FORTY-SEVEN
Corinne Johnston
Thank you for accepting my friend request. I would very much like to meet with you. Could you come to my house Friday afternoon?
I hesitated before responding. Why would this poor grieving woman want to meet with me? As much as I had been driven to solve this crime, I never wanted to intrude on Corrine’s unimaginable pain. I started to decline, but stopped. Bill had been at the end of my driveway. But why? Then I remembered the post I put up as Megan: I didn’t want to die. Why did you kill me? I typed quickly.
Rosalie Hart
Yes, of course.
Even with the help of my GPS, I made several wrong turns trying to find the Johnston home, arriving in cul-de-sac after cul-de-sac. There appeared to be four basic designs to the houses in their community, all variations on the same themes. The Johnstons’ house had a brick front with beige vinyl siding. But unlike the other fertilized lawns and well-planned landscapes, their front yard was mostly crabgrass and clover with two spindly, undernourished azalea bushes flanking the stoop.
I had to wait a few minutes before Corinne opened the door. She peered out through a narrow crack.
“I’m Rosalie,” I said.
She sized me up before opening the door the rest of the way. Her face was pinched and pale and the dark roots of her hair hadn’t been colored in months. I followed her into the living room. The room was dark, the blinds closed, allowing only thin strips of light to illuminate the small space.
“Can I get you something?” she said, her tone making it clear she hoped I would say no.
“No, thanks.” I clenched my fist around my purse strap. I had no idea what she wanted from me or what I should or could say. This must be how a witness feels being called to the stand. Answer only what she asks, I thought. Don’t offer any more. And yet, as I looked into this woman’s sad, lost eyes, I felt a responsibility to tell her more.
She brushed a loose strand of hair from her face, which was void of makeup. Her eyes darted around the room as if she were unsure what to do next.
“Maybe we should sit down,” I said.
Corinne perched on a burgundy leather love seat and clutched her hands together, the knuckles stretched white. I sat stiffly in an identical one across from her. A large photograph hung over the mantel of the Johnston family as they had once been. Bill was seated in the center of the photo, the king, the lord of the castle, while Corinne and Megan stood behind the chair, each with a hand on his shoulder. My eyes were drawn immediately to Megan. Bright white teeth glowed from a wide smile. Next to Megan’s beauty, her mother looked tired and small. Outdone. Outshone.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” I looked back at Corinne. “I can only imagine what you are going through.”
“No, you can’t.” She tugged her skirt over her knees. I noticed an idle cell phone next to her on the table—the twenty-first-century umbilical cord to our children. But Corrine never even glanced at it. Her cord had been severed.
“Corinne,” I said. “Why did you want to meet?”
“I want to know everything.”
“Okay,” I said. “Let’s start with what Rhonda has already told you.”
“She’s told me very little. Basically that you had been looking into what happened to Megan. I still don’t understand why.” She looked at me pointedly. “After she told me about you, I went to her Facebook page and found you on her friend list.”
“Of course,” I said. “You and Rhonda are friends.”
“Friends? Rhonda and me?”
“I mean on Facebook.”
“We nose into each other’s business. That’s what it means to be friends on Facebook.”
“Why do you think she told you about me? I would have preferred to let you grieve in peace.” I tried to convey the empathy I felt for her in my gaze. “I just don’t know what purpose it serves. I mean, Rhonda telling you.”
“The only purpose it could possibly serve is to benefit Rhonda in some way. It certainly wasn’t because she was being thoughtful or virtuous.” She picked at the hem of her skirt. “I don’t know how well you know Rhonda Pendleton, but FYI … she doesn’t have an honest bone in her body.” Corrine’s voice had grown ragged. “Rhonda spent her life being jealous of my daughter and lusting after my husband. Did she tell you she was having an affair with him?” She shot me a challenging look, her chin lifted.
I remained silent.
“She ruined her marriage and it drove her crazy that Bill didn’t end ours.” She tugged on the thread again, unintentionally unraveling the hem. She looked up at me. “They don’t know it, but I saw them. I didn’t always go to Megan’s soccer games. I’m not really fond of open spaces.” She wrapped the thread tight around her finger. “But one afternoon, I had a particularly good therapy session, so I popped a Xanax and decided to go. I know it was hard for Megan, my condition. But I really wanted to see her play. She was in middle school, but already getting noticed.” Corinne’s eyes welled with tears at the memory. “She was so beautiful. And understanding.” She stared off. “Megan never complained when I couldn’t go to her games. She would just sit next to me when she got home and tell me all about it.” Corinne wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “She could describe it all in such vivid details. It was as if I were there. I always told her she should be a writer.” Corinne looked back at me. Tears escaped down her cheeks. “I think she wanted to study psychology to help me. To try and cure my agoraphobia.”
“That’s so sweet.” My chest filled with a ballooning ache. “What an incredible child.”
Corinne’s expression hardened. “Back to that afternoon.” The tears stopped abruptly. “I got stuck in traffic on my way to the game. When I arrived, it was over. I saw Bill’s car, so I got out. That’s when I saw them.” Her bottom lip trembled.
“You saw them?”
