by Jean Stone
“Dispatch said a trespasser broke in.”
That must have been what she’d said when she had called. “He didn’t really break in, but . . .”
John shifted on his haunches. “But what?”
“It was my ex-husband. It was Mark.”
John gripped her arm. “The jerk? The one who disappeared and screwed you over?”
Annie nodded. It was tough to hear those words being said out loud. Tough. Embarrassing. Humiliating.
“He won’t be back,” Donna said. “I let him know he was not welcome here.”
Annie noticed that the gun had vanished. Perhaps she shouldn’t mention to John that her mother had one.
“I can’t believe he found you,” John said, his voice quieter, but his anger, Annie knew, was not far under his skin. “How the hell did he find you?”
“It’s my own fault. I called a friend of his at the Boston DA’s office. I thought he might . . . help out. With the skull, you know?”
John dropped his chin. “Jesus, Annie. I thought by now you knew not to get involved.”
“But so much is at stake . . .”
He let go of her arm. “Where’d he go?”
“I have no idea.”
“What’s his last name?”
“Lewiston.”
“Do you have a picture of him?”
She frowned. Did John really think she’d saved a photo of the man? There was no need to tell him about the bonfire she and Murphy had ignited in the dumpster at Annie’s condo building that quickly had destroyed the photos, clothes, and every single thing that Mark had liked or touched or even breathed on; or how the fire department had showed up and lambasted them. “I got rid of all his photos,” was what she said now.
“What kind of vehicle was he driving?”
“I don’t know. I only saw the headlights.”
“Was he alone?”
“I have no idea.”
“What was the guy’s name at the DA’s office?”
“Larry Hendricks.” She realized she was breathing more easily, that she was worn-out, that she was thirsty. “Donna?” she asked. “Could you please put the kettle on while John interrogates me?” Her anger about Mark had turned into irritation at John.
“Jesus, Annie. I’m trying to help here.”
She lowered her head. “There’s nothing to do, John. He’s probably off Chappy by now. And he probably took the late boat off the island.”
“It’s almost nine thirty. Unless the guy went airborne, he couldn’t have made it off Chappy and to Vineyard Haven in time.” John was standing then, though Annie didn’t remember that he’d gotten up. His stance was rigid, his gaze penetrating, as if he were awaiting a response. Yes, Annie thought, he was angry that she’d contacted Larry, that she’d tried to circumvent the authorities. His authority.
She shrugged. “I have no idea if he knows anyone here he could stay with. Or which hotels are open before Memorial Day.” The reminder of the holiday made her stomach roil. She had a fleeting thought that their tenants might try to sue them for breach of their leases if the Inn wasn’t finished. “John,” she said, “please forget about it. He didn’t hurt me or threaten me. It was a shock, for sure. But I’m all right. And, like Donna said, he won’t be back.”
“I’ll post someone outside tonight.”
“There’s no need to. Honestly.”
He turned away. “Let’s go,” he said. “There’s nothing to see here.”
That’s when Annie noticed two other policemen—one was coming from the bedroom, the other was inside the front door.
“If this jerk’s still on the island,” John added, “we’ll find him. It’s not as if we have a ton of work to do right now.” He looked back at her, then turned around again and followed his fellow officers out into the night.
Donna set a mug of steaming tea in front of her, and Annie closed her eyes.
“I didn’t know you had a gun,” she said.
“Don’t worry. I have a permit. When I had the business, I dealt with a lot of cash. It made sense to carry one.”
Annie remembered that Kevin had had one, too, locked in the glove box of his truck. She’d never asked if he’d gotten rid of it. “Good thing we’re on Chappy and that it’s still April. Otherwise, you’d probably be arrested for ‘improper discharge of a firearm’ or something.”
“John would arrest me?”
She laughed. “He’d arrest me if he thought I’d broken the law.”
Donna sat again. “In that case, if I have another chance to shoot your ex-husband, I might as well aim for his heart. As long as I’ll be arrested anyway, I should make it worth my while. But first, if you’re okay, I think I’ll go to bed.”
