A Vineyard Morning Page 6

  Kevin unfolded his arms and swung them at his sides as if he were preparing to do the broad jump at a junior high track meet. “Technically, I guess it was. But things might change if this is new evidence.”

  So Kevin’s concern about their mother’s visit had less to do with Donna, and more to do with the added stress he now was under, wondering how supportive he could—or should—be for Taylor. It also had to do with his need to know if Taylor had, in truth, murdered her boyfriend. None of which would have mattered if Taylor weren’t still Kevin’s girlfriend. So that answered Annie’s curiosity about that.

  “I’ll call Donna,” Annie said. “I’ll ask her to postpone her visit for a week or two. I’ll make up a good story. That’s what I do for a living, isn’t it?”

  Just then the state police walked past them; one carried a thick black plastic bag that was not much bigger than a gallon Ziploc. By the distinct shape of the bulge, Annie knew what was inside.

  * * *

  Annie waited until evening to call Donna; there was no response, so she left a message asking her to call her back. There was no need to offer details.

  Then Annie went to bed.

  And tried to sleep.

  And tried not see what she had seen.

  Or worry about what it might mean.

  But it was not until the sky started to wake up that she finally found sleep.

  * * *

  She didn’t rouse until after eight, didn’t shower and pull herself together until nine. If she tried to think about the Inn’s décor, she’d only dwell on the events of yesterday and the “red tape” that Earl had cautioned her might lie ahead. So instead, Annie sat at her small corner desk, staring out the open window, trying to focus on her manuscript. But the sunshine and the warm breeze—promises of summer—were not helping. She kept her phone at her elbow in case Donna returned her call.

  “Focus, focus, focus,” Annie admonished herself. But it was hard to separate the yellow police DO NOT CROSS tape on her beach from the murder in her manuscript.

  Annie’s mystery series revolved around two main characters who once had been college pals but now were very different: studious Emma was a hardworking career girl struggling to climb the ladder at a Boston art museum; fun-loving Maggie was a trophy wife who volunteered at the museum in order to do something “civic-minded” that would look good to members of the other boards on which she (or her husband) served, and that someday would read well in her obituary. Annie had not crafted the characters after Murphy and herself; if she had, the book would have been easier to write.

  She pulled her gaze back to the screen that read “Chapter 4” at the top. The rest of the page was blank. At the end of chapter three, a museum guard had found a corpse in the Monet Room. She shifted her gaze from the screen to the keyboard; she wondered if she were the only bestselling author who had never mastered typing without using the two-fingers-of-each-hand system, as if technology had surpassed her basic abilities.

  And now a different kind of technology would determine the identity, or at least the ancestral origin, of the remains that might change her future.

  She limbered her four typing fingers over the keyboard. “Focus,” she whispered. “Please, focus.”

  She thought about the Monet Room in her fictitious museum, which led her to remember the Monet gallery in Paris where she’d been not once but half a dozen times when she was with Mark, though she’d rather not think about him, any more than she wanted to think about the skull she’d found. So she forced her mind to wander to the Paris gallery and Monet’s painting of buttercups that featured a beautiful woman in a white dress and white hat and carrying a white parasol; it was a bright summer day; the woman was resting in a field among the yellow flowers. The title of the painting was In the Meadow, and it had inspired Annie to include, in the landscaping plan around The Vineyard Inn, a large tract for a meadow that would be filled with buttercups.

  The idea, Annie knew, had formed because of her mother—not Donna, but Ellen Sutton.

  Every year in late spring, the Suttons had gone to the Vineyard for a weekend, ostensibly to pick out the cottage where they’d stay on their August vacation. (It took a long time before Annie figured out that those weekends had been an excuse for an early visit to the island, because they always wound up renting the same cottage in Edgartown.) One of those spring trips had been extra special. She knew that she’d been eight, because the following year her mother had left them for a while, and Annie had never fully trusted her again. Maybe that was why her memories of the weekend were so vivid. And good.

