by Clover Tate
“Emmy Adler,” I said and extended a hand. “We met at Sullivan’s Kites over the weekend. What a beautiful inn you have.”
“Oh yes.” Annabelle’s unchanged expression told me that she’d recognized me right away. “Thank you. You’re not looking for a place to stay, are you?”
“No, no,” I said. “I thought I might get a bite to eat. Your inn has such a great reputation, I’ve been looking forward to stopping by.” I might have been laying it on thick, but I wasn’t sure what else to say. A natural rapport wasn’t exactly cropping up. I decided to try honesty. “Plus, well, I feel like we didn’t get off on the right foot, and I wanted to get to know you a bit better.”
“Come in.” She hadn’t acknowledged my extended olive branch. She stepped into the lounge and gestured toward a floral upholstered Queen Anne chair with a doily over its back. “I’ll get you a menu.”
I was getting hungry for lunch. A fat sandwich would be good. Annabelle handed me a pink menu with flowery script. “I’ll bring you some tea,” she said, and without waiting for my reply trotted through the dining room into what must be the kitchen.
Well, all right, it looked like I’d be having a pot of tea. Once I saw the menu, I understood why. It was all tea cakes, petit fours, and scones. I turned the menu over, hoping soup and sandwiches might be listed on the back. Nope. When Annabelle returned with a pansy-sprigged teapot, I asked if she served sandwiches.
“You want sandwiches? No problem.” She again returned to the kitchen.
Her attitude might have been curt, and the floral patterns and powder tones in the lounge might have made me a little itchy, but at least I had a nice view down the tree-lined street to Rock Point’s main street, and just beyond that a slice of the ocean muffled with clouds. I wasn’t giving up yet on my efforts to at least restore civility with Annabelle.
An elderly couple lounged at one of the other five tables. They rose, pushing away their scone-crumbed plates.
“Thank you, Mr. and Mrs. Orr,” Annabelle said. “Enjoy your day in Rock Point.”
“We will, honey. Maybe we’ll drive up to the cheese factory,” the wife said, brandishing a brochure.
“Don’t forget the cranberry bogs. I really think you’d enjoy them.”
“See you this evening,” the husband said. The front door shut a moment later.
Annabelle set a plate on my table. Yes, she’d given me sandwiches, but they were all finger-sized on white bread with the crusts cut off.
“Smoked salmon and cream cheese.” She pointed at two of the sandwiches. “And cucumber. Enjoy.”
Definitely not one to be overly friendly, I thought. As she cleared the elderly couple’s plates, I tried again. “Such lovely moldings in this room.” The cream-painted ceiling moldings depicted fish jumping and swimming, and in one case, appearing to do the limbo. “And amazing lacework.”
For the first time, I got a smile. “This house was built by Rock Point’s founder. I was lucky to buy it. He came over on the Oregon Trail, like my family did.”
“It’s a grand house. He must have done well for himself.”
She nodded, wiping the table the couple had left. Despite the delicacy of her face, her hands were strong and reddened. Working hands. “Made his money in fish fertilizer. Sold it across the country.” She set down her sponge and lowered herself into one of the chairs. “One of his grandsons owned the house when I bought it. He was going a little batty and moved to New York into some high-rise. Said he couldn’t stand all this ‘frippery.’” She laughed. “Imagine that. His loss, my gain, I guess.”
“And the Oregon Trail. You must be pioneer stock.” At last, the Little House on the Prairie look made sense. It was branding. Annabelle actually dressed to match her business.
“Oh yes. It’s the Black way. We go after what we want, and nothing stands in our way. Of course, honor and community service are key.”
“Wow.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.
“I’ve done the whole family tree.”
“It must be nice to know a lot about your family—you know, family stories and legend.” Because I knew how lame that sounded, I glanced around the lounge. “And share that in how you’ve created the inn.”
