A Vineyard Morning

by Jean Stone

  That time, the silence only lasted two or three brief seconds. “Go on.”

  She was careful not to interpret his prompt response as one of interest. Or as a way of saying he’d help. “You probably know that protocol requires that the state police hand it over to the coroner, which they did,” she said. “The coroner determined it was human, not animal. Then it went to the medical examiner and the archeologist in Boston who will tell us whether or not it’s Native American. If I have the details straight.”

  “Close enough,” Larry said, then paused again. In the old days, he might have been puffing on a pipe in contemplation. “The forensic anthropologist must determine the date range. The North American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act of 1990 assumes that any remains dating before 1492 are Native American. And, of course, there’s DNA, which they might or might not be able to extract.”

  That part was new to her.

  “If Native American affiliation can be determined,” he went on, “the government must turn the remains over to the local tribe.” He was on a roll now. “If they were found on land and surfaced due to erosion, they originally might have been buried. Which means, if they are indigenous, you might be talking sacred ground.”

  Annie swallowed. Though she’d already been told that, part of her hadn’t wanted to believe it. “I think it had spent more time in the water than on land.”

  “Well, that’s not up to you. Did you have any other questions?”

  Questions? She hadn’t expected he’d have had any of those answers. She’d only been trying to get them moved to the head of the archeologist’s line. “It’s about our restoration,” she said with trepidation, “of the . . . building. The Inn. We’ve had to stop construction.”

  “That goes without saying. Until they have definitive answers.”

  She chewed a thumbnail, something she only did in times of intense stress. “We’re trying to learn if there’s a typical timeline . . . To be honest, we’re scheduled to open on Memorial Day weekend, and now we’re . . .”

  He laughed.

  He laughed? A flame of anger flared her cheeks.

  “And you called to ask me to pull some strings? Really, Annie?”

  She could have denied it, but Larry Hendricks was a smart man. Too smart. So she simply said, “Yes. The livelihoods, the investments, and the homes of several people I care about are at stake. Believe me, if I didn’t feel this were a crisis, I would not have bothered you.” If Murphy had been there, she would have congratulated Annie for standing up to him.

  “Unfortunately, like most of us, they’re overworked in that department.”

  She closed her eyes again. “Please, Larry,” she said, her voice softening, a gesture that was real. “It’s important.”

  He paused again. He was definitely playing an attorney’s game of waiting for a reaction from a witness, hoping she would leap into the dead air space and reveal the truth.

  “I don’t work directly with the archeologists,” he said. “My staff takes care of that.”

  She guessed it was a lie. If he didn’t work with them, he probably wouldn’t have known that they were overworked. And, more than likely, he would not have known the details of a federal act that was three decades old and included directives for remains of people who lived five hundred years ago. Half a damn millennium. She wanted to say, “Thanks anyway,” and hang up. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, Larry beat her to it.

  “No promises, of course, but I’ll make a couple of calls.” His voice dropped to a less-intimidating octave. “If only to prove I’m not really an insufferable jerk.”

  It wasn’t until after he’d said he’d be in touch in a few days and she’d thanked him and they’d hung up that Annie realized that neither of them had mentioned Mark.

  Chapter 20

  “Before we head out, would you like a quick tour of the Inn?” Annie asked when she returned to pick up Donna. “Then you’ll be able to visualize someone’s work in a specific place.”

  Donna smiled. “I was going to ask for that.” In a pale aqua cashmere sweater, light gray pants, and short leather boots, she almost looked as if she were going to meet her lady friends for lunch in Chestnut Hill. And though Annie had on black jeans and sneakers, she’d put on a new white sweater. They both wore makeup, though it looked like Donna had applied an extra layer.

  Annie had brought her iPad and the list of artists so Donna could see the type of work each artist painted, then suggest a given style that she thought would be a match for a specific location. As they walked through the Inn, Donna nodded and emitted many “uh-huh”s, which might have been a throwback to her antiques-buying days when showing no reaction was a technique for negotiation. After they’d gone through every room and hall, they stopped to say good-bye to Kevin.

