Wuthering Kites

by Clover Tate

  “Thank you for understanding.”

  She took in the garden of kites around us. “Strings Attached will make a good story for the magazine.” She handed me her card. “I’m always looking for interesting businesses to feature. Drop me a line if you have any leads.”

  I waved good-bye to the reporter and then locked the doors. And double-checked that they were bolted tight.

  chapter nine

  That night, I sealed shut and labeled a box of kites so they’d be ready to ship out in the morning. Bear stirred at my feet, sensing it was time for his evening walk. Sunny had brought him over when Mom left, and I was glad to be able to hug his gray and white fur and gaze into those pale blue eyes.

  “Come on, boy. One more walk, then we’re home for the night.”

  It wasn’t ridiculously late—just after dinner for most of Rock Point’s residents—but as the days were shortening, it was already dark. I locked up the shop and took Bear to the beach for a game of fetch.

  A few other dog owners roamed the beach, too. A golden retriever zipped over and tried to steal Bear’s ball, leading to a friendly tussle on the sand. His owners called him away. I wrested the ball from Bear’s jaws and tossed it toward the surf.

  Usually, the ocean’s rumble reminded me how minor my worries were. I only had to think of what the ocean had seen—Vikings, shipwrecks, towns built and swept away—to realize that my irritation over a delayed delivery of kite line was laughable. Tonight, the continuous, heavy waves only underscored my worry. A stranger had died in my shop while I’d slept upstairs. There were so many unanswered questions.

  Half an hour later, Bear and I mounted the steps at the back of Strings Attached. Bear stood in front of the door, eager to go in. He’d been to the apartment only a few times since I’d moved in, but now he was here to stay.

  “We’re home, Bear-Bug. This is your new home.”

  He looked up at me with his intelligent eyes and trotted through the apartment, sniffing its corners. He stopped for a moment to lap water from the dish Sunny had laid out for him that afternoon while I was with the reporter and to sniff at his kibble before continuing his investigations.

  I collapsed onto a floor pillow and pulled up a blanket. This lack of furniture was getting old—the first chance I got, I needed to scour some resale shops. The curtains to the French doors were still open, and the moon pulled pearl gray light from the night’s clouds.

  I woke up my phone. I hadn’t wanted to bother Jack all day, since he’d been with his family and at a funeral. But it couldn’t wait. Too much had happened, and some of it involved him.

  I stared out the window as the phone dialed. It immediately clicked to voice mail. “Hi, Jack. It’s Emmy. How was the funeral? If you get a minute, give me a call.”

  Feeling ridiculously disappointed, I set down the phone and went to the refrigerator. I found a bowl of some kind of brownish meatballs with a note taped to its foil cover. “Spelt balls with mushroom gravy. Enjoy,” it said.

  “What do you think of this, Bear?” I lowered the bowl to his nose. He sniffed it and whined. “Just what I thought.”

  I microwaved a few spelt balls anyway—they were remarkably dense—and picked up a mystery novel. That lasted half an hour before I checked my phone again. Could I have missed Jack’s call? No messages. Maybe he was at a big family dinner.

  Next I tried the television for distraction. I flipped through the channels, speeding past what looked like a horror movie, probably timed for Halloween, and tried to force myself to pay attention to a documentary on sea life.

  It was now nearly ten o’clock, and still no call from Jack. Normally, we would have talked by now, no matter what was going on. I thought of the body downstairs yesterday, and my anxiety deepened. Maybe something was wrong with my phone.

  I called Sunny. She sounded distracted when she answered. “Could you call me back to make sure my phone is all right?” I asked.

  “Jack didn’t call you back, huh?”

  “Just call me.” I hung up. The phone rang a few seconds later to the tune of the Beatles’ “Can’t Buy Me Love,” the song I’d chosen for Sunny.

  “How’s Bear?” Sunny said the second I answered.

  “He’s good. He’s at my feet right now. We played fetch on the beach.”

