by Jean Stone
“Hot, please. If you don’t mind.” Her voice was a whisper.
While Annie busied herself making the tea, Fiona sat, silent. Neither of them spoke until Annie set two steaming mugs on the table. With the heat and humidity of the day enveloping the room, she badly wanted to turn on the fan, but it was clear that Fiona was still cold. Fear, Annie knew, often did that. She’d been reminded of that when she’d stood outside the Littlefields’ in the pitch dark, scared that because Colin’s Porsche wasn’t there, it meant that her ex-husband had found her instead.
“Fiona,” she said quietly, trying to ease into a conversation, “what happened? Did Colin . . .” She searched her mind for a question. “Did your brother do something else?”
Gently shaking her head, Fiona picked up the mug and cupped it with both hands. “I ate the honey cake. I’m the only one who did. It must be how he poisoned me. But the box is gone now. Colin came back and destroyed the evidence.”
Annie was baffled. Could it have been Colin after all? Could the Porsche engine sound have been real and not in Annie’s dream? Maybe he had gone back to destroy the evidence. . . and when she’d heard the engine, maybe he had been leaving, not arriving.
But . . . Annie wondered, what the heck was honey cake? And what did it have to do with Fiona being poisoned?
“I don’t understand,” Annie said. “Can you start at the beginning?” The only thing for certain was that something had caused the young woman to wind up facedown on the lawn, passed out, and then have a seizure. And with the police short-handed, maybe Annie should help. After all, she did have a history of solving mysteries, factual as well as fictitious.
“The day of the wedding, I didn’t eat,” Fiona began. “I was nervous about fitting into my dress.” By the diminutive look of the girl, Annie couldn’t imagine that any dress, short of a doll’s, would be too small for Fiona. “Earlier in the day, after the ceremony, but before the reception, I ran home to use the loo. I saw the cake in a box next to our kitchen sink. The label said it was honey cake. I love honey cake, not that it mattered. By then I was so hungry I would have eaten anything.”
She was chattering now. Some color had returned to her cheeks; Annie decided not to interrupt.
“I grabbed a huge piece and ate every bit. It tasted strange. Bitter, you know?” She lowered her eyes. “But like I said, the box is gone now. Colin must have thrown it out. So I can’t prove anything.” The girl seemed frightened and sincere.
“What makes you think the cake was poisoned?”
“It had to be from that. I didn’t have anything else to eat or drink all day. And Colin knows how much I love honey cakes. When we were kids, he and Dana made them out of local honey every summer.”
Annie deduced it must be some kind of white cake or pound cake, sweetened with an ample amount of honey. Something a child might especially love. She wanted to ask how, if it had already been in a box, had Colin—or anyone—bought it knowing it was poisonous—if, in fact, it was. But not wanting to upset Fiona further by presenting logistics, Annie asked, “And your brother has left the island?”
“I guess. They finally let me out of the hospital this morning. Mr. Flanagan brought me home. I decided to be brave and check Colin’s room. Everything’s gone. Except his stupid mattress that’s still on the floor like we’re homeless or something.”
“But he isn’t there?”
“No. And the Porsche is nowhere around.”
The Porsche. The fewer times Annie heard the name of the car mentioned, the happier her subconscious—and her conscious—would be. “Fiona? Why did you come to my cottage that night?”
“Your light was on. Everyone at the party was watching the fireworks. And drunk. But I felt really weird. I knew I needed help.”
Annie nodded. “Well, it was good that you came here, then.” She wanted to reach over and place a reassuring hand on top of Fiona’s, but a voice in her ear warned her to be cautious: You don’t know this girl, Murphy (she knew it was Murphy) said. So Annie took a sip of the tea that she hadn’t really wanted and asked, “Have you talked to the police?”
“Mr. Flanagan indulged me and stopped there. We waited in the lobby a long time, but they were really busy. I could tell he was getting annoyed at waiting, so I told him I’d go back later.”
“Are you going to stay at your house?”