  “You’ll be glad to hear I have good news,” Annie said. “I contacted an old friend-of-a-friend in Boston who might be able to help speed up the process with the archeologist.”

  “Seriously?” Kevin asked, setting down the hammer.

  “Seriously. And, believe me, if anyone can make something happen, it’s this guy. So fingers crossed, okay?”

  He smiled a little, enough for Annie to know he appreciated that she’d taken the heat off him for not having contacted Gina. Then he went back to work, and the women went outside and got into the Jeep.

  “You made his day,” Donna said.

  “Having him around often makes my day.”

  Donna nodded, most likely because she already knew that. Then she said, “As for the Inn, it’s going to be lovely.”

  Annie felt like a child who’d been praised by her mother. “Thank you. It’s been a collaborative effort, right down to the color of the paint. From the start, we agreed that everyone’s opinion matters. We all want the same thing—a place that looks natural and cozy and is beautiful, too.”

  “It shows. Your guests will feel lucky to be there.”

  Annie grinned, started the Jeep, and headed toward the On Time.

  “And by the way,” Donna added, and, for a moment, Annie braced herself for a dose of motherly criticism, “you can tell me who your ‘friend-of-a-friend’ is. I won’t tell Kevin, if you don’t want me to.”

  Annie hadn’t expected that. “Like I said,” she replied with half a laugh, “he’s just that. Nothing more.” After her meltdown with Claire, Annie had decided that, no, she would not share the story of Larry Hendricks with either Donna or Kevin. Not then. Hopefully, not ever. They both had too much to deal with at the moment; they didn’t need to be dragged into the drama of Annie’s past.

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Donna said. “But I think he must be more than that. You’re holding your head the same stiff way I do when I’m trying to hide the truth.”

  Annie made no comment.

  “If you’re trying to protect me from hearing something ugly, please don’t,” Donna continued. “If nothing else, I could use a juicy story to help take my mind off my own.” Then she turned on the iPad, bent her head, and immersed herself in the eclectic images of the artists’ work.

  Driving onto the little ferry, Annie pondered Donna’s comments. When they reached the other side, she headed up island to Elliott Stimson’s studio. Elliott created lovely watercolors of island flowers—beach roses, hydrangea, day lilies—that might be soothing in the guest rooms. She didn’t want to sway Donna’s impressions of his work, so she simply kept her eyes fixed on the road as if she were in downtown Boston during rush hour and not on the rural Edgartown-West Tisbury Road, which was deserted except for a lone pickup that turned into the dump. The transfer station, she remembered she’d been corrected when she’d first moved there.

  The Stimson property was easy to find. Like many West Tisbury settings, it included a gray-shingled house that looked a century or two old and was bordered on the three visible sides by lichen-covered stone walls. The studio was a small, restored barn—it stood off to one side in a quiet meadow flanked by gnar
ly white oaks whose branches dipped and curved and reached out in welcome. Annie turned into the dirt-packed driveway and drove directly to the studio. A sign on the door read: HONK FOR ATTENTION. So Annie honked.

  While they waited, Annie simply said, “No.”

  Donna asked, “No?”

  “No. Sometimes the past is best left to history. I’d rather not get into details about my contact at the DA’s office.”

  Donna nodded. “I’ll be willing to listen if you change your mind.”

  Then a white-bearded, large man who Annie recognized from the artisan festivals emerged from the house and sauntered over toward the barn. Like the trees, he offered a pleasant greeting.

  * * *

  After visiting four artists—one whose work was too ultra-modern for the Inn; two who showed pieces that were strong contenders; and a fourth who was nearing retirement and said she was only participating in the fairs to deplete her inventory—they made it back to Chappaquiddick shortly before five thirty. Donna looked exhausted. Annie asked if their outing had been too much for her.

  “Not at all,” Donna replied. “It was worth every minute. Elliott Stimson’s work will work well in the great room.”

