Plugging in her phone, she checked her messages again: none. Maybe John had no information yet, or he was lost in the wilds of Minnesota, or he hadn’t made it there at all. She took an island-made pottery mug from the cabinet and filled it. While reviewing everything she needed to do, she was struck with a serious thought: despite what John might or might not say if he learned that she’d been in the cottage, she honestly doubted he’d cancel the wedding. But with all that was happening, and all that still was unknown, should they postpone it? She popped another of Francine’s rosemary rolls into the microwave, counted down the thirty seconds, and tried to decide.
The wedding wasn’t as important as helping Francine get through this, as being there for Kevin when he needed to vent about where he and Taylor were going to live, as Trish and the damn TV deal that was still looming out there in outer space.
Annie wondered about Jonas, too, and whether or not the young couple could survive Bella’s disappearance and remain a couple. She couldn’t blame Francine for her withdrawal from him, yet over the years Annie had learned the importance of forgiveness.
If Francine wasn’t part of Bella’s disappearance (Annie was still sickened that John had posed that possibility), she would most likely freak out if she learned that John was in Minneapolis, interrogating her aunt and uncle who had done so much for her. And if the couple alone was in this, and if they really loved Francine, they would never have kidnapped Bella. They would have known how much it would upset both of them.
Annie had never met Marty and Bill, but they seemed to care about their nieces.
So . . . who else, who else, who else? Who else besides Francine’s relations had a motive to steal precious little Bella? What would someone have to gain?
Money, Annie thought, was so often at the root of crime. She’d learned that when she’d started writing mysteries and had done her homework on the primary motives for committing evil deeds. Money. Sex. Power. Those were considered the big three. But without a ransom demand, and with the other two motives seeming negligible, she truly was stumped.
John had now added the possibility of having a score to settle as a motive. But even if the kidnappers didn’t want money, wouldn’t they have wanted to let someone know they had her? Maybe. Maybe not.
She wished Murphy would show up so that they could have a conversation since no one else was around.
In lieu of Murphy, she had to rely on her own skills, such as they were.
What else had she learned from behavioral research that helped her carve out her characters? Trish once said that what she loved most about Annie’s novels was how she wrote believable, sympathetic characters—even when they were aiming a gun and pulling the trigger. She’d said that, though she’d been around a long time, she’d found few mystery authors as accomplished at that. Which Annie might have chalked up to schmoozing bunk, except that Trish truly was a terrific editor. Even more, she was equally adept at building her authors’ brands, no matter what it took.
Then Annie remembered the publicity stunt last summer that Trish had sworn she hadn’t set up but had applauded.
Annie blinked at the winter-white landscape out the window. Was it possible her editor had found a way to boost Annie’s visibility in order to jump-start the buzz about Museum Girls Mysteries if it was to become a TV series? Would her editor stoop so low as to steal a child?
Her heart started to race. But how could Trish have pulled it off? She was in New York City, with few flights on and off the island now that it was off-season. Besides, she’d have needed IDs to fly, which would be easily traceable. The only other option was the boat. But would her editor have known how to navigate all that? She’d once told Annie she rarely left Manhattan, that she hadn’t even attended her mother-in-law’s funeral because it was in Hoboken, New Jersey. She didn’t trust a ferry to get her across the Hudson. And forget trains or buses: Trish did not drive or take public transportation, and she only traversed the island of Manhattan on foot or by private car. It was amazing that she’d flown to L.A.
Still . . . it was possible for her to have paid someone to do the deed. Annie supposed it depended on how important this TV deal was to her. She must be nearing retirement . . . could such a triumph provide a dazzling swan song for an exceptional career?
As Annie felt a mass of anxiety beginning to press against her chest, her thoughts were jogged by the scrape-thump, scrape-thump sounds of someone shoveling snow. Through the window, she saw her brother clearing a path from the workshop up to the Inn. She couldn’t remember when she’d needed to see someone so badly, someone she trusted whom she could talk to. Maybe it was Murphy’s way of helping out because right then she wasn’t available.
As Annie reached for another mug, she realized that she’d already drunk her coffee and eaten the warm roll, though she didn’t remember doing either. Maybe her mind was too boggled to think straight. She closed her eyes and waited to hear the back door open. It took less than a minute.
Chapter 35
Ididn’t count on the snow. At least I made sure that I stacked enough wood inside the cabin to keep the fire going for a few days. But I’m getting tired of being cooped up.
Yesterday I wondered if I could go out without her. I found a key hanging on a peg by the front door. It didn’t look like anyone had used it in a hundred years, but it fit the lock. I thought if I locked her in at least she wouldn’t go roaming around outside and get lost. Or worse.
But then I thought about the fire in the fireplace, and knew it would be stupid to leave her by herself and not expect that she’d get hurt.
So I kept telling myself it won’t be much longer. And I wrapped her in an extra blanket and lit a few candles to make the place look cozier. More like a real home, like the one I grew up in before everything got so screwed up. Then I took out one of the books that I’d bought on the Cape and I sat on the floor in front of the chair that she’s kind of glued to. I read her a story about the stars in the sky and the big yellow moon, and she seemed to like it.
She’s really a nice little girl. I am so glad that I found her.
Chapter 36
“Taylor went home during the night,” Kevin said as he peeled off his boots and parka and put them in the mudroom. “She said I was snoring from sleeping on the hard floor.” He stepped into the kitchen and sort of growled. “I think she was more worried about Jonas being alone in the house with Rex, though I have no idea why I even said that.” He spotted the empty mug on the counter and helped himself to coffee. “Power came on a couple of hours ago. I take it there’s been no word on . . . anything?”
Annie shook her head, plucked the pitcher of cream from the refrigerator, and handed it to him. She decided to wait until he poured a little into the mug, then stirred and sipped before launching into her doubts about her editor.
“By the way,” he said before she had a chance to tell him about Trish, “where’s John? A few more cops have come back, and some volunteers, though not as many as on the weekend. I suppose some had to work today . . .”
Annie couldn’t bring herself to say:And others have doubts that if Bella hasn’t been found by day three, then she won’t be.
“John’s in Minnesota,” she blurted out before stopping herself.
Kevin must have been mid-swallow because he coughed a little, went to the sink, and spit out a mouthful. Once he recovered, he turned back to Annie. “Please don’t tell me he’s there to see Francine’s aunt and uncle. Or that he thinks they’re behind this.”
