by Jean Stone
“I’m checking to see if you’ve found another place to live. My grandson is getting antsy to move in.”
She refrained from asking, “Seriously?” Instead, she forced one of her smiles and said, “I’m still looking. But as I’m sure you know, it’s a tough time of year to find a place.” She now doubted, however, that he would know, or that if he did, he would care.
“Maybe you’d have better luck off island. From what I understand, Cape Cod is nice.”
Was he joking? “Yes, it is nice. But I live on the Vineyard. I plan to stay here.”
He scratched at his chin as if deep in thought. “Still, you’d find the rental prices over there more affordable.”
Annie knew that she had Donna MacNeish and her birth father (there were times Annie wished that Donna hadn’t been so vague about him) to thank for the fact that she hadn’t been born stupid. She also could thank Bob and Ellen Sutton for having made sure she had common sense, respectable values, and a good education. Between genetics, her adoptive parents, and perhaps a few street smarts she’d learned from her scam-artist ex-husband, Annie knew when she was being manipulated. Roger Flanagan would have loved it if she’d leave the island—which would result in one fewer person on Fiona’s side if the girl went through with his cockamamie conjecture of a lawsuit.
Smiling a gratuitous smile that she hoped he would interpret as a smirk, Annie said, “I think it’s premature for me to leave the island. As you reminded me, by the terms of my lease agreement, I still have a couple of weeks here in the cottage—which you graciously extended for another two. So I have about a month left altogether, if my math is correct. Until then, I won’t be vacating the premises. Please pass that on to your grandson. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve had a long day. Good night.” She began to close the door when he stuck his right Teva-ed foot inside. At least he wore a closed-toe style so she didn’t have to look at an old man’s unattractive toes—though a man like him probably had regular pedicures.
“I heard you’re taking over the garden tour while Mrs. Lyons is rehabilitating.”
“I am. As a favor to the family. They’ve done a lot for me.”
“I’m a donor, you know. To the club. Including the tour.”
“Yes, I know.” She wondered if he was going to threaten to withdraw his funds. She leaned against the doorjamb. “I must admit, Roger, I found your donation curious. Other than your hydrangeas—which are lovely, by the way—I haven’t noticed that you or your wife have a penchant for gardens. No hollyhocks, no foxglove, or other local blooms.” She had no idea why she’d said that, other than his visit had put her in a combative mood, for which Murphy would have said she was justified. She only hoped Claire would agree if he stopped payment on his check.
He frowned. “Just because we support the garden club does not mean I’m a flower nut. I am a patron of the island arts community as well, but I can’t draw a stick figure. Supporting community people and their activities is important, Annie. Especially since you never know when you might need them.”
“You think you’ll need the garden club?”
He laughed, which seemed rather bizarre. Then he said, “You’re just a writer, so you wouldn’t understand. But those of us in the real world know the importance of rubbing elbows with those who matter. Today I believe it’s called networking. Take one of our master gardeners, for instance. Monsieur LeChance. Are you aware that he’s a full-time resident?”
It was odd that he mentioned Monsieur LeChance when a short time ago he had crossed her mind when Kevin uttered, “Touché.” But, no, she did not know the man and his British wife were full-time island residents. She’d never considered that anyone who lived in one of the fabulous homes a block from North Water did not live in another house. Or two. But what did Roger care about him?
“Not only that,” Roger continued, “LeChance has been on the planning board and is going to run for town selectman in the fall. As I said, you never know when you might need them.”
Annie still didn’t know what the connection was, if there was any, so she kept quiet and let him keep yakking.
He folded his arms. “And so you know, dear little Fiona will not be able to bring me down. I’m the one with the power and the influence here, and she best not forget that.” Then he turned on one heel, stepped down off his invisible soapbox, crossed her porch, and shuffled off into the night.
Annie hadn’t noticed whether or not he had a flashlight, but she supposed he knew every tree and root on his property, not to mention all the skunks. She wondered if those innocent creatures were aware that he, indeed, was the one with the power and the influence, so they’d better behave.
Message received, she thought, and once again took pity on Fiona.
Instead of going to bed, she poured a glass of wine and sat in the rocker by the window, wondering what kind of people the Flanagans really were beneath the obvious façade.
Roger clearly feared Fiona’s lawsuit. But why? For starters, a man with his wealth and, as he’d claimed, “power and influence” surely had a bank of high-priced attorneys at his bidding who were capable of taking care of the “matter,” though Fiona had told him she had no intention of suing. “Why on earth would I think you tried to poison me?” the girl had cried. “I’ve known you my whole life!”
But Roger wasn’t letting go, which didn’t make sense.
Unless . . . unless Annie was missing something.
If he were one of her characters, Trish would tell her to explore his motivation.
Then Annie laughed. “Good grief. As if it’s not bad enough that I talk to dead people, now I’m trying to channel my editor, too, who is very much alive and living in Manhattan.”
She took a long sip of wine and decided to forget about this nonsense and go to bed. Then her cell rang.
It was John.
Chapter 25
Annie sucked in a breath as John’s image appeared on her “Incoming” screen. It was a photo she’d snapped on a sunny spring day when he’d been leaning on the railing out at Dyke Bridge. He was smiling. Happy. Handsome.