“I can’t. I’m afraid Colin will come back and try to finish me off. And Mr. Flanagan’s grandson is at his house. That artist kid who’s going to move into your cottage. I don’t really know him, and I’m not comfortable being around strangers.”
Annie wondered if by “strangers,” Fiona meant men. But for once she was grateful the cottage was so small, or she might have offered Fiona a room. Neither John nor Murphy would have been pleased. “What will you do? Go back to Manhattan?”
“I might as well.” She stared down at her mug. “I guess it’s the only home I have left. Too bad I’m almost thirty-four.” Thirty-four was certainly older than she appeared. With the exception of the crow’s feet.
“If you can stay on the island a few more days,” Annie said, “I can ask around.” She wasn’t sure if she should, but she did want to help. Whether or not Fiona’s brother had tried to kill her, something had definitely happened to Fiona. And it was anyone’s guess what effect it might have on Chappy if the Littlefields’ once-lovely house fell to total ruin . . . or into unsavory hands. Besides, how long would it take to solve such a simple mystery?
“Okay,” Fiona replied. “I can probably stay at the Kelley House. It’s a big place; they might have a room.”
Annie didn’t say there was a good chance they did because Kevin had just checked out. She gave Fiona her phone number. “Let me know where you are. And please, don’t go searching for your brother until we’ve talked with the police.” She realized she’d said the word we as if they were in this together. Apparently, she’d become a sucker for girls who showed up on her doorstep. And who had a family at stake.
Chapter 16
With less than a week left until the garden tour, Annie had planned to finish the brochure that night. The next day was Saturday—she could bring a hard copy to Mrs. Collins to proofread. Thankfully, the printer was open on Sunday, so Annie could pick it up from Mrs. Collins that morning, then bring it to Vineyard Haven and cross the brochure off her to-do list. Then she could get back to work on her manuscript and meet her deadline the way she’d met Claire’s.
All of which was, of course, if everything went according to plan, if no one else had a stroke or no more relatives showed up.
After Fiona had left, Annie threw together a small salad, then tossed a veggie burger in the microwave and called it dinner. While she ate, she sat quietly in the rocking chair and let her mind wander into Fiona’s life: poor little rich girl, not-quite-prima ballerina, certainly about to age out of her profession—if she hadn’t already. Not to mention that she was so thin; given the way she’d admitted to not eating or drinking anything the day of the wedding, then wolfing down a huge piece of cake, perhaps she was bulimic. Annie supposed that eating disorders weren’t uncommon among performers in the ballet. On top of all this, there did not seem to be any romance in her life, someone to help take the edge off her troubles. No wonder she did not want to give up the house on Chappy. Having lost both her parents at a rather young age, combined with a dicey relationship with her older siblings, the house might represent happier times that she wasn’t yet able to let go of. Who could blame her?
Annie had been younger than Fiona when she’d lost both her parents: twenty-five when her dad died, not quite twenty-six when her mom passed. But she’d still had Brian, the love of her young life. He’d helped her get through her grief until he died, too.
Even now, his favorite poem remained fresh in her mind. He recited it often, as if sensing that his early death was preordained.
Closing her eyes now, Annie quietly recited the words:
When I am dead
&n
bsp; Cry for me a little
Think of me sometimes
But not too much.
Think of me now and again
As I was in life
At some moments it’s pleasant to recall
But not for long.
Leave me in peace
And I shall leave you in peace
And while you live
Let your thoughts be with the living.
When she was finished, she paused. Then she tried to redirect her thoughts to Fiona, to “let her thoughts be with the living.” But Annie’s eyes remained closed and, in a short time, she drifted into peaceful sleep.
* * *
In the morning, she half remembered awakening at some point during the night, shuffling into her bedroom, crawling under the covers. She hadn’t changed out of her clothes, which were as wrinkled as she, too, felt. It didn’t help that her phone showed it was nine o’clock; it also indicated a text: At the Kelley House. FL
Good. At least she knew where Fiona was and now had the girl’s phone number. But with everything else Annie had to do, she’d have to wait to start hunting for what had really happened.
