Wuthering Kites

by Clover Tate

  “I had an idea,” I said.

  “What?”

  “I hope I’m wrong.”

  “Tell me,” Jack said.

  “There’s one way the murderer could have easily made sure Strings Attached’s doors were locked in the morning. I don’t like it, though.”

  Jack searched my expression, and a look of knowledge came over him. “You mean he . . . No.”

  I nodded. “It just came to me. Maybe he never left.”

  “Couldn’t be,” he said. “That means he would have been hiding in the store, right below you, all night.”

  chapter twenty-four

  The murderer might have been hiding in the shop the whole time.

  I ran over the scenario in my mind. The murderer took Allison to Strings Attached, probably telling her they were going to meet Jack, or—I shuddered—even me. Allison would have walked willingly to the shop, then up the stairs from the street.

  On the shop’s porch, they’d have been mostly out of sight of the street, especially at night, and especially at this time of year, just past tourist season. The murderer might have strangled Allison right there, right outside Strings Attached’s door. I tucked my hands under my thighs to stop them from shaking.

  “Tricia,” Mom yelled from inside the house. “We’re starting again.”

  “Tricia’s catching up on her Brady Bunch,” I shouted back.

  Jack kissed my cheek. “I’ll tell them they’ll have to find a new grand jury member for the rest of the afternoon.”

  As Jack went inside, I let the rest of the scenario play. The murderer would have picked the shop’s front door lock, and, like a groom carrying his bride, picked up Allison and lifted her inside.

  Then he arranged her on the floor and took out everything in her purse that would have identified her. He found my calendar near the cash register saying that I had an appointment with a reporter the next day, so he dummied up a slip of paper to make it look like Allison was from Sunrise magazine. After listening to my answering machine, he knew the reporter wouldn’t arrive the next morning, as planned. And then . . .

  My breath came more quickly. And then, he’d waited. While I was upstairs sleeping, he’d been hiding, probably in the storage closet. When we went into the studio, he—or she—escaped into the street. But why?

  “They’re giving me a pass.” Jack had returned and stood next to the couch. “Wilson’s going to stand in for me. Come on.”

  I took Jack’s hand, and he pulled me up. “If the murderer had been in the shop all night, that would explain why the sheriff didn’t find signs that the spare key had been duplicated.”

  “Maybe it’s why the murderer didn’t make a copy. Besides the risk of stealing the key in the first place. The big question is, why? Why didn’t he simply leave the door open? Why go to the trouble and discomfort of staying in the shop all night?”

  I bit my lip and released it. “Think about it. He wanted to frame you. He might have assumed that since we’re dating, you’d have a key to my shop.”

  “But I don’t have a key.”

  I pretended to examine a cuticle. “I know that. But the murderer didn’t.”

  “So, he wanted to make it look like I let myself in, killed my own aunt, and tidily locked up when I was finished.”

  “Or perhaps locked the door out of habit.” I wasn’t entirely convinced, but I couldn’t come up with anything better. “This widens the list of suspects, you know. Now it could be anyone who was in Rock Point that night.”

  “Anyone who knew Allison was coming into town and who could talk her into going to your place.” We walked to the car. Jack slid behind the wheel. “Where do you want to go? Should we stop and get something to eat?”

  I looked at my watch. Strings Attached would be closed by now. “To Stella’s. I want to see if she remembers anything that might hint that someone was in the shop when she unlocked the door. Anything at all.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I left Jack at home—we’d agreed that he should lie low—and I continued on to Stella’s house. Her expression was downright furtive when she answered the door. She bent to look behind me, as if she expected someone else.

  “Come in.” She shooed me in the door and closed it.

  “What’s going on?” I said. Something smelled rotten, and I didn’t mean that figuratively. “What’s that awful stink?”

  “I’m making some liverwurst sandwiches. That’s all.”

  Beyond Stella, four jagged slabs of liverwurst lay on a paper towel. “Wow. You must really be hungry. Good thing you don’t have a problem with gout.”

  “Gout?”

  “I mean, with the organ meats and all. Most of the time when I see you, you’re eating salad, light on the dressing.”

  “Enough about me.” She hustled into the kitchen and tossed a dish towel over the meat. “Why are you here? I left you a note at Strings Attached. Not as busy as yesterday, but things were fine.”

  After a final glance at the towel-covered liverwurst, I said, “I wanted to ask you about the morning we found Allison.”

  Stella’s mouth tightened. “Sit down.” We moved to the living room. Madame Lucy jumped off one of the chairs and slinked away. “What is it?”

  “Well, it occurred to me why the shop might have been locked when you arrived. The murderer might—”

  “Yes?”

  “He might have broken in, locked the bolt from the inside, then waited until we came in the next morning to leave.”

  Stella sat upright. “No!”

  “It could have been. Think about it. You screamed, and I ran down and met you in the kitchen. That would have been the perfect time for him to run out the front.”

  “But why?” Stella’s eyes were still wide. “What did the murderer gain by keeping the front door locked? Why not simply leave after he killed her?”

