by Clover Tate
“Come on, let’s get back to work,” SpongeBob said. “We’ll let our artist friend go home. She don’t want to get wet.”
“I don’t know. Looks like she could use a shower. Got a bit dirty making her big escape.” They laughed at their joke.
Relief flooded over me as I brushed a twig from my jacket. They were letting me go. “Yes. I’d better be getting on.”
“I guess you’d better. And why aren’t you?”
“You still have my daypack,” I said, torn between needing my stuff and wanting to hightail it out of there.
He laughed again. His back molars were riddled with fillings. “We’ll keep it.” He tossed me my keys and slung the pack over his shoulder. “Those morels by rights are fifty a pound.”
The rain had built to a shower pattering around us. I glanced toward the opening to the old highway. My car was not quite a quarter mile up the road, and my rain poncho was in the daypack.
“Don’t forget your mushrooms.” SpongeBob handed me the bucket. “You bought them fair and square.”
* * *
I ran all the way back to the car, tossed the morels on the passenger-side seat, and locked myself in. Dave and Stella had been right. What was I thinking to go down there alone? I was lucky simply to be robbed. I glanced at the mushrooms. Kind of robbed, anyway. At least I’d come away with solid intelligence. And mushrooms.
After a few deep breaths, I collected myself and drove to the sheriff’s office.
“I know where the mushroom hunters are,” I said after bursting into the small office.
Deputy Goff again. Would I ever catch a break? The deputy was on the phone and motioned for me to sit. I was too antsy, though, so I paced the front room.
At last she set the receiver in its cradle. “Now, what are you saying?”
“I found out where the mushroom hunters are. The ones who threatened Miles before he was killed.” I cocked my head at her. “Don’t you start rolling your eyes.”
She looked toward the ceiling, and her lips formed a silent growl. “I’m not rolling my eyes. I don’t understand you. Slow down. Start at the beginning.” She pulled a pad from her desk and brought it to the counter.
I felt like I was explaining things to a six-year-old, but I slowed down. “Remember how I came in yesterday and told you that some mushroom hunters had threatened Miles Logan?”
The deputy nodded. “Sure.”
“Well, through—uh—through a series of events I found out where they pick morels. If you want to find them, question them about Miles, it’ll be easy.”
“And where is that?”
“Down at the burnout.” As soon as I said it, I realized that I didn’t know where that was. Maybe I should have checked with Dave first.
“The burnout from the Fetzger fire, on the other side of Highway 101?” She jotted a few notes.
“Are there any other burnouts you know?” I said this as if the answer were obvious, since I had no idea.
“Not this year,” she said, and continued jotting. “How did you get this information?”
“I was talking to some other morel gatherers,” I said casually. “They told me about Ron and Monica. Knew them well.”
“Last names?”
Damn. “I’m not sure.”
“Next time you’re sleuthing, you might want to pick up some useful evidence like the suspects’ names.”
“It’s more than you came up with,” I said. “It’s a start.”
The deputy set down her pad. “What are you implying?”
“Look, I’m here with some potentially useful information for you. I know you don’t believe me, but you have the wrong person in jail. Meanwhile, someone is going scot-free for a murder.” Didn’t she get it?
“I can’t believe you—”
“There’s one other thing. I wonder if the mushroom hunters might have been working with Sam Anderson to kill Miles.”
The deputy’s jaw dropped. “What?”
“Sam may have had his own reasons to want Miles out of the way. Miles was thinking of opening a restaurant. It would have competed with Sam’s, and the Tidal Basin is already operating on a slim financial margin. Remember? I already told you this.”
“I don’t believe it. Sit,” the deputy said. I sat. “You are way off track, and I want you to butt out now. Understand?” She leaned forward for emphasis. “You’ll mess everything up.”
What was she talking about? “Where’s the sheriff, anyway? I want to talk to him.”
“In Astoria. Did you hear me?”
“If he’s in Astoria, does that mean Avery might come home?”
