Wuthering Kites

by Clover Tate

  “Will it be expensive to fix?” I was working on banking up savings to help get the shop through the winter, and my monthly mortgage payment was already stretching my budget.

  “Not too bad. I tacked up a tarp for the time being, but I could come back and shingle over the hole later this week, if you want.”

  “Thank you, Ace. I don’t know how to repay you. Aside from money,” I added.

  “See what you can do to calm Stella.” We both turned to stare up at Strings Attached’s porch, its ghost-shaped wind sock fluttering from a post. “Somehow I really hit a tender spot.”

  chapter twenty-two

  Uncharacteristically, Stella had not wanted to talk to me when I’d checked in at the shop. From the red in her eyes, she might have been crying.

  “Stella, what’s wrong?” I flipped the store’s sign to “Closed” and faced her.

  “It’s nothing. You have more important things to worry about right now.”

  “Come to the kitchen and sit down. Does it have to do with Ace?”

  Stella followed me through the connecting door and took a seat at the linoleum-topped kitchen table. I pulled a loaf of bread from the refrigerator. It was time for toast and tea—comfort for Stella, and a supplement for breakfast for me, since, in the end, Sunny had eaten half of mine.

  “I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said. “Normally, I don’t let things like Ace’s noise and clutter bother me. But now, I can’t get it out of my mind. And the thought that he’s so adamantly opposed to Marcus taking office, well, it’s too much. I have no patience for him.”

  “There’s been a lot going on,” I ventured.

  She rubbed her eyes. “I’m disappointed with myself. I’m a full-grown woman, and look at me. I yell at him like he’s a marauding Viking.”

  Actually, I could easily picture Ace with a horned hat and a leather vest. Vikings didn’t normally have Grateful Dead tattoos, though. “Remember, we’re all on edge. You found Allison’s body. We don’t know who killed her. You’re probably dealing with that.”

  “Maybe.” She brushed a strand of hair from her face. “I suppose he’s the unlucky target.”

  Our toast popped up, and I rose to butter it. “Although it would be irritating to listen to his music day and night. And it does sound like he’s ramped up the volume because he’s mad at you.” I opened the refrigerator. “Jam? I have raspberry and marmalade.”

  “No, thanks.” She leaned back. “I suppose I should suck it up and apologize. Maybe we can make peace.”

  This was the best news I’d heard all day. Considering that it wasn’t even lunchtime, and Jack might still be with the sheriff, it might be the only good news I’d hear for a while.

  “I’m glad. Ace is a good guy to have on your side, even if he’s acting like an eight-year-old right now.”

  “Thanks to three decades in the public school system, I can handle eight-year-olds. It’s the stubborn sixty-something-year-olds who test my patience.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Feeling some sense of accomplishment, I left the shop. It was time to find Jack to see if the sheriff had caught up with him yet.

  I walked first toward Jack’s house. Maybe he’d have finished talking with the sheriff and have returned home for a shower and breakfast.

  I could tell even before knocking that no one was home at Jack’s bungalow. The lights were off, and the house looked still. Claire must have left, too—either to visit Dustin or to return home to Astoria. Jack’s car was in the driveway, though. Wherever he was, he was on foot.

  I turned back toward Main Street and Sullivan’s Kites. The shop wasn’t open, but Jack might be doing as I’d do in his situation and be fooling around with kites in the back. For me, designing and building kites was a surefire dampener of anxiety. I found tracing patterns, cutting fabric, and sewing relaxing. Maybe Jack felt the same.

  Sullivan’s Kites was in an old storefront on Main Street. It had a more utilitarian feel than my shop, and in season it attracted the majority of kite shoppers in the market for basics. I peered through the front window and made out a faint light toward the store’s rear. So I went around back and knocked.

  Jack opened the door. He was shaven and wearing clean clothes. He looked completely normal. My shoulders relaxed, and, at last, I could smile. I don’t know what I was expecting. It’s not as if Sheriff Koppen was known for applying thumbscrews to his interviewees.