  “He wanted to frame Jack, and he must have figured that Jack would have a key to the shop. Maybe he thought Jack would have automatically locked up behind him.”

  Stella looked doubtful. “So you wanted to see if I remembered anything.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I’ve been over this so many times that it’s hard to remember everything as if it’s fresh.”

  “I know.” I leaned forward. “But try. Think back.”

  “Let’s see.” She leaned back and closed her eyes. “I walked up the steps like I always do, and I was a little distracted, because I’d brought a container of soup in my bag, and I didn’t want it to tip over.”

  She paused, but I didn’t press it. She’d continue when she was ready.

  “When I reached the door, I dug in my bag for my keys.”

  She opened her eyes. “I unlocked the door, but I didn’t look up right away, because I was juggling my bag. I hit the light switch to the left of the door, and I was almost a step in when I saw her.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. I heard a rustling nearby, but it wasn’t the time for distractions. Anyway, it was probably the wind.

  “Now, think carefully, Stella. Do you remember anything that might have hinted that someone was in the shop?”

  “Once I saw the body, my mind went blank. I froze, then screamed. When I heard your steps coming down the stairs, I ran through to the studio.”

  I yanked my mind back, too. I’d heard the scream and ran down the stairs. With all the noise I’d made, first by falling, then by charging down the stairs, I couldn’t have heard anything escaping, short of a rhino in tap shoes.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t remember a thing out of the ordinary, besides—”

  “I know.”

  “Now, wait a minute. There was one thing.” She squinted, as if it would sharpen her memory.

  “The closet door?”

  “No.” She shook her head
once. “It sounds strange, but you know how particular I am about spacing the kites near the ceiling so they don’t touch?”

  “Yes.” Stella was meticulous about this. She insisted my kites needed their space to show themselves, and throughout the day—with a final arrangement at closing—she made sure their hooks were evenly spaced along the display rod. I hadn’t noticed any bunching, though, that morning. “They looked good to me.”

  “It was subtle,” she said, “but the dragon and iris kites were a few inches farther apart. You know how I adore the iris kite. It needs space to really show itself.”

  “So, they were bunched, as if someone had gone into the closet.” The closet door was behind the display rod. Someone opening or shutting it quickly would have jostled them. “Are you sure?”

  “Maybe, but I couldn’t swear to it.” She sat back. “I just think—”

  A crash sent both of us to our feet. Stella ran to the kitchen. Madame Lucy’s nose was covered in liverwurst.

  “Madame Lucy!” Stella lifted the cat from the counter. “Good grief.” Then, to me: “Someone was in the closet?”

  “It’s a possibility.” In fact, I felt sure of it now. I wanted to share this info with the sheriff, too, and quick. Jack would have had a hundred opportunities to steal and copy the shop’s key, if he’d wanted. Showing that someone might have hidden in Strings Attached all night was another step toward clearing his name.

  “But tell me, Stella, what do you really have planned for that liverwurst?” I stepped forward, and realization dawned. “It doesn’t have to do with Ace, does it? Like, maybe stuffing it behind his hubcaps?”

  “I can’t believe you said that,” she said indignantly.

  “Then why are a screwdriver and wrench next to the door?”

  Stella fell against the refrigerator. “I don’t know what to do about him. It’s all I can think about. I can’t even paint. He’s driving me nuts.”

  Madame Lucy sat on the floor at her feet and licked her paw.

  “If it helps, I think you’re getting to him, too. Maybe it will ease off after the election. Tensions are running high right now.”

  “I don’t know, Emmy. We’re fundamentally different people.”

  This surprised me. Sure, Ace was a little rougher around the edges, but in my mind they had a lot in common. They both liked music, had a do-it-yourself approach to life, and were beacons for people in need. And they were kind. “Good sorts,” as Dad would say.

  “Just don’t let it turn you into someone you aren’t.” I hitched my purse to my shoulder. “I’d better be going. I’m supposed to meet Jeanette tonight.”

  Stella walked me to the door. She hugged me. “I don’t know what’s got into me. I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be sorry, Stella. Just figure out why Ace bothers you so much. And—”

  “Yes?”

  “If I were you, I’d check my own hubcaps for something smelly tomorrow morning.”

  chapter twenty-five

  Jeanette was already at Rock Point Tavern when I arrived, sitting at a small table against the wall. She looked smaller away from her power center, the post office. But it was also dark. Her small hands clutched a pint glass full of something that glowed greenish yellow in the light of the pinball machine behind her.

  “It’s about time you got here. I’ve been waiting fifteen minutes,” she said.

  “But I’m right on time.”

  “That’s not my fault, is it?”

  Thankfully, the room was too dim for her to see my grimace. “What are you having?”

  “Ginger ale. It’s not seemly for a public official to be seen drinking.”

  I walked to the bar, and Rodney’s mutt shuffled out to sniff my jeans. Since Rodney had taken over the tavern nearly a decade ago, his mutt had occupied a cushioned spot behind the bar. The dog bed—and dog—had a curious way of disappearing just before the health inspector arrived.

  “I’ll have a ginger ale, please,” I said. “How’s Duchess?” The dog, deciding I didn’t mean trouble, made her way slowly past the decorative fishing floats and rope back to her bed.