  Which, of course, hadn’t been what Annie had planned, but she said, “You’re right. That’s a great idea.”

  When they reached the cottage, they found a note from Kevin.

  Gone to VH for supplies, it read. Earl invited you and Mom for dinner tomorrow night. Six o’clock. Bring cookies.

  “Looks like I’ll be baking tomorrow,” Annie said.

  “And I’m afraid I’ll be napping. Starting right now.”

  They went inside, and Donna headed for the bedroom.

  “Will you want dinner?” Annie called after her.

  “Doubtful,” came the reply. “I shall feed off my artistic dreams!”

  Annie marveled at Donna’s positive attitude; she wished she had inherited some of it.

  * * *

  Because John was at work and Kevin was in Vineyard Haven, Annie took advantage of a rare evening alone. She ran to Edgartown, did some research at the library, picked up a sandwich to go, then went back to the Inn and texted Kevin, asking if he’d check in on Donna when he was back on Chappy. Then she climbed into her fleece pajamas, and, because—hooray—the internet was working, she streamed a movie. Then another. She fell asleep while marveling at how wonderful it felt to be completely unproductive.

  In the morning, her energy returned. She called Lottie, the manager of the community center, to ask if it would be okay for her to make cookies there, but Lottie’s voice mail message said she was off island. Next, Annie went down to the cottage, where Kevin was sleeping—apparently had been sleeping—all night on the small sofa. She looked in on Donna, who was awake, sitting in bed and drinking tea, nibbling on a piece of toast, and reading a book from Annie’s shelf. Annie told her where she’d be and asked her to have Kevin tell Earl. Then, grabbing a frozen muffin and a bottle of water, she gathered a stash of baking supplies—while Kevin snored through the clatter—and juggled them into the Jeep where she’d already stashed her laptop. She knew it was possible that the community center would be locked and no one would be around, or that the space already was booked, but she wanted to bring fresh cookies to Earl and Claire’s that night, and she needed to work at the same time. Writing, after all, was the best way Annie knew to keep her life reined in. Under control. Balanced. And it wouldn’t be feasible to try and make cookies and write while Donna read, nibbled, or napped in the next room. Or while Kevin snored.

  When Annie arrived at the center and pulled into the dirt driveway, she noticed a black pickup parked between two scrub oaks. Earl had a black pickup, but she thought his was newer. At least there was only one truck and not several, so there must not be a meeting; whoever it belonged to was more than likely inside, which meant the door would be open.

  That’s a start, she thought, then turned off the Jeep, got out, and walked toward the building while preparing her plea: a mother at home who was recuperating, a dinner party that night, and chaos all around on account of that skull, which she figured everyone on Chappy, the Vineyard, and probably the entire internet nation knew about by then.

  She turned the handle and opened the door. Perfect. She stepped into the commodious gathering room, with its wood-beamed, cathedral ceiling, and walls that sported photos and memorabilia that embodied Chappy over the years. No one was there.

  An enormous stone fireplace stood at one end of the room; a long, narrow office was behind the fireplace wall. Annie walked toward the office and peeked into the doorway, but no one was there, either.

  She turned back to the main room, her footsteps echoing in the emptiness. She wondered if the driver of the pickup was outside cleaning up the yard for summer. But as she reached the back door, a voice shouted:

  “Annie?”

  She blanched. She snapped around. And there was Taylor, who apparently had been in the small kitchen at the opposite end of the main room. Or she’d been in the restroom that was there, too. Or she’d been in a closet. Hiding from the world. In any event, Taylor was one of the last people Annie felt up to seeing. Pretty much ever.

  “Earl told me you were coming. Lottie’s off this week, so I have her key.”

  “Oh.” She didn’t add: “That was fast.”

  “I thought you’d appreciate it if I came over and unlocked the door for you.”

  “I do. Yes. Thanks.” Annie didn’t know why, after all this time, Taylor still had a way of unnerving her.

  “There’s no meeting today, so it’s all yours. How long will you be?”

