Murder at Barclay Meadow by Wendy Sand Eckel Page B

glasses and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “I miss her every moment of every day.”
    â€œOf course you do.” I patted his arm.
    Once he had composed himself, Glenn said, “You should get annual mammograms, Rosalie.”
    â€œBelieve me, I do.” I gripped my cup with both hands. “Oh.”
    â€œOh, what?”
    â€œI just realized I’m going to need health insurance once my divorce is final. Gosh, I wish I could find a job.”
    â€œYou don’t believe your husband will impoverish you, do you?”
    â€œHe 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?”
    â€œAre you?”
    â€œI haven’t touched it since the first sip.”
    â€œI 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?”
    â€œIt certainly could.”
    â€œI hope so.” I smiled over at him. “I really enjoy your company, Glenn.”
    â€œAnd I yours.” He returned my smile. “Maybe it wasn’t a coincidence her body surfaced on your shoreline.”
    â€œI’ve had that thought, too.”
    Glenn tapped the face of his gold watch. “It’s almost time for your appointment.”
    â€œOh.” I hopped up from the bench. “How do I look? Smart? Professional?”
    â€œAll of the above.” Glenn frowned. “Um…”
    â€œYes?”
    â€œYour buttons.” He pointed to my blazer. “They’re uneven.”
    â€œHow embarrassing,” I said as I fiddled with them.
    â€œPerfect,” Glenn said. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”
    â€œOf 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.
    â€œDr. Angeles.” I extended my hand. “I’m Rosalie Hart.”
    â€œPlease 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.
    â€œYour wife is lovely. Do you live here in town?”
    â€œYes.” He hesitated. “We moved here a few years ago.” He leaned back, straining the springs in the chair.
    â€œCardigan 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?”
    â€œI have a sailboat.” He frowned. “Why would you ask me that?”
    â€œIt just seems everyone has a boat in Cardigan. Your children