  Before Jack could open his mouth, I said, “Did Sheriff Koppen catch up with you? How’d it go?”

  “It’s great to see you, too,” Jack replied, then laughed. “Come in, and I’ll tell you about it.”

  The back of Sullivan’s Kites was part storeroom and part workshop, but Jack spent more time putting together kits for display out front than making his own kites. In my studio, I had a midcentury stove and windows with frilly curtains. Jack’s workshop had fluorescent lighting and a pegboard with tools. I put my purse on the workbench and pulled out a wooden stool.

  “Seriously,” I said. “What did the sheriff say?”

  Jack took the stool across from mine and rested his feet on its bottom rung. “He wanted to see my phone, of course, and Allison’s text.” He shook his head. “Or what was supposed to be Allison’s text.”

  “Her phone wasn’t with her at Strings Attached.” During the spring, right after I’d moved to Rock Point, someone had tried to frame Avery for murder. One of the real murderer’s tactics had been to hide the weapon under Avery’s bed. From his expression, Jack remembered it, too. “You don’t think—?”

  “I haven’t seen the phone at my house,” he said.

  “Call it. Call Allison’s phone. If it’s here, it’ll ring.”

  He was on his phone before I even finished speaking. We listened for a beep, a song, or even the thrum of a phone set on silent. “Nothing. Of course, her battery could have died by now.”

  “Or it was turned off.”

  He slid off his stool and examined his workbench, his gaze sharp. “If I’m being set up, I’d rather find the phone before the sheriff does.”

  “I’ll help.” I stood, too. “What else did Sheriff Koppen say?”

  Jack opened a box of diamond-kite kits and felt around its edges. “He wanted to pin down times. He asked when Uncle Gus had died, and when Allison said she’d be in town.” Apparently satisfied that a phone wasn’t hidden in that box, Jack pushed it against the wall and began on the next.

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Whoever killed Allison had to know not only that she’d be in Rock Point, but when. That limits the suspects.”

  Jack had finished looking through the second box and now turned his attention to a shelf near the door. “Anyone who’d read the McMinnville paper knew about Uncle Gus and would assume Allison would attend the funeral.” He pointed to the workbench. “You can check those drawers, if you want.”

  I started on the drawer nearest me. It looked to be completely dedicated to screwdrivers, lined up by size. I thought about the jumble in my studio’s drawers and vowed to tidy them. “Did the obituary say when the service would be?”

  “No, but it mentioned the funeral home. It wouldn’t be too hard to figure out when the burial was.”

  “Knowing when the service was would point to a likely day Allison would be in McMinnville. But it wouldn’t tell anyone that she’d be here in Rock Point.” I pulled a chocolate bar from a drawer. “I didn’t know you liked milk chocolate.”

  “I don’t. That’s why it’s still there.” Jack turned away from the shelf, its contents searched. “The sheriff must have followed the same line of reasoning that we did. Basically, only a handful of people knew that Allison would be in Rock Point when she was.”

  “I knew.”

  “Right. You, me, Claire, Rosa, Dustin, Matt, and Mom and Dad.”

 
“Unless Allison told someone we don’t know.”

  “If so, that person would also have to know about you and me, and about your magazine interview. Remember, the murderer wanted us to believe Allison was the journalist.”

  “True.” I shut the workbench’s last drawer and leaned against it. “Who can we cross off the list? Me and you, obviously.” He knew I trusted him. He had to know it. I looked him straight in the eyes just in case, though.

  He smiled. “Thank you, Em. We can cross off Dustin, too. He was still sailing up the coast that night. Remember, he didn’t get in until after you and Stella found Allison.”

  That left Claire, Matt, and Rosa. “Claire—,” I started.

  “Not Claire,” Jack said. “She’s my sister. I’m one hundred percent sure she didn’t kill Allison.”

  It was fruitless to talk through Claire’s motives with him. He didn’t need to know that Sunny and I had been digging into her past legal matters. I moved on. “So, that leaves Matt and Rosa. Assuming your mom and dad are in the clear, that is.”

  “Mom and Dad didn’t leave home that day. Sheriff Koppen had already checked it out.”