  “Good. Well, now you know your phone works. Stay safe and don’t freak yourself out. I’m building Dad a retirement savings spreadsheet, and I’m in the middle of it, so I’ve got to go.”

  I hung up and flipped my phone upside down so I wouldn’t have to see its message-less screen. Bear dozed at my feet, his feet twitching in a dream.

  Where was Jack? Sheriff Koppen would want to talk to him. The kite charm, then the missed phone message—Jack’s name needed to be scrubbed from the list of suspects. If only he would call.

  A few hours later, phone still silent, I went to bed.

  chapter ten

  The next morning, I dragged myself from under the covers. This was it, the day I’d reopen Strings Attached. Even though the store had been closed only two days, a small business like mine couldn’t afford to take off unplanned time.

  I started a pot of coffee and wandered to the front window to gaze at the ocean. The morning had dawned unusually clear for late October. If the clouds stayed away, it would be a cold night. Maybe even frost.

  As the coffeepot chugged out its last few drops of brew, I examined the leaky ceiling above the coffee table. Touching a tender shin, I decided not to try a second time to find the leak’s source. I almost expected to hear Stella’s scream once again, and my pulse began to pick up. Instead, someone rapped on the door to my apartment, and Bear barked in return.

  Heart beating erratically, I hurried to the door and cracked it open. It was Stella. Bear did his happy dance—a sort of circular jig—and Stella followed me into the living room.

  “I couldn’t go into the shop alone,” she said. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind going down with me.”

  “Of course. We’ll do it together.”

  Stella cocked her head. “I heard about the reporter. The news is all over town.”

  “Isn’t it crazy? The sheriff says he has no idea who the body is.”

  “The medical examiner will figure it out. It’s their job to do things like that. They’ll search missing persons records, take DNA samples—I don’t know. Do the things they do. You don’t have to worry about it.”

  “That’s what Sunny keeps telling me, but it’s not that easy. The murderer chose my shop.” I sighed and made my way to the coffeepot. “Want a cup?”

  “If you have enough, I’d love one.”

  I set two mugs on the counter. “The thing is, I get the feeling Jack’s a suspect.”

  “Why Jack?” Stella left off scratching Bear’s head and came to join me.

  “Mom found a charm from his keychain in the store. Plus, Jack knew about the interview with Sunrise magazine.”

  “What would be Jack’s motive?”

  “I don’t know. None of it makes sense.” I took a carton of half-and-half from the refrigerator. “I tried to call him last night, but he never picked up. And he didn’t return my messages.”

  “Remember, he’s at a funeral and probably hasn’t had a second to himself.” Stella took the carton from my hand. “Give me that. Let’s take these downstairs.”

  She pushed my mug, its coffee now perfectly anointed with cream, across to me. I was happy to see that now at least one of us appeared calm. There was nothing like a dilemma to set Stella’s practical mind into motion.

  “If you were so worried, why didn’t you call me last night?” Stella said.

  “You were all worked up about Ace,” I said, happy to change the subject. “You had your own trouble.” I led the way to the interior stairs connecting the apartment to the shop and carefully descended, one hand on the rail a
nd the other holding my coffee cup aloft.

  Now Stella was the one sighing. “I don’t know what to do about him.” Bear’s nails clicked on the steps behind us.

  “Is it really as bad as all that?” I unlatched the door. The studio was chilly. I flipped on the lights and turned up the thermostat. I cast a glance toward the door between the studio and the shop. For the moment, Stella seemed too absorbed in her troubles with Ace to remember what we’d found the last time we went into the shop together.

  “It’s the last thing I think about before I go to bed, and the first thing that pops into my mind when I wake up.” She hadn’t even sipped her coffee. I was making good headway on mine. “Usually because his music is the last thing I hear at night, and that hideous avocado green dishwasher in the driveway is the first thing I see in the morning.”

  “It is rough that your bedroom is on his side of the house.” I edged toward the shop’s door. With Stella distracted, opening it wouldn’t be as awful on her.

