by Jean Stone
* * *
After checking on Donna, who was still asleep, Annie made another thermos of tea, and then grabbed her laptop and sneaked back through the scrub oaks on the path to the Flanagans’ place. She needed distraction; she needed to work, to engage her mind with the made-up murder in the made-up museum and not have to think about the real world. Not about real-life cancer. Or Mark.
“She’s still sick, isn’t she?” Kevin had asked.
Annie didn’t know. But if it were true, why didn’t she? Why didn’t Kevin? Why couldn’t the child be able to tell if the parent was seriously ill? Wasn’t there a sensor in the genetic code that made it obvious? Like when a parent intuitively knew when his or her child was sick?
And now the greater question was: Instead of having come to the Vineyard to recuperate, had Donna come there to . . . die?
Annie stared at the wall.
Then she wondered: What about Mark?
He wouldn’t be stupid enough to try to find Annie again. Would he?
Doubtful, Murphy said. He always was a weasel. Then, as if she couldn’t help herself, she added, I never liked him, you know.
“Yes, I know that,” Annie replied. “Please don’t rub it in. Not now.”
So Murphy went mute, which Annie appreciated.
Opening her laptop, she assumed that she’d be able pick up where she’d left off the day before: the skull had been found in the Blue Room; the police had arrived; the evidence had been sent to the medical examiner, as the scene had played out on Chappy. Except in Annie’s book, the remains hadn’t washed ashore but had been found on the second floor of a museum, so the protocol needed to be different. And the story wouldn’t involve ordinary people losing their life savings and several others being made homeless. But as she stared at the screen, she realized that, as in her life, Annie had no idea what should happen next. Unfortunately, neither did her characters.
She upcapped the thermos, poured a cup of tea, and zipped her fleece hoodie. Without wood on the porch, she couldn’t start a fire in the stove, which she supposed she shouldn’t do, anyway. No sense announcing that, once again, she’d broken-and-entered, though technically, that time she’d only entered, as she’d done the actual breaking part the day before.
She wondered if it were possible to type while wearing gloves. She might try that sometime, when she actually knew what to write, when her mind wasn’t clogged with shadowy thoughts of Donna. And when her muses hadn’t abandoned her the way that Mark had.
Should she or shouldn’t she call Larry? It was clear he’d wasted no time contacting Mark—who had waited only two days before emerging from whatever rock he’d been hiding under.
Annie grimaced.
The truth was, though his appearance had shocked her, she had survived. There had been a time, during those first years after she’d moved into a four-hundred-and-fifty square-foot excuse for an apartment, when she’d still been teaching, had started writing, and had sunk most of her salary into making small dings, hardly dents, into the debt he’d left, that she hadn’t believed she’d ever feel whole again. She had, however, been convinced that if she saw him she would drop dead on the spot. That was when she was still hurting, before the anger had set in. She didn’t know if she’d ever find acceptance, if there would ever be a time when she’d feel sorry for him and everything he’d lost, including her. For now, she needed to be content with knowing that, when she’d opened the door and had seen his still handsome face (yes, that part was sad, but true), even though she’d panicked, she had not dropped dead.
With both hands on her cheeks and her eyes fixed on the lifeless keys on the keyboard, her thoughts moved back to Donna.
Was Kevin right?
Was Georgia a hospice nurse and nothing more? Her card only showed her name and phone number and those damn pink roses. It did not show a title that included the word “Hospice,” but neither did it say “Home Companion.” Simply Georgia Nelson. Nondescript.
A shudder rippled through Annie. She didn’t know what to expect. When her mother Ellen had been ill, the nurses had taken care of her because she’d been in a hospital. She hadn’t been in a tiny cottage on Chappaquiddick. And Annie’s father had merely died of a massive heart attack—swift, clean, done.
She dropped her chin, her eyes now on the floor, her fingers clasped across the crown of her head. She didn’t know how long she’d been in that position when the door to the Flanagans’ cottage creaked open. She was too deep in thought to be afraid.
