Blown Away

by Clover Tate

  On the surface, it was. The Brew House bustled with conversation, punctuated by the hiss of the steamer. Someone had put an old Cat Stevens album on the turntable.

  “Hi, Emmy.” Trudy’s smile looked forced.

  I was on alert. “How are things?”

  “Fine—and not so fine.”

  “Is the morning shift working out all right without Avery?”

  “That’s not it. The schedule isn’t a problem.” Trudy put down her rag and drew me into a corner. “Have you seen Avery since all that business on TV?”

  “I’m going to see her tonight. Why?”

  “It’s been strange here. This morning a fight broke out between two of the regulars. One of them would barely talk to me, and I don’t think she’ll be here again. She only seemed to get her daily latte so she could make nasty comments about Avery. The other customer defended her, and—well, it got ugly.”

  “That can’t last long,” I said. “Avery will be out of jail just as soon as other evidence comes up.” I was trying to convince myself as much as I convinced Trudy.

  “That’s not the worst,” Trudy said. “When I came in this morning, someone had drawn a bloody knife on the back door in permanent marker.”

  “Oh, Trudy.” I sank into a chair. I’d hoped it had ended with damage at the house. But now this. “I’ll call the sheriff.”

  “I already did, and we painted over the door with some paint I had at home. It’s pansy pink now.” She looked at me with apology. “From doing the nursery.”

  I hugged her. “Thank you. Can you bear to keep going? You aren’t afraid?”

  “Oh no. We have a good security system. Plus, I know Avery’s innocent. I’ve known her too long. Besides, business has been better than ever. Every Nosey Parker between Cannon Beach and Astoria has dropped in for a cappuccino.”

  Avery was so lucky to have Trudy on staff. “Call me if you need anything,” I said. “In the meantime, how about a chicken-salad sandwich to go?”

  On my way back to the shop, I ran into Stella. Her mind was somewhere else, and I was right next to her before she recognized me. I knew that expression. It was the same lost look Avery had. Or maybe, knowing what I did know about her relationship to Miles, I simply saw more deeply.

  “Coming to see me?” I asked.

  “Yes.” She looked out toward the bay, then to me again. A long strand of white-gray hair blew over her face, and she pushed it behind her ear. “I just wanted to tell you that Miles’s funeral is tomorrow morning.”

  “I knew it was coming up, but so soon?”

  “It’s been more than a week. The family is ready.”

  “Oh.” No wonder Stella wore such a bewildered look. I’d seen Miles’s body; she hadn’t. I knew he was dead, but to Stella it was something her brain couldn’t have fully processed. Tomorrow’s service would change that.

  “Are you going?” Stella asked.

  “I don’t know.” A passerby—I recognized him as a clerk in the minimart—was so interested in looking at me, the purported murderer’s roommate, that he nearly ran into a lamppost. “I don’t know how people would feel about having me at the funeral. There’s so much bad feeling about Avery out there.”

  “I understand.”

  It broke my heart to see such a vibrant woman so profoundly sad. “Unless you want me there.”

  “No. No, I think you’re right, but thank you.” She briefly rested a hand on my arm. “I made it through Allen’s death. I have a pretty good idea of how grief works by now. I’ll be fine.”

  I reluctantly let her go and continued to the shop.

  And there I had my third surprise of the day. Annabelle Black was waiting on the stoop to see me. She was wearing yet another Laura Ashley–style dress, this one laced up the bodice, with the top lacing undone a few notches below manufacturer’s recommendations. I couldn’t imagine she was looking to buy a kite.

  “Annabelle. What a surprise,” I said.

  “May I come in?”

  “Of course.” I unlocked Strings Attached. My sandwich could wait a few minutes.

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am for how I’ve treated you. I’ve been downright rude.”

  I raised an eyebrow. Really? “Oh, please—”

  “You’re simply being polite, and it’s more than I deserve. I’ve been a regular bitch to you, and it’s inexcusable.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” I totally knew what she meant, but it didn’t seem worth it to go down that road.

  “No. When we first met, and then again at the Morning Glory, I was less than polite, and I’m not proud of myself. You’ve been through a lot lately, and I understand. You don’t deserve having to deal with my attitude, too.”

  “I appreciate that, Annabelle.”

  “And you’ve been through so much with Avery. I hope she’s released soon. Neither you nor she deserves this. It can’t be easy.” The afternoon sun brought out slight dark circles under her eyes. I’d forgotten that beneath her melodrama lurked a genuine attachment to Miles.

  “Thank you,” I said, and I meant it. “I’m just looking forward to having a bath and going to bed tonight.”

  “The Morning Glory is hosting the reception after the funeral tomorrow. I hope you’ll come.”

  I thought about the break-in, the baldly curious looks people had been giving me. “I don’t know. I’m not sure the top suspect’s roommate would be welcome.”

  “I’d welcome you. You did find him, and you need a chance to make peace with it. Besides, some people around town are always looking for an excuse to feel superior. Don’t pay attention.”