  “Her arthritis is giving her trouble, but other than that, she’s doing good. Aren’t you, Duchess?” I heard the muffled thump of a tail behind the bar in reply.

  “No Tibbetts today?” His regular barstool with its cracked vinyl upholstery was empty.

  Rodney handed me a full pint glass. “You just missed him. He’s out glad-handing at the costume contest at the elementary school. I’ll be glad when this election is over, although beer sales are up.”

  “I’ll be glad, too. Thanks.” I took the ginger ale and returned to my seat.

  “I’ve got the goods,” Jeanette whispered once I was settled. “It took some finagling, but lucky for us, I’m skilled at this sort of thing.”

  I took heart in the “us” and leaned forward. “What did you discover?”

  “Jack’s uncle died. Not only that, but no one’s filed the paperwork to stop his mail delivery.”

  My heart sank. “I know he died. And don’t worry about the mail. His housekeeper still lives there.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s a federal crime to open someone else’s mail.”

  “I’ll let Jack know to ask Rosa to fill out the forms.” That was it? That’s all she was able to find out?

  She must have noticed my disappointment, because she added, “The housekeeper received some very nice condolence cards. Good cotton stock. Nice stamp choice.” The pinball machine behind Jeanette beeped, and lights ran over its surface. “Ignore it,” Jeanette said. “It does that every once in a while.”

  “Is that all? There isn’t anything unusual going on with, say, the winemaker next door?”

  Jeanette slipped reading glasses on and pulled a notebook from the bag at her side. “As a matter of fact, the mail carrier did have a few observations. I took notes.”

  At last. “Thank you.”

  “If anyone approaches, we’re talking cost-effective methods of shipping Christmas packages, understand?”

  “Got it.” I stared at the dense handwriting in her notebook, but it was too dark to read.

  “Now.” The chain holding her glasses swung as she flipped through her notebook’s pages. “Matthew Orr. That’s the neighbor you mean, right?”

  “Yes. Go on.”

  “I mean, there are five winemakers in the valley named Matthew. It’s very confusing when the wine magazines come in. You don’t want to make a mistake. The post office’s reputation is built on being meticulous.”

  “Matthew Orr. That’s the one next to Uncle Gus’s farm,” I said. “That’s him.”

  Jeanette might not even have heard me. “It’s got so that these Matthews all know each other. Once a year they have Matt Night and all get dressed up in suits and go to the Dundee Bistro for dinner. They and their friends take up the whole back room.”

  “How do you know this? Their postman told you?”

  “I told you, I have ways. That’s all I’ll say.”

  I forced a smile and willed her to hurry up.

  “They do some sort of clever postcard invitation for Matt Night. The postage may be less for a postcard, but you have to watch for rain and dampness. I prefer the invitation in an envelope.”

  “I bet you have some interesting information that might have to do with Allison’s death,” I said, keeping my smile steady.

  She took a dainty sip of ginger ale. “In fact, I have.”

  “And?” I was still smiling, but my cheeks were starting to hurt.

  At last, she applied her attention to her notebook. “Orr, Matthew. Appears paid up on bills. Receives eight periodicals, four having to do with wine, one with farming, and three with houses and interior design.” She lifted her eyes from the page. “Apparently his mailbox is a size too small, and his carri
er has a rough time when the magazines come in.”

  “A shame,” I said. “What else? Any unusual mail lately?”

  “Hold your horses. I’m getting there. Orr, Matthew,” she repeated. “A month ago, he received an unusual package.”

  “Yes?”

  “From the US Patent Office. In the thin brown envelope that tears too often. With all the money the government spends on bombs, you’d think they’d upgrade the quality of their envelopes. Honestly, it’s a crying shame. For such a fat package, too.”

  Now, this was interesting. Matt hadn’t struck me as the inventor type. That was Dustin. Unless he was collecting information about someone else’s invention. I thought immediately of the seching machine. Was there something wrong with it? Or did he have some sort of improvement to make on the machine and wanted to know if it was already covered in the patent? I couldn’t see what this would have to do with Allison’s death.

  “But here’s the thing.” Jeanette lifted her head in triumph. “The package was misdelivered. It was supposed to go to Gus Butler next door.”

  My jaw dropped. Uncle Gus had something to do with an invention? He liked tinkering around. Both Jack and Dustin had talked about it, and I’d seen his shop myself.

  Jeanette must have misread my shock, because she quickly added, “Of course, the mistake was immediately corrected. But not before Matthew Orr opened the package.” She tsk-tsked. “He was lucky not to be cited. Apparently he’s generous with his pinot noir during the holiday season, or I’m not sure the mail carrier would have let him get away with it. That sort of thing would not happen in my district.”

  “Hello, Tricia,” a voice boomed from across the room. It was Glenn and Wilson, still in their polyester suits. The reenactment must be over. Thanks to Halloween, no one in the bar gave a second glance to their plaid trousers. The bartender probably thought they were dressed as characters from Hawaii Five-O.

  “Tricia?” Jeanette said.