  The tidiness of Jack’s back room made the search for Allison’s phone easy. One more shelf, and we were done.

  “It looks like Allison’s phone isn’t here at least. You should search your house, though.” If Allison’s phone were found at Jack’s house, almost anyone could have put it there. Claire and Dustin, at least, had all spent time at Jack’s since Allison’s body was found. Plus, the murderer was skilled at picking locks.

  My phone pinged to let me know that I had a message. I ignored it. “Was Matt at your house? How long has it been since you’ve seen him, anyway? I don’t remember you talking about him much.”

  “He’s a few years older than I am. He was really more Dustin’s friend.” He looked away.

  Sunny had said Dustin had plenty of money. Where was his motive? Besides, he wasn’t in line to inherit, anyway. Matt, on the other hand . . .

  My phone pinged again. Another message from Sunny.

  “Go ahead and answer it, if you’d like,” Jack said.

  I pulled my phone from my purse. “Sorry. It’s Sunny. She wouldn’t message me twice unless it was important.” I squinted at the screen, not quite understanding what it said. I punched in a quick reply.

  “Why the wrinkled brow?” Jack asked.

  “She wanted to know if I had a cloth coat. I know she doesn’t wear fur, but it’s not like I go around draped in sables, either.” My phone pinged again. “Oh, I get it.” I shoved my phone back into my purse. “It’s the Watergate reenactment club. They’re at Avery’s house.”

  “What?”

  “I haven’t told you about this before?” Watergate had been such a regular part of my life growing up that I’d forgotten my parents’ hobbies might look strange to outsiders. “My parents were so fascinated by Watergate they collected transcripts of the hearings. Once, after a neighborhood potluck ages ago, Dad started reading them out loud. They started a Watergate reenactment group. Mom hates the swearing, but she plays along as Pat Nixon.”

  “Watergate reenactment? You’re serious?”

  I couldn’t keep my family’s quirks from him forever. I took a deep breath. “You want to come with me?”

  chapter twenty-three

  Avery’s driveway was clogged with cars. Besides Mom and Dad’s VW bus, I noted an anonymous Corolla and a rust bucket of a Gremlin. “I wonder how they keep that thing going,” Jack said as we pulled in.

  Avery would still be at the Brew House. Lucky her. Sunny met us on the porch.

  “Did you bring the coat?” she asked. “Dad refuses to let her play the part in her Guatemalan poncho.”

  I handed her my black wool coat just as a heavyset bald man burst onto the porch behind Sunny. I recognized him as Glenn, Dad’s buddy from the composting group. I glanced at Jack, and he smiled. Hopefully he had the sense of humor to make it through the afternoon. Bear squeezed by Glenn and Sunny to run down and press his nose against me to say hi.

  Dad joined them on the now-crowded porch. “Ah, Tricia. And I see you’ve brought a valued member of the grand jury to San Clemente with you.”

  So, that was the game. Avery’s house was San Clemente, the Watergate counsel was holding hearings, and I was Tricia Nixon. Thanks to my parents, I knew very well what San Clemente looked like, and this wasn’t it. Avery’s house was a rickety, eighty-year-old wooden house with a sleeping porch and cedar shingles. It was a full-time battle to keep the moss and dry rot at bay, and no one was quite sure who was winning.

  “Are you sure you’re up for this?” I whispered to Jack.

  “Up for it? Are you kidding? I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  We followed Sunny, Dad, and Glenn into the living room, which had been rearranged so that the dining table was now smack in the middle of the room as a desk, judging from the pad of paper, pen, and lamp. Mom rose to take my coat.

  “How are you?” Mom was extra cheerful in greeting Jack. They hadn’t spent much time together so far, and it had been relatively uneventful—which meant good—to this point. I wasn’t going to put money on the outcome of the rest of the afternoon.

  “You and Wilson are the two members of the grand jury to witness the president’s statement,” Glenn said to Jack. Wilson was another of Dad’s friends, and a regular at the reenactments. “Those three are the special prosecutors.”

