Chapter 17
As long as Annie had the Internet, she decided to go online and look for rentals. It would, she supposed, be fruitless and might leave her depressed, but to try and concentrate on her manuscript would be a struggle, and she couldn’t be bothered to watch television. She half considered going to the Edgartown Police Department after all to talk to John’s coworkers about Fiona’s conclusion that her brother had poisoned her. But it was Saturday night, and she knew they’d be extra busy maintaining law and order throughout Amity. And if she ran into Kevin when she was coming or going, how would she explain she’d needed some alone time? He was such a gem; she never, ever, wanted to hurt his feelings.
She put some leftover coleslaw, a tomato, and a hard-boiled egg onto a plate. Then she brought her laptop to the table,
Googled MV year-round rentals, and clicked and scrolled while she ate her dinner.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Nothing.
House share.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Short of screaming, Annie began to shut down the computer when she had another thought. She went back to Google and typed: poisoned honey.
At first she was inundated with scientific names, locations, and details about toxicity. Then she found a list of poisonous plants in the northeast:
Azalea
Mountain Laurel
Oleander
Rhododendron
The list included other shrubs whose names she didn’t recognize, but the website reported that, in addition to the leaves, stems, and twigs, the nectar of the flowers could sometimes be poisonous.
She drew in a long breath. “And along come the honeybees,” she said, then continued reading until she found an entry that explained if bees made honey from poison nectar, the honey would be bitter, but the unpleasant taste could be somewhat masked if baked into something edible . . . such as a honey cake.
“Holy cow,” she said. “Holy, holy cow.” She compelled herself not to jump up from her chair. Instead, she focused on the rest of the entry that went on to explain the aftereffects: “Several hours after ingesting the poison, the patient can present with a watery mouth, slow heartbeat, convulsions, coma. Without proper medical attention, death can occur within twelve hours.”
All of which was exactly what had happened to Fiona. Except, thankfully, the death.
Annie, however, had no idea if any poisonous plants grew on the Vineyard, and if so, whether or not they were in season. Because, as a mystery writer, she knew the importance of playing the devil’s advocate, she supposed it was also possible that Fiona had read the identical entry and, maybe in need of attention, had faked the rest.
Except, of course, the hospital knew she’d been poisoned. And they’d provided the report to the police.Who would tend to it when they had time.
If John were there, he’d get to the bottom of it. In the meantime, if he would only call, Annie could ask what he thought, and if he knew what she could do to help. Then again, if John would only call, she might not be on a ledge of depression, trying to figure out someone else’s life because she could not figure out her own.
Then, as if Murphy had laced Annie’s tea with inspiration, she came up with another plan. It might not point a finger at Colin Littlefield, but it was a great place to start.
Picking up her phone, Annie texted Fiona: I think I have a lead. I’ll be in touch tomorrow.
* * *
After a fitful night made worse by the lingering humidity that dampened the bedsheets, her nightgown, her skin, and everything in its wake, Annie finally fell asleep. When she woke up at eight, sunlight blew into her bedroom thanks to a blessed morning breeze that had magically brushed the dampness away with a heavenly, broad summer broom.
She bounded from bed, energized. Then, while in the shower, she had another brilliant idea. Before going to see Mrs. Collins, she could look up one of the garden tour judges. A master gardener. Someone who’d be certain to know something about poisonous flora on the Vineyard. There were three judges: Annie had cut and pasted their names onto the template of the brochure.
It wasn’t long before she was out the door, over to Edgartown, and up to Fuller Street, which ran parallel to North Water. Finding Henri LeChance’s home was even easier: A picture-perfect hedgerow framed the property and featured a white garden gate leading onto a brick walkway that meandered through a floral wonderland. It was a definite fit in the neighborhood.
Monsieur LeChance (as, according to the program, he preferred to be addressed) was in his screened gazebo, eyes closed, playing a violin, its mellifluous sounds pirouetting in the morning air. For some reason, Annie had pictured the monsieur as a small, doddering man much like Hercule Poirot; instead he was tall and reedy, his arms and knees jutting at sharp angles from the straight chair on which he sat. A blanket of gray hair atop his head was so dense it might have been a toupee, but, on closer inspection, it matched his eyebrows perfectly, so she supposed it was not.