“Please,” Annie replied. “Please do. And thank you. You saved my sanity. And maybe my life.”
“My pleasure,” Donna said. “Now go back to the Inn. And sleep.”
After Donna closed the bedroom door, Annie didn’t feel like drinking tea. She started to carry the mug over to the sink when, halfway across the room, she noticed a small white paper on the floor inside the door. She moved closer to it and stopped. Then she picked it up. It was a business card: MARK LEWISTON, COMMERCIAL PROPERTY CONSULTANT. His phone number was on the bottom.
Before Annie could freeze again, she finished walking to the sink, then flung the card into the trash.
* * *
She’d done as she’d been told and gone back to the Inn. She’d been unafraid to meet Mark in the dark, on the lawn, because she’d suspected he was long gone. Still, Annie couldn’t sleep. She’d called Kevin, told him what had happened, and then asked if he’d come over and crash on the sofa in the cottage—just in case. Mark wouldn’t know that Annie wasn’t still there, and she didn’t want to risk that he’d barge in on Donna. Though Annie knew she could have gone back, she felt Donna would be safer with Kevin there. And there wasn’t enough space for the three of them.
More than anything, Annie wanted to call Larry Hendricks and blast him. She’d trusted that he wouldn’t have told Mark that they’d talked. Or where she was. Why had she been such a fool?
“Don’t answer that,” she said aloud, in case Murphy was listening.
Then Annie thought about Donna. Wow. That had been some performance, the mama bear defending her cub. Annie would not have believed that Donna could be so . . . tough. Was that the word? Donna had had no idea who the intruder was.... She’d only known that Annie felt threatened. Annie thought about her mother—her other mother—Ellen Sutton. Ellen probably would have stood behind Annie, not in front of her, and there was no way she’d have had a gun. The poor woman had been afraid of most things.
“Duck!” Annie remembered her dad shouting one night when a bat had flown into the house. He had a broom in one hand, a bucket in the other. His command hadn’t been to her, but to her mother who was in the corner, cowering, trembling, crying. Annie had been at the opposite end of the living room, a broom and bucket in her hands, too.
“Come on, kiddo, let’s get this bugger!” He’d always called her kiddo when they were on a mission together, whether they were going to go out for ice cream or swatting bats out of the house. “Damn pine trees!” he said with every swat. “One of these days, we’ll chop ’em down.” They never did, of course. The bats lived in them, and her dad had secretly told her that every critter needed to live somewhere.
“Like me?” Annie had asked the first time he’d said it. She’d been around seven or eight, and they’d been walking past the pine trees en route to the ice cream shop. “Is that why you adopted me?”
“You bet, kiddo,” he said, resting a hand on her shoulder. “You could have either lived in our house or up in the pine trees, and you know that your darn mother doesn’t like you outside after dark.”
His reasoning made little sense, but Annie had giggled and skipped alongside him because he’d always made her feel special. Protected. And, most of all, loved.
She didn’t think he
’d ever owned a gun.
Hauling herself from under the covers now, Annie guessed it might be easier to get to sleep if she paced for a while first. She pulled on her quilted robe and stepped into her slippers. Inside the room the night air was cold.
She looked out the window, up at the sky. It was ink-black, as was typical on Chappy. Also as usual, stars were bright and abundant, as if silver confetti had been tossed into the air. “Millions of stars!” her dad had whispered every summer when they were on the Vineyard. “Maybe more! Who knows?” He once said he whispered so he wouldn’t wake up the stars because it was past dark, past Annie’s bedtime, and no doubt, past the bedtime of the stars as well.
These days, her dad was on her mind. A lot. Perhaps because she needed to begin accepting that he was the only dad that she would ever know.
Sighing, she knotted the tie of her robe and headed from her room. If she went outside, she’d have a better view of the sky. Maybe she’d see the Milky Way; she never grew tired of that breathtaking sight. The light from the heavens would be illuminating, so there was no need for her lantern. Still, she’d bring it. “Always be prepared, kiddo,” her dad had often said. He’d been talking about hurricanes and snowstorms and such, not predatory former jerk husbands. Not for the first time, Annie was glad that neither of her parents had lived long enough to have known Mark or to see the person she’d become when she’d been with him: shallow, materialistic, phony—all those things she’d been raised not to believe in.
