A Vineyard Summer

by Jean Stone

  To this day, Annie couldn’t recall who had answered or what her conversation with Brian had been like. But she did know he had taken her to the harvest dance. And after the dance he’d kissed her. A lot. And he’d told her he might be in love with her.

  The sharp sound of the phone at the reception desk startled her now. She realized she was being foolish. She was a grown woman, at best middle-aged. And a young woman’s life might be at stake. It was absolutely appropriate for her to call John and not send a cryptic text. She deleted the text, tapped his number, and touched “Call.”

  The phone rang. Annie drummed her fingers on the arm of the chair. She’d start by asking how Lucy was doing. And how he was doing. She would not ask about his ex-wife.

  The phone rang again.

  And again.

  Finally, it clicked on. A woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

  Annie knew she hadn’t called the wrong number. Just as she knew that the voice didn’t belong to one of his daughters. It was too mature and too prickly.

  “Is John available?” she asked before her hesitation could reveal there was a hole in her stomach from having been sucker-punched.

  “No.”

  The curt reply irritated Annie. “This is Annie Sutton.” Then, like the wimpy teenager she’d once been, she added, “I’m a friend of John’s parents.” She would have rather asked why the woman had answered John’s phone.

  “I know who you are.”

  She gripped the chair as if she’d lost her balance. “Earl and Claire are fine. But I need to speak with John.”

  “Sorry. He’s in the shower.”

  The shower? She glanced at her watch. It was after four o’clock. On a Sunday afternoon. She doubted that John was cleaning up to go to church. As far as she knew, the only time he set foot in a house of worship was for the community suppers in winter months. Perhaps he’d undergone some sort of conversion. Or, more likely, he’d just rolled out of bed. In which case it was apparent he was staying in the same house as his girls and . . . her.

  Annie’s insides fluttered. She closed her eyes and tried to relax. But all that happened was she pictured John in his ex-wife’s bed. The bed, perhaps, where they’d conceived Abigail and Lucy.

  “Would you please give him a message?”

  No answer. His ex must really be enjoying this.

  “Tell him I need to speak with him about the young woman who was poisoned. There have been new developments in the case, and we need his input.” She hung up before she felt another dagger pierce through the satellite connection.

  Then, on shaky legs, she went to the desk and asked the receptionist to please ring Fiona Littlefield’s room and tell her Annie was there. Though she could easily have texted or phoned, the only way Annie knew for her heart to climb back into her chest was if she made some type of human contact. With a real person. Even if it was only someone who would smile at her and say, “Yes. Of course. I’d be glad to notify Ms. Littlefield.”

  Chapter 19

  “It was my horrid sister,” Fiona said. “She had to be the woman Colin was talking to on the boat. The lady must have given Sheila the cakes and told her they were poisonous.”

  “But she didn’t come to the wedding,” Annie said.

  They were sitting in Fiona’s room—number two seventeen, not one of the haunted ones, as far as anyone knew. Fiona was cross-legged, her small body barely covering half the cushion of the navy-blue upholstered chair. She stared at the hardwood floor. It was the first time Annie had been inside the Kelley House, which offered a rich blend of colonial décor with both classic and contemporary accents: a writing desk and two small occasional tables were finished in highly polished chestnut; two beds were covered by meticulous white duvets and chunky pillows in intriguing shades of blue; the walls displayed framed photographs similar to the stunning ones in the lobby.

  Annie sat on an ottoman that matched the chair.

  Fiona raised her head and directed her gaze toward Annie. “I thought Colin was going to pick her up at the airport in Providence. When he showed up alone, I asked him where she was. All he said was, ‘You know Sheila. She’s a pain in the ass.’ He didn’t say anything else, and I didn’t ask him what he meant, because he was right—she is. Can you imagine? She wants to turn our house into a bird sanctuary!”

  “Do you think she became part of a plan to poison you?” Annie avoided the word conspiracy because she thought it sounded ridiculous. This was not, after all, the Kennedy assassination or a case of election meddling.