  “I think he does it to torture me. It’s personal now. I don’t get it.”

  I leaned against the door and pushed it open an inch, my back to the shop. “I always thought he kind of liked you. Remember how he called you a ‘foxy lady’?”

  Stella let out a sound that was half laugh and half groan. “I bet he’s sorry about that now. You know, I wouldn’t even mind it all so much if he didn’t plaster his yard with those ‘Tibbetts for City Council’ signs.”

  Now we were getting somewhere. Stella was passionate about reform. One of her treasured possessions was a photo of her smiling next to Gloria Steinem. The funny thing is, I would have assumed Ace would be, too. He certainly looked the part with his long hair and chilled-out vibe.

  I leaned against the door a little more, widening the crack to the shop. “I’m surprised Ace isn’t supporting Marcus’s campaign.”

  Stella jumped on this. “He says Marcus is a traitor, that all he wants is to make Rock Point a playground for the rich.”

  “I don’t see that at all. Marcus sees things changing, and he just wants to make sure the town grows gracefully.”

  Five years ago, Marcus Salek’s pregnant wife had been killed by a tourist running a stop sign in Bedlow Bay, a town down the coast a few years ahead of Rock Point in the tourist game. Marcus believed that a traffic light at that intersection would have saved her life. He’d believed it strongly enough both to put himself in the path of suspicion for a murder and eventually to turn his hermit ways around and take on his family’s tradition of getting involved in local politics.

  Many locals who knew Marcus had, begrudgingly at first, and then with more enthusiasm, supported his campaign against longtime councilman Tibbetts, who spent more time at the Rock Point Tavern than he did at the town’s tiny city hall office next to the antiques mall.

  “I might have stirred up a little trouble myself,” Stella said. She bit her lip. “I might have implied I’d encourage Marcus to pass an ordinance about old cars and appliances in the street.”

  “Oh, Stella. You’re asking for it.”

  “This morning he’d added four old water heaters and a chest freezer to his junk pile.”

  “Let’s open the shop.” I put as much cheer into my voice as I could and pushed the door all the way open.

  Stella followed me without thinking, then froze once we were beyond the counter. The shop lay still and dim around us, the kites jostling gently in the air kicked up by the furnace. Strings Attached was fine. We were fine.

  She snorted, then laughed. “You had me going.”

  “I didn’t have anything to do with it. Anyway, you’re back on the horse. Let’s open this place up for business.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I’d expected it, but not like this. The minute Strings Attached’s doors opened, people started stopping by—most claiming “I was just in the neighborhood”—to view the scene of the murder.

  I had the advantage of being in the studio, shielded from the nosy. But as I worked, I heard Stella greet people, mostly Rock Point residents, and, after discovering they didn’t need a kite, send them away with a “Well, if you’re not shopping, I really should get back to work. . . .” As a result, it sounded like we were running through our low-end diamond-kite packages and were making a dent in our supply of wind socks.

  But I only half worked. Each time the front doorbell jangled, I perked up my ears. Would this one be Jack? I still hadn’t heard from him. The funeral had been yesterday. He might have stayed with his family last night. Surely he’d be home today. Isn’t that what he’d said? The phone rested, dark and quiet, at my elbow.

  “How’s it going back here?” Stella poked her head in from the shop.

  “All right. I’m not getting as much done as I should. You’re busy, though.”

  “No kidding. If business ever slows again, all we’ll have to do is gin up a corpse.”

  I nearly spit out my tea. “Sheriff Koppen would love us.”

  The shop’s door opened again with a jangle, and Stella disappeared. When I didn’t hear Jack’s low voice, I sighed and returned to the wind sock I was cutting from its pattern.

  The door between the shop and studio opened again. “Emmy, you have visitors. Claire and”—she turned back toward the shop as if she’d forgotten a name—“Dustin.”