In the meantime, coffee could not come soon enough. It helped that the skies were gray and pouring; Annie had always loved working on a rainy day. Best of all, once the sun returned, the humidity level should have dropped.
In less than thirty minutes, she was coffee’d, showered, dressed, and at her laptop, designing the brochure, or rather, trying to. When she’d been a teacher she’d used graphics software—too many years ago, she realized now—in order to share assignments with students in a visual, clever way. But though the latest technology was supposed to make things easier, the going was slow: She felt like an old dog trying to learn one of those new tricks. If she’d been nine or ten, it would probably have been a snap.
But Annie persisted, because she always had. It had not always proved the right way to live, but it was her modus operandi, Murphy had once called it, then she’d further declared it had nothing to do with opera, which was good, because Annie had not been blessed with a passable singing voice. Yup, as Earl would have said, Annie sure missed her best friend.
But with thoughts of Murphy lifting her spirits, by noon she felt comfortable with the steps of the technology: pick a template, copy, paste, pat herself on the back. She checked the essential information: time, date, proper addresses of each garden on display, names of the home owners, judges, and, most important, donors. Those alone took up a full page. Roger and Nicole Flanagan’s names were among them, though the amount they’d donated had not been provided.
“I wonder what they get out of it,” Annie muttered to herself.
Three hours later, as she was finishing, Kevin arrived. He was drenched, like a muskrat newly emerged from a pond.
“Too much rain to work today,” he said, shaking the water off his hat and onto her porch. “Are you ready to check out your new digs?”
Wow. It was already quarter to four. Annie sighed. “It depends on the place. That and the fact I’m not sure I want Taylor for a landlord. I know she’s had a hard life, but she is kind of quirky, you know?”
He laughed. Annie was growing to love the sound of her brother’s laugh. It had felt so familiar, from day one. She supposed that was the anomaly of nature, the blood bond that could not be explained.
“Aren’t we all quirky? In our own way?”
“I suppose.” She shut down her laptop, grabbed an umbrella, and followed him to his truck. Once inside, she reached over and put her hand over the ignition. “Wait a second. I wanted to tell you that yesterday, when I got home from Earl’s, I had a visitor waiting. Fiona Littlefield.”
His eyebrows elevated. “Ah, yes. The dead bridesmaid.”
“You really must stop calling her that! But, yes, that was her. She’s convinced that her brother tried to kill her. Using a poisoned honey cake.”
“Seriously? A cake?”
She nodded, then filled him in on the details. “And I Googled the brother. He was a documentary filmmaker who produced a few war films. But he hasn’t done one in a while. He was, however, a marine. In Iraq. I figure that’s what his movies were based on.”
“It seems that if an ex-marine wanted to do away with his sister—or anyone—he’d know of a more effective method than poisoning her with a cake.”
Annie agreed. “But I did tell her I’d ask around. I’ve met a couple of the guys John works with. I thought I’d stop by the station after I drop off the brochure to be proofread. I could have sent Mrs. Collins the digital file, but it might be easier for her if I printed it out. I think it’s been a while since she’s been at a computer.”
Kevin said, “I have no idea what—or who—you’re talking about. But I’m sure you’re right.”
She swatted his arm again. “Anyway,” she added, dismissing his humor, “the police have the toxicology report, but Fiona hasn’t heard from them. I’ll see if I can stir up any action.”
“Sounds like a long shot.”
“I know, but there’s something about Fiona that seems so . . . forlorn. And you and I are old enough to know that people are more complicated than they seem.”
Kevin nodded, then started the truck. “True. But for now, we need to stop worrying about other people and find you a place to live.”
Annie knew he was right.