“Were you asleep?” he asked.
“No. I’m having a glass of wine.” Her mind raced as she tried to detect a hint of what he’d say. Would he tell her he’d decided to quit his job, give her up, and stay in Plymouth? Would he say he was getting back with his wife, that these past days had made him realize the divorce had been a mistake? Her palms grew damp, and her pulse started to patter at the base of her throat.
“I thought I’d check in,” he said, “while I had a minute.”
While he had a minute? Was he sitting outside on the front steps or the back ones again, out of earshot? Perhaps Jenn had gone shopping or was out doing other wifely things. Or maybe she was at her book group, sipping wine and boasting to friends that her ex-husband was back in the picture and back in her bed.
Annie cleared her throat. “Everything’s fine.” She hoped she sounded unaffected, as if, in that moment, she weren’t hating herself more than she was hating him, hating that she’d said no when he’d offered to have her move in. But even if it weren’t too late for that now, which it was, Annie knew she was not the kind of woman to manipulate a man in order to try and win him back. “Your mother should be out of rehab in a few days.”
“Yeah, I talked to Dad. He’s optimistic.”
Because phone cords had gone the way of typewriters and cassette players, Annie toyed with the top button of the cardigan she’d put on because, for once, the evening had turned cool. “Yes. She’s doing well.”
“And Dad is holding up?”
“Yes. I had dinner with him tonight. With Francine and Kevin, too.”
“Your brother has been a huge help.”
“It looks that way.”
The pauses between the lines were a beat too long, the way it happened when a television news anchor in New York tried to converse with a reporter who was halfway around the world. How bad is the devastation? Anderson Cooper or
Chris Cuomo or Lester Holt would ask. Pause. Pause. Pause. Well, Anderson (or Chris, or Lester), unfortunately, we won’t learn the full impact for several days.
Pause.
She wondered how long it would be before she learned the real reason John was calling.
“How’s the Littlefield girl?”
Pause.
“She’s all right.Your fellow officers believe it was an accident. Or that Fiona convinced herself someone had tried to poison her. They seem to think she likes the attention.” That was enough to tell him. He did not deserve to know the rest, especially if he was thinking about quitting the force. Besides, Annie didn’t want to hear him say anything negative about a girl who clearly hadn’t led the glorious, trust-fund-baby kind of life that some people might have imagined.
“Poor kid,” he said. “From what I remember, she was always picked on. She was so young. And always tiny. The only one who was nice to her was Dana. But their parents weren’t exactly friends. People like that sometimes like to try to outdo one another. The Littlefields seemed nice, but the Flanagans . . . well, you’ve seen Roger’s nasty side the way he’s kicking you out. By the way, have you found another place?”
Annie heard his last words, but was more interested in what he’d said about the Littlefields and the Flanagans. Not exactly friends. Trying to outdo one another. John was right: She’d certainly witnessed Roger’s coldhearted side. And she’d had the brief run-in with Nicole, who, despite a smile, had seemed intentionally rude.
Suddenly, Annie had an epiphany, a glimpse of motivation that quickly gelled in her mind. Was it true? Had John triggered an important clue about the whole Fiona matter?
“Annie?” he asked. “Are you still there?”
“I’m sorry, John, I have to go. Call me later if you can.” She quickly hung up. Sooner or later, she’d have to hear his clumsy admission that he was going to stay in Plymouth for an indeterminate amount of time. “Later” would be soon enough; right then, Annie had something more important to do.
* * *
That time, Fiona answered.
“We looked all over for you tonight,” Annie said.
“I went for a walk.”
“What time is your flight tomorrow?”
“Noon.”
“Cancel it.”
“What?”
“Cancel your reservation, Fiona. I’ll explain tomorrow. I have a million things to do, and I need to check out one more thing, but please stay on the Vineyard for just one more day.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want to get your hopes up, but I think I know what happened.”
There was a pause, not the tense kind of pause Annie had had with John, but more like one of disbelief. Then Fiona whispered, “Really?”
“Really. Now try and get some sleep. And don’t open your door for anyone.” She didn’t know why she’d added that last directive; Annie only knew she wanted Fiona to be safe until she could prove her theory so the police would finally believe them.
* * *
In the morning, Annie called Kevin and asked for Taylor’s cell number. “I have a hunch,” she said. He said he had to work; she promised to keep him posted.
“For a minute,” Taylor said when Annie reached her, “I thought you’d changed your mind about my apartment.”
“It would have been perfect, except for the Internet issue,” Annie reiterated. “But I’m going to try and see the one in West Tisbury today, so thanks. I have another question, though. One about the Littlefields and the Flanagans.”
“I don’t know much about them, but shoot.”
Annie doubted that Taylor didn’t “know much” about anyone on Chappy. “Have you heard anything about Roger Flanagan wanting to buy the Littlefield property?”
“Most anybody with big bucks would want the place. Beachfront acreage like that? On the harbor, not the open ocean that gets pummeled every year by storms or wasted by too much erosion? To top it off, there’s damn little land left to go around—we’ve got less than four thousand acres on Chappy, and more than twenty-five percent is in conservation.”
