Ironic words from a woman whose emotions could race from manic highs to paralyzing lows in the span of a day.
He wasn’t going to let Kenley haunt him today. Not after having his first restful sleep since he’d come to Peregrine Island. He had a career to rescue, and today he was going to write.
The Sanitarium had been an unexpected blockbuster, a circumstance that hadn’t impressed his father. “It’s a bit difficult to explain to our friends why my son has such a grisly imagination. If it weren’t for your grandmother’s foolishness, you’d be working at the company, where you belong.”
His grandmother’s foolishness, as Elliott called it, was her decision to leave her estate to Theo, and, in his father’s estimation, take away Theo’s need to have a real occupation. In other words, go to work for Harp Industries.
The company had its roots in Elliott’s grandfather’s button manufacturing business but now made the titanium pins and bolts built of super alloys that helped hold together Black Hawk helicopters and stealth bombers. But Theo didn’t want to make pins and bolts. He wanted to write books where the boundaries between good and evil were blazingly clear. Where there was at least a chance that order would win out over chaos and madness. That’s what he’d done in The Sanitarium, his horror novel about a sinister mental hospital for the criminally insane with a room that transported its residents, including Dr. Quentin Pierce, a particularly sadistic serial killer, back through time.
Now he was working on the sequel to The Sanitarium. With the background already established from the first book and his intention to send Pierce back to nineteenth-century London, his task should have been easier. But he was having trouble, and he wasn’t sure why. He did know he’d have a better chance of breaking through his block at the cottage, and he was glad he’d been able to bully Annie into letting him work there.
Something rubbed against his ankles. He looked down to see that Hannibal had brought him a gift. A limp gray mouse carcass. He grimaced. “I know you’re doing it out of love, pal, but would you mind knocking it off?”
Hannibal purred and scratched his chin against Theo’s leg.
“Another day, another corpse,” Theo muttered. It was time to get to work.
Chapter Nine
THEO HAD LEFT HIS RANGE Rover for her at Harp House. Driving it over the treacherous road into town to meet the weekly supply boat should have been a lot more relaxing than driving her Kia, but she was too wound up from waking that morning and finding Theo sleeping next to her. She parked the car at the wharf and cheered herself up thinking about the real salad she’d fix herself for dinner.
Several dozen people waited at the wharf, most of them women. The disproportionate number of older residents testified to what Barbara had said about younger families leaving. Peregrine Island was beautiful during the summer, but who’d want to stay here year-round? Although today’s clear, sunny sky and bright light reflecting off the water had a particular kind of beauty.
She spotted Barbara and waved. Lisa, bundled up in an oversize coat that probably belonged to her husband, was talking with Judy Kester, whose bright red-orange hair was as loud and cheery as her laugh. Seeing the Bunco women together made Annie desperately miss her own friends.
Marie Cameron hurried over, looking as though she’d been sucking on lemons. “How are you doing out there by yourself?” she asked as dolefully as if Annie were in the final stages of a terminal illness.
“Fine. No problems.” Annie wasn’t mentioning last night’s break-in to anyone.
Marie leaned closer. She smelled of clove and mothballs. “You watch out for Theo. I know what I know, and anybody with eyes could see a squall was coming in. Regan wouldn’t have taken her boat out in that weather, not voluntarily.”
Fortunately, the converted lobster boat that served as the weekly supply ferry was pulling up to the wharf, and Annie didn’t have to respond. The boat held plastic crates filled with grocery bags, as well as a spool of electrical cable, roofing shingles, and a shiny white toilet. The islanders automatically formed a bucket brigade to unload the boat, then reloaded it in the same fashion with the mail, packages, and empty plastic crates from the previous shipment of groceries.
When that was done, everyone headed to the parking lot. Each plastic grocery crate had a white index card attached with the recipient’s name printed in black marker. Annie had no trouble locating the three crates marked HARP HOUSE. They were packed so full she had to struggle to get them to the car.
“It’s always a good day when the ferry makes it,” Barbara called out from the tailgate of her pickup.