* * *
Taylor was standing on her front porch, arms crossed over a faded Black Dog T-shirt. The garage wasn’t visible; the Cape-style house, however, was bedraggled, in need of new cedar shingles and a fresh coat of paint on the trim. But a colorful border of wildflowers rimmed the front steps as if to say, “We know the place has seen better days, but the folks inside are nice enough.” Maybe Taylor’s mother was the gardener.
By the time Kevin parked and they got out, the rain had nearly stopped. Annie hoped it was a good omen.
“You could have come earlier,” Taylor said as she walked toward them. “I didn’t mow today on account of the rain.” She looked at Kevin. “You must be the brother.” The woman was definitely quirky.
Kevin wore a big smile. He stepped forward and shook Taylor’s hand, his eyes fixed on her hair.
“Kevin MacNeish,” he said. “And yes, I’m the brother.”
Taylor didn’t introduce herself. Annie wondered if she would ever learn the woman’s last name.
“You’re working for Earl?”
He nodded. “Just helping out until his wife’s back on her feet.”
Taylor, of course, already knew that. Annie had told her. And no doubt several others had, too.
She flipped back her auburn tresses and pointed toward the back of the house. “Garage is this way.”
They followed in single file, as if they were kindergarteners on a field trip.
“Some of Mother’s things are still in here, but you can move them if you want. I’d just as soon sell the stuff, but not many people want to trek to Chappy for a chest of drawers that’s been around since Methuselah.”
They reached the garage, a tall structure built for two vehicles as high as box trucks. It, too, needed new shingles and a paint job. Not to mention some clippers, as a thick tangle of underbrush blocked the side door. Taylor kicked the rubble aside. “Haven’t been out here in a while,” she said.
The door was unlocked. She pushed it open and they went up a hardwood staircase—seven steps, a landing, a turn, three steps more, another landing, a turn, up five.
“We had the stairs built this way so they’d be easier to navigate than going straight up.” They reached another landing and a door at the top, then stepped into a small room.
Annie bit down on her lip to mask her first reaction: creepy. The place was decorated like a child’s dollhouse—it had beige-flocked wallpaper that once might have been white, heavy brocade draperies at two tiny windows, and stiff Victorian-era furniture, including a tufted burgundy settee and a pair of Queen Anne chairs. A tea table set with china cups was betw
een the chairs. Three large wall hangings might have been paintings or mirrors but were now draped with bedsheets. The air was stale and gray: Dust motes were everywhere, which added to the aura of film noir. Whatever Happened to Baby Jane?, Annie thought. The single saving grace was a cozy propane stove in one corner of the room; Annie knew it would give off a toasty glow in winter.
“Well,” she said.
Taylor planted her hands on her hips and gazed around. “Like I said, you can move anything you don’t want.”
Annie followed her through a narrow doorway that led into a small kitchen. Kevin stayed behind, which was smart. Otherwise, the three of them would have bumped into one another.
In spite of its size, the kitchen was less offensive. The appliances were outdated, but at least they appeared to have been manufactured in the twentieth century, and they were relatively clean. A small drop-leaf table had been shoved against a back door; there was barely room for two chairs. But above a deep farmhouse sink, a window overlooked an orchard and offered a lovely view.
“Apples?” Annie asked.
“Peaches,” Taylor replied. “They’re just beginning to ripen. You can help yourself whenever you want. Mother doesn’t do much baking anymore, and I don’t have time.”
That’s when Annie realized whenever Taylor referred to “Mother” it made her think of Norman Bates in the film Psycho —the terrifying movie that had, in its time, pushed the envelope beyond noir. She squinted out the window and saw the round, golden fruit. “Very nice,” she said.
Then, from the other room, Kevin called, “Great bedroom!”
Annie smiled at Taylor, ducked from the kitchen, and went down a short hall. Kevin was right. The bedroom was surprisingly great. It was bigger than the living room, with plenty of room for her bed, her corner desk, and her bookcases. She could even use the chest of drawers that, indeed, looked as if it had been around since Methuselah. Maybe she could apply a rich, dark stain so it would match her bookcases.