Matcha Do About Murder

by Eryn Scott

  An antelope? I wondered, unsure if they had better hearing than any other animals.

  The Rickster clapped his hands together. “Okay, let’s get started.”

  Jimmy, the Geoduck’s owner, stood behind the bar polishing pint glasses, looking amused already.

  Our new teacher paced in front of us, adopting his most scholarly expression. “No doubt the chief wasted the last few lessons teaching you ways to escape if someone grabs your wrists or how to use your elbow to jab them in the gut: all that jazz.” He wiggled his fingers as if there might actually be jazz playing somewhere.

  We nodded warily. A woman named Liz raised her hand timidly. “We’ve only had one lesson. This was supposed to be our second.”

  Her use of “supposed to be” wasn’t lost on me as it seemed increasingly clear that this lesson would be nothing like our first. Or anything like a lesson, for that matter.

  The Rickster smiled. “Only one? Perfect! I won’t have as much to undo.” He waved his hands in a circular motion, beckoning us to him.

  Tentatively, we made our way into the center of the cleared bar space.

  Hooking his thumbs together, the Rickster stretched his arms behind his back, dipped to the left, then the right. “Okay, the first and most important rule to remember is that the element of surprise is your greatest weapon. I’ve escaped countless attacks over the years and probably would’ve died a dozen times if I’d stuck to those tried and true self-defense techniques.” He laughed as if "tried and true" was a hilarious joke.

  The Rickster poked his butt out behind him, settling his hands on his hips. He moved his backside in a half-moon, stretching from side to side. “Every single self-defense video out there will show you how to break free from an attacker: stomp their foot, jab them with your elbow, stab them with your keys.” He mimed each action as he said it.

  We nodded, those topics having been some of the first we’d discussed with the chief. Our heads froze mid-nod as the Rickster rolled his eyes.

  “Well, that’s just great, because you know who else can see those videos?” He paused for just a moment before yelling out, “Criminals! Attackers! They’ve been studying those moves for as long as everyone’s been teaching them and they’re ready for you.”

  The other women and I shared worried glances. I wondered if the chief really had asked the Rickster to cover his class. It seemed more likely that the head of the Pebble Cove Police Department was tied up in a closet somewhere with duct tape over his mouth.

  Before I could consider that scenario anymore, a woman named Gina said, “What can we do instead?”

  The Rickster pointed at her for close to ten seconds, making Gina squirm under his intense gaze. Just when I became worried he’d had a stroke, he snapped his fingers. “Great question. I’ll tell you all about—”

  The older man cut off right in the middle of his sentence and ran across the room with much more speed and agility than I could’ve imagined a man of his age would. His feet kicked out both at once, sending a barstool flying. It clattered to the ground a yard away.

  “Hey, watch it,” Jimmy called out, frowning over the bar.

  Rick waved a dismissive hand at the man then pointed at us again. “See? You didn’t expect that, did you? The element of surprise.” He moved his hands in slow circles like I imagined an awful magician might. “If you do the unexpected, they can never touch you!” He let out a wild yell like he was releasing a bear from captivity.

  Oddly, this didn’t seem like terrible advice. My face must’ve shown too much acceptance in that moment because the Rickster gestured to me.

  “New girl, come at me.” He flicked his fingers toward himself like a kung-fu master in a movie.

  I swallowed, staying put.

  “Do it. Charge me.” He widened his stance.

  Shooting a worried glance at the rest of the women, I took one step forward, then another. The Rickster smirked as I approached.

  “See this face?” He pointed to himself.

  I blinked. Was I not supposed to be able to see his face?

  “It’s always good to make your face crazy and unpredictable. Throws off your attacker. Whatever emotion you think you should feel, make the opposite face.” He looked around me to make sure the other women heard and understood. Focusing back on me, he said, “Grab my arms.”

  Trying to catch him off guard, I lunged forward, arms outstretched.

