Blown Away

by Clover Tate

  “They couldn’t have killed Miles. All that night they were at the emergency room with Ron’s mother. She has heart trouble.”

  “I saw him at the Brew House today. He’s doing some odd jobs there.”

  “Good thing he has some work, because I had to report him for gathering morels without a permit. He won’t be getting any more income that way.”

  “Oh.” I pulled the heaviest blanket up to my chin. If only I could shrink into a tiny speck and work my way into the sofa’s fabric, where I could stay forever. Nothing would matter. I bit the inside of my mouth. When I was envying dust motes, I’d pretty much reached bottom.

  “Where are you staying tonight?” he asked again.

  “I called Stella. Stella Hart,” I said. “She said I could stay with her.”

  He nodded. “Good. I’ll send someone by your shop from time to time, and we’ll put a regular patrol up here, too.”

  “Thanks.” The last of the sheriff’s crew were packing up to leave. I wasn’t afraid of mob justice or whatever the sheriff was hinting at. It was Avery I feared for. She was being set up something good.

  When the lights of the last car had trundled down the road, I turned to the mess in the house. It could wait.

  The sheriff wanted me to give up, stay out of the way. He had a point. Up to now, I’d lost a family its livelihood, destroyed Avery’s house, and tainted every bit of evidence I might have touched along the way, knowingly or unknowingly.

  The ocean below roared and spilled and pulled back again, all at the force of the moon’s gravity. The earth spun on a tilt, hugging the sun. I felt insignificant. Heck, I practically was a dust mote. Why was I even bothering? Why didn’t I stick to Strings Attached and feel lucky to have my own shop and leave everything else alone? Everyone told me that justice would take care of itself. I made kites—I didn’t solve murders.

  Mom would welcome me home any time. I knew that. I could even open a kite store in Portland and save money by sleeping in my old room. Home was safe. Nothing bad could happen to me there. Why not do it? Why not call her right now?

  Because that’s not enough, a voice in my head told me. Avery was as close as a sister—closer, actually, than my blood sister. If I stopped now, the murderer had won. Avery might well end up in prison for the rest of her life. She’d lose the house. I’d lose my friend. It was wrong.

  Bear whined from the house. The crime-scene people had leashed him in the kitchen while they worked and apparently forgotten to let him free. I untied him, and he explored the house, sniffing room by room.

  If I was going to continue to explore who might have killed Miles, I couldn’t do it alone, and Stella had her limits. I found my phone. After a glance at directory assistance, I punched in a number.

  “Jack?” I said. “It’s Emmy Adler.”

  “Is everything all right? It’s so late.”

  Shoot. It was. I’d been so caught up in my drama that I’d completely forgotten about the time. “Sorry about that. The sheriff just left.”

  “Sheriff?” Jack cut in.

  “Someone broke into the house and trashed it. Left a nasty note on the mirror.”

  “I can’t believe it.” He paused as if processing this. “You’re all right, though. You weren’t home?”

  Jack’s worry encouraged me. “I’m fine. A few things are wrecked—vases and pictures and things like that, and there’s a real mess to clean up, but no one was hurt.”

  “That’s a relief, at least. You’re not staying there, are you?”

  “No. I’m going to Stella’s.”

  “Good.”

  “I don’t think whoever broke in is returning, anyway. They made their point. They left a note accusing Avery of being a murderer.”

  “I see.” A pause. And then in a distinctly cooler tone, “Was there something you wanted from me?”

  Where was the warm, friendly Jack from the beach yesterday? “Well”—I chose my words carefully—“I know you want to figure out who killed Miles. So do I. Maybe you aren’t as sure of Avery’s innocence as I am, but you’re open to the idea that it was someone else.”

  In the background, I heard jazz. Maybe Miles Davis. I didn’t know if Jack had inherited his grandfather’s house, or had his own apartment somewhere in town.

  “Emmy, this is hard to say, but it’s not looking good for Avery.”

