“Look,” Francine said quietly, “you might never know who did it. We both know the Vineyard is teeming with all kinds of people in summer. Maybe it was an arbitrary person with an iPhone who spotted you and thought it would be a hoot to post a photo on VineyardInsiders. Who knows how it got to theTimesfrom there. There are plenty of people wandering around here who are connected with media from all over the world. Especially in August.” Her words were wise, far wiser than her years. But as much as Annie appreciated them, she still felt a hole of uncertainty.
Dropping the wampum back into the dish, she stood up and stretched. “I’d much rather help with housekeeping duties than think about this another minute. What needs doing? Is anyone waiting for anything?”
“I think they’ve all gone out. I cleaned the rooms, which is pretty easy. Bill said he isn’t fussy, so there was no need to do his. I gave Simon fresh towels yesterday, but he said the cottage was fine, and that he knows how to make his own bed. Who knows? Maybe he’s a little miffed about the gossip, too. Maybe both he and his wife didn’t appreciate it. Anyway, I haven’t gone down there this morning. Maybe you want to try again to clear the air with him?”
“Thanks, but I already tried. He was pretty clear that he had nothing to do with it. I’ll bring the towels, though. Save you a trip.”
“While you’re at it, are you going to ask him to leave?”
Annie touched her throat. “Why? Did someone suggest that?”
“Well,” Francine began as she exchanged the orange-haired doll for the brunette that Bella handed her, “after Bill left the table, one of the Indiana sisters—Toni, I think—suggested that Simon should go elsewhere. She said, ‘Whether or not this is true, why would anyone put such drivel online?’ Did I tell you I found your books in their room?”
In spite of her all-consuming drama, Annie offered half a grin. “So the sisters are fans. How nice.”
“They haven’t asked for your autograph yet?”
“No. They’re probably being respectful. Which doesn’t mean they won’t ask when they’re checking out.” She blew Bella a kiss. “Thanks for the talk, Francine. I’ll bring towels to the cottage and see if Simon wants anything else. Other than to bake in the sun while wrecking the legs of my Adirondack chair.”
“What?” Francine asked.
Annie waved it off. “Nothing. I’m being petty. Go back to Jonas’s. I’ll stay here and mind the palace. I’ve realized I like to work in the reading room.”
“Jonas is painting out at Wasque today. He says those are the landscapes most people have bought. Maybe I’ll bring a blanket, and Bella and I will go watch.” Lately, whenever she mentioned Jonas, she smiled sweetly. “You’ll be okay here?”
“Of course. Whoever is behind this might simply be vying for attention. I doubt if anyone is trying to blackmail me. Or kill me. So go. Enjoy. And please persuade Jonas to come to the fireworks tomorrow night. It’s always a good time.”
Francine smiled again, shyly that time, and lowered her head.
For the first time that day, Annie felt a little better—especially because the fact that she’d remembered about the fireworks must be a sign that at least a small part of her brain remained intact.
Chapter 17
Though she missed her writing space in the cottage, Annie did enjoy working in the reading room, where she was connected to the real world while immersed in her imaginary one. It was a nice combination, especially for putting together blog posts and “listicles”—a term she’d never heard of until recently; it meant that Annie had to come up with lists of items that in some way were tied to her novels and would be fun for her readers. Creating them entailed hunting for information on topics like:
—10 Museums with Unsolved Mysteries
—6 Must-See Museums in America
—12 Quirky Museums around the Globe
The research was easy and helped take her mind off everything else. Including the fact that by four o’clock, when John would be clocking in at the station, he still hadn’t called. It was a silent, yet audible, message.
A few minutes later, Annie heard a light tap on the doorway.
“Knock, knock?”
It was Meghan, alias Mary Beth. Or Mary Beth Mullen, alias Meghan MacNeish.
“Hey,” Annie said. “Come on in.”
“Sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s fine. I’ve been getting cross-eyed. Come in. Sit.”
She came in. She sat. She looked woeful.
“What’s up?” Annie asked.