“Don’t you know you don’t live here anymore?” John filled the doorway, blocking the sunlight. Annie didn’t have to ask how he knew where she would be; Earl, good old Earl, no doubt had told him.
“Sometimes it slips my mind. Especially because it’s so peaceful here. And it’s where I actually can write.”
“Am I interrupting?”
She pulled herself up and went to him. She wrapped her arms around him and tipped her head onto his shoulder. “Never.”
He kissed the top of her head, then rubbed her shoulders. “We found him,” he said.
Annie jumped back. Stung.
John held her arms, steadying her. “He’d checked into the Harbor View. Used his real name. That was a surprise. He was with his friend Hendricks.”
She shook off John’s hands and began to pace. She hated that her heart was thumping again. “Did you make him leave the island? Please tell me you did.”
“I can’t do that, Annie. He didn’t do anything but show up at your place.”
There was no need to go into the rest. Years earlier, Annie’s attorney had explained that because Mark had made sure her name was on all of their accounts, she’d been liable for the debt when he’d disappeared. It was not a crime. They had, after all, been husband and wife. Community property was community property, whether they were divorcing or the other party died. Or disappeared.
She slumped down in the chair again, wishing her rocker were still there.
“So he’s still here.”
“He’s at the station. I wanted to hold him there until you knew where he was.”
“Did you suggest that he stay away from me? Or isn’t that protocol, either?”
“Annie . . .” John walked to the chair, squatted before her. “I’m sorry I can’t arrest him. I’m sorry I can’t deport him back to wherever the hell he’s been all this time. Hell, I’m especially sorry I can’t shoot him. But that does bring up a question. He told us that a woman in the cottage came after him with a gun. And that she fired it. At him.”
The right corner of Annie’s mouth twitched up a little. She knew she should try to stop it; she knew it would give the truth away. But she couldn’t help it. She was just so damn proud that Donna had defended her before she’d even known who the shadow was. Donna. Her mother. Her possibly very sick mother.
Annie willed her mouth to straighten. “I don’t know what he’s talking about.” If she didn’t make eye contact, maybe John wouldn’t know she was lying.
“You sure?”
“I don’t own a gun, John. Guns make me nervous. You know that.” She wasn’t even comfortable whenever she saw John’s weapon safely holstered at his side.
“What about your mother?”
“Donna? Why would she have a gun?”
“I have no idea. But I do know one is registered in her name. She’s had a permit nearly forty years.”
“Oh,” Annie said with a shrug. “Well, you’d better ask her, if you must. But right now she’s sleeping. She’s been sick, you know. And she didn’t shoot anyone last night.” That part was true. Only because she’d intentionally missed.
John began nodding like a bobblehead doll. “Annie, Annie, whatever will I do with you?”
“Oh,” she replied, “you’ll think of something. But first, I’ll feel better when I’m sure Mark has left the island. And that his friend has gone with him.”
John rubbed the back of his neck. “Larry Hendricks. Yes, that brings up another matt
er.”
She stopped rocking. She leaned forward. “What?”
“He claims he’s in tight with the assistant who’s working with the archeologist. He said that the skull has been moved up to the next case on the list.”
Of course, it was quite possible that Larry and Mark had concocted the story solely to pacify her. “Do you believe him?”
John offered a noncommittal shrug. “Apparently that’s why they came here. Hendricks said he got in touch with Mark and told him what’s been going on. Mark said he wanted to come with him so they could deliver the good news together. He said it might help you forgive him for, in his words, ‘past mistakes.’”
Annie went to the kitchen window. The view had changed since she’d lived there; last fall, the new owners had old shrubberies removed; newer, smaller, flowering ones had been organized by a landscape architect and planted by a professional crew; the driveway had been updated from clamshells to neatly arranged pavers. And the weathered shingles on the house had been replaced by white clapboard. It now almost looked as if it were on North Water Street rather than on Chappy. She supposed that next they’d tear down the cottage and replace it with a stylized playhouse for small children. Like the children Mark had made sure that he and Annie never had. Intellectually, she knew she should be grateful for that now. But she was not.
