The root cellar.
She stopped.
Had anyone looked for Bella down there? Bella knew that the fruit “lived” there; she’d often gone with Francine to pick out veggies and things they’d canned the year before and the sweet apples that she loved. It was possible that Lucy—or the OB cops—might not have thought to look there.
Suddenly feeling skittish, Annie glanced around. She didn’t see anyone she could enlist to go down with her; everyone must be searching or in the kitchen prepping food or catching a little sleep. She told herself it didn’t matter, that it would be better if she did this alone. If Bella was there, being held captive by someone, maybe Annie could talk to that person. And at least Bella would see someone she knew who loved her.
Or . . . maybe Bella had wandered down there alone and was too scared of the dark to find her way out. Maybe John had been right the first time when he’d suggested that the note had been a prank. Maybe Bella had been sitting in the cellar, eating her fill of apples, and then fallen asleep. Maybe she was awake and confused right now, waiting for someone to come and get her.
Annie prayed that it was true.
Taking her phone out of her pocket, she turned on the flashlight app. She also clicked on the screen with the red circle, the one that was the Emergency SOS. Not that there would be a problem, she tried to convince herself. But it would be better to be prepared.
Watch your head, came a voice, Murphy’s voice, from above.And don’t worry. I’ve got your back.
For the first time since the afternoon before, Annie smiled. As long as Murphy was with her in spirit, yes, Annie would not feel alone. As she opened the bulkhead door, she felt an unexpected twinge of sorrow that Murphy—or Stan and the boys—couldn’t be there for the wedding. She hoped this wasn’t the start of Murphy’s family growing farther away, more distant—geographically, emotionally—with time.
Ducking under the low clearance, Annie crept down the first one, two, three steps, and was met with the dank aroma of a root cellar close to the sea, partly veiled by the fresh scent of fruit from nearby orchards and veggies from local gardens. It was a special, welcoming place, not at all like the basement of her Boston apartment that she’d only once dared to venture into.
When she made it to the bottom, she reached for the chain attached to the overhead light, her pulse racing a little, anxious now about other possibilities of what she’d see. Would Bella be there motionless, lying in a wood-slatted bushel basket? Would whoever had written the note be standing guard, a gun poised at Bella’s heart? Her neck? Her head?
Annie’s hands grew clammy; she gripped her phone to keep it from sliding to the dirt floor. With her eyes wide open, she pulled the chain; the single lightbulb glared. And there it was: the twelve-by-sixteen space, packed with stores for the winter—squashes, potatoes, parsnips, beets, and buckets of carrots. And, of course, the apples. And shelves that lined two of the concrete walls and were filled with Claire and Francine’s canning creations from last summer—jars of everything from green beans to strawberry jam and Earl’s grandmother’s recipe for chutney, which he claimed had originated in India and made its way to the Vineyard by way of the shipping trade during British colonization.
But Bella was not resting in an apple basket, and there was no hulking figure (had Annie assumed it would be Rex?) hovering over her. She exhaled but nonetheless moved gingerly around baskets and barrels and through the room, looking behind things, under things, above things.
“Bella?” Annie whispered. “It’s Ammie. I’m here.” She told herself she was whispering so she wouldn’t frighten Bella. But although writing her mysteries often brought her to darker, more menacing places, most of those were in her mind, occasionally formed by photos or glimpses of real people and places that would fit her imaginary plot. A few times a police officer had brought her to the scene of an old crime she’d read about, and the officer had described what it had looked like then and explained the accuracy with which they’d tracked down the bad guys. Those crimes, however, had taken place years earlier. And this time she was not writing fiction; she was trying to find Bella. And it was happening right there. Right now.
And suddenly . . . a clatter. Annie’s eyes darted from corner to corner. Then something dashed past her. She yelped . . . just as a tiny chipmunk ran up the steps and escaped outside.
“You okay down there, whoever you are?” Earl’s voice called down.
Annie dropped her face into her hands. “It’s me, Earl. Annie. I’ll be right up.”
I sent him to find you, Murphy said.Before you scared yourself to death.
“Thanks. You’re a pal,” Annie replied. Then she moved toward the bulkhead, tugged the chain, extinguishing the bulb, and went back upstairs out toward the daylight.
* * *
“It’s almost ten,” Earl said. He led her to the patio; they sat on the low stone wall before going into the Inn. His skin was pale, his face was drawn; he looked older and grayer since she’d seen him the night before. She supposed they all did. “John will be here any minute to make sure we did as we were told. Half of which, by the way, I think he dreamed up to keep us out of his hair. And to keep us from losing ours.”
“Sometimes distraction is a good thing,” Annie replied.
Earl didn’t answer. He looked down at his hands, studied his fingernails. “What do you think, Annie? Where is she?”
She wanted to tell him about the note. Though she understood why John wanted to keep it confidential until they determined whether or not it was a prank, Annie thought the others might see it as good news. And they could use some good news, couldn’t they?
But as she stared down toward the harbor, Annie said, “I think we have to trust John and Linc—and their whole team. And if John comes up with more busywork for us, we should do it. It might seem that every hour Bella’s gone means something awful has happened to her, but we have to remember that every hour, the police are putting more pieces together.”
“Pieces? What pieces? It doesn’t seem like they have a lick of evidence.”
How she hated deceiving Earl. “Just because John isn’t telling us, doesn’t mean there’s no evidence. We have to have faith, Earl.”
He stood and started pacing the natural, buff-colored stone that they’d chosen to blend in with the landscape of Chappy.
“Have you seen Taylor or Jonas this morning?” she asked.
He shook his head. “I hope Kevin finally convinced her to go home and sleep. I’m not sure if Jonas is still in the woods. He must have walked from Cape Poge Light down to Wasque and back by now.”