“They were in the backseat of Bill’s car. I could hear him grunting like a pig.” She closed her eyes, held them shut for a moment as if recalling the memory, and opened them again. “And I saw Rhonda underneath him through the window. They never knew I was there.”
“I’m sorry. I have an idea of how—”
“Tell me everything you know,” she interrupted.
“Okay.” I jumped when I felt a tail weave through my legs. I looked down to see a large Maine Coon cat rubbing my calf with the side of its face. I scooped him into my lap. His motor kicked in and he began to knead my skirt. “What a beautiful cat,” I said.
“I could care less if he lived or died.”
My eyes shot up. “But—”
“Bill gave him to Megan for her sixteenth birthday. She named him Sweetie Pie. But now that she’s gone, I can’t look at him. I barely remember to feed him.”
I put the cat back on the floor and recrossed my legs. Foreboding pulsed through me. It felt as if the air were a mass of static electricity prickling my skin, lifting my hair at the ends. “I will help you in any way I can.” I tried to gauge what she was ready to know. Her pupils were unusually large. I suspected she had taken some sort of prescription meds. “First of all, please know it was never about being nosy. I have asked questions because I could see your daughter was a kind and sweet girl. I have a daughter of my own. And the more I discovered, well, things just didn’t add up.”
“Like what?” She scooted forward in her seat, barely perched on the edge.
“Let me ask you this. Don’t you and your husband believe Megan committed suicide?”
“I did.” Her brow furrowed. “At first.”
“Why?”
“There was a note among her things. Bill read it and asked the police if he could keep it.”
“Did he show it to you?”
She shook her head. “I was on tranquilizers. He knew I was fragile. I couldn’t bear to see it. And then David Carmichael urged us to remain quiet. He said it would allow us to keep our dignity if Megan’s death was ruled an accident and not suicide. The sheriff wanted to look int
o it. He wanted an autopsy or to at least find out what was in her stomach, but David and Bill somehow convinced him to let us grieve in peace.”
“And you’ve never seen the note?”
She shook her head. “My daughter was dead. Bill said she took her own life. That’s all I could bear to hear. I mean…” She choked back a sob. “She had been through so much. Megan had to leave Delaware to get away from the gawkers. She didn’t want to leave, but Bill insisted. They had horrible arguments before she left for school.” Corinne dragged her hands through her hair. “After she died, I didn’t want anyone to know I was such a horrible mother, my only child would kill herself.” She dropped her face into her hands. “Oh, God. What have I done?” She gasped out a sob. It caught in her throat and an animal cry of pain spilled out of her. She fell forward, clutching her stomach with both arms.
I started over to her, but her head shot up.
“No,” she said in a tight voice. “Stay where you are.” The muscles in her neck bulged. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen. “I’ll be all right. I do this all the time.”
“Corinne,” I said as I sat back down. “I have been blind to many things myself. Sometimes we only see what we think we can endure. But I do believe we do the best we possibly can at the time. A mother’s road is never straight nor easy.”
She stuffed her hands in her lap. “Why do you think my daughter was murdered?”
“Like I said, too many things don’t add up. But Corinne, if you want me to stop asking questions, I will.”
“What if you’re right? If she didn’t commit suicide, I want to know. I’m ready to know. And if someone murdered my daughter, I want that bastard to die in the chair.”
“Do you still have the note?”
“Maybe. And if Bill hasn’t destroyed it, I know exactly where it is.” She stood quickly and had to steady herself.
“Are you sure you’re ready?”
“I should have done this months ago.” She started to walk and I hurried after her.
We entered a dark-paneled room lined with shelves and hardcover books. Corinne walked over to a filing cabinet, opened the top drawer, and felt underneath. “Bill thinks I don’t know where this is.” She removed a small key that was taped to the bottom. “He’s always taken me for a fool.”
She opened a cabinet door and inserted the key into a glossy black safe. We peered inside. The first thing I noticed was a gun. I froze when she picked it up. But she just moved it aside and rifled through a stack of documents—birth certificates, insurance policies, passports.
“There,” I said when I saw a water-stained envelope. “That’s it. It was in her backpack. I saw it in the evidence bag the night I found her.”
Corinne picked it up. “Independence Day.” She shoved it into my hands. “Read it to me?”
“Of course.” I lifted the flap and pulled out a creased sheet of paper. Megan had typed it on her computer. The ink hadn’t smeared in the river water. I cleared my throat. “Ready?”
“Just read.”
Dear Predators,
This includes my stepfather, my professor, and every one of you creeps who stalks me at soccer games and on the Internet. It includes the women and friends who can only feel envy and hatred toward me instead of getting to know me as a real human being. I no longer belong to any of you. I am starting anew. None of you will ever see or hear from me again. I am finally taking control of my own life.
To the people I love, especially you, Mommy, know that I am alive and searching for happiness at last. When I am ready, I will bring you to me and find you the help you need.
I swallowed back the emotion overwhelming me and continued to read.
Today is my Independence Day.
Signed,
The phoenix who was once Megan Johnston
I looked up. Corinne was staring hard at the floor. I folded the letter back into the envelope. “This isn’t a suicide note.”