  “What? You said—”

  “I know. But I’ve been hearing that she was spotted at the dock. Dave admitted you two couldn’t be sure she hadn’t left the house.”

  “Those are lies. Someone wants to frame her, that’s all.”

  “Could be true.” The jazz faded. Either he’d turned it off or moved to another room. “We should leave it for the sheriff.”

  “That’s just the point. The sheriff is at a dead end. He has Avery in jail, so why should he keep looking? Meanwhile, the court of public opinion has decided she’s a murderer.”

  “Look. I don’t believe in mob justice, but the evidence against Avery is piling up. We’d better leave it to the sheriff. I appreciate your loyalty to your friend, but I have to go. It’s late.”

  “Fine.” “We’d better leave it to the sheriff” seemed to be everyone’s favorite line. My eyes burned with unshed tears. I clicked off my phone without saying good-bye. Another failure to add to the day’s list.

  Bear jumped next to me and rested his merled head in my lap. “Bear bear.” I kissed him between the ears. My chest felt like it had been emptied then refilled with hot lead. I was too emotionally drained even to cry. “Bear,” I whispered. “Let’s go somewhere we have friends.”

  * * *

  By the time I’d arrived at Stella’s, she’d set up the guest room and even put out a bowl of water for Bear. Bear, being the noble and fine creature he was, gave Madame Lucy a wide berth. Madame Lucy barely deigned to look at him, but Bear wasn’t taking any chances.

  “I’m so sorry to hear about the break-in,” Stella said. “How was the sheriff?”

  “He was fine. He was Sheriff Koppen. He thinks it was some outraged Rock Point citizen.” The thought of the tiny drawn hanging man shot shivers down my arms.

  “Oh, darling. Do you want to take a bath?” she asked. “Maybe some chamomile tea?”

  “Tea would be nice.” I followed her to the kitchen, Bear on my heels. Bear plopped on the kitchen floor between us, coincidentally safe from Madame Lucy’s clutches should she decide to show him who was boss.

  Stella took two squat, wide-bowled porcelain teacups from a cupboard. Each had dogwoods painted inside. “My mother’s,” she said. “She bought them in the late nineteen forties and always cherished them but never used them.”

  “But you do.” She would. It would be part of Stella’s philosophy to savor life, not keep it locked up in a china hutch. “Are you close to her?”

  “She died several years ago, and, no, we weren’t particularly close. It’s too bad. I think we’d have a lot to talk about now. We both lost our husbands, and both changed our lives afterward.”

  I thought about Mom, then winced. Shoot. I was supposed to call her tonight. Too late now. She’d have finished her pre-bed yoga stretches by now. I’d call her first thing in the morning. She was an early riser.

  “I love my mother, but it seems like we’re constantly at odds,” I said. “Part of the reason for my move to Rock Point was to get some separation.”

  “And you’re doing it.” She poured water into a teapot. The golden chamomile buds bobbed to the top. “Despite how topsy-turvy your life here has turned.”

  “It probably seems ridiculous to move hours away just for independence.”

  “Not really. Mothers form a strong bond,” she said.

  “You never had children,” I said. “But you have a maternal streak for sure.”

  “I had all those students. Hundre
ds of them over the years.”

  “That’s a lot of letting go.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was barely a whisper.

  I looked at Bear, his head on Stella’s foot, at the serene home she’d created around her and decided to go for it. “Stella, I have to ask. You’ve downplayed your friendship with Miles, but I can’t help but feel that he was more important to you than you admit.”

  A pause. “What makes you say that?”

  “Well, there’s the painting you inscribed to him. And you lost interest in working at the Tidal Basin when he died. His death seems personal to you. You’re even willing to help me dig up information about his death.”

  Stella lifted the teapot’s lid and stirred the chamomile buds. She seemed to make up her mind. “Let’s sit down.” She put our tea things on a tray and carried it to the coffee table surrounded by the mishmash of chairs I loved so much in the living room. Bear gave Madame Lucy some distance and settled unusually close to the velvet slipper chair I’d chosen this time.