  “I don’t know. A few hours? I need to make cookies and do some writing.”

  Taylor nodded, her auburn mane marching in time to her nod. “Too bad about your mother. Is she doing okay?”

  As much as islanders left one another alone, it always amazed Annie that everyone seemed to know his or her neighbor’s business. “She is. Yes. Thanks.”

  Taylor nodded again. “I hardly got along with mine, but I miss her.”

  Annie did not respond because she saw no need to get into a discussion about Taylor’s recently dead mother or about Donna.

  “Jonas is gone.”

  “I heard that. I’m sorry, Taylor.”

  They kept their distance, standing a good thirty feet apart, as if getting closer would imply, well, getting closer.

  “I didn’t do it, you know. I didn’t kill his father. I hope that’s his skull. Maybe it will prove I didn’t push him overboard.”

  Annie felt her body stiffen. “We might not hear anything for a while,” she said. “Believe me, we all want this resolved as quickly as possible.”

  Rubbing her hands on her hips, Taylor said, “Kevin’s going to leave next. He’ll say it’s because of your mother, but it’s really because of me. I don’t think he believes me, either.” She managed a half-grin. “Who wants to be with someone they think already killed a man?”

  Annie did not want to be having any of this conversation. Nor did she like standing there with Taylor when no one else seemed to be around. “I don’t think Kevin thinks that,” she said.

  The auburn mane stilled. “Do me a favor? Tell Kevin I’ll understand if he leaves. I can’t say what I’d do if the tables were turned.” Then she snorted. “Of course, in a sense they are, aren’t they? I mean, I never doubted that he had nothing to do with his wife’s accident.” She made a huffing sound. “That’s how things go sometimes, don’t they? Sometimes the people you trust turn out to be the ones you shouldn’t have.”

  By then Annie’s legs were weak. All the other chaos in her life seemed far less threatening. Then Taylor walked toward the front door.

  “You’ll lock up when you leave?”

  Annie uttered a mouse-like “Yes.”

  And the woman was gone as quickly as she’d appeared.

  Annie didn’t move until she heard the tires of the pickup rumble over the dirt and accel
erate out onto the road. She realized she’d been holding her breath, but wasn’t sure for how long.

  “Yikes!” she said aloud. “That was bizarre.”

  It certainly was, Murphy replied from somewhere in the rafters.

  And Annie smiled, less agitated now, thanks to her friend who had been with her in spirit. She went outside, retrieved her essentials from the Jeep, and got to work.

  * * *

  Donna claimed she’d eaten half a sandwich earlier that day, and Annie didn’t dispute her. Donna seemed at ease in the Lyons’s home that evening. Earl was entertaining, Claire was gracious, and John couldn’t do enough for her. Lucy, too, seemed on her best behavior, refilling Donna’s ice water when the glass was only half full and trying to keep Restless from jumping into Donna’s lap despite her cheerful protestations that she loved dogs.

  Kevin didn’t say much, and he sneezed a few times, though he said he didn’t have a cold. He seemed to have to work at smiling.

  “I think the ladies should retire to the living room,” Claire said once the fish and wild rice and green beans had been consumed. Annie would have bet that Claire had prepared the light meal with Donna in mind. “My favorite part of having friends for dinner is when I leave the men to clean up.”

  Lucy said she’d take the dog outside to chase birds, then she’d make tea to go with Annie’s cookies. In addition to the usual chocolate chip, Annie had baked a batch of lemon wafers dusted with confectioners sugar, which she thought Donna might enjoy. Though she’d done a lot of baking at the center, Annie hadn’t written a damn word. It wasn’t only because she’d been unnerved by Taylor—she also recognized an undercurrent of Mark, as if he’d slid back into her life on Larry Hendricks’s slimy heels.

  Settling into the rocking chair by the fireplace, she chose to let the others do the talking. As a writer, she preferred listening, anyway.

  “Your granddaughter is charming,” Donna said after she and Claire were seated, and Lucy had gone outside.