  “Thank you for saying so,” I said, but it didn’t mean I planned to go. Miles’s family might be less than happy to see me there, too.

  “You’re letting other people’s opinions get to you, aren’t you?”

  “It’s hard not to,” I said, thinking of the break-in.

  She browsed the shop’s perimeter, touching a kite here and there. “I don’t tell a lot of people this, but my family were real outcasts for years. Decades, really. I understand what you’re going through.”

  “Did you grow up in Rock Point?”

  “We moved here when I was a child. Our old family farm was in the valley east of here. Dad was a gambler, though, and we lost it.” She laid out this information in a matter-of-fact way.

  “That had to be tough. I’m sorry. “

  “Don’t be. It’s simply the way it is. I’ve come to terms with it.”

  “It couldn’t be easy, though, losing your home. Especially as a child.”

  Annabelle smiled shyly. “Thank you. It’s not my heritage, though. My grandmother used to tell me stories about the Oregon Trail and how we came out here as pioneers. She taught me a real respect for the land and gave me confidence in what a Black can do.”

  I remembered her earlier stories. “That carries through in the inn and how you carry yourself.”

  “You mean this.” She touched the cotton lace at her neck. Her prairie dresses fit her image. Still, my family had been railroad workers, and you wouldn’t catch me in striped overalls and carrying a whistle. “People judge you by what they see or what they hear,” she said. “I want visitors to see me and think of Annabelle Black, who symbolizes strength, graciousness, and the pioneer spirit.”

  “You’re memorable. That’s for sure.”

  “I didn’t come here to talk about me, though. I just wanted to apologize for how I behaved earlier and say that it’s not fair how people are treating you and Avery.”

  “Thank you,” I repeated. “That means a lot to me.”

  She leaned on the counter. “I’m glad we were able to talk for a minute. I think we’re both strong women—businesswomen—and we need to stick together. Rock Point is growing, and we can grow with it. I don’t kid myself—”
She smiled, and it seemed sincere, but I couldn’t help being on guard. “Maybe we’ll never be best friends, although I’d like it if we were. I do think we can be closer than we have been.”

  Warily, I stepped around the counter and hugged her. Wonders never cease.

  * * *

  As promised, Mom was waiting for me at home. The kitchen smelled of lemons and cooking grains—the lemon was probably part of Mom’s cleaning up, and the grains were certainly part of dinner. Mom wore one of Avery’s aprons, and her gray-streaked hair was pulled into a low ponytail. I kissed her cheek.

  She pulled a casserole dish from the oven. She must have gone grocery shopping, because I knew for a fact that as of that morning the refrigerator hadn’t held more than coffee grounds, an egg, and the bottle of champagne I’d never opened.

  “Smells good,” I said.

  “Mushroom barley casserole with chard.” She set the dish on the stove to cool. “You had some morels in the crisper drawer. You girls couldn’t have bought them. There must have been a hundred dollars’ worth in that bag.”

  “Fifty, actually.” At my mother’s raised eyebrow, I quickly added, “I found a great spot to gather them just outside of town.”

  She returned her attention to the casserole. “While I was at the store, I got a few other things for the house, too. I noticed that you don’t have any arnica. What do you do for muscle aches? I started a batch of kombucha, too—it’s fermenting on top of the water heater.”

  My warmth at seeing my mother was beginning to cool. “Mom, I don’t drink as much kombucha as you do—”

  “Well, you should. You don’t get enough fermented foods in your diet.” She busied herself in the kitchen as if it were her own. I had a sneaking suspicion she might have reorganized the cupboards, too.

  On the kitchen table was the bookkeeping I’d brought from the Brew House. It was sorted with a list on top. “You found Avery’s paperwork for the café.”

  “It was in a jumble by the front door. Honey, you shouldn’t keep important papers like that.”

  “What did you do with them?”

  “Not much. Just sorted income from accounts payable and tallied the hours for payroll.” She opened a cupboard and pulled out a tumbler. Yep, she’d reorganized all right. Tumblers used to be stored nearer the sink. “You know I kept books for your father’s law firm when he got started. We didn’t have computers then, so I’m a pro at double-entry bookkeeping.”

  Mom’s love, which had been so comforting this morning, was closing like a vise grip around me. “I appreciate everything you’ve done for me today, but—”

  “I was really surprised that your garbage bags aren’t biodegradable. So I picked up some of those. Your father’s composting club can recommend a good countertop food bin.”

  “Stop!” I exploded. “Just stop.”

  “Honey.” Mom froze, wooden spoon in hand. At last, she was still.

  “Can you please let me do things my way?”

  “All I did was a few helpful things around the house. I’m not questioning your life.”

  “It feels like it, though. You don’t even approve of where I keep my drinking glasses.”

  “They were so far from the dishwasher.” Mom’s smile faltered. “And I cleaned up the rest of the mess from your break-in.”