“No.” She raised her head and looked at me, her eyes questioning. “Why would Bill hide this from me? I’ve been going through hell all these months thinking she killed herself.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Maybe because of how she refers to him?”
Corinne took the letter from my hands, tucked it into the safe, and started to close the door. She hesitated and reached for something. I watched as she removed an aged, leather-bound book.
She turned it over in her hands. “Megan’s diary.” Corinne perched gingerly onto a plaid upholstered chair. “Bill never told me he found this. It must have been in her dorm room.”
The clasp had been pried open. Every muscle in my body tensed as Corinne flipped through the pages until she came to the last entry.
“Corinne?” I said. “Are you sure…”
“‘Dear Diary,’” she read.
I placed a hand on her arm. She shook it away and continued. “‘This will be my last day at John Adams University. I’ve packed my bags and have an escape plan. No one knows what I am going to do and I feel as if a thousand weights have been lifted from me.’”
“Oh my gosh,” I said. “This is the day—the day she…”
“Her writing is sloppier here,” Corinne said quietly. “And she pressed hard with her pen.” She lifted the diary closer to her face and continued to read. “‘My stepfather is coming here today. I told him to stay away. I don’t want him to know my plans. But he should know it’s because of him. I can’t take his controlling me anymore. He is like a noose around my neck. I hate him with every fiber of my being. I wish my mother had never married him. But this is it. This is the last time I will ever have to see him and before I go, I will tell him how I feel.’”
She closed the book and held it over her heart, clutching it tightly, as if she were holding the last remnant of Megan.
“Corinne,” I said. “Can I get you something? A glass of water?”
“No. I’d rather just sit here alone.”
“I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re very stubborn.” She smiled weakly. “But I would like you to leave now.”
“What will you do?”
She shook her head and said in a barely audible whisper, “I don’t really know.”
I startled when I felt a tail on my legs. I looked down. Sweetie Pie wove between my ankles.
Corinne looked over at me. “Rosalie…”
“Yes?”
“You really want to help me?”
“Any way I can.”
“Take him.”
“The cat?”
“Yes.”
“But … all right.” I picked him up. Sweetie bumped his chin against mine. His claws pierced my shoulder.
“Now, thank you for all that you’ve done, but I can handle things from here.”
I fetched my purse from the living room and returned to Corinne. She hadn’t moved. I wasn’t sure what to do. I was turning to leave when the front door latch clicked. Corinne and I waited, motionless, as we listened to Bill’s heavy footsteps draw nearer.
“There you are,” he said. He flinched when he saw me. “What in the hell are you doing here?” His mouth fell open when he eyed the open safe. He looked back at Corinne. “What’s that you’re holding?”
“Nothing,” Corinne said. She stood slowly and walked back to the safe.
I set Sweetie Pie gently on the floor. He let out a soft mew and trotted away. With Bill intent on Corinne, I slid my phone out of my purse. I clicked on the emergency icon so that I didn’t need to take the time to type in my pass code.
“What’s going on here?” Bill demanded.
I tucked my phone behind my back and glanced up.
Bill looked over at me. “What did you tell her?”
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said.
“I invited her,” Corinne said and faced him.
“No!” I gasped.
Bill spun around and stared into the barrel of a gun. He held up his hands instinctively. “Honey, what are you do
ing?”
“What I should have done a long time ago.”
“Come on, now.” He took a step toward her.
I whipped my phone from behind my back. I typed 911 on the keypad and ducked it behind my back again.
“Are you feeling all right, Corinne? Should I get you one of your pills?” Bill said.
“Stop walking,” she warned. “Or I’ll shoot you in your left ventricle.”
“What?” he said. “But, why?”
“You killed my baby.” Her hands quivered. “My one and only baby!”
“No, honey, you have it all wrong.” He looked over his shoulder at me and then back at her. “Don’t you see? She’s the one you should be shooting.”
My eyes widened.
“She’s the one who is causing all the trouble,” he continued. “If she hadn’t started stirring things up, you and I could go on with our lives.”
Corinne glanced at me. “No,” she said. “That’s not true.” She looked back at Bill, but I could see the confusion in her eyes. “It was you.” She pulled the hammer back. “It was you all along.”
“This is craziness,” Bill said. “Why don’t you let me get you a pill and a shot of scotch.”
“How did you do it?” Corinne said. “I have to know.”
“Corinne … please!” he pleaded.
“Bill,” I said. “Maybe you should just answer her questions.” My throat had dried. “Maybe once she understands she’ll take that drink.” I tried to smile. “And maybe I’ll take one, too.”
“Shut up,” he snapped while still watching Corinne. “Now, come on, honey, please, just put the gun down. I swear I can explain everything.”
I prayed someone had picked up the 911 call but didn’t know for sure because I had muted my phone when I arrived. Luckily, in order to use my GPS to find the Johnstons’ house, I had to allow my phone to use my current location. Surely 911 possessed the technology to figure out where I was. I checked to ensure the microphone was pointed out. If they answered the call, they may hear the conversation. “Corinne?” I said in a loud voice. “Maybe Bill is right. Maybe you should put the gun down and stop threatening to kill your husband.”
Murder at Barclay Meadow Page 27
