by Jean Stone
Best of all, the bedroom had sliding glass doors that opened to a balcony. As disjointed as it felt that the balcony was off the bedroom instead of the kitchen or living room, having a private outdoor space was a bonus, and almost made the rest of the apartment seem like a good idea. Then Annie realized she hadn’t seen a washer or dryer.
“Taylor?” she asked, then turned and nearly crashed into the woman. She took a step back. “Is there a washer and dryer?”
“No. Sorry. Not in here. You’d have to use the ones in the house, so we’d need to work out a schedule. And the bathroom’s downstairs.”
“Downstairs . . . in the garage?”
“Not quite. We can see it on the way out. We ran out of space up here.”
Though this was far from Annie’s dream home, she’d actually considered taking it until then. “Well,” she said, “let’s have a look.”
They headed back down the stairs. On the second landing, Taylor opened a short door that Annie hadn’t noticed on the way up. They went down three steps into a small bathroom that had been painted an attractive pale green. It had a shower, but no tub, a tiny sink, and a toilet that seemed child-sized if there was such a thing. The low ceiling suggested the room had been an afterthought.
“Okay,” Annie said, “I’ll have to think about it for a day or so. And maybe come up with a fair price.”
“I figured one out already,” Taylor announced. “Twenty-two fifty a month.Year-round. Including utilities. As they say in the shops, ‘Take it or leave it.’”
Then Kevin stepped forward. “I didn’t see a TV.”
“No TV. No cable.”
“And no Wi-Fi?” Kevin asked.
“If you mean Internet, no. We don’t have that, either. Some folks have it out here now, but not us. This is Chappaquiddick. Not midtown Manhattan.”
* * *
“I can’t take it,” Annie said, when they were back in Kevin’s truck. “I need the Internet for work.” She wasn’t sure if she was upset or relieved. Though the apartment was, like its owner, more than a little eccentric, living at the behest of Taylor whatever-her-last-name-was somehow felt awkward to Annie.
“The Internet?” Kevin said. “That was your only problem with it? How about the living room that looked straight out of The Addams Family or the bathroom that was made for the Seven Dwarfs? And you’d need to schedule when to do your laundry? Who does that?”
Annie laughed. “You’re right! I was afraid I was being too picky. I almost told myself that though the lack of the Internet would be inconvenient, I could always go to the community center. They have Wi-Fi twenty-four-seven.”
“Maybe they’d let you sleep there for less than twenty-two fifty a month.”
“It is a bargain, though.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
“I wish.”
When they got back to the cottage, Annie knew that it was too late to get over to Edgartown and bring the brochure to Mrs. Collins. If she didn’t get it to her until Sunday, then to the printer on Monday, would that leave them enough time?
“Dinner?” Kevin asked when he turned off the ignition. “I’ll take you to Edgartown if you’re in the mood to slay the crowds. I’ll even treat. I got paid today.”
Annie sighed. Despite the rain, the humidity hadn’t abated; the sky had become a murky yellow, an ideal color to depict how she’d felt since stepping out of Taylor’s apartment.
“Rain check?” she asked, forcing her best smile.
“You look wrung out. The same way Mom looks when, as she says, she’s ‘off her game.’”
The thought that Annie’s trait was similar to her birth mother’s was somehow comforting. But not comforting enough to want to dress up and enter the realm of happy people drinking wine, cracking lobster tails, and socializing. Loudly.
“Can I do anything to help?” Kevin asked. “Finish writing your book? Build you an apartment?”
“I thought you’d never ask. But actually”—her brain cells began to kick in—“would you mind dropping off a copy of the brochure to a woman on Winter Street? It’s on your way to John’s.”
“Hmm,” he said, tapping one finger against his temple as if he’d lapsed into deep concentration. “Hmm. Well, okay. I believe I could work that into my schedule.”