“My ancestors inspire me. The Morning Glory has been a lot of work, and I haven’t seen a profit yet, but I think about my ancestors who never gave up, and it keeps me going. If they could make it across the whole nation in a rickety wagon, I can get a bed-and-breakfast up and running.”
At least she was beginning to relax now. If I could keep the questions flowing, we might part ways a lot friendlier. “You’ve really built something here.”
“Rock Point is growing, and I wanted to establish myself before it turns resort,” she said.
I kind of liked the fishing village charm, myself. “What do you mean about ‘turning resort’?”
“It’s inevitable. The town has to grow, and it will be tourist trade. It won’t be long before we’ll need more lodging and restaurants.”
“I like Rock Point, too, but there are plenty of towns along the coast.”
“Plenty that are not Rock Point,” she said. “Look.” As if explaining to a kindergartner, she held up a hand and began ticking off reasons on her fingers. “One, Rock Point is close to Portland. That means weekend traffic from the city. Two, Rock Point is unspoiled. We don’t have that seedy taffy-and-bikinis feel some towns have.”
“If we grow, there’s no avoiding fudge shops,” I said.
“Growth can be controlled, and we can maintain a first-class atmosphere. I’ve talked about this at length with Frank.”
Frank Hopkins, my landlord. “We already have the Tidal Basin. I guess that’s a step in the right direction.” I just wanted to sell kites, not take over the pages of Travel and Leisure, but I was glad to know someone was on the job.
“And the Morning Glory. I feel like I’m helping to set a direction for Rock Point.” She lovingly stroked the edge of a velvet cushion. “It’s taken the better part of two years, but it’s worth it.”
“You must have worked like crazy to get the house ready for guests.”
“Oh yes. While contractors were working, I was at auctions and estate sales everywhere.”
“The teapots alone—”
“Exactly. It’s not easy to manufacture this kind of charm, but I was determined. My mother always said that when I want something, I get it, and she was right.” She scanned the room, then, apparently satisfied with what she saw, returned her gaze to me.
“The Black family way,” I said.
“Exactly.”
My sandwiches were nearly half-gone already and hadn’t even started to satisfy my appetite. I slowed myself down by pouring another cup of tea. At least Annabelle was starting to open up. “Have you known Jack Sullivan long?” I asked, mostly to continue the conversation.
Her manner iced over. “Of course.”
Whoops. Wrong turn. “Naturally you would, with both of you living here and all.”
“Why do you want to know, anyway?”
Wow. “No reason. Just talking.” I picked up my remaining finger sandwich. I’d have to stop by the Brew House for a real lunch later.
She slipped into the chair at my table. “How’s Avery? I couldn’t help but hear she’s a suspect. It can’t be easy for her.”
I tread cautiously. “She’s upset, of course. Dave’s taking her kayaking this afternoon to cheer her up.”
“You’re not going with them? Dave’s not a bad-looking guy.”
She apparently hadn’t got the message about Dave and Avery. “No, I have an idea for a new kite, and I thought I’d work on it at the shop.” Everything seemed to be about men with her. I leaned forward. “Listen, Annabelle, I’m sorry we had to meet under such”—I searched for the words— “upsetting circumstances.”
&nb
sp; For a moment she looked blank; then her eyes narrowed. “We were meant to be together. I still can’t believe he’s—he’s gone.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said, confused. I’d expected Annabelle to break into tears, but she almost seemed angry. I thought of Avery’s grief and how different—and profound—it seemed.
Annabelle seemed to realize her at-odds attitude, too. She dropped her head and heaved a sigh. “It’s so hard. You can’t understand. I feel so helpless.”
I felt helpless, too, but for different reasons. “I’m sorry,” I repeated.
“I guess I could offer to host the reception after the funeral.” Her gaze darted through the room, as if already laying out the buffet in her mind.
“It’s true. I can’t understand how Miles’s death hurts you.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound as curt as I suspected it did. “But I’ve seen how it’s affected Avery—”
Annabelle leaned forward, and I prepared for a self-pitying remark. Instead, her words, delivered low and calm, chilled me. “If she killed Miles, she can spend her years in prison making lattes for convicts for all I care.”