  That Sunday morning, her dad had wanted to sit on the porch—the piazza, he’d always called it—of the old hotel where they were staying to smoke his pipe and read the Boston Globe. In an uncharacteristic move, her mother had suggested that the two “girls” go for a drive up island to Alley’s General Store in search of clever kitchen gadgets to bring back to the city. They had waved good-bye to Annie’s dad and climbed into the family’s Rambler, her mother pushing the push button that read “Drive,” and tooting the horn as they headed off toward West Tisbury.

  Somewhere along the way, they had spotted a meadow. Her mother had stopped the car. “Buttercups!” she cried as she jumped out. Annie followed. They ducked under a split-rail fence and stood in tall, verdant grasses that were topped with bright yellow blossoms stretching “as far as the eye can see,” her mother said. In the distance, two brown horses and one white one strolled through the grass and seemed as happy to be there as Annie was. Then her mother plucked one of the flowers.

  “Raise your head,” she said to Annie. So Annie did. Then her mother held the yellow cup under her chin. “This proves it! You like butter!”

  Then Annie took the flower and held it under her mother’s chin. When she saw the golden reflection on her mother’s skin, she giggled. “You like butter, too, Mommy!” It wasn’t as exciting as doing the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not with daisies or making a wish before blowing on a dandelion puff, but having her mother play a little game with her was worth all the he-loves-me’s and wishes coming true in the world.

  Her mother then hugged her and ruffled her hair, and they picked a whole bunch of buttercups to bring back to Daddy.

  When Annie had seen the painting at the Monet gallery, it had reminded her of that day. The memory had not only inspired her to design a meadow at the Inn, it was also why she’d inserted a “Monet Room” in the museum of her book.

  She smiled a small smile. And then she blinked. Still staring at the keyboard, she suddenly realized that several more minutes had passed, and she still hadn’t typed a single word.

  Don’t make it a corpse. Murphy’s voice suddenly floated into the open window on the breeze.

  “What?” Annie sat up straight.

  Don’t make it a corpse, her old friend repeated.

  And then Murphy was gone, as quickly as she—or rather, her presence—had arrived.

  But Annie laughed. Loudly. Because Murphy had offered the key that Annie needed. Instead of the corpse she’d hidden in the Monet Room the last time she’d done any worthwhile writing, she would make this one a skull. Or part of a skull. God knows, she now knew what one looked like. Besides, she reasoned, one would tuck nicely into the room without drawing attention from the buttercups.

  Her fingers came alive, thanks to her old pal, who had helped Annie redirect many literary jams. Her four fingers—two on the left, two on the right—had churned out a couple of scenes when her phone rang.

  Damn!

  She considered not answering, but what if it was John with more information? Or what if Kevin had a new crisis? With a loud groan, Annie turned from her desk and recovered her phone from the bookcase next to her. But Caller ID reported that it was neither John nor Kevin; it was Donna.

  Aunt Elizabeth left Donna a little money when she died. “It’s not enough for you to have the kind of happiness that you deserve,” Elizabeth had penned in a note that she’d tucked into an en
velope along with six thousand dollars in one hundred dollar bills, “but it might come in handy if, like me, you never find a rich man to marry you.” Elizabeth’s attorney had handed Donna the envelope; it had been in the safety deposit box next to Elizabeth’s last will and testament. Though Donna had known her aunt had longed for exquisite, expensive things, she’d never had any of her own. She’d been a spinster all her life; it was amazing that she’d been able to save that much. Donna’s parents never had; they’d scrimped their whole lives and, in the end, they each only had a five thousand dollar life insurance policy. It had cost that much to pay their final medical bills and to bury them.

  Donna would have loved to buy the Louis Vuitton with part of her windfall from Elizabeth. But the woman hadn’t died until six months after the trunk had vanished from the shop on Newbury Street.

  So instead she used the money to go to business school at night. If she had no man, she figured she’d need an education to support young Kevin and herself. Or she would risk ending up like her parents and Elizabeth, leaving her dreams behind.