Leaning across the seat, she gave him a quick hug. “I’m so glad I have a brother who’s a lifesaver instead of a murderer. And I’ll tell you what. Tomorrow I will pick up the brochure from Mrs. Collins, then bring it to the printer in Vineyard Haven. I’d email the pdf, but the tour is Thursday, so it will be a rush. I’d rather go over any changes Mrs. Collins makes with the printer in person. If you want to come with me, we can have Sunday brunch at the Black Dog Tavern. And I’ll drive so you can look around.”
“You had me at ‘brunch.’ Pancakes and sausage are a perfect way to blow off a Sunday.”
She got out of the truck. “Great. I’ll pick you up at nine. And thanks, Kevin. I really mean it.” She waved and trotted into the cottage, trying not to think about how strange it would feel to pick up her brother at John’s. Especially since she hadn’t heard a word from her boyfriend, or whatever he was, not since he’d left, come back to see Claire, then left again. Maybe, like her, he was feeling overwhelmed.
Chapter 17
As long as Annie had the Internet, she decided to go online and look for rentals. It would, she supposed, be fruitless and might leave her depressed, but to try and concentrate on her manuscript would be a struggle, and she couldn’t be bothered to watch television. She half considered going to the Edgartown Police Department after all to talk to John’s coworkers about Fiona’s conclusion that her brother had poisoned her. But it was Saturday night, and she knew they’d be extra busy maintaining law and order throughout Amity. And if she ran into Kevin when she was coming or going, how would she explain she’d needed some alone time? He was such a gem; she never, ever, wanted to hurt his feelings.
She put some leftover coleslaw, a tomato, and a hard-boiled egg onto a plate. Then she brought her laptop to the table,
Googled MV year-round rentals, and clicked and scrolled while she ate her dinner.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
House share.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Short of screaming, Annie began to shut down the computer when she had another thought. She went back to Google and typed: poisoned honey.
At first she was inundated with scientific names, locations, and details about toxicity. Then she found a list of poisonous plants in the northeast:
Azalea
Mountain Laurel
Oleander
Rhododendron
The list included other shrubs whose names she didn’t recognize, but the website reported that, in addition to the leaves, stems, and twigs, the nectar of the flowers could sometimes be poisonous.
She drew in a long breath. “And along come the honeybees,” she said, then continued reading until she found an entry that explained if bees made honey from poison nectar, the honey would be bitter, but the unpleasant taste could be somewhat masked if baked into something edible . . . such as a honey cake.
“Holy cow,” she said. “Holy, holy cow.” She compelled herself not to jump up from her chair. Instead, she focused on the rest of the entry that went on to explain the aftereffects: “Several hours after ingesting the poison, the patient can present with a watery mouth, slow heartbeat, convulsions, coma. Without proper medical attention, death can occur within twelve hours.”
All of which was exactly what had happened to Fiona. Except, thankfully, the death.
Annie, however, had no idea if any poisonous plants grew on the Vineyard, and if so, whether or not they were in season. Because, as a mystery writer, she knew the importance of playing the devil’s advocate, she supposed it was also possible that Fiona had read the identical entry and, maybe in need of attention, had faked the rest.
Exce
pt, of course, the hospital knew she’d been poisoned. And they’d provided the report to the police.Who would tend to it when they had time.
If John were there, he’d get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, if he would only call, Annie could ask what he thought, and if he knew what she could do to help. Then again, if John would only call, she might not be on a ledge of depression, trying to figure out someone else’s life because she could not figure out her own.
Then, as if Murphy had laced Annie’s tea with inspiration, she came up with another plan. It might not point a finger at Colin Littlefield, but it was a great place to start.
Picking up her phone, Annie texted Fiona: I think I have a lead. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.
* * *
After a fitful night made worse by the lingering humidity that dampened the bedsheets, her nightgown, her skin, and everything in its wake, Annie finally fell asleep. When she woke up at eight, sunlight blew into her bedroom thanks to a blessed morning breeze that had magically brushed the dampness away with a heavenly, broad summer broom.
