by Ink, India
For once, my attention to detail had paid off. “Score one for the squeaky wheel. So everything’s okay?”
“For you, yes. But my men found something else.” Kyle sobered. “I just ordered my boys to pick up Trevor Wilson. We found the murder weapon.”
Aunt Florence, Barbara, and I leaned forward as one. “What?” I asked. A low rumble of thunder raced through the room as the storm picked up speed.
He stood up and jammed his hands in his pockets. “They found a hammer in the back room. Trevor’s fingerprints are all over the handle, and it’s covered in Lydia Wang’s blood.”
Chapter Five
I stared at Aunt Florence, a growing knot of dread in my stomach. What the hell? Trevor’s hammer? With Lydia’s blood on it?
Kyle cleared his throat and headed toward the door. “I’ve got to get back to the station. If Trevor shows up here, call us. I mean it, Miss Florence.” He sounded like he half-expected her to pitch a fit, but she just gave him a faint nod as I escorted him out on the porch.
He peered back over my head toward the living room and lowered his voice. “Persia, I meant what I said. If Trevor Wilson shows up anywhere near here, you call the station. He’s dangerous, and I don’t want anything to happen to your aunt or you.”
He actually sounded sincere. I murmured an assent and shut the door behind him. As I returned to the living room, Auntie was leaning against one of the carved wooden pillars that ran from floor to ceiling, a pained look etched on her face. I led her back to her chair.
She stared at the coffee table for a moment, then leaned forward to pick up a copy of Vogue and fanned herself with it. “One moment life’s going on as usual, the next, everything’s been shot to hell,” she said. “I know Kyle has no choice, but I just can’t believe he’s going to arrest Trevor. Trevor’s a good boy, he wouldn’t hurt a fly.” Her voice trembled with a flutter of doubt.
I wandered over to the window. The rain was pelting the water, rippling the surface with concentric rings that spread out in even circles. All it took was one drop . . . one disturbance, to shake up lives and alter history. A shiver raced up my back and I returned to the warmth of the fire, grabbed the tea tray, and hurried into the kitchen, where I freshened the pot and added more cookies to the plate.
As I returned to the living room, Barbara was saying, “Kyle has to haul him in, Miss Florence. Look at the evidence—he can’t ignore it. That’s his job. Granted, I don’t believe that Trev is guilty, but Kyle’s the chief of police. He has to go by the book.”
“Even though I don’t like him, I have to agree with Barbara,” I said. “Trevor’s his most logical suspect.”
Just then, Trubbul leapt up on the sofa and tried to climb in my lap. I shooed at him, but the orange tabby ignored me and crawled over my hands, settling into a ball on my skirt. Like Delilah, he was getting on in years. Auntie had taken him in from a rescue shelter and—as with all the cats in the household—he was an indoor-only babe. I stroked his fur, breathing quietly as the rumble of his purr lulled some of the tension out of my shoulders.
“Auntie, can you think of anybody else who might have a key to the shop? Did you ever give one to a maintenance man or . . . say, what about Marta? Does she have a key?”
Barbara looked at me like I was crazy. “You’re suggesting Marta might have killed Lydia? That’s absurd. Marta’s too lazy to go around killing anybody, and why would she? What would she have to gain?”
Marta was the cleaning lady for several of the downtown businesses. Aunt Florence, Barbara, and Marianne Stila, who owned Marianne’s Closet, hired her to come in and clean for them, and paid her under the table. Marta was seventy if she was a day, took too many breaks, and smoked too much—though not in the shops. Auntie, Barb, and Marianne had threatened to fire her if they smelled a single hint of cigarette smoke.
“Maybe she gave her key to somebody else?” I was clutching at straws.
Auntie shook her head, putting an end to my speculation. “Marta’s never had a key to my shop. She comes in twice a week during the early morning. That’s why Tawny opens early on Mondays and Thursdays. I told her to keep an eye on Marta because the old girl has been known to take a few five-fingered discounts.”
“What?” Barbara straightened up, a curious gleam in her eye. “She steals? I didn’t know that. Why didn’t you tell me?”
My aunt blushed. “Yes, the old dear steals. I caught her several times before I set Tawny on guard duty. But Marta hasn’t got a soul in the world to look after her, and I didn’t want to be responsible for her losing work. Really, what she took was minor . . . a bar of soap, a bottle of lotion, and I think once I noticed a bath mitt disappearing into that big old tote bag of hers. She doesn’t make a lot of money. So as far as I’m concerned, if she needs a bit of soap, she’s welcome to it. I thought I told you about it, but I guess it slipped my mind.”
Barbara looked thoughtful. “That could explain our missing inventory. We don’t count the number of individual muffins or cookies we make, but now and then it seems like we’re a little low on stock compared to what we put away for the night. I thought that maybe Ronette and Colin were getting overenthusiastic and was going to talk to them about it. Maybe I should hold off. What do you think?”
Ronette and Colin, two high school kids, helped out in the bakery on weekends and after school.
“Given Colin’s height and age, it wouldn’t surprise me to hear that he’s been dipping into the doughnuts,” I said. “Teenagers eat like they have bottomless stomachs. Auntie’s right, though. Marta’s on a fixed income and I’ll bet she finds it hard to resist a little treat now and then.”
