Somewhere along the way, they had spotted a meadow. Her mother had stopped the car. “Buttercups!” she cried as she jumped out. Annie followed. They ducked under a split-rail fence and stood in tall, verdant grasses that were topped with bright yellow blossoms stretching “as far as the eye can see,” her mother said. In the distance, two brown horses and one white one strolled through the grass and seemed as happy to be there as Annie was. Then her mother plucked one of the flowers.

“Raise your head,” she said to Annie. So Annie did. Then her mother held the yellow cup under her chin. “This proves it! You like butter!”

Then Annie took the flower and held it under her mother’s chin. When she saw the golden reflection on her mother’s skin, she giggled. “You like butter, too, Mommy!” It wasn’t as exciting as doing the he-loves-me-he-loves-me-not with daisies or making a wish before blowing on a dandelion puff, but having her mother play a little game with her was worth all the he-loves-me’s and wishes coming true in the world.

Her mother then hugged her and ruffled her hair, and they picked a whole bunch of buttercups to bring back to Daddy.

When Annie had seen the painting at the Monet gallery, it had reminded her of that day. The memory had not only inspired her to design a meadow at the Inn, it was also why she’d inserted a “Monet Room” in the museum of her book.

She smiled a small smile. And then she blinked. Still staring at the keyboard, she suddenly realized that several more minutes had passed, and she still hadn’t typed a single word.

Don’t make it a corpse. Murphy’s voice suddenly floated into the open window on the breeze.

“What?” Annie sat up straight.

Don’t make it a corpse, her old friend repeated.

And then Murphy was gone, as quickly as she—or rather, her presence—had arrived.

But Annie laughed. Loudly. Because Murphy had offered the key that Annie needed. Instead of the corpse she’d hidden in the Monet Room the last time she’d done any worthwhile writing, she would make this one a skull. Or part of a skull. God knows, she now knew what one looked like. Besides, she reasoned, one would tuck nicely into the room without drawing attention from the buttercups.

Her fingers came alive, thanks to her old pal, who had helped Annie redirect many literary jams. Her four fingers—two on the left, two on the right—had churned out a couple of scenes when her phone rang.

Damn!

She considered not answering, but what if it was John with more information? Or what if Kevin had a new crisis? With a loud groan, Annie turned from her desk and recovered her phone from the bookcase next to her. But Caller ID reported that it was neither John nor Kevin; it was Donna.