  “I’ll be right out.” I stood so quickly that I knocked a pair of scissors from the table. Why wasn’t Jack with them? They’d have news, at least.

  Dustin and Claire stood close in the shop’s center. Dustin, hands in his pockets, smiled.

  “Stella,” I said, “I’d like you to meet Jack’s sister, Claire, and their cousin Dustin.”

  Now that Stella knew these weren’t curiosity seekers, her expression warmed. She came around the corner and stuck out her hand. “Jack’s sister. I’m surprised we haven’t met before. And cousin.”

  “Dustin lives in California. The Bay Area,” I said. “Claire owns a tattoo shop in Astoria.”

  “Which shop?” Stella asked.

  “The Sea Star on Commercial Street.” Claire looked at Stella with new interest. “Do you like body art?”

  “I’ve been considering getting a tattoo for my next birthday, but I have to find the right artist.”

  “Let me show you some of my work,” Claire said.

  “I’d love that,” Stella said. “And, Dustin. Don’t tell me you’re the owner of the yacht at the new dock. Word here gets around fast.”

  “Yes, the Claire de Lune is mine. Would you like to see it?” Dustin asked.

  “His newest toy,” Claire said.

  “A vintage Chris Craft? You bet I would,” Stella said.

  “I’ll be here through the week.”

  I jumped at this opening in the conversation. “How was the funeral?”

  “Oh,” Dustin said. He leaned an elbow on the counter.

  The front doorbell rang. I recognized Lenny from the filling station. He’d never been a kite flyer, and from his focus on the shop’s floor rather than the kites, it was obvious he hadn’t started. Stella patted my shoulder and went to help him.

  Claire glanced at Dustin with concern. “It was nice. We’re all going to miss Uncle Gus.”

  “Rosa—that’s Dad’s housekeeper—laid out a big spread in the barn, and Dad’s foreman dug a pit to roast a pig. Half of McMinnville must have shown up to pay their respects.”

  “They stayed late, too. I went to bed near midnight, but at some point I woke up and heard the farmworkers singing in the barn,” Claire said.

  Stella had dispatched Lenny and joined us at the counter.

  “Dad would have loved the singing,” Dustin said.

  “The funeral was for your father, I take it.” Stella’s voice was gentle. Dustin nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  “I, um,” I start
ed, “I’d wondered if you’d all be back in Rock Point today.”

  Claire caught on. “Dad and Jack went hiking in the coastal range. Jack wanted me to tell you. They left first thing this morning. I’m sure he’s out of cell phone range.”

  I felt something in my chest unwind. “Thank you, Claire. I’d wondered.”

  Claire smiled softly. “With Uncle Gus’s death, Dad’s getting philosophical. He always thinks best in nature. Jack encouraged him to spend a few days on the trail.”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t help but be disappointed, all the same. I had my own situation to deal with, and I would have liked Jack’s support. But as my mother might have pointed out, I’m not the center of the world. Jack’s uncle had died, and his family was all here. His father needed him.

  Once again, Claire seemed to read my mind. “I know Jack wanted to be here, especially given everything you’ve been through over the past few days.”

  Claire’s gaze had broken away, and she was examining the floor again. I suspected I knew where her thoughts were. We all had to be thinking the same thing. Right where we stood, a woman had been strangled and left for dead.

  “Do you want to hear about it?” I asked quietly.

  Her eyes widened. “I can’t help but wonder.”

  “I’m curious, too,” Dustin said. “But I understand if you don’t want to go into it.”

  “I found her,” Stella said. “The day before yesterday, first thing in the morning, I unlocked the shop, as usual. She was lying right there.”

  As Stella spoke, I saw the whole scene again in my mind. The woman—the stranger—in her chic suit, alabaster white skin on top, bruised as purple as an African violet’s petals where her body contacted the floor.

  “The police never figured out how the murderer got in?” Dustin asked.

  “Around here, it’s the sheriff. And, yes,” I said. “The front-door lock was picked.”