“Then I’ll just hold off on that lecture,” Barb said. “But that leaves me with the question of whether I should I talk to Marta. I don’t like the idea of a thief working for me, petty or otherwise.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge.” Aunt Florence sighed and pushed her way to her feet. “Marta has more problems than either of you know about. It’s not my place to tell you what she’s facing, but trust me—if she steals a cookie or a bar of soap, it’s because she needs it, not because she doesn’t want to pay. Whatever bit of spare money she has is tied up in helping her daughter and her disabled grandson.”
“I didn’t know that,” Barb said. She studied her hands. “I guess I never thought to ask Marta about her life.”
Aunt Florence shook her head. “Life can be rough for a lot of folks—young and old alike. Now, if you girls will excuse me, I’m going to go call Winthrop.” At Barb’s questioning look, she added, “Winchester. My lawyer. Trevor’s going to need all the help he can get.” With that, she headed into the den, shutting the door behind her.
I stood up. “I think I’ll make us some sandwiches. Tea and cookies are fine, but I’m starved. The day’s been one shock after another.” As we headed into the kitchen, it occurred to me that we really knew very little about the people who touched on the periphery of our lives. For instance, just how much did we really know about Trevor?
The papers were always full of stories that started, “He was such a nice man, nobody ever thought he was capable of such a crime. . . .” Was Trevor one of those people who lived a secret life that nobody knew about? Or was he just a convenient scapegoat? The Wangs were a prominent family in town. They’d want answers and they’d want them fast. I trusted Kyle to go by the book, but would he bother to look outside of it at other possibilities? He’d always had a linear, one-track mind back in junior high.
I pulled out the bread and meat and cheese while Barb got the plates out of the cupboard. As I fixed three roast beef sandwiches, she sliced up a cantaloupe and then we arranged the food on the plates, covering Auntie’s with plastic wrap and setting it in the refrigerator until she was ready to eat.
We settled in at the dinette table in companionable silence. I absently looked out the window. It was a gloomy, nasty afternoon that made me glad we were inside. The breakfast nook overlooked the kitchen garden Aunt
Florence had planted on the south side of the house. Somebody would have to go out and weed it later. Trevor would be out of commission for awhile; I had my doubts that Kyle would let him out for plant-patrol. Meanwhile, the lilacs needed harvesting, and the other flowers and herbs would be crying out for attention.
Sighing, I wiped my hands on my napkin and grabbed the phone, punching in Sarah’s number, hoping she could fill in full-time. Her answering machine beeped and I left a message asking her to call me back as soon as she had the chance. As I sat back down at the table and spoke to Barb, she jumped, off somewhere in her own little world.
“So, what are your plans for the evening? Do you still want to go out to dinner tonight?”
She shook her head and finished her sandwich. “I left Dorian stuck with all the work, so I don’t think tonight is the best night to leave him without a good dinner on the table. He wouldn’t complain, but . . . you know. Rain check, okay?”
Secretly relieved—I really wasn’t looking forward to the prying eyes that would turn our way once Lydia’s murder hit the papers—I walked her to the door. “Not a problem. You know, I’m curious about the missing mirror. It couldn’t have just vanished into thin air. Now, I know that Lydia wanted it, but she sure didn’t walk out of the shop with it. And if Trevor killed her, what use would he have for it? And why did he leave his hammer in the office instead of dumping it in the water where they wouldn’t find it?”
“Those are good questions that deserve good answers. Make sure that you pose them to Kyle. I like the man, but he’s not going to look very hard for anybody else if he thinks he’s got his murderer. Ever since his wife died, he’s changed, and not necessarily for the better.”
I gave her a quick look. “I know he was married, and that his wife died, but I don’t know much about what happened. Who was she?”
Barbara shrugged. “Her name was Katy. I don’t think you ever met her. She moved here a few years after you left. Two years ago, she was driving out on Weirback Road during a bad rainstorm—you know, the winding road that leads up to Klaxon Ridge? And there was this logging truck coming the other way. She skidded, pulled a hard right to try to avoid hitting it, and went over the embankment.”
“Oh jeez, what a mess,” I said. “Poor Kyle.” I felt like an ass. Kyle had reason to be upset with the world. The poor man was still mourning for his wife. I had to quit taking things like that personally. My ego could use a little deflating, that was for sure.
“He took it pretty bad.”
The rain had let up and the clouds were pulling away, though they looked like they’d be back in full force a little later on. A gust of wind whipped past and I shivered, crossing my arms to protect myself from the chill. I stepped back so Barb could pull out. “See you later!”
She honked and waved as she disappeared down the road.
After everything that had happened, I really needed to move, get a breath of fresh air. A glance at the sky told me that I’d probably have time for a walk before the next wave of pendulous clouds made their way to the island, so I ran inside, grabbed my jacket, called the dogs, and we all headed across the street and down the slope leading to the beach.
