you know Eleanor Roosevelt said, ‘Where flowers bloom, so does hope’? And farming organic—that’s so great.”
    He stopped and looked back at me. “So, now all of a sudden you’re interested?”
    â€œYes,” I said. “I’m a quick study. If you catch me up to speed, I—”
    â€œThe way I see it…” He picked his cap up from the antique demilune next to the door and secured it on his head. “You don’t really need to study up. I’ll just do my job and you do whatever it is that you do.” He straightened his posture. “What exactly do you do?”
    â€œMe? Well … I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
    Tyler opened the door.
    â€œWait, you never said if I have a tractor.”
    â€œI have my own.”
    â€œOkay.” I extended my hand. “I guess we’re partners now.”
    He reared back a little, hesitated, and then gave my hand a stiff shake.
    As he turned to leave I noticed a paperback jutting from the rear pocket of his faded jeans. The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter .
    â€œThat’s for damn sure,” I whispered. The door closed with a heavy thud and I was alone again.
    Rosalie Hart
    will be planting winter wheat
    Amy Pickering
    Oh dear god! Come home!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
    Annie Hart
    you’re scaring me mom: /

 
    T HREE
    Megan Johnston’s funeral was held in a large Episcopal church in an upscale area of Wilmington. After backing into a parking space, I killed the engine and watched as people arrived. The parking lot filled quickly. Several carloads of college students emptied out, each with a deer-in-the-headlights look about them. Their protective bubble of immortality had burst.
    Megan’s parents arrived in a black funeral home limousine. The mother was small and thin. She hurried toward the church steps, unsteady in her patent pumps. Her head dipped forward and she clutched a handkerchief to her nose. The father followed a few paces behind, his hands deep in his overcoat, his steps heavy. He was tall with broad, hunched shoulders and deep bags under his eyes.
    I followed them inside, slid into a back pew, muted my cell phone, and folded my hands over my purse. The casket was sealed but photographs of Megan at various stages of her life had been placed on easels and on the altar. The largest was her high school graduation photo, the same one that had been in the paper, but in color. Flowing blonde hair graced her bare shoulders, a dainty string of pearls encircled her long neck, and those playful eyes were a piercing crystal blue. In one photo, she was dressed in a soccer uniform holding an enormous trophy. In another, she was being pulled by her father in a wooden sled, a fur-lined snow suit snug around her face. In every shot, she stared