  “More than likely.”

  “But Colin was seen getting off the ferry alone.”

  “Maybe Sheila gave him the idea but she chickened out and went home. In spite of the fact Sheila is worth millions, she’s a tree-hugger at heart. I never even saw her kill a fly. And she’s a lesbian.”

  Annie was unsure what being a lesbian had to do with being a tree-hugger or not killing flies, but she decided to let the comment go. “Where does she live?”

  Fiona’s narrow shoulders rose a little, her small bones barely touching the pink fabric ties that secured her flowered sundress. “Somewhere outside Seattle. I’ve never been there. She does something with computers. And invented some kind of program that keeps paying her royalties. Or at least that’s what Colin told me. But according to him, even with all her money, she refuses to help him out with his film business. He makes documentaries about the war. But Sheila says they’re too violent, and she won’t support violence. Not that it matters. He has a trust fund. Like Sheila and me.”

  Not wanting to mention that she already knew about Colin’s documentaries thanks to her Google search, Annie said, “Well, Seattle is a long way away for your sister to have come here, then gone back simply because she ‘chickened out’ of trying to kill you.”

  Picking at her pedicure, Fiona said, “Like Colin says, ‘she’s a pain in the ass.’ ”

  For the first time, Annie wondered if she’d been on the wrong track, if maybe Sheila, not Colin, had indeed poisoned their sister. But, if that were true, why hadn’t Colin resurfaced? Or was it possible that the Steamship Authority had missed the listing of his car as it left the island? She didn’t know how that could happen: The SSA had high levels of security. Could Colin have left his car at the airport and flown somewhere, anywhere, out of there? But why would he have done that?

  Instead of producing answers, Annie’s questions were making things more complicated.

  “In any event,” Annie said, “I think you and I should go to the police station tomorrow. They need to take over your case. Otherwise, we might screw something up. Or scare off the real culprit.”

  “Okay,” Fiona whispered, as if she were tired of talking about it. “After that I’ll go back to New York. There’s no reason not to.”

  “What about the house on Chappy?”

  She made a small whimpering sound. “I might as well let them sell it. I really don’t even want to go in it again. It’s too full of memories.The old ones were okay, but, well, it isn’t easy to accept the fact that your siblings want you dead.”

  Annie bit her lip. She reached over and touched Fiona’s arm. “We don’t know that for certain. In the meantime, please don’t do anything, okay? Not until we’ve straightened this out. I’ll come get you at nine o’clock tomorrow, if that’s not too early. We can walk to the station from here. Okay?”

  Fiona hesitated, then nodded.

  “Have you eaten?” Annie added. “Would you like to join my brother and me downstairs at the Newes?”

  “No. Thanks. I’ll stay here and read. I’ll have something sent up later.”

  Annie doubted that she would.

  * * *

  After leaving the Kelley House and heading toward the pub, Annie heard her phone ping, or rather, her text alert: incoming message.

  She stopped, unsure if she wanted to look. It could be from John, offering a fabricated story as to why he’d been taking a shower at four o’clock. She held her hand
to her throat and took in a breath. It was the first time she’d thought that way about him, as if she could not depend on him, as if he were going to hurt her, as if he were . . . Mark.

  Trying to shake the feeling, she reasoned that the text might actually be from Kevin. Perhaps the Newes was mobbed and he wanted to rearrange their plans. Or maybe it was Earl with an update on Claire. Dear God, Annie thought, what if Claire has had another stroke? She thought about all the times she’d nagged Earl to always have his phone with him, in case of an emergency, in case, in case, in case. How could she ignore hers now after all the fuss she had made?

  She reached into her bag and checked the small screen. The message was from John: All OK here. Text if you need me.

  Her stomach cramped. That was it? Text if you need me? Hadn’t his ex given him the message that the young woman had been poisoned and that Annie needed his input? Why wouldn’t his ex have told him? Because she knew that Annie was his lover? Or . . . that Annie had been John’s lover? After all, it now seemed clear that John was sleeping in his ex’s house.