  Before my mind could catch up with what was happening, the Rickster ducked, grabbed a container full of sugar packets sitting on a nearby table, and tossed the lot in my face.

  My hands flew up, trying to protect my eyes from the small, pastel-colored paper packets. I stumbled back, and the next thing I knew, his hands flashed up to either side of my head. They whooshed by my ears for a split second before they came down, boxing me on either side of the head.

  Ears ringing, I moved my hands from protecting my face, to covering my now aching ears.

  “Then, while you were reeling from that move—because in a real attack scenario I would’ve boxed her ears much harder—I would run,” the Rickster explained, stepping around me and addressing the rest of the class as if he were teaching quantum physics at Harvard or something.

  I teetered where I stood, still frozen with my hands over my ears. And even though he was right, the ear boxing hadn’t been hard, I was still in shock.

  The Rickster took a bow. “Ladies, the element of surprise. It’s your best weapon.”

  An hour later, I wasn’t sure if any of us were any better at defending ourselves, but we sure were getting better at attacking. Unlike the chief who made us practice being the victim, the Rickster stayed in that role the whole time, having a different one of us “come at him” each time.

  He preceded to jump, spin, two-hand karate chop, and bonk—yes, bonk—us in defense. Every time, it was a surprise. I had to hand it to him. When I expected him to flail, he flung. When I assumed he would kick, he rolled.

  By the end, I was certain the man had learned defense solely from observing William Shatner fight as Captain Kirk in the original Star Trek.

  I chuckled to myself as I climbed into my car after we’d filed out of the Geoduck. That had been quite the experience. And now I had an evening of baking ahead of me. I could only hope it would go better than my self-defense class.

  9

  In hindsight, I should’ve expected the baking to be a disaster. But somehow, as I stood there staring at the charred, rocklike scones, surprise still overcame me.

  “Sorry, I shouldn’t have talked so much while you worked,” Asher said with a grimace.

  After explaining—in significant detail and with much giggling—my self-defense class with the Rickster, our conversation had turned toward Murray’s murder and Lois’s flickering. Asher had listed the motivations behind every suspect we had and outlined all the possibilities for why Lois was acting the way she was, as the scones baked.

  I shook my head. “I should’ve set a timer. Since we were standing right here in the kitchen, I thought I’d smell them.”

  Grandma never set timers when she baked. She would simply perk up and bustle over to the oven at just the right moment.

  As if I needed another reminder that I wasn’t my grandmother.

  “In your defense,” Asher said with a shrug, “you smelled them. Just too late.” A chuckle curled at the edges of his mouth, trying to break free.

  Exhaling my own laugh, I threw a towel over the burnt tray and massaged my fingers into my temples. “Want some fresh air? I need to get out of this place. It smells like mistakes.”

  Asher glanced out the window. “Walk on the beach?”

  He didn’t have to ask twice. The sun dipped close to the horizon, and I couldn’t help but wonder if timing was the only problem with my scones. I didn’t have the stamina to find out tonight. That would be something to tackle tomorrow.

  I let my worries wash away as my bare feet sank into the sand once we got past the pebbled sect
ion up at the top of the beach where driftwood and beach grass created a barrier to the house. The wind cooled as the sun neared the horizon, and I pulled in lungfuls through my nose, reveling in the salty, perfect scent. I wandered in the foamy surf, Asher by my side. The crashing of waves made it hard to hold a conversation, so we walked in silence. But every few moments, we would glance at each other and know the other was experiencing the same raw beauty.

  As if the sky knew it had an audience—and was showing off—pinks and purples streaked across the sky. Other than being breathtaking, the color also signaled that tomorrow would be just as clear and blue skied as today—if the old sailor’s rhyme was to be believed.

  Back toward the house, another shock of color caught my eye. This time, it wasn’t the sunset.

  I gasped. My house was on fire and it was … green?

  Asher sucked in a breath. We raced up the beach.