She bounded from bed, energized. Then, while in the shower, she had another brilliant idea. Before going to see Mrs. Collins, she could look up one of the garden tour judges. A master gardener. Someone who’d be certain to know something about poisonous flora on the Vineyard. There were three judges: Annie had cut and pasted their names onto the template of the brochure.
It wasn’t long before she was out the door, over to Edgartown, and up to Fuller Street, which ran parallel to North Water. Finding Henri LeChance’s home was even easier: A picture-perfect hedgerow framed the property and featured a white garden gate leading onto a brick walkway that meandered through a floral wonderland. It was a definite fit in the neighborhood.
Monsieur LeChance (as, according to the program, he preferred to be addressed) was in his screened gazebo, eyes closed, playing a violin, its mellifluous sounds pirouetting in the morning air. For some reason, Annie had pictured the monsieur as a small, doddering man much like Hercule Poirot; instead he was tall and reedy, his arms and knees jutting at sharp angles from the straight chair on which he sat. A blanket of gray hair atop his head was so dense it might have been a toupee, but, on closer inspection, it matched his eyebrows perfectly, so she supposed it was not.
Annie did not speak; she did not want to disrupt his small concert. Yet, as if he’d sensed her footsteps, he opened his eyes and looked directly at her. He set down his bow and instrument and pushed a few stray hairs back from his brow.
“Bonjour,” he said.
“Oui,” Annie replied, “bonjour.” She felt somewhat ridiculous speaking French in an historic New England village. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
He laughed, revealing large white teeth, too large, in fact, for his gaunt face. He stepped from the gazebo and greeted her with a firm handshake. “Of course. And you are?”
She smiled, embarrassed. “Annie Sutton. I’ve been helping Claire Lyons with the garden tour.”
“Yes, that’s coming up this week, isn’t it? I heard Claire had a misfortune. Is she doing better?”
Annie related the good news. Then she said, “And yes, the tour will be Thursday. But that’s not the only reason I’m here. I’m a writer; I’m doing research for a new book.” In the same way that a honey cake could “somewhat mask” the bitter taste of poison, she’d decided to use her profession to hide the truth of her mission. She asked him about poisonous flowers or plants currently on the island that might lead to tainted honey.
Monsieur LeChance shook his head. “That would be a dreadful thing for tourism, non?” His voice was heartier than the subtle tones of his violin.
She smiled. “I write fiction, monsieur. Make-believe.”
“Mais non. We wouldn’t want your readers to think a place as affiné as Martha’s Vineyard would allow such things to grow?”
It didn’t matter that Annie had no idea what the word affiné meant. She got the point. “Perhaps something that isn’t instantly deadly? Something that could simply make the victim ill at first, then, with quick treatment, avoid death?”
He shook his head again. “Non, non. Nothing that would be appropriés.”
She ran the names and locations of the other judges through her mind while Monsieur LeChance shook his head again.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Henri,” a female voice with a British accent shouted from what looked like a kitchen window of the house. “Tell her about the mountain laurel. It’s not as if it’s a bloody state secret.”
He rolled his umber eyes and offered a small sigh. “Mountain laurel,” he conceded, “mais oui. There is that. Not that you—or anyone—should taste it, mind you!”
“And you’re in luck,” the voice called from the window once again, “because it’s in bloom right now. All over the island.”
Having been rewarded with a perfect answer, albeit circuitously, Annie said, “Thank you,” toward the window, then added “Merci,” to Monsieur LcChance. “I will see you Thursday?”
“Mais oui,” he said again. “Unless le poison gets me first.” He waved and tootled back into the gazebo, where he picked up the violin again, closed his eyes, and resumed creating the soothing sounds.
Annie listened for a minute, then made her way through the picturesque wonderland back to the front gate to where she’d parked her car. She was grateful that she now knew what she needed to do next. And whom she could enlist to help.