“Ms. Adler, listen. We have procedures and the benefit of a skilled group of crime-scene investigators. You can be sure that the sheriff is looking into every possible angle. Understand?” I nodded. “Good. Now, thank you for this information. I want you to go home now and let us do our job.”
I nodded again. “And Avery might come home?” The judge must be setting her bail.
“That’s not for me to say.” The deputy slid the notebook into a desk drawer. “Good-bye, Ms. Adler.”
chapter sixteen
I loaded Bear into the car and stopped by the shop. The scare from talking to the thugs by the river had been replaced in part with the thought that the sheriff would carry on from here and that Avery might be home soon. The judge would set her bail and release her. Maybe I’d finally have the chance to open that bottle of champagne I’d intended for Strings Attached’s opening day. Once the sheriff tracked down the mysterious Ron and Monica, once the judge looked at the evidence, we’d be in the clear for good.
When I arrived at Strings Attached, Stella was reading an Isabel Allende novel behind the counter. “Did you have a good day today?” she asked. She set the novel down.
“Yes. Thanks for filling in for me today. I spent some time sketching out a new kite design.” Those schoolteacher eyes seemed to read my mind. I averted my gaze. She didn’t need to know about my forays to the morel grounds or sheriff’s office. Bear slipped past me into the kitchen workshop. I heard him lapping at his water bowl. “How’s business?”
“Sold three more diamond kites, some line, and one of those lovely lotus kites.”
The lotus kite was one of my favorites. I’d designed it as a soft tube and wrapped it in filmy petals of pink ripstop nylon and a gray fine-weave net with green and mauve woven through it. Maybe whoever bought it was down at the beach flying it now.
“Do you want to take over here?” Stella asked. “I’ve been enjoying it—relaxing, talking to the people who come through. I even came up with an idea for a kite. But if you’d rather—”
“No, I promised you the full day, and I wouldn’t mind working a bit in the workshop.”
“Maybe you’d let me watch? We’ll hear the doorbell if someone comes in. I’d love to learn a little more about how kites are made.”
“Sure. Come on in. I’m trying something new with the comet design, and I thought I’d cut out the pattern.”
Stella followed me into the workshop and sat in one of the chairs at the small kitchen table. We kept the door open so we could hear the front door’s bell ring if a customer came in. I pulled a roll of tissue from a side cabinet and cut a piece large enough to span the gridded mat that lined my drafting table.
“Do you draw the pattern freehand?” Stella asked.
“For this one I will. For a more symmetrical kite, I’d probably design it on the computer or even draw on graph paper, then project it onto a sheet of tissue on the wall.” The process of transferring my ideas to paper always absorbed me, and a touch of anxiety melted away as I secured the corners of the tissue.
“What are those?” Stella pointed at the fabric weights, which I’d made from mustard jars full of lead shot.
“They hold down the nylon while I
cut a pattern. This tissue wants to curl up, so I’ll use them now.” I’d sketch the pattern on the tissue, using the gridlines underneath as a loose guide. Then I’d cut the pattern into a rigid paper with the weight of a file folder. That would be the pattern I’d use directly on nylon.
“I love being in here surrounded by art supplies,” Stella said. “Early in my career I taught third grade. The tissue, colorful fabric, pens, and scissors—it reminds me of art time.” She laughed.
“Did you ever want kids of your own?” I asked absently. My fingers traced the comet’s head, big and round, like an elongated bulb. I hoped by giving it more surface area it would catch the wind.
Stella didn’t respond. For a moment I wondered if she’d heard me. I was just about to ask again when she said, “My schoolchildren were my children. I was nearly forty when I married. A little old for having my own.”
“I see.” I only half heard her words as the comet’s curves transferred from my brain to paper. Kites were such an escape for me. They always had been, from watching their shapes ripple in the wind as a kid, to later, when I learned how to design them. Other people read to escape, or listened to music or hiked. I had kites.