  “Did I leave the oven on?” I asked aloud as I scrambled up the pebbled coastline, toward the ever-growing flames. My heart hammered harder than a full team of roofers.

  By the time I’d shoved my sandals back on and picked my way over the driftwood, trying not to break an ankle too, flames licked at the roof of the shed.

  Relief and frustration fought for purchase as I realized the fire wasn’t in the main house. Great in one respect, but also burning my tea-drying dreams to a crisp.

  Fear grabbed at my throat, making it difficult to breathe. The shed being on fire was scary enough, but if those flames got any help from a gust of wind, they might jump to the house, and then I really didn’t know where I would be.

  While I stood, staring in shock, Asher took action. I didn’t realize what he was doing at first. But when the rain barrel in front of him lifted from the ground and hovered in the air next to the shed, it clicked.

  Grandma kept a couple of huge rain barrels around the garden, and even though it hadn’t rained for a few weeks, the water line sloshed near the halfway point.

  Gratefulness engulfed me as the water crashed down on the flames. The greenish flames sputtered, dying in a wash of smoke and soaked wood. Charred pieces of the shed floated over my feet along with the surge of water. What had been hot, angry, growing flames, now hissed and smoldered.

  “Asher, I don’t know what to say,” I said, my eyes flashing over to him, knowing I only had so many moments before the intense use of energy would cause him to vanish.

  “Figure it out, and tell me when I come back,” he said with a wink.

  My shoulders relaxed slightly. The last time he’d used a ton of energy like this, we’d just met, and I hadn’t been sure he would even come back. It was kind of him to remind me he would this time.

  But the calming knowledge didn’t make it any easier when he faded away moments later. I waved like an idiot, my chest still heaving with the intensity of the moment.

  The blackened remains of the shed caused tears to prick at my eyes. The back wall still stood, along with pieces of the sides. A scorched shelf came crashing down, splashing in the standing water.

  “Rosie! Rosie!” The shrill cry came from my left. I recognized it as Daphne before she even reached me. Her short hair barely moved, crusted with so much hairspray that even the humidity and the run over here hadn’t been able to push it out of place.

  My middle-aged neighbor’s eyes were wide with terror as she skidded to a stop next to me.

  “Rosemary!” A gravely voice called out, this time from behind me.

  Carl.

  My other neighbor jogged over, surprising me with his nimble speed. In that moment, I got a picture of what Carl must’ve been like in his youth, working on crabbing boats instead of retired in his seventies.

  “I’m okay. Everything’s okay, I think.” I exhaled a lengthy breath full of worry and emotion. Thanks to Asher, I added in my thoughts.

  Sirens peeled through the humid night, cutting through the warm air like a knife through butter. The summer air made even hotter from the fire, and it hung around us like a terrible reminder.

  “I called,” Daphne explained, glancing behind her toward Misty Drive.

  “Thank you,” I said with a smile. But all happiness left me when I looked at Carl and noticed him focused on the upended rain barrel.

  He pointed. The word “how” hovered on his lips as Chief Clemenson and two local firefighters jogged over. The chief slid to a stop while the firefighters headed toward the shed. Their concerned faces flattened into relieved expressions as they examined the space and found the flames extinguished.

  Carl, however, still pointed at the rain barrel. I couldn’t get mad at him, though. The others would have noticed it eventually. I should’ve anticipated their questions. Chief Clemenson followed Carl’s gesture and scowled down at the barrel.

  “What happened here?” he asked, turning his concern toward me.

  “There was a fire. I put it out.” My voice sounded small and stupid. I cleared my throat even though I knew that wouldn’t help.

  The chief, Daphne, and Carl looked like they were participants in a synchronized expression competition. They all let their eyebrows jump up their foreheads in surprise. Their eyes flicked between me and the barrel, then back to my arms.

  “You lifted that?” the chief asked, incredulity lacing each of the words in his question.