  Chapter 7

  “All the more reason for me to be there,” Donna said after Annie told her about the pressure mounting toward opening the Inn. Annie saw no reason to tell her about the skull and its potential ramifications—not until they knew more about what would happen.

  “But some of our construction crew has left,” Annie said, “and it looks like we won’t be able to replace them for a week or two. So Kevin and Earl are really busy.” She was, of course, stretching the truth, as her father would have called it. “Wouldn’t you rather be here when we can have fun? I was hoping you’d help me make soap for the artisan festivals . . . or give me a hand with some last-minute decorating.”

  “No,” Donna interrupted. “A week or two has a way of turning into a month or more. I don’t want to wait that long to see my children. And you won’t have time to come up here. Not now, or once the Inn has opened.”

  She was right, of course. And Annie didn’t know how to dissuade her. “Kevin and I want to see you, too. But this week, well, to be honest, everyone’s nerves are frayed. I’m sure you understand. Can you at least wait until next week?”

  “No,” Donna repeated.

  A lump returned to Annie’s throat. “Oh.” She wondered if she sounded as close to tears as she suddenly felt.

  Silence.

  Then Donna said, “I’m sorry, Annie. But I need to see you.” Her voice had dropped an octave or two, as if this were serious.

  “Is something wrong?”

  After another pause, Donna said, “When I was on the cruise last year I took a class in estate planning. I’ve since received the final payment for my business, and it’s all going into a trust. I need to review it with you and Kevin first.”

  “But surely a few days . . . ?” Annie held her fingers to her throat as if the gesture would dissolve the lump.

  “No,” Donna said again. “My attorney is going out of the country for a while. I want to button this up before he goes. I’m sure you understand. So I’ll be on the noon boat on Saturday as planned. If no one can pick me up, I’ll take a taxi. Or the bus. You still have busses there, don’t you?”

  So Annie told her someone would meet her at the boat, because what else could she say? After they rang off, she realized that Kevin had used the perfect word—formidable—to describe their mother. With a sigh of resignation, Annie sat for a moment, then looked back at her computer. But the inspiration was gone. Instead, she needed to find Kevin and tell him the news. There would always be tomorrow—or the next day—to get back to her manuscript. At least Murphy was around in case of writer’s block.

  * * *

  The Inn was quiet, except for the crinkle of paint-splattered tarps under Annie’s feet. She paused in the kitchen and surveyed the transformation; the only thing left to do was install the white porcelain tiles on the floor. Otherwise it looked complete: the lustrous counters, the stainless steel ten-burner gas stove, the Sub-Zero refrigerators (two). The cabinets were also in place, their gleaming white blending with the white marble countertops. The windows framed a perfect contrast of the thick green lawn, the whispery beige sand, the shimmering aqua water. The scene was breathtaking. If only it didn’t become an abandoned masterpiece.

  Pushing down negative thoughts, she went into the great room. Though the floor-to-ceiling windows had been installed, the room hadn’t yet been painted. The blue slate fireplace was not complete; the wood floor wasn’t in place; there was so much left to do. And with the crew having been sent home until the state police gave them the all-clear, it was up to Earl and Kevin to race against the clock. And sneakily, at that.

  “Earl!” she called as she circled into the two-story foyer. “Kevin!” Neither responded. She paused and listened. But there were no sounds. Opposite the staircase, she peeked into the cozy reading room that abutted a large powder room, then walked past a storage closet to the media room. That side of the house was finished; each room sat ready, its walls and floors and fabulous furnishings emitting fine scents of newness. But Earl and Kevin weren’t there, either.

  She returned to the foyer and quickly climbed the stairs, wondering if they’d been told they couldn’t work there, either, that no one was allowed on the grounds until the mystery was solved. Then Annie had two thoughts: Why the heck had she ever gone searching for decorative items on the beach? . . . And if no one was allowed on the grounds, did that mean her, too? If so, where would she go—what would she do until this was resolved? The cottage was her home now, wasn’t it?