Coastlines in Washington State were, for the most part, rocky and jagged, with driftwood littering the beach, and pebbles and rocks intermingling with the sand. Even on the islands that dotted Puget Sound, the waves would come cresting in and cause havoc when storms whipped through.
We lived in an area on the island where the beach was smooth sand that changed form with each tide. Tall grasses grew through the sand, sparse and pale, and most of the trees along the shoreline had that windblown look, tilted with branches growing sideways due to the constant gusts buffeting the area.
Gull Harbor averaged forty-five to fifty inches of rain per year, most of it cold. It wasn’t unusual for the storms that swept through during the spring and winter to cause landslides, flooding, and general mayhem. Our side of Briarwood Drive sloped up so that the house sat on an incline far enough above the level of the beach for comfort, though Aunt Florence said she’d seen the road wash out several times over the past thirty-odd years.
During the late summer, tourists wandered the island and set up day camps on the beach. Even though it was warm enough to swim by then, few people ventured into the water alone. There was always the danger of a rip current, when the breaks in the sandbars funneled water into long, narrow currents that surged out into the Sound, dragging with them anybody or anything caught in their wake.
Less than a year ago, two teenaged girls got caught by one of the undertows and drowned. Sarah, our other gardener, said that she’d seen their ghosts walking Nakoma Point one night, but so far I hadn’t seen anything supernatural on the spit of sand, for which I was eminently grateful.
The sand was compacted from all of the rain, but I managed to find a log that was relatively dry. The bark had long been stripped away and it had that pale, sandpapered look that came from the motion of water and sand swirling around it during high tide. While the dogs raced happily along the beach, barking at the waves and bugs and whatever else they could find to chase, I stuck my hand in my pocket and felt paper. That’s right—Elliot’s letter. I pulled it out and looked at it for a long moment. How the heck had he found me?
I cautiously wedged open the flap of the envelope, taking care not to tear the letter. After making sure the dogs were still in sight, I withdrew the folded note. Three pressed violets fell out into my hand. I knew where they’d come from. I’d bought him an African violet plant on his last birthday. Their scent was faded, musty and old. Taking a deep breath, I began to read.
Persia, I can’t believe you ran off and left me like that. One mistake and you toss me out like an old shoe and now you’ve gone into hiding like I’m some common criminal you don’t want to be associated with. Well, I’ve got news for you. I’m free. They shortened my sentence because I turned over evidence, and I’ve spent the past week tracking you down. I shouldn’t bother but I’m feeling generous. I’m willing to give you one more chance.
Don’t sweat Benny and Jon—they won’t come after you. If they hunt down anybody, it’ll be me but since they won’t be out for several years, I’m not too worried. If that’s why you took off, then I forgive you. I can still smell your hair, feel the whisper of your lips on my own. I’ll never forget you, and I don’t want to let you go. Come home to me. I’m lost without you. Elliot.
I quietly folded the note and tucked it back in the envelope, making sure the flower petals were safely inside. Well, that certainly wasn’t something I’d been expecting to hear. Or wanting to hear. Damn it, why had he bothered to dig me up? He knew I didn’t want anything to do with him. I’d told him so when I visited him in jail, after the evidence had come to light that proved he really had swiped the money. In my heart, I was glad he’d gotten caught because I couldn’t stand the thought that I’d spent six years with a man who had managed to pull the wool over my eyes while ripping off the accounting firm who had given him his start and treated him like family. Then it came out that the whole company was corrupt and I just wanted away from any ties to the whole mess.
I rested my elbow on my knee and propped my chin on my palm. What should I do? If I ignored the letter, he’d get hold of my phone number and start bombarding me with phone calls. I knew him well enough to know just how persistent he could be. If I responded to the letter, he’d take it as encouragement. Either way, it wasn’t a good sign that he’d found me so easily, and I didn’t like the desperate, whining tone of his words.
Sighing, I stood and picked up a hefty stick, calling the dogs. They bounded up and I tossed the branch far out on the beach, watching as they panted after it. Auntie had it right. Pets were so much easier than people. No messy interactions, no expectations other than food when they were hungry, a firm hand to pet them, and a lap on which to snuggle.
Open my heart to Elliot again? Not a chance. After the initial shock, I’d discovered that I enjo
yed being footloose. When we lived together, I never had a free moment to myself; he was always there, always loud even when he hadn’t said a word. Now the possibilities opened up like a blossoming flower. Who knew? Maybe tomorrow I’d decide to squirrel myself away from the world. Maybe I’d get the urge to move to Tibet and climb Mount Everest. Maybe next month I’d hop a plane for South America to explore the rain forest.
Or, maybe I’d stay here and take over my aunt’s business as the years went by. The point was that I didn’t know—and right now, I loved that feeling of unpredictability. I didn’t want to my future to be pat and secure. I wanted to be surprised, to let it unfold, to experience all the joys and sorrows waiting for me. I was happy just enjoying the journey—I didn’t want to plan out a destination.
As a new spate of rain started up again, I whistled for the dogs to follow me home. Recluse . . . hermit . . . the peace of mind that I’d found in Gull Harbor felt pretty good to me right now, but Elliot’s letter threatened to put an end to that. I had to do something. I just didn’t have any idea what that something might be.