Swinging the unlit lantern, she made her way down the tall, wide, winding staircase, counting each step—twenty-four—as she went. When she reached the bottom, she turned left and went through the great room, past the fireplace, where, suddenly, she heard a low, growling sound. She stopped. And froze.
A dog?
A raccoon?
A skunk? Did skunks even growl?
For the second time that night, Annie’s heart began thumping. She wasn’t sure which way to turn. But all she could see in the starlight shimmering through the windows was a pile of tarps that Kevin must have left by the doorway that led to the kitchen and the back door.
She wished she had a broom and a bucket. She wondered if she could shoo away whatever the growling intruder was with one swipe of the lantern.
Sucking in a quiet breath, she slinked toward the sound, “like a darn fool,” her mother Ellen would have said. Annie listened. The sound stopped for a moment, then resumed.
She moved closer.
When she reached the tarps, she hit the on switch; the beam flared down from the lantern onto the floor. And there, curled in a ball, white hair spiking up, was Earl. Asleep. And snoring.
“Earl!” she squealed.
He shook his head, no doubt clearing cobwebs. He opened his eyes and saw her. “Hey! You scared the hell out of me!”
Exasperated, Annie plunked down beside him. “What are you doing here?”
He rubbed his eyes. “I’m on guard. My son ordered me to come. He might even have deputized me, though I’m not sure about that. He told me what happened. I told him Kevin was in the cottage with your mom. And John didn’t want you up here alone.”
John, she whispered to herself. So he wasn’t angry with her after all. She smiled. John. Donna. Kevin. Earl. As much as Annie believed she could take care of herself, it was nice to have protectors all around her.
* * *
Sometimes it was hard to believe that she was there. In her daughter’s home. In her daughter’s bed.
It had not been an easy journey. It was not easy still. Donna had, after all, never been comfortable telling a lie. She tried hard not to, and yet . . .
She was glad she’d told the truth about taking the bus from South Station, even though she’d failed to mention that she’d done that because she’d sold her car. It was one less thing for anyone to have to worry about. Because times had changed, and, if nothing else, Donna MacNeish had learned early on the importance of rolling with the punches. If she hadn’t, she never would have succeeded in business, small though it had been. She’d had a select group of loyal customers—clients, they’d preferred to be called—with perpetual lists of items they desperately needed: Tiffany lamps, Chippendale consoles, eighteenth-century Louis XVI bergeres. She never regretted having used her inheritance from Aunt Elizabeth for tuition at business school.
She’d loved her work, loved her clients. Loved being surrounded by beautiful things. Of course, she’d kept the Vuitton trunk safely at home. Not for public viewing. Not for sale. Ever. It had become symbolic of the good things that—against all odds—had come to her.
As awkward as it had first felt to be back on the Vineyard, it was beginning to feel like home. Donna knew that the picture would be complete once the Vuitton arrived.
Chapter 24
Kevin told Annie he’d buy her breakfast at Linda Jean’s in Oak Bluffs. Donna said she needed to sleep in. Earl had disappeared sometime after dawn, having left a note saying he needed to go home before Claire had “a hissy fit.”
Annie hadn’t ridden in Kevin’s pickup in a while; she stared at the glove box, but declined to ask if he still had the gun. The near miss the night before would remain a secret between Donna and her.
They sat in a booth by the window that looked out onto Circuit Avenue. The narrow one-way street was silent and still, an occasional vehicle inching past.
“Won’t be long until this place is booming,” Kevin said.
Annie laughed. “You’re starting to sound like Earl.”
He tossed his napkin at her. Though he was being playful, Annie suspected the real reason he’d taken her to breakfast was so they could be somewhere far from Chappaquiddick and their mother. Or far enough. Annie hoped he didn’t want to talk about Mark—she’d had her fill of that conversation after the drama of last night.