Annie did not speak; she did not want to disrupt his small concert. Yet, as if he’d sensed her footsteps, he opened his eyes and looked directly at her. He set down his bow and instrument and pushed a few stray hairs back from his brow.
“Bonjour,” he said.
“Oui,” Annie replied, “bonjour.” She felt somewhat ridiculous speaking French in an historic New England village. “Parlez-vous anglais?”
He laughed, revealing large white teeth, too large, in fact, for his gaunt face. He stepped from the gazebo and greeted her with a firm handshake. “Of course. And you are?”
She smiled, embarrassed. “Annie Sutton. I’ve been helping Claire Lyons with the garden tour.”
“Yes, that’s coming up this week, isn’t it? I heard Claire had a misfortune. Is she doing better?”
Annie related the good news. Then she said, “And yes, the tour will be Thursday. But that’s not the only reason I’m here. I’m a writer; I’m doing research for a new book.” In the same way that a honey cake could “somewhat mask” the bitter taste of poison, she’d decided to use her profession to hide the truth of her mission. She asked him about poisonous flowers or plants currently on the island that might lead to tainted honey.
Monsieur LeChance shook his head. “That would be a dreadful thing for tourism, non?” His voice was heartier than the subtle tones of his violin.
She smiled. “I write fiction, monsieur. Make-believe.”
“Mais non. We wouldn’t want your readers to think a place as affiné as Martha’s Vineyard would allow such things to grow?”
It didn’t matter that Annie had no idea what the word affiné meant. She got the point. “Perhaps something that isn’t instantly deadly? Something that could simply make the victim ill at first, then, with quick treatment, avoid death?”
He shook his head again. “Non, non. Nothing that would be appropriés.”
She ran the names and locations of the other judges through her mind while Monsieur LeChance shook his head again.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Henri,” a female voice with a British accent shouted from what looked like a kitchen window of the house. “Tell her about the mountain laurel. It’s not as if it’s a bloody state secret.”
He rolled his umber eyes and offered a small sigh. “Mountain laurel,” he conceded, “mais oui. There is that. Not that you—or anyone—should taste it, mind you!”
“And you’re in luck,” the voice called from the window once again, “because it’s in bloom right now. All over the island.”
Having been rewarded with a perfect answer, albeit circuitously, Annie said, “Thank you,” toward the window, then added “Merci,” to Monsieur LcChance. “I will see you Thursday?”
“Mais oui,” he said again. “Unless le poison gets me first.” He waved and tootled back into the gazebo, where he picked up the violin again, closed his eyes, and resumed creating the soothing sounds.
Annie listened for a minute, then made her way through the picturesque wonderland back to the front gate to where she’d parked her car. She was grateful that she now knew what she needed to do next. And whom she could enlist to help.
* * *
After retrieving the brochure from Mrs. Collins (she’d found only three typos and two misspellings, but Annie assured her that her work had been well worth the effort), Annie drove to John’s. Kevin was sitting outside on the front steps, for which she silently thanked him. She didn’t need any more reminders that John wasn’t there.
On the way to Vineyard Haven and the printer, Kevin told her that Earl had called the night before and asked if they could stop at the lumberyard and pick up fencing for the Alvords’ chicken coop and some roofing shingles for someone else’s barn. Apparently, in the “hubbub,” as Earl had called the aftermath of Claire’s stroke, he’d forgotten them a week ago.
“Mrs. Alvord has an ongoing problem with her chickens escaping,” Annie told her brother. “The fencing is probably fine. The real problem could be she forgets to close the gate.” She quickly wondered what her ex would think if he knew she was talking about chicken coops and fencing instead of things she wanted to add to her designer wardrobe. Those were definitely the bad old days, she thought. And though another stop would interfere with her plans, she supposed that as long as they were on the west side of the island, they might as well check out the lumberyard.