  “How long’s this going to take?” I glanced at Jack.

  “We’re just doing motions and stipulations today. So, about two hours.”

  I groaned silently. “We can’t stay that long.”

  “Do I have a speaking part?” Jack asked. I had to hand it to him; he actually looked interested.

  “No. You listen. Try to look absorbed.”

  I knew that neither of us could fully listen. Not with Allison’s death simmering at the back of our minds.

  Dad sat at the dining room table. He was a tall, beaky guy with thinning hair, not much like Richard Nixon, but not ridiculously different, either. Mom, on the other hand, looked nothing like Pat Nixon. But she’d be relegated to the sidelines with Bear—now known as Vicky the poodle—the grand jury, and me.

  “Are we ready?” Glenn asked. His wide lapels and plaid polyester suit didn’t flatter him as much as Wilson’s did him. Besides, I couldn’t see Glenn without picturing mulch hanging from his mustache and a funky odor.

  “Everyone set? Then, yes. Go,” Wilson said.

  Dad cleared his throat and affected a pinched air. “If you don’t mind, I have a very brief statement because I know Mr. McBride has a number of questions he wants to ask about the testimony.”

  Bifocals perched on his nose, Dad read from a sheaf of papers, and I admit he was impressive. Seeing him, no one would have guessed at his career as an environmental lawyer, or his current pastimes of composting, VW bus repair, and listening to Neil Young on vinyl. But the drone of his words soon set my mind drifting to Allison and the fact that someone was trying to frame Jack for her murder.

  After what felt like hours but was probably barely thirty minutes, Sunny leaned over and whispered, “How did they break in, anyway?”

  “Strings Attached? It was a straight lock picking, remember?”

  “No, not that. I mean the offices at the Watergate.”

  “They taped open the doors.” Dad had talked over this aspect of the break-in many a night over dinner. If the janitor hadn’t stumbled upon the taped lock and called the police, Nixon might have served out his term. I admired Sunny’s ability to tune it out over the years.

  Meanwhile, Dad yammered on about presidential power and the good of the nation. Glenn shot daggers at me. I’m sure he didn’t approve of Tricia chatting during Nixon’s testimony.

  Sunny gave the side-eye to Glenn’s
“hush.” “Did they lock the door when they left, like the murderer did at Strings Attached?” she whispered.

  “All they had to do was lift the tape over the bolt, and they were good to go.”

  This time Mom gestured in a keep it down motion. I shifted in my seat. The murderer picked the lock to get into Strings Attached. If he picked the lock, he didn’t have a key, or he would have used it to get in. Yet, somehow the door had been bolted when Stella arrived the next morning. The tape trick would not have worked at my shop. It still puzzled me.

  The murderer might have bolted the front door from the inside and left through another door, but both the back door and the door to the inside stairs linking my apartment to the shop were also bolted. My spare key was still in its place under the cash drawer. How did the murderer get out? Unless . . . My arms and back prickled with the picture that had just come together in my brain.

  I nudged Jack. His mind was somewhere else. Whether he was deep into President Nixon’s blathering about how he was innocent, or ruminating over Allison’s death as I was, I couldn’t tell.

  “Let’s go outside,” I whispered.

  “Excuse me?” Glenn said. “Do I hear something from Tricia and the grand jury?”

  “Yes, um,” I said. “We need some water and a break. Surely the grand jury got a break at some point?”

  “The California sun is warm,” Mom said. “They might have needed to cool down a bit and meditate.”

  Yeah, right, Mom. I grabbed Jack’s arm and led him outside to the porch. Whatever the weather was like during that April in California in 1975, it was raining in Rock Point right now. Tonight’s trick-or-treaters would be carrying umbrellas. The porch kept us protected, but I was sorry Mom had my coat. And meditation was definitely out.

  “I was thinking about the night Allison died,” I said, “and how the murderer managed to lock the door on the way out.”

  “So was I,” Jack said. He glanced at the door—no one had followed us to the porch. They were probably in the kitchen, where it was warm. He lowered himself to the old rattan couch.