“So,” she began, in an effort to help Kevin start, “what’s on your mind? Not that I don’t love having a meal with my brother, but . . .”
“She’s still sick, isn’t she?”
Their coffee arrived for which Annie was grateful. She smiled at the waitress, straightened the napkin in her lap, opened a container of cream, and added a little to her mug—all while considering how to answer Kevin’s question.
She sipped. She swallowed. Then, unable to procrastinate any longer, she asked, “Mom?”
He glared at her. “Yes. Mom.”
Annie sighed. “I only know what she told us, Kevin. That she had ovarian cancer, radiation, and chemo. But that she’s ‘all clear’ now. Don’t you believe her?”
“No.” It was his turn to fiddle with the sugar and the cream while Annie waited for him to gather his words. “She’s a terrible liar. She says she’s exhausted from treatment, but she looks like shit. And I caught her sitting in a chair just before dawn, staring into space.”
“Maybe she was enjoying the view. Sunrises here are amazing, though I haven’t seen many of them. They always happen too early, you know?” Annie was trying to lighten the mood, though it did not seem to be working.
Ignoring her comment, he pushed his mug away. “She had a visitor yesterday. Earl told me he saw her.”
“So did I. In fact, I met her. Her name is Georgia Nelson. She’s a home companion. She’s going to help Donna out around the cottage—cleaning, doing laundry, that kind of stuff—so we don’t have to. Donna seems excited that she’s, as she called it, ‘taking the burden’ off us.”
He studied his coffee as if searching for tea leaves. “Georgia Nelson is a hospice nurse.”
About to take a drink, Annie stopped, her hand, and the mug, paralyzed in midair. “What?”
“She’s a hospice nurse. You probably know what that is?”
She set the mug down. “Of course. But really, Kevin? Are you sure?”
“Earl told me.”
Earl. Of course he knew Georgia. Everyone knew pretty much everyone on the damn island. She lifted her mug again, then set it back down without taking a drink. “Mayb
e hospice nurses do double-duty here. Maybe they help people out wherever they’re needed. Lots of people on the island have two jobs. Or three.”
Kevin set his eyes on hers. “Do you really think that’s what’s going on? That Georgia showed up just to help wash out her undies? She’s a hospice nurse, Annie. They help people when they’re . . . dying.” His voice cracked on the last word; Annie’s throat tightened as he said it.
She reached across the table and rested her hand on his. “Kevin . . . what else? Did you ask Donna about it?”
Shaking his head, he started to speak when their orders arrived: scrambled eggs for Annie, an omelet for him. Annie thanked the waitress and said they didn’t need more coffee. She didn’t say it was doubtful that they’d touch their eggs.
“When I saw her staring out the window, I asked her if she couldn’t sleep because of all the commotion when your ex showed up. She said probably. She also said it had been an adrenaline rush.”
Annie pulled back her hand, picked up her fork, and pretended to get busy with her food. “Let’s not talk about that, okay? I’d rather pretend it never happened.”
“Do you think he left?”
“I have no idea. I don’t care. I have no intention of seeing him. Ever. Again.”
“Mom said he really scared you.”
Annie looked back at him. “Kevin, please. I don’t want to talk about it, okay?”
“Oh, sure. Is it easier to talk about Mom’s cancer?”
She set down her fork. “We don’t know for sure she still has it. We don’t know that she’s not doing exactly what she said: recuperating.”
He chewed at a thumbnail. “Should we ask her?”
“I don’t know.” She thought for a moment, then said, “No. If it isn’t true, can you imagine how much it would upset her? And if it is . . . we should let her keep her dignity. Let her decide when—if—she’s ready to tell us.”
Kevin looked at his plate. “I don’t feel like eating.”
“Me either.”
He paid the check, and they left the restaurant. If they’d been in Edgartown, Annie would have walked back to the ferry. The exercise might have helped to clear her head. But it would be a long walk from Oak Bluffs. So they rode in Kevin’s truck, sitting next to each other in rare silence, the latest news simply too big to absorb.