She folded her arms and turned back to John. “Never,” she said. “I will not forgive him. And I will not forgive myself for having believed his lies. Not in this lifetime, or in the next. Feel free to pass that on when you let him go. And, by the way, can you tell me when that might be?”
“Seriously? I have the guy who nearly destroyed the woman I love in an interrogation room, sweating his . . . well, sweating a lot, and you think I want to let him go? But I can’t keep him there, Annie. I’m sorry, but, like I said, he didn’t do anything illegal.”
“Thanks for being sorry. I would have loved to stand beside you and watch him sweat, too. As for his claims about a woman trying to shoot him . . .”
“A woman?” John asked. “Trying to shoot him? What claim? I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He then went toward the window, kissed her briefly, and said he had to get back to the barn, which Annie had learned was cop slang for when they returned to the station, their second home.
* * *
“So that’s the latest,” Annie told Kevin after she’d packed up her laptop and returned to the Inn where she’d found her brother painting one of the upstairs bedrooms. “I’m not sure if it’s true, but our so-called ‘case’ might have been moved to the head of the class.”
“I think it has to be. I can’t imagine why your ex would have come out of hiding after all this time if they’d made that up.”
Annie hadn’t considered that. “Maybe he thinks I have money now? Maybe he’d hoped to try for another stab at me?”
“If the Inn were in jeopardy, I’d expect he’d know that, even if you had money, you’d lose it if we didn’t open.”
“Good point. And I suppose it would seem pretty farfetched to think he could enlist Larry’s help so he could fleece more out of me.”
“Yup. Farfetched. For one thing, from what you told me, he never ‘fleeced’ you. More like he stuck you.”
“Right. Never mind.” She rubbed her arms. No matter what Mark Lewiston did or did not do, the thought of him still made her skin crawl. “But let’s change the subject. Where’s Earl, anyway? I thought the painting was his job?”
“He had to pick something up from the boat.”
“The big boat?”
“Dunno. I guess.”
“Okay. I’ll check on Donna and let you get back to work.”
Kevin picked up his paintbrush and wagged it at Annie. “Let me know what you think, okay? About her . . . condition?”
“You’ll be the first,” Annie said, her stomach suddenly knotting. She paused, took a deep breath, then went downstairs and outside, striding across the terrace with false confidence, heading down the sloping lawn. Which was when she saw Earl at the cottage, struggling to maneuver a large box up the front steps.
“Need a hand?” she called.
He looked up and smiled. “Or a forklift, if you have one.”
She scooted down the hill; she saw that the box was actually a wooden crate, standing upright, strapped to a moving dolly.
They tipped it to one side, then the other, and managed it up to the door.
“What the heck is in here?” Annie asked.
“Your guess is as good as mine,” he grunted.
That’s when Annie saw a label with Donna’s name and Annie’s address. Below that were block letters stenciled in black: 15.4”h x 33.9”w x 15.7”d. L. VUITTON.
“Your mom asked me to pick it up at the boat. She said it’s something she’s going to need.”
“But she didn’t ask Kevin to get it.”
“Nope. And she asked me not to tell either of you before I got it here. Don’t ask me why. I learned from Claire that when a woman is doing the asking, it’s usually better for me to just do what I’m told.”
They angled the thing through the doorway and into the cottage. How curious, Annie thought. Then she took over, wheeling it to the sofa, unstrapping the crate, and sliding it off the dolly. She supposed it wouldn’t be right to crack one of the slats and peek inside. Even though Donna wasn’t in the room.
Which led Annie to wonder where the heck she was. Had she been sleeping since last night? It was nearly two o’clock—shouldn’t she be awake?