  “I’m not sure how to start,” Stella said. I waited. “You know I was a teacher, right?”

  “Right.”

  “I married late.”

  “I see.” She seemed to need to warm up to her subject. I gave her time by pouring each of us some tea.

  “When I was still single in my late thirties, I had a relationship with another teacher. He kept to himself, mostly, but we met a few times by accident in the early morning. One morning I brought him coffee, and we talked. He was separated from his wife. They had a—”

  “A child,” I guessed.

  “A three-year-old girl. He showed me pictures. She was beautiful.” Stella’s tea was untouched, and I held mine more for its warmth than to drink. “He loved that girl. Anyway, over the course of the next year, we fell in love. He was ready to divorce his wife—and then he wasn’t. He couldn’t leave his daughter. Just couldn’t do it.”

  I could imagine Stella with her long, thick hair—then chestnut—and her kind, elegant way. My heart ached as I suspected I knew where this was going. “That’s awful.”

  “At about the same time, I discovered I was pregnant.” She absently raised the teacup to her lips but didn’t drink. She set it in its saucer again. “I couldn’t tell him, of course. I couldn’t rip him up like that, make him choose between the children.”

  “So you just let him go?”

  “Don’t you see? I had to.”

  As if in sympathy, Bear sighed next to me on the rug. I dipped a hand into his fur. “I see. But you had the baby.”

  “I told the school I needed a sabbatical, and I came to the coast and rented a little house. That’s when I really got serious about painting.”

  “When you were pregnant.”

  “Yes.”

  I couldn’t even imagine the pain. “And you gave him up.” Now it was coming together. I understood.

  “A kind nurse let me hold him for a few minutes before they took him away.” Stella rose and strode down the hall. She returned with a small framed photo and handed it to me.

  The photo, a Polaroid, showed a pink-faced infant swaddled in a white blanket, with a black-sleeved arm holding him. “That’s him,” I said.

  “The nurse gave me his photo. She wasn’t supposed to do it.”

  “Then he was gone.”

  “Then he was gone,” she repeated. “Not long after, I met and married Allen. But I never forgot my baby.”

  I waited for her to say it, for her to say his name. “No. You wouldn’t. Did you register to find him?”

  “I did, but he never got in touch with me.”

  “So you tracked him down.” She’d said that once her husband had died, she’d changed her life. Part of that was to dedicate her time to painting, but part must have been to find her son.

  “It wasn’t easy, but yes. I don’t have to tell you that Miles was my son. He’s why I moved to Rock Point. You saw the painting I gave him?” I nodded. “I painted that when I was carrying him.”

  It made sense now. Miles was as much an artist as Stella was. They’d shared a singular approach to life. “I’m so sorry.”

  “He never knew,” she said.

  “Did you have much time together?”

  “A few years, and I’m grateful for it. Going through Allen’s illness and death taught me a lot about cherishing the time you have with someone, not taking it for granted.” She smiled, a wistful smile. “He must have thought it odd that a woman old enough to be his mother”—she looked up to catch my smile in return—“would show so much interest in him. But he was his own man. He followed his own star.”

  “He got that from you,” I said.

  “We had a lot of deep conversations, especially in the summer while the crew was closing down the kitchen. He’d take a beer to unwind to a picnic table set up out back for staff. I feel like I really got to know him.”

  Anything I might say would sound cheap, so I stayed silent.

  “I’m sorry for the earful. You’ve certainly had enough drama tonight. Would you like more tea? This has gone cold.”

  I set down my cup. “No. Thank you. But I have one more question. You got to know Miles pretty well. Do you think he cared about Avery?”

  “There’s no doubt in my mind he did. And she cared about him. No doubt at all. That’s another reason I wanted to help you. I still do.”

  Stella’s story settled into my brain. Her love and her loss. I shivered. “There has to be something we can do,” I said.