  But where?

  On a pullout sofa in the living room?

  An air bed in the garage?

  Closing her eyes, she hated that the awful feelings of distrust that she’d had with Mark still festered in her memory. She thought she’d expunged them long ago.

  She wanted to tip her head back, look up into the sky, and rant obscenities.

  Then a little boy bumped her side as he struggled to maneuver up the crowded sidewalk, one hand holding tightly to a young woman’s hand. Annie stumbled off the curbing, twisting her ankle.

  “I’m sorry,” the boy said in a soft, sweet voice.

  Quickly checking an initial instinct to gripe that the kid hadn’t been paying attention, she righted herself as he shrank close to his mom, looking a bit scared. Annie leaned down to him. “That’s okay, honey. Sometimes there are too many people here, aren’t there?”

  He nodded bashfully and put his thumb into his mouth.

  “Are you all right?” the young woman asked.

  Annie smiled. “No harm done. It’s a busy day.” She waited until the two of them had melded into the crowd before limping away, grateful for the reminder that most people did the best they could. Even John. And that sometimes everyone, including her, needed to be cut some understanding slack.

  With a tender ankle but a fresh outlook, she reached the Newes and threaded around the patio tables that were crammed with people, none of whom was Kevin. She angled her way inside, looked left, then right, and spotted him at the bar. But as she headed toward him, Annie noticed that he was talking with a woman. A woman with long auburn hair. Exactly who Annie least wanted to see.

  She went to her brother and put a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, brother,” she said, then acknowledged his companion. “Taylor, nice to see you.”

  “Kevin told me you don’t think my place will work on account of we don’t have the Internet,” Taylor spewed. “You could always go to the community center to get connected.”

  Annie did her best to look pleasant, while Kevin looked as shamefaced as the bashful boy had. “I know,” she replied. “I considered that. But when I’m writing, I’m constantly online. I’m afraid the center might be too hectic right now for me to concentrate.”

  Taylor snorted. “Writers have been writing for centuries without the Internet.”

  “That’s true. But they didn’t have an editor like mine, who demands I do a book or more a year.” She hoped Trish would forgive her for using her as an excuse. “So thanks, Taylor, but, yes, I’ll have to decline. I meant to call you earlier today, but I got sidetracked. Claire’s garden tour is in a few days and . . .”

  Waving away Annie’s words, Taylor had apparently heard enough. “Not to worry. I’ll find someone. Or not. It’s not like we need the income. In the meantime, Kevin has invited me to have lunch with you two, though it’s getting late enough to call it supper. In any case, I call his offer a valid consolation prize.” She winked at Kevin, and Annie slid her hand from his shoulder.

  “Wine before burgers?” he asked.

  “Actually,” Annie said, “I’m afraid I’ll have to leave you two to split my share.” She was not about to reveal anything about her visit with Fiona in front of Taylor. Hopefully, Kevin hadn’t spilled any information, though the half-full stein in front of him might not have been his first beer, and Annie had no idea how loose his tongue might have become. “Kevin, can I borrow your truck? The printer is having issues with the program, and I need to go back to Vineyard Haven.”

  “On a Sunday?” Kevin asked. Clearly, he hadn’t realized her story was fake.

  Taylor took another slug from the draft in front of her.

  “Folks here work twenty-four-seven in the summer,” Annie said. “I can walk up to John’s and get the truck. I wouldn’t ask, but it’s an emergency.”

  “No problem,” Kevin said and handed her the keys.

  “I’d bring you myself if I didn’t have a date with a burger,” Taylor said, in an obvious but lame effort to be humorous.

  Annie took the keys and smiled. “I shouldn’t be long.” She left the Newes, curious as to whether or not her brother had become attracted to Taylor, but knowing she had far too many other things on her mind to start worrying about that, too.