I wondered what Avery had. Especially now, in jail. I set down my pencil. My hand dropped to my side.
“Thinking about Avery, aren’t you.” Stella said it more as a statement than a question.
“Yes. She goes before the judge today.” It wasn’t all about me, I reminded myself. “Miles. You must be missing him.” She gave a noncommittal shrug. “You worked together. You love talking to people, Stella. I know you said you didn’t really know him well, but I can’t help but think his death has affected you, too.”
She opened her novel and smoothed the page before pushing it away again. “You’re right.” She met my eyes. “I do miss him. When I first came to Rock Point last summer, we spent a little time together. He liked my paintings. You know, he was an artist, too, but not with paint. I’d thought—well, it doesn’t matter what I thought.” She must have caught a shift in my expression, because she hurriedly said, “We were friendly, but that was all. I mean, you wouldn’t get any ideas that—” She broke off her thought with a laugh.
I didn’t know what to think.
* * *
After I’d finished my initial sketch of the pattern, I called for Bear and walked down to the beach. Maybe I’d see the lotus kite that sold earlier. In any case, it would do me some good to gather my thoughts. The anxiety of not knowing Avery’s fate with the judge, plus the melee earlier with the mushroom pickers—and my tiff with Deputy Goff—well, I needed to walk off some of this energy.
Only a few people were on the beach. Bear ran ahead to chase a patch of sandpipers trotting near the water’s edge. The rain had cleared, and the sky reflected blue on the wash left by the surf.
Just like with Avery, I wasn’t sure Stella was telling me the full story about Miles. They clearly had a connection she wasn’t willing to talk about. She had a lot of allure about her. Although she was old enough to be his mother, it crossed my mind that maybe they’d had a romance. It wasn’t out of the question.
I certainly wasn’t telling the full truth about Miles—how we’d searched his cabin, for instance. Tomorrow morning before the shop opened, I planned to visit the burnout the mushroom hunters had told me about. This time I’d come better prepared, and this time I’d leave with something more substantial to tell the sheriff. I’d better.
I eyed a bleached log that had obviously been tumbled many times by the sea. The perfect perch for the next quarter hour of calming my brain. But where was the dog? “Bear!” I called. He was playing with a man farther down the beach. I only saw his back, but he was throwing a ball into the surf, and Bear was running after it and returning, wet bellied, to drop the ball at his feet.
I hurried over. “Sorry about—”
The man turned. It was Jack Sullivan. Shoot. “That’s your dog?”
I quickly looked away. Something about him made me self-conscious. My hair had dried from my earlier shower, but I knew I was no beauty queen in my fleece hoodie and T-shirt advertising a natural-foods co-op in Portland. Thanks, Mom.
“Bear!” I called again to hide my agitation. Tongue lolling, he ran up. “Yep, he’s mine. My family’s dog, really, but I have custody.”
“He’s great,” Jack said. His voice was soft, friendly. I tugged at my T-shirt, willing it not to bunch up like it always did.
Bear shifted his attention to Jack and sat at his feet, staring, the tennis ball still in his mouth. “Sorry, boy. No more ball for you.”
The dog dropped the ball at his feet and stared up. “Not now, Bear,” I said. “Jack doesn’t want to touch that disgusting thing.” The ball was covered in sand and dog spit.
“I don’t mind. I grew up with a black Lab. Talk about droolers.”
Who was this man? Where was the Jack with DNA straight from cranky old man Sullivan? “You’re awfully nice to humor him.”
“I’m glad I ran into you,” Jack said.
My face warmed. “Oh, I—”
“I’ve been thinking about your kite, the one shaped like a comet.”
My heart fell. Of course. “I know you’re convinced it will never fly.”
“Actually, I think the problem was that there wasn’t enough surface area. But what if you shaped the body as a tube? Or a cup? Then it would catch the wind.”
