Annie would have smiled, but she was too intent on her mission to let down her guard. Besides, if she did, Murphy surely would give her a spirited tongue-lashing.
“I was brought up in the projects in Dorchester,” he continued. “Columbia Point. Ever hear of it?”
She nodded, as if she cared. Though, from what she recalled, the disrepair and danger in that era would have made for a frightening place to grow up.
“We got out before the end of revitalization. My dad was dead by then—alcohol—and my mom, my two brothers, and I went to live with her sister, my aunt Betty. We never figured out how it happened, but Aunt Betty married a guy who was a big-shot city lawyer. They had no kids except us. And everybody loved Uncle Harry. So while I spent a little more than the first decade of my life in absolute squalor, in the second, I became a preppie. Rags to riches. Filth to frills. From Columbia Point to Columbia University School of Journalism. Worked my butt off because my mom needed to feel good about something in her life. And I’ve made it to pretty close to the top. Though I’ve had to slay a few dragons along the way.”
She supposed she should comment that his mom must be proud of him, but Annie didn’t feel like it. Besides, for all she knew, he’d made the whole thing up. “That’s all very commendable, Simon. But I fail to see what it has to do with what happened last night. Or whatdidn’thappen, as we both know it didn’t.”
After a pensive, perhaps intentionally well-timed, pause, he said, “Nothing. Never mind. It’s crap, anyway.” He lifted a can of seltzer that she hadn’t noticed earlier. “Cheers to the old days. May they be forgotten. And to all our days. May they be forgiven.”
“Is that an admission of guilt? Did you have Bill shoot the picture? And did you post it and send it to theTimes?”
“Nope,” he said. “I don’t stoop that low. For starters, I never heard of that gossip thing you have here. And I have friends at theTimes—all of whom texted this morning and wanted to know why I didn’t give them the exclusive. I explained that it was bogus and asked them to track down where it came from; a few said they’d already tried and had gotten nowhere. But I had their word that the story or the photo won’t be repeated, at least not there. Believe me, though I know my brand’s important, I do have bigger fish to fry. No island reference intended.”
Annie hated to admit it, but she thought he was telling the truth. She did, however, know how she might be able to confirm his denial.
* * *
On her way to the Inn to see Francine and try and correct the chatter that had infiltrated the breakfast table, Annie called the Chappy community center. She got voice mail.
She left a message: “Lottie? It’s Annie Sutton. Could you please call me?” She left her number in case there wasn’t a readout.
Then she texted John.
PLEASE CALL BEFORE YOU LEAVE FOR WORK.
She checked her phone and saw that in less than two hours he’d have to be on duty if he was on his normal four-to-midnight. Still plenty of time for him to comply. She slipped her phone into the pocket of her sundress and continued her trek up the hill.
Francine was on the floor in the great room, playing with Bella and half a dozen rag dolls that Annie suspected Claire had made. Bella was designating chores to each doll: the orange-haired one was to write a list for food shopping; the brunette was to pick blueberries for dinner; the blonde—whose yarn hair needed serious mending—was to mop the floor where a sippy cup had mysteriously spilled. Watching the little girl’s imagination blossom grew more fun every week.
“Annie,” Francine said, “I was thinking about you right this second.” Her beautiful, dark eyes had lost some of their sparkle in the past couple of weeks; her once shining pixie-cut black hair had lost some of its vibrancy. Annie worried that a day and a half hadn’t provided her a long enough break.
“How are you?” Annie asked.
“I have a little stomach ache. No big deal. Too much going on, I guess. But I’m the one who should be asking how you are.”
Slumping onto one of the seaglass-colored wing chairs that sat by the wall of windows that looked out to the harbor, Annie said, “I guess you’re not the only one who’s been thinking about me. Or rather, talking about me. Or so I’ve been told. What a nightmare.” She scooped a few pieces of wampum from a small dish on the end table, closed her fingers around them, and tumbled them in her palm as if they were worry stones. Perhaps they were. “How upset are our guests?”
Francine picked up the doll that Bella had instructed to go shopping and smoothed its orange hair—Annie recognized the yarn as matching that in a sweater Claire had knit for Lucy last Christmas. “I wouldn’t say they’re upset. Curious, maybe. Mary Beth tried to set them straight, but I think they wanted to believe that you Simon are an . . . item.”
It took Annie a second to remember that Mary Beth was, in fact, Meghan. Another one on her growing list of problems. “The picture made it into theNew York Times. My editor says the timing is terrific, what with my next book about to come out.” She toyed with the shells, grateful that Meghan had been standing beside her at the Tabernacle and, if questioned, could confirm the details of what happened. But if Annie used her as an eyewitness, she’d risk baring Meghan’s secret if the police—namely John—interrogated her. And Annie would not do that. Ever.
“How are you?” Francine asked.
She blinked. “I thought I’d feel better if I got to the bottom of this. But so far I’m coming up blank. I’ve been told that Abigail didn’t do it. Bill didn’t do it. Simon didn’t, either. It’s tough enough to confront an enemy when you know who it is. But how can I defend myself when I don’t know the culprit? Who hates me enough to want to ruin my life?”
“I can’t imagine that anyone hates you,” Francine said.
“One of John’s old girlfriends?”
“From what Claire told me, after his divorce he was a hermit until he met you. He didn’t have a single date. He was that upset—not about losing his wife, but about losing his family unit.”
He’d used the same words when he’d explained his breakup to Annie, right after they’d started dating. She pushed away the thought that his “family unit” might be a strong enough incentive to shove him back to Jenn. She sighed. “Am I overreacting?”
“I have no idea. Maybe none of this was about you. Maybe it was about Simon. Like it could be someone who knows his wife, or knows he’s married, and wanted to start trouble. You do know he’s married, don’t you?”
Annie planted her hands on either side of her head. “Oh, my God. Not you, too! Yes, I know he’s married. Andno, I have no interest in him. Nor would I if I weren’t engaged to John—if, in fact, I still am. Simon Anderson is too slick for me.” She was grateful she’d figured that out not long after they’d met.