  * * *

  Annie had no idea how she could find Sheila Littlefield, but figured if she tracked down Colin it would be a start. And the easiest—and maybe the only—way to do that would be to determine if he, or both of them, had left the island in a plane. She’d only been out to the airport twice: once to pick up John, who’d made a quick trip to Boston to testify in an immigration case; the second time when she’d been on her way home from Winnie’s and had needed to use the ladies’ room. Too much tea, she’d told a woman at the car rental desk as she’d raced past.

  In spite of the snail-like Sunday traffic on West Tisbury Road, she finally arrived and headed straight for the parking lot.

  As in the wait line at the On Time on a sunny day, vehicles sat silent in tight, narrow rows, as if hoping someone would resuscitate them soon. Annie began by cruising the first row, wishing she’d asked Fiona the color of Colin’s Porsche, or if she knew the license plate number. Pricy cars, after all, were fairly common on the island in July and August.

  The first row harbored models of various high-end SUVs and an occasional Subaru. She looped around to the second row: Range Rover, Jaguar, Audi. Then the next: Mercedes, Tesla . . . Good Lord, Annie thought, this place could be a photo spread in GQ. She supposed most of the vehicles belonged to seasonal people who dashed to one city or another, doing business as efficiently as possible, then speeding back to their island lair.

  She was musing on this as she coasted through the lot, when suddenly there it was: a Porsche. Silver. With a license plate from . . . Nebraska? She doubted that Colin Littlefield had at some point moved from New York to Nebraska. Besides, the vehicle was one of those large four-door ones, and from what Annie had gleaned, Colin traveled solo.

  She continued to canvass the area; another Porsche was in the back. But it was a red one. With a Massachusetts vanity plate that read: PGIRL. Porsche Girl? Annie wondered. Definitely not Colin.

  Leaving the main lot, she was about to give up when she spotted what looked like an older model parked off to one side, nearly out of sight. It had New York plates, which was a good sign; it was black, with a T-bar roof. A classic, Annie thought, though cars were hardly her forte. She was, after all, still driving a now eight-year-old Lexus that she’d planned to trade in for a sensible, less costly SUV before winter. If only she could find the time.

  She stopped Kevin’s pickup in the middle of the lot, got out, and tiptoed toward the Porsche as if she intended to steal it. Crouching down, she cupped her hands on the driver’s window and peered in. A map of the island was haphazardly tossed onto the passenger seat; beside it was an empty, crumpled wrapper from what looked like a protein bar.
There was also a small white card that at first Annie thought had been part of the protein bar packaging. Then she realized it was a reservation card from the Steamship Authority, the same size as the boarding passes that were issued—both of which were given when a vehicle went into the SSA lot before getting in line. Upon boarding, the pass was given to the ticket taker; the reservation card typically stayed with the vehicle to present for the return trip.

  If this really was Colin’s car, the card would have been printed with the date he’d arrived and the date he’d planned to leave.

  Evidence, she thought, though she wasn’t sure how it could help launch a case against him. Unless it could prove he’d been on the same boat as Myrna and her poisonous cakes.

  But Colin was gone now, not by boat, but apparently by air. Where had he gone? Had he left right after he was sure Fiona had ingested the poison? Had he wanted to escape in a hurry but couldn’t change his ferry reservation because the boats were booked? It had been, after all, the Fourth of July weekend.

  Maybe he had abandoned his car and taken off so that by the time the police began to look for him, he would have been long gone. If he’d taken Cape Air, JetBlue, or another commercial carrier, he would have had to show his identification. Now that she’d found his car, it might save the police valuable time. She’d be sure to tell them about it in the morning.

  While Annie was still crouched, peering and pondering, she felt a sudden firm tap on her shoulder.

  She jumped, whacking her hand on the sideview mirror. “Ouch,” she said, followed by, “Oh. Crap,” when she saw that the tap had come from a man in a gray-and-black uniform, wearing a hat with a wide, shiny brim and an unwelcoming look on his face: a Massachusetts State Police officer.

  “Is this vehicle yours?” he asked, pointing to the Porsche.