“What?” Where did this come from? I pushed to my feet. “She’s my friend. Watch it. No one’s been charged with anything yet.”
Surprised, she stopped and examined me. Maybe she wasn’t sure where to go next with this conversation. All I knew was that if she made one more comment about Avery, I’d stuff her craw with doilies.
“Maybe Avery is your friend, but Miles was my friend,” she said. “More than that.”
I was leaving, but I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing how much she’d infuriated me. To ramp down, I mentally counted to three. “Thank you for the tea. I guess I’d better pay my check now,” I managed to spit out.
“No problem. Stop by again soon.”
“Real soon.”
chapter eight
Fuming, I left the Morning Glory Inn. How dare she? I’d visited to try to make nice, and Annabelle had to go and insult Avery. For all I knew, she’d been jealous that Miles wasn’t falling at her feet and had killed him herself. And I was sure she wasn’t the only possibility. Sam Anderson down at the Tidal Basin, for instance. And the mushroom hunters. Where was the sheriff in all this?
I remembered seeing his local office—the main office was at the county seat in Astoria—in a small storefront down on Main Street next to Martino’s Pizza. He and I had some talking to do.
I stomped to the sheriff’s office and only paused a second at the door before pushing it open.
“Can I help you?” a woman at the front desk asked. She must have been about forty or so and was dressed in practical short hair and a khaki uniform.
“I’m here to see Sheriff Koppen.” The aroma of garlic and yeast floated in from Martino’s. My stomach rumbled after Annabelle’s Barbie-sized sandwiches. Avery had told me that a local named Marty owned the place, and he’d Italianed up his name for show.
“I’m Deputy Goff. What’s the problem?”
“Emmy Adler,” I said. “I need to know where he is with Miles Logan’s death.”
The deputy looked me over and didn’t appear to like what she saw. “You’re the one who found the body, right? Avery Cook’s roommate?”
“That’s another thing. What’s all this suspicion with Avery? I don’t care what Miles’s calendar said. She was home, in bed, when he was killed.”
Sheriff Koppen emerged from a back room. “What’s going on out here?”
“I came to find out what you’re doing about Miles’s murder.”
The deputy looked at Koppen and shrugged. “She came in here demanding to see you.”
“I want you to leave Avery alone and find the real murderer.”
“I told her she could tell me, but—” the deputy started.
“It’s all right, Denise. I’ll take care of this.”
“She shouldn’t be bothering you.”
“I’ve got it,” the sheriff said. The deputy reluctantly turned away, but not without giving me the stink eye first.
Koppen raised a brow. “Follow me.”
The sheriff had a small, windowless office at the back of the storefront. The vines from a philodendron plant on top of a filing cabinet wound around the room at least twice, held in place by pushpins and string. Koppen lifted his jacket from a chair and motioned for me to sit. The aroma from Martino’s was even more potent here.
“You have some reason to doubt my ability to solve this murder?” Sheriff Koppen leaned back, his face inscrutable as always. On his desk was a framed photo showing a dark-haired woman and two boys in what looked like tribal costumes. Strange to think of him with a family, laughing and loving. All I’d seen was his brick wall of an expression.
“If you suspect Avery, I do. She’s not a killer. Besides, all you’ve got against her is that Miles mistakenly thought he was meeting her, and she used to date him. But that was a long time ago.”
He didn’t speak. His face was stone solid.
I continued. “Think about it. Why would she kill him? Why now? If people just knocked off their exes, undertakers wouldn’t have time to sleep.” Now I was really picking up steam. The pungent scent of sausage gnawed at my stomach and fueled my anger. “Besides, what about Annabelle Black? I just saw her, and she’s a nutcase. Dresses like an extra from Gunsmoke. She dated Miles, too, you know. You don’t seem to care about her.” We stared at each other. Koppen’s expression was still infuriatingly unmoved. “Well?” I said.