  I pressed my lips together for a moment, nodding. Seeing this wasn’t enough, that they needed some sort of explanation, I added, “Adrenaline?” I hated that it came out as a question. “It wasn’t full,” I tacked on, hoping the information would loosen the tight wrinkles marring their faces.

  “Can you explain from the beginning?” The chief flipped open the notebook he kept with him at all times, grabbing a pen from his front shirt pocket.

  I swallowed to give myself a moment of thinking space. Asher isn’t real to them, I reminded myself. Don’t mention him in your story. I’d slipped and done just that with all three of the people present at one time or another.

  “I was taking a sunset stroll on the beach,” I said, congratulating myself on the I part. “When I glanced back at the house and noticed flames, I came running, and that’s when I remembered the water in the rain barrels.”

  I couldn’t fault Asher for helping in any way he could think to, but it also would’ve been much easier to explain if he’d been able to take the hose out and turn on the water instead.

  At the mention of the rain barrel, they all seemed to remember the physical impossibilities associated with my story. To distract them, I kept talking. “I got worried,” I said, pointing to roof of the shed, “it would jump over, catch the house. I needed to act, so I did.”

  At this, Daphne nodded. “I saw it from my living room,” she said somberly.

  Carl cleared his throat, but his voice still sounded gruff when he said, “Me too.”

  “This might sound crazy, but did the fire look green to you too?” I asked, glancing between my neighbors. Once the question was out in the open, I regretted it.

  As if I’d announced I’d started the fire myself, the gathered crowd pulled in a collective breath.

  Oh no, I thought. What if the green flames were a ghostly trick that only I could see?

  But just when I was metaphorically kicking myself for saying the wrong thing, I noticed the people around me appeared more guilty than worried about my sanity. They sent furtive glances at each other that were probably meant to be sneaky, but that actually looked like giant red, waving flags to me. Even the firefighters stopped checking things out for a moment, their shoulders rigid.

  “What?” I asked. “Why did you all just glance at each other? What am I missing?”

  “It couldn’t be … could it?” Daphne said, her words between a whisper and a breath.

  Carl shook his head vehemently. “Absolutely not. He’s in jail.”

  Chief Clemenson cringed. “Actually …”

  Daphne and Carl turned on him. The two firefighters inspected one of the charred pieces of wood
, suddenly too busy to look our way.

  “What?” I asked with more fervor.

  “Geoff made parole last week.” The chief ducked his head after finishing this sentence.

  “What?” Carl spat out the word like a weapon. “And you didn’t think to tell anyone? Murray’s dead, Raymond.”

  The chief put up a hand. “I know. I understand. And I started investigating him for Murray’s murder the moment I found he’d gotten out.”

  The way my mouth hung open and my eyes widened, I figured someone would look my way or even acknowledge the craziness of everything they were saying. Seeing this wasn’t going to happen, I raised a hand and stepped forward.

  “Can someone please tell me what you’re talking about?”

  Daphne pressed her lips into a tight frown. Carl mumbled something under his breath. The firemen elbowed each other and moved to inspect the back of the shed.

  My eyes locked onto Chief Clemenson’s. “Tell me.”

  He swallowed as if buying himself time. “Geoff Byer grew up in Pebble Cove. He and Murray were … I guess you would call them archenemies. They fought with each other their entire lives. When they grew up, and both became fishermen, the competition didn’t stop. And neither did their pranks. But the pranks progressed from being harmless and childish to damaging and serious. Murray accused Geoff of stealing his crabs out of his pots,” Clemenson said.

  At this, Carl muttered something that sounded derogatory.

  I mean, stealing didn’t sound good, but the way he’d reacted to this made it sound like full-on murder.

  Carl dipped his head in concession. “In the fishing community, accusing someone of stealing from your pots is about the worst thing you can do.”

  Seeing Carl was done, Chief Clemenson continued. “Geoff denied Murray’s claims he stole, and there was never any proof. Murray had never been the best crabber around, so we all chalked it up to a way for him to save face when he wasn’t doing well.”