* * *
After retrieving the brochure from Mrs. Collins (she’d found only three typos and two misspellings, but Annie assured her that her work had been well worth the effort), Annie drove to John’s. Kevin was sitting outside on the front steps, for which she silently thanked him. She didn’t need any more reminders that John wasn’t there.
On the way to Vineyard Haven and the printer, Kevin told her that Earl had called the night before and asked if they could stop at the lumberyard and pick up fencing for the Alvords’ chicken coop and some roofing shingles for someone else’s barn. Apparently, in the “hubbub,” as Earl had called the aftermath of Claire’s stroke, he’d forgotten them a week ago.
“Mrs. Alvord has an ongoing problem with her chickens escaping,” Annie told her brother. “The fencing is probably fine. The real problem could be she forgets to close the gate.” She quickly wondered what her ex would think if he knew she was talking about chicken coops and fencing instead of things she wanted to add to her designer wardrobe. Those were definitely the bad old days, she thought. And though another stop would interfere with her plans, she supposed that as long as they were on the west side of the island, they might as well check out the lumberyard.
“I guess Taylor used to take care of the property,” Kevin continued. “That was until Mrs. Alvord had a falling-out with Taylor’s mother.”
Annie laughed. “The two women have probably been friends for sixty years. Life here can be intriguing.”
“Well, I hope I’m not stepping on Taylor’s toes with this.”
“You won’t be.”
“But she must need the money more than I do. Or more than Earl does.”
Casting a quick glance toward the passenger seat, Annie asked, “Why are you worried what she thinks? I told you her place won’t work for me.”
“But have you told her yet?”
“No. I’ll call tonight.”
“Okay, well, it’s nice that she offered, anyway.”
Annie wondered if Kevin had developed a tiny crush on the hearty woman with the auburn mane. She would have asked, but her mind was already too crowded, and thoughts of Taylor and her brother would be way too complex to consider.
After several trips around the block to park in Vineyard Haven, Annie finally succeeded. Kevin waited in the car while she dashed inside. In less than five minutes, she’d explained the corrections, selected the paper stock, and showed the man at the counter where she wanted spot varnish on the photos so the brochure would look as affiné as possible.
Because her
business took less time than anticipated, Annie decided to give Kevin a mini tour of West Chop.
Back behind the wheel, she drove all the way up Main Street, past magnificent old summer homes, their dark, weathered shingles a noticeable contrast to Edgartown’s heraldry of white. They drove alongside the shoreline that skirted Vineyard Sound, and when they reached the West Chop lighthouse, she stopped the car. They got out and walked to the lookout, where Cape Cod was visible across the calm cerulean water. A flotilla of sailboats, their sails like thumbprints across a canvas of blue sky, was interrupted only by the big, gleaming ferry as it inched toward the island.
“Nice place you have here,” Kevin commented.
When they’d finished gaping, Annie drove past more historic homes, circled around tennis courts and a clubhouse, then headed east on Franklin Street, back out to State Road.
The lumberyard was closed, for which she was secretly pleased because it meant she could begin executing her plan.
“I’ve been thinking,” she told Kevin, “that as long as we’re out this way, we might as well check out a few things for, as you call her, the dead bridesmaid.” She brought him up-to-date on what she’d learned the night before and from Monsieur LeChance.
Kevin whistled. “I can’t believe you kept this from me for over an hour. So what’s the plan?”
“The cake was in a box so it probably came from a bakery. That’s where we’ll start.” She made a U-turn and drove across the street, straight into the parking lot of the Black Dog Café. “It won’t exactly be pancakes and bacon like they have at the tavern,” she said, “but they’re a bakery, so maybe they sell honey cake. If not, we can at least grab a couple of muffins and be on our way. I know I promised you brunch, but trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
She parked the car. They went inside and stood in the Sunday line of people that stretched the full length of the glass case and went almost out the door. When their turn at last arrived, Annie made the inquiry.