“Are you finished?”
I nodded and looked away to keep from getting even more upset.
“You’re right,” the sheriff said.
My gaze snapped to him. He agreed with me?
“The evidence against Avery is weak. That’s why we haven’t taken her in. But we do have to investigate it. You know that, don’t you?”
“But you’re following up other leads, right? I mean, you don’t even have a murder weapon.”
“Emmy, this is my job. Admittedly, murders don’t turn up every day in Rock Point. But we have a protocol, and we’re meticulous about it.”
“Like what? Who are you talking to?” I moved to the edge of my seat.
“Right now, a crime-scene team is examining the Cook family’s boat, for instance.”
I sat up straighter. “Avery’s boat? What’s that got to do with anything?” Damn. Of course they’d examine the boat.
“Miles had an appointment to meet Avery there. Besides, his body had to have been disposed of at sea. That’s why it washed up where you found it.”
“Well, you won’t find anything.” That, at least, was a comfort. “But who are you talking to besides Avery? I can think of three suspects with better motives than hers.”
“At the risk of sounding rude, that’s our business and not yours.”
“But how do I know that you’re—”
“Listen. The best thing you can do is butt out and let us do our job. We’re talking to everyone and anyone in Miles’s life. Upholding the peace is my job. Not yours.”
“But people are talking. Avery doesn’t even want to go into work, because everyone stares at her.”
“Sounds like the Brew House might pick up some new business.”
“That’s not the point.” I was aware I might be coming off like a three-year-old who’d lost her blankie. I thought about Stella and our promise. “Would it help you if I passed along things I’d heard that might help your investigation?”
“If you have something to tell me about Avery, I’m listening. You do live with her.”
“Not Avery.” Lord, he was dense. “I mean, maybe I’ll hear things, like about Sam Anderson, Miles’s boss.”
“We’ve questioned Sam.”
“Did you know that he was upset with Miles for not showing up to work?”
“Not only do I know it; I have his work schedule, with his absences noted, for the past six months.”
“I just thought that . . .” My voice petered out. “Well, what about the mushroom hunters? The ones who threatened him?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Look. Sure, if you stumble upon something that has to do with the investigation, let us know. But don’t go making trouble by getting involved. That’s not your job.” His gaze drilled into me. “Maybe your job is taking care of your friend. Seems like the past few days have been pretty rough on her. You could do more good at home with her than blowing off steam at me.”
My face burned. He was right, of course. Avery might be home now. I’d take her a pizza from Martino’s.
* * *
Bear greeted me with a few joyous barks and a clattering of nails as he ran to the door.
Avery looked much happier than when I’d left her in the morning. She stood straighter, and her eyes were brighter. I pushed my sketch pad away and rose to hug her.
“How was the kayaking?”
“Great. Dave took me up the river. I’d forgotten how much I love spring. There’s a storm coming in, though. Good thing we got home when we did.” She kicked off her shoes and plopped onto the sofa. “Have you eaten yet?”
Food. She wanted food. This was a good sign. “I brought us a pizza. I’ll go heat up the oven.”
“Somehow seeing those baby cormorants brought it all home for me. Life goes on, you know what I mean?”
“Yes.” I smiled but kept most of my jubilation—and relief—inside. I didn’t want Avery to feel self-conscious. “We’ll get past this. The sheriff is doing everything he can.”
Avery’s smile melted. “You talked to the sheriff?”
“He didn’t come to find me,” I hurried to say. “I just happened to be near his office and thought I’d drop in, you know, to see if anything new came up.”
“Right.” Clearly Avery knew me too well.
“I couldn’t help it. He’s wrong about suspecting you.”
“But, Miles’s calendar—”
“It was some kind of mistake.” Why wasn’t Avery defending herself? “He accidentally jotted down a date on the wrong month. Or someone planted it. We don’t know.”