He’d mentioned it earlier, and it wasn’t a bad idea. Like my lotus kite. “I cut out another pattern today. The problem I’m having now is the tail. I want it to be substantial, like a real comet’s tail.” Of course, if I fashioned the kite as a tube, or cup, I could do whatever I wanted with the tail.
He echoed my thoughts. “A tube design would take care of that.”
“I like it.” I patted my pockets, but I’d left my sketchbook back at the shop.
Jack drew his gaze from the bay toward me. “I also wanted to apologize for what I said about Avery. It’s no excuse, but I was upset about Miles, and I’m afraid I took it out on you. That wasn’t right.” He caught a wave of hair that had blown into his face and pushed it back. He had such long fingers. Just right for a tall guy.
Still, I was wary. “She didn’t do it, you know.”
“I believe you.”
“What changed your mind?” I asked.
“I realized I was being one of those jerks around town who based his opinion on hearsay. That’s not fair. You and Dave said Avery was home when Miles was killed. I believe you over rumor. It doesn’t matter if they found blood on the boat or whatever. If Avery wasn’t there, she couldn’t have done it.”
A moment passed. “Thank you,” I said finally. “People in town have been looking at me funny.”
“Rock Point is small. People talk for entertainment. Don’t pay any attention. I’m sorry I did.”
By some unspoken agreement, we slowed our pace to walk up the beach together. Jack really cared about Miles. “I always—”
“Always what?”
“I’ve wondered about Miles. What he was like. You knew him. Maybe you don’t want to talk about him now, though.” We wandered nearer the waves, where the sand was packed tight.
“Didn’t Avery tell you about him? I thought women talked about those things.”
“Avery and I are like sisters, it’s true. But for some reason she never told me much about him. But you grew up together, right?”
Jack picked up Bear’s tennis ball in one hand. He threw it ahead of us, and Bear shot off like a rocket after it. Jack could have played baseball with that arm. “We spent a lot of time in Rock Point when I was a kid, but I didn’t grow up here, no. We lived in Salem. My dad worked for the state.”
“But you ended up here.”
“I got an engineering degree and thought I’d get a job at Boeing or someplace like th
at, but when Grandpa started declining . . .” His voice faded. “Anyway, once I was back, I didn’t want to leave. It was natural to take over the shop.”
He was easy to walk next to. Our strides found a natural sync. “Sullivan’s Kites is the reason I took up kite making—and selling—to start with,” I said.
“Really?” He stopped and turned to me. He smiled.
A rush of warmth poured over me. “Definitely. My family came here every summer when I was kid. My parents were big friends of the Cooks. That’s how I met Avery.”
“You went to art school together, too.”
We’d started walking again, but I looked up in surprise.
“Dave told me,” he said.
“Oh.” Dave might have told Jack a lot of things about Avery. Maybe they were closer than I’d thought. “Every summer, my dad let me choose one new kite from old man Sullivan’s—” I blanched at the words.
Jack laughed. “Don’t worry. Everyone called him that.”
“Well, I couldn’t wait to see him every year. One year I bought a box kite. I’d been dreaming of that kite since the Christmas before and how I’d sail it on the beach.” My mind shifted back in time, remembering how Dad and I put the kite together and took it to the car to drive to the beach. Maybe it was the excitement, or just the pollen, but I had an asthma attack. My father tossed the kite in the driveway and took me to the emergency room.
“How’d it do?”
“Dad drove over it on accident. I cried until I hiccuped, so we bought a new one, and somehow my baby sister, Sunny, dragged it into her playpen and jumped on it. Busted the spars. I ended up with another diamond kite that year.”
Bear had given up on the ball and trotted along with us, sniffing at clumps of seaweed and half-buried crab shells. Every once in a while he darted back to Jack for a scratch between the ears. Traitor. By now we must have walked a quarter mile up the beach. The beach here was nearly empty. Trails led up through the beach grass to small wood houses here and there. The old lighthouse stood tall on the cliff ahead.
“Miles never got the kite thing,” Jack said. “Cooking was his outlet. I liked him, though.”