Glancing into the bedroom, Annie saw that Donna was, indeed, in bed, nestled under the white comforter.
“Donna?” Annie whispered. When there was no reply, she said, “Mom? Are you awake?”
Still, no reply.
She tiptoed closer, not wanting to startle her, but convinced it was past time for her to rise and shine. Sleeping all day could not be good for her condition, whatever it was.
“Mom?” Annie said again as she touched Donna’s shoulder.
There was no response.
Donna’s face was warm, but her breathing was shallow. And she seemed to take a long time between breaths.
“Mom?” Annie repeated, louder.
Donna stirred, opened her eyes, and looked at Annie. But she held Annie’s gaze for only a second, then seemed to pass out again.
Annie reached under the comforter and grabbed Donna’s wrist. She barely felt a pulse.
“Earl!” Annie shouted. “Call 911! And hurry!”
Chapter 25
Earl fast-walked up to the Inn to get Kevin to make the call, because he’d left his phone in his truck and figured that getting to Kevin would be faster. Annie couldn’t rebuke him for not using her phone, which sat on her laptop that she’d set down on the front steps when she’d helped him haul in the crate. Earl simply wasn’t yet totally tuned in to using a cell phone—he was more comfortable doing things the old way, his way.
In less than a minute or two, they were all in the cottage. Waiting. Earl wandered around the living room, Kevin paced the bedroom, and Annie sat next to Donna, smoothing her hair and trying to soothe her. Then, without warning, Donna’s dark tresses moved, sliding back on her head, revealing a pink scalp that was completely bald. Annie stifled a gasp; she quickly pulled the wig back into place before Kevin could notice.
She hadn’t known that Donna had lost her hair, only that it was shorter. What else had her mother failed to mention?
The screech of tires on clamshells halted Annie’s thoughts. She knew it was probably Taylor’s truck. As an EMT, a first responder right there on Chappy, she usually arrived before the rest, then instantly connected to the on-call team in Edgartown.
“In the bedroom,” Annie heard Earl say.
Taylor blew straight into the bedroom, her auburn hair flowing behind her, her emergency bag in hand. “What happened?” she barked. She wasted no time taking Donna’s vitals.
Kevin started to talk, but his words sputtered o
ut, scattered and indiscernible.
Annie took over. She explained what little she knew about Donna’s cancer, including that she’d finished chemo a few weeks ago. She didn’t remember how much of that Taylor already knew.
“How long has she been out?”
“She opened her eyes once. Then passed out again. Or fell asleep. Whatever she’s doing. We saw her earlier. She said she was really tired.” Annie wrung her hands. “She’s been tired since she got here. I thought it was a normal consequence of chemo.” Had that been less than a week ago? So much had been happening . . . so fast.
Taylor got busy on her phone, relaying Donna’s vital numbers to the hospital and to the EMTs who by then were en route in the ambulance. Annie knew how the process worked—the efficient island emergency medical care would arrive on the scene faster than such care would have in Boston; even better, the island crew was tied into the big hospitals up there. Fast service; world-class connection.
The police arrived, followed by the ambulance. Someone told Annie that John was on another call, an accident out in Katama. She would have preferred if he were there, but knew that Donna would be safe and well cared for; they slid her onto a gurney and into the back of the vehicle with deft precision. During the process, Donna lifted her eyelids once or twice, looked around, then promptly closed them.
Kevin opted to ride in the back of the ambulance; Annie said she’d drive behind them. Taylor offered to bring her in the pickup. Earl said he’d go home and tell Claire what had happened, then he’d swing by the hospital to see if they needed anything.
Though it was broad daylight, Taylor put a portable, red-flashing light on her dashboard, and they rumbled toward the On Time in their small parade.
There was no waiting at the dock: the police car and the ambulance drove right onto the ferry, bypassing a short queue of other vehicles. Ninety seconds later, the police and the ambulance reached the other side and rolled off the On Time, which then deadheaded back to Chappy so Taylor could cross next.