  At the top of the stairs, she made a quick right into the front bedroom that Kevin had said she could use.

  But though Earl had said he’d be painting, the work wasn’t yet done. Maybe she and Kevin should book a hotel room for Donna after all. Or one for Annie, if Donna preferred the cottage. It was only April, so hotel rooms would be available—though, like restaurants, few places were open year-round. And even at off-season prices, the costs would add up quickly.

  More expenses would only heighten their problems. If Annie could write faster, the income from her next book would come in sooner, but, she knew, not soon enough. Besides, if she spent every day hard at work at the computer, the best she could expect would be to finish the manuscript in six months, maybe seven.

  “Earl! Kevin!”

  But there were no sounds, not of paint being swished across a wall . . . or of footsteps . . . or of anything.

  She needed to call Kevin. But when she reached into her pocket, she realized she’d left her phone at home.

  Trying not to give in to utter frustration, she spun around and retraced her tracks down the stairs, through the great room, the kitchen, then into the mudroom by the back door. Which was where she bumped smack into Kevin.

  “There you are,” they said simultaneously.

  “You’re looking for me?” he asked without cracking a grin, which was out of character for him.

  “Yes. But go ahead. You first.”

  He rubbed the back of his neck, which was not a good sign. Annie’s stomach tightened. Was it bad news from the ME’s office or the state police?

  “It’s about John’s daughter.”

  Her whole body tensed. She sucked in a short breath and grabbed a sleeve of his denim shirt. “Lucy? What?”

  “She’s fine. Or she will be until her grandfather gets ahold of her.”

  Annie released her grip. “What happened?”

  “That sweet girl who’s become your sidekick took a picture of the skull.”

  “I know. She said she was afraid something would come along and take the thing before her father got there.”

  “Well, she posted the picture on the internet this morning. The damn thing went viral. Over twelve thousand viewers already. Probably more, because I haven’t checked in the last five minutes.”

  Annie was stunned.

  “That’s not the worst,” he added. “The headline reads: ‘Skull found on Chappaqu
iddick, Martha’s Vineyard. And it’s def not from a shark.’ ”

  “Dear God,” she finally managed to say. “Does John know?”

  Kevin shrugged. “He worked last night, according to Earl. He’s probably sleeping. Earl’s going to tell him after he picks Lucy up at school.”

  Annie rubbed her arms. She moved back into the kitchen; Kevin followed.

  “I thought she was smarter than that,” Annie said. “If I ever thought she’d . . .”

  “What? You would have taken away her phone? It’s a new world, Annie. Oh, and there’s more. She hashtagged Martha’s Vineyard. Chappaquiddick.” He paused. “And The Vineyard Inn.”

  Annie went back to the windows over the sink. The beautiful view that moments earlier had looked so serene now seemed dulled, its magic tainted. “Anything else?”

  “She added a picture of Jonas standing in front of the yellow tape. I can’t imagine why.”

  Of course, Annie could. It was clear that Lucy had been trying to impress the guy. “Oh, God, Kevin. Someone needs to make her take those pictures down. And fast.”

  “It’s the first thing Earl’s going to tell her when she gets into his truck. But I’m afraid it isn’t going to help much. Once something’s gone viral . . . well . . . From what we can figure, it’s already hit the news feeds. So it’s out there. Everywhere.”

  “Who told you about it?”

  “A friend of Earl’s called him from the chamber of commerce. They saw it online; they check all the Martha’s Vineyard tags. We were here, working on the upstairs room. I was going to tell you first, but when I walked down to the cottage I saw you through the window. You were sitting at your desk, deep in concentration, and I knew this would be a major distraction.”

  Deep in concentration? Hardly. She’d only been reminiscing until Murphy had jarred her out of it. “We’d better go to John’s. This will take a few clear heads to sort out. I’ll just run down to my place and get my purse . . .”

  “Sorry,” he said as she brushed past him. “But you’ll have to go alone. Taylor wants me to talk to Jonas. About being ‘careful’ around Lucy.”