  “I did finally talk to Jeanette at the post office. She didn’t have much to say about Ron and Monica, but she told me what she’d mentioned to you about the Tidal Basin’s bills. She let something else drop, too.”

  The sheriff had cleared the mushroom hunters, and he said Sam Anderson had an alibi, although he wouldn’t tell me what it was. As far as I was concerned, Sam wasn’t off the hook yet. “What did she say?”

  “Apparently Sam is having personal trouble. It sounds like a divorce is in the offing.”

  I wasn’t sure what it all meant, but the sheriff probably knew less than that. I fixed my gaze on Stella. “Are you busy tomorrow night?”

  chapter twenty-one

  I left Stella’s early the next morning. Thanks to the break-in and the police’s fingerprint powder, I had a fair amount of cleanup to do at the house before I opened the shop, and although Stella offered to come help me, I thought a morning of scrubbing and sorting might help start the kind of scrubbing and sorting my brain needed right then.

  When the car made the last turn up the rutted drive, my foot slipped to the brake. A car was parked next to Avery’s. I nearly shrieked in exasperation. It was my mom and dad’s VW bus. Seated on the steps to the porch was my mother, looking, if possible, more irritated than I felt.

  My car door wasn’t even open before the barrage began. “You said you’d call last night.”

  “Things got busy. I forgot.”

  “I’ll say they got busy.”

  “You scoped out the house, didn’t you?” I could imagine her creeping from window to window.

  “What did you expect me to do? You said you’d call, and you didn’t. I thought something awful might have happened, that you might be—” Bear leapt into the front seat and pushed out the driver’s-side door toward her, his whole hind end wagging.

  My frustration melted away. “I’m sorry, Mom. I really did forget.” I stepped up to the porch and sat next to her on the steps. She clutched me close. After a few minutes, her tears subsided.

  “Emmy, I was so worried.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. I’m fine, though. I really am. After the break-in, I spent the night at a friend’s house.”

  She took a deep breath that hitched on the inhale. “What happened in there?”

  I rose. “Come in. You might as well see fo
r yourself.”

  As my mother wandered from room to room, opening cupboards and peering around doors, I told her the story. She halted in front of the warning smeared on the mirror.

  It was coming, I knew it. She turned to face me. Now she was going to tell me to pack my bags and return to Portland. Now she was going to pitch such a massive fit that I couldn’t refuse but do what she said.

  Instead, she stared at me. I waited for the deluge, but it didn’t come. “Is there something you want to tell me?” Like, to pack my bags and get in the bus for home?

  “No, honey. Except that we’d better clean this up.”

  It was too much. Avery in jail, the house wrecked, Stella’s revelations, half the town hating me, and now my mother acting rationally?—it all hit at once. Now I was the one to burst into tears. My mother brought me a glass of water, which I downed in a few gulps. Choking, I handed her back the glass. “Thanks.” She pressed a wad of tissues into my hand. I dried my eyes.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s get cleaning.”

  We spent the next few hours filling garbage bags, scrubbing surfaces, and doing laundry. Mom mixed up her usual batch of eco-friendly cleansers. Soon it was time to open Strings Attached.

  “There’s still a bit more to be done here,” Mom said. “Why don’t I take care of it?”

  “If you don’t mind,” I said. “Do you want to stay? I could fix up a bed for you.” She hesitated. “I don’t think anyone will break in again. It was just a warning.”

  She touched my cheek. Her hand smelled of borax. “I’ll stay. Let’s talk tonight. Unless you have plans.”

  I did have plans—to visit Avery, and then to meet up with Stella. “Not until later on.”

  “I’ll make us dinner.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I mean it.”

  * * *

  It was a slow day at Strings Attached, but this early in the season I didn’t expect a lot of business, even on a Saturday. A real kite nerd stopped by, and we spent nearly an hour happily talking about the state of the kite industry and some of my newer designs. By lunch I was ready to close the store for half an hour and drop in to the Brew House. When I visited Avery that night—the break-in had preempted last night’s planned visit—I wanted to be able to tell her everything was fine.