“I guess Taylor used to take care of the property,” Kevin continued. “That was until Mrs. Alvord had a falling-out with Taylor’s mother.”
Annie laughed. “The two women have probably been friends for sixty years. Life here can be intriguing.”
“Well, I hope I’m not stepping on Taylor’s toes with this.”
“You won’t be.”
“But she must need the money more than I do. Or more than Earl does.”
Casting a quick glance toward the passenger seat, Annie asked, “Why are you worried what she thinks? I told you her place won’t work for me.”
“But have you told her yet?”
“No. I’ll call tonight.”
“Okay, well, it’s nice that she offered, anyway.”
Annie wondered if Kevin had developed a tiny crush on the hearty woman with the auburn mane. She would have asked, but her mind was already too crowded, and thoughts of Taylor and her brother would be way too complex to consider.
After several trips around the block to park in Vineyard Haven, Annie finally succeeded. Kevin waited in the car while she dashed inside. In less than five minutes, she’d explained the corrections, selected the paper stock, and showed the man at the counter where she wanted spot varnish on the photos so the brochure would look as affiné as possible.
Because her business took less time than anticipated, Annie decided to give Kevin a mini tour of West Chop.
Back behind the wheel, she drove all the way up Main Street, past magnificent old summer homes, their dark, weathered shingles a noticeable contrast to Edgartown’s heraldry of white. They drove alongside the shoreline that skirted Vineyard Sound, and when they reached the West Chop lighthouse, she stopped the car. They got out and walked to the lookout, where Cape Cod was visible across the calm cerulean water. A flotilla of sailboats, their sails like thumbprints across a canvas of blue sky, was interrupted only by the big, gleaming ferry as it inched toward the island.
“Nice place you have here,” Kevin commented.
When they’d finished gaping, Annie drove past more historic homes, circled around tennis courts and a clubhouse, then headed east on Franklin Street, back out to State Road.
The lumberyard was closed, for which she was secretly pleased because it meant she could begin executing her plan.
“I’ve been thinking,” she told Kevin, “that as long as we’re out this way, we might as well check out a few things for, as you call her, the dead bridesmaid.” She brought him up-to-date on what she’d learned the night before and from Monsieur LeChance.
Kevin whistled. “I can’t believe you kept this from me for over an hour. So what’s the plan?”
“The cake was in a box so it probably came from a bakery. That’s where we’ll start.” She made a U-turn and drove across the street, straight into the parking lot of the Black Dog Café. “It won’t exactly be pancakes and bacon like they have at the tavern,” she said, “but they’re a bakery, so maybe they sell honey cake. If not, we can at least grab a couple of muffins and be on our way. I know I promised you brunch, but trust me, you won’t be disappointed.”
She parked the car. They went inside and stood in the Sunday line of people that stretched the full length of the glass case and went almost out the door. When their turn at last arrived, Annie made the inquiry.
But, no, they did not make honey cake. “Sorry,” the clerk said.
Annie chose a blueberry muffin, Kevin a cranberry-orange one.
Next stop was the Scottish Bakehouse, whose menu offered succulent treats that were more Brazilian than Scottish. But, no, they did not make honey cake, either. The baker hinted that because they used fresh, local ingredients whenever possible, the cost of local honey would make a cake too pricy.
After a third and then a fourth stop, Annie refused to get discouraged. Then she came up with another idea. “Forget this,” she said. “We’re taking a side trip up island to Aquinnah.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because I have a friend named Winnie, a wonderful Wampanoag lady, who showed me how to handcraft natural soaps. One of her brothers has a few beehives. He might know someone who makes honey cakes.” She didn’t know why she hadn’t thought of him earlier.
* * *
Winnie wasn’t home, but her sister-in-law, Barbara, was. Barbara was the nurse who worked in the hospital maternity department; she was married to Orrin, Winnie’s beekeeping brother.