Annie didn’t have time for a lesson in land management, but she clenched her jaw, determined to be patient.
“As for your landlord and the neighbor, sure. Roger wants the property. He tried to buy it right after the mother died and it fell to the kids.”
That was all Annie needed to know.
Before heading out, she sent a quick e-mail to the garden club volunteers who would be stationed at the addresses to which they’d been assigned. She reminded them that each garden should only have six visitors at a time and that they must be moved along, but not too hastily. She added that the judges should be allowed to take their time, and that the refreshments must stay “fresh,” especially since another uncommon heat wave was predicted. Wanting to close on a positive note, she reported that, according to a message she’d received the night before, ticket sales had now topped one hundred and sixty. At twenty dollars each, that meant over three thousand dollars had been earmarked for the schools, not counting last-minute sales or the generous checks from donors. Like Roger Flanagan, she thought, but did not add.
She clicked “Send,” grabbed the pink folder and her purse, and headed out. The early start was easy; her first stops were the judges. She saved Monsieur LeChance for last.
* * *
He’d had a haircut and his eyebrows were neatly trimmed. He was awake, alert, and standing in his gazebo, practicing his violin. She didn’t ask if he was planning to bring it with him as he judged each of the venues.
“Good morning, monsieur,” Annie said with her brightest smile.
He welcomed her into the gazebo and asked if she’d like coffee. “And perhaps a croissant?”
“Non, merci,” Annie replied. “I’m afraid I’m in a bit of a hurry.” She quickly reviewed the dos and don’ts of a judge, then said something more important. “I didn’t know you are a year-round resident.”
Nodding with his little grin, he said, “Seventeen years. But one is never considered a true islander unless one is born here. Every year Madame and I travel to France for a short holiday, but otherwise, yes, this is our home.”
“And now you want to be a town selectman.”
“I do. I am nearly eighty, but I still have much to offer. I have served on the planning board for a dozen years, which was only natural, as I was a city planner in Paris until my retirement.” He brushed his upper lip as if he had a mustache.
“I need to come right to the point,” Annie said. “I think there’s a problem about a piece of land on Chappy. Can you tell me if there have been any inquiries about the Littlefield property? Specifically by Roger Flanagan?” She might be stepping out-of-bounds to seek information that could be confidential. Not to mention that Roger Flanagan might be one of the monsieur’s closest friends. But what did Annie have to lose?
“Everything is public record,” Monsieur said, his voice and his head both lowering. “But off the record, I have never cared for Flanagan; he is a—how do you say it?—a bully?” A corner of his mouth twitched as he said it.
Annie had a feeling Monsieur LeChance knew exactly how to say bully and exactly what it meant. “So he wants the land.”
“He has not declared it outright. But he has asked—behind the scenes, mind you, not officially—about the parameters of building codes, maximum square footage allowed for a residence, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds as if he wants to tear down the Littlefields’ and build a nicer place for his daughter and her husband. Or for himself and Nicole, and give the current Flanagan main house to Dana.”
“I rather think he has a more grandiose vision.”
“How so?”
“I think he wants to build one of those gauche monstrosities. What have they called them in Chilmark? ‘One big home’?”
Annie had heard some of the controversy surrounding the up-island town where they had finally put a limit on the sizes of ho
uses that could be built, after another fifteen-thousand-square-foot place had been erected. Though no one disputed the fact that building such places provided jobs for islanders and ultimately contributed to the economic health of the Vineyard, the basis of dissention was the drain on infrastructure and utilities and the cost to the environment and its ecosystem. She supposed the argument for limitations would be even stronger on Chappy, which, unlike on the “big island,” needed to be more self-sufficient.
Right then, however, Annie only cared to know that Roger had big plans for the Littlefield property. And that Fiona might be the only one in his way.
“Thank you, monsieur,” she said. “Merci beaucoup.”
He tweaked his invisible mustache again and picked up his violin. “Happy to help. As I said, the man is a bully.” Then he began to play again, this time a piece from a sonata that Annie did not recognize.
* * *
She waved goodbye and got back to business, dashing to all twelve sites that would be on the tour, marveling at how their owners (or, in many cases, their owners’ gardeners) had transformed their lovely gardens into storybook venues. Claire would have been pleased. Then Annie zipped across the north side of the island to the printer in what surely was record time.
Once she’d parked the carton of brochures—which looked terrific—squarely on the back seat of the Lexus, she retraced her path to Oak Bluffs. It wasn’t quite eleven when she walked into Claire’s room at the rehab center.
“Good morning!” Annie said.
Holding one end of an elastic strap in each hand, the midpoint wrapped under her right foot, Claire sat in a chair, bending and straightening her knee. “Physical therapy,” she said. “Whoever thought this stuff really worked?”
Annie wouldn’t quibble about that. After having fallen from her bicycle when she’d been ten, months of PT had helped her walk straight again. She sat on the end of the bed facing Claire. “I have a gift for you.” She dug into her bag and produced one of the brochures. It had ended up to be four pages longer than Claire had anticipated because Annie had added several more pictures.