“He’s not here, either,” Barbara replied when Annie asked for Orrin. “Ever since he decided to keep bees and do less fishing for a living, I swear he’s fishing more. Even with his godawful arthritis. But he should be back soon. Once the sun starts heading over the yardarm—which, to him, means anytime after noon—he’s pretty much done with the fish.” She laughed. “He always says that ‘yardarm’ thing even though he has a trawler, not a sailboat. He likes the way that it sounds.” She snickered in a loving way.
They stood in the sprawling, unkempt yard. In addition to the main house, there was a small stone house where root vegetables were sheltered after the harvest; next to that was Winnie’s studio, then a separate, round brick kiln that had a stovepipe rising through the top. Leaning against the main house, a stack of framed mesh screens looked like they could be part of Orrin’s beekeeping venture. The hives, however, were out of sight, safely tucked away on the expansive land. Annie felt that, even more than on Chappy, up island showcased the Vineyard at its most genuine; she was glad to be able to share it with her brother.
Then a van rumbled into the driveway.
“Oh!” Barbara exclaimed. “Looks like the yardarm got shorter today!”
Orrin climbed out of the vehicle, gave the group a wave, then went to the back and pulled out a couple of plastic coolers. “Stripers for dinner!” he called. He had the off-balance waddle of a fisherman, as if one foot were on land and the other at sea.
“Did they come from Squibnocket?” Kevin asked, then gave Annie a wink. She had no idea he knew anything about Vineyard fishing, or any fishing for that matter. Especially since he’d said that being on a boat made him seasick.
“Yup. Wasque’s still closed.”
“Nesting birds. I heard about that.”
Annie was so surprised by her brother’s comment that for a second she forgot why they were there. Apparently, Kevin had really been enjoying his time on the island, talking to lots of people while doing Earl’s rounds.
“You staying for dinner?” Orrin asked. “Got four big ones here.”
“I’m sorry, but thanks.” Annie jumped into the conversation before Kevin accepted. “We’ll take a rain check, though. By the way, this is my brother, Kevin.” The men shook hands and Annie cleared her mind. “We stopped to ask you about your beekeeping. Well, about the honey, anyway. I just learned it can be tainted if bees get the nectar from something poisonous, like mountain laurel. Is that true?”
“True enough. Usually the bad nectar winds up being mixed with so much from other sources that the effects are minor. But once in a great while it can stay fairly concentrated.”
“How would a beekeeper know it’s tainted? And if you sold your honey to a bakery and they put some in cakes or cookies, how would anyone know they were poisonous before they got sick?”
Though he lacked a couple of front teeth, Orrin’s smile was broad. He held up an index finger. “First of all, it’s rare that people get sick from it. Animals, yes. People, not so much. But to be on the safe side, we always do taste tests. Every batch of raw honey that goes out of here gets a foolproof test. I spoon out a sample, dip my finger in, take a taste, then, as they say, voilà! It’s not exactly rocket science: If the honey’s bitter then it’s bad—you can tell right away.”
It was interesting that he’d used the same word to describe it that both Fiona and the Google entry had: bitter.
“Does that answer your question?” Orrin asked.
“It does. Thanks. Have you heard that any on the island was tainted lately?”
“I sure have. Rodney, over at Sweet Everything Farm in Chilmark, on the west side of town. He lost the whole batch he was putting up for the Ag Fair.”
Annie knew that, for over a century and a half, the Ag Fair ran for a few days in August. It was famous for its carnival rides and contests, its sheep shearing and skillet tossing, and for the tons of items that were judged, from apple pie to watercolors, and apparently, to honey. She’d been asked to enter her natural herb-and-flower soaps but had declined because she’d had a feeling her summer would be busy. An understatement, she thought now.
Returning to the problem at hand, Annie asked if Orrin knew whether or not Rodney had sold any of the honey to a local bakery.
He shrugged. “About all I can do is tell you how to get to his place.”
“Fair enough,” Kevin said. “And one of these nights, we’ll be back for striper.”
Annie smiled at the thought that her brother apparently intended to stick around.