  “I’m grateful for everything you’ve done, but I need to live my own life. I have to figure out things on my own, make my own choices. If that means that I use bleached toilet paper, so be it.”

  “I just thought—” She backed into a chair at the kitchen table.

  “Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. But we’ve been through this before.”

  She looked at me, eyes wide. “My feelings are fine.”

  “I’m not an asthmatic ten-year-old anymore who needs you to trail after me with an inhaler. You raised me. You fed me, got me to school, listened to my stories, cared for me. Now it’s time to let me go.”

  “Oh, Emmy. It’s just—”

  “It’s just what? Mom, it’s just life.”

  “You’re such a daydreamer. I worry for you. You need someone looking in on you.”

  “No, I don’t. I don’t need anyone. I have to figure it out on my own.” I willed my lower lip to stop trembling.

  My mother had no such compunction and burst into tears. We didn’t seem to be able to see each other today without one of us boohooing. “Honey, I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too, Mom.” I fell into her open hug. Dang it, she got me every time.

  After a few moments of a barley-scented embrace, she released me. “I’ve been thinking about our talk this morning.”

  “Yeah?”

  “You have so much direction. You know what you want in life. You love art and designing kites. Other than raising you and your sister, I never had that kind of focus. I guess now that you’re away and Sunny is in college, I’m at a loss. I’m taking it out on you. You give me purpose.”

  I sat down next to her. Funny, I’d never thought that my mother’s protectiveness had to do with her own needs. I always figured it was because she thought I was somehow lacking.

  “I love knowing that you’re there if I need you,” I said. “But you have to let go a little bit.”

  “You have everything figured out,” she said. “Even your father has his composting group and Watergate-reenactment club. I envy you.”

  I envied her relationship with my father and her seemingly unending fount of energy. “Mom, you’re the best. It’s time for you to put yourself to work finding out what inspires you. Your herbal remedies, for instance. You have a real gift there. Or maybe you could write a cookbook of vegan casseroles.” Okay, I might be casting wide.

  “Carolyn—she’s a gal in my croning circle; I don’t believe you’ve met her—said my tincture worked wonders on her hot flashes.”

  “See? You should explore that.”

  I wasn’t sure she even heard me. Her mind seemed somewhere else. “But I don’t know. You’re asking a lot of me, to leave you alone when Avery is accused of murder and the town seems convinced she’s guilty.”

  “Not everyone in town,” I said, hoping it was true.

  “I just don’t like the idea of you staying here alone. Not now. Unless you have a better alternative, I’m staying.” She pretended to wipe up a spot on the spotless counter. “Or you could come back to Portland with me.”

  No way. Absolutely not. I’d wondered when this would come up. At the same time, she had a point. Staying at the house alone wasn’t the best idea. “How about this? How about if I ask Dave to stay here with me?” He would do it for Avery’s sake if nothing else.

  “That nice man who helped you put together your furniture? Yes, I guess that would work.”

  “It won’t be for long, anyway. I’m sure the sheriff will figure out who the real murderer is.” I mentally crossed my fingers on that one. It seemed like I’d been repeating it a dozen times a day.

  She sniffed and pulled a handkerchief from a pocket to blow her nose. “Okay. But you’ll call me every day. No forgetting this time.” I swore I would. Her shoulders relaxed a bit. “Other than Avery, do you have any idea who the sheriff is questioning?”

  “He doesn’t talk to me about it, Mom.”

  “Knowing you and how you get obsessed, I’m surprised you haven’t given it more thought yourself.” She raised an eyebrow. “Or have you?”

  “Of course I’ve thought about it.” I turned away so she wouldn’t see my eyes.

  “And?” She pulled two bowls from the cupboards and scooped casserole into each. “Follow me to the dining room. Or should we just eat here?” She bent her head toward the kitchen table.

  “Here is good.”

  “So, the suspects,” Mom said. “Who were the chef’s enemies?”

  “He
made a lot of people mad, but not homicidally so. At least, not as far as I can tell.”

  “Like who?”

  Steam rose from the casserole as I dipped in my fork. “Well, last summer he decided at the last minute to take a culinary tour of Asia. He was away for weeks, and his boss was mad. Plus, he had a habit of sometimes not showing up for work.”

  “The murder was premeditated, right? Not a crime of passion. I mean, someone planted evidence against Avery. That says ‘forethought’ to me.”

  Mom was right. “Miles might have also been picking morel mushrooms on someone else’s territory, which is a big deal around here.”

  “Oh dear, yes. Last matsutake mushroom season, the Rileys had the misfortune to camp in the wrong area, and they were chased out at gunpoint. The sheriff said they were lucky it was only that.”

  “Exactly. Plus, some morel hunters had threatened him at the restaurant. The problem is that those mushroom hunters couldn’t have killed him, the sheriff says. They were at the hospital the night he died.”

  Mom’s bowl was already empty. At least I knew she wasn’t still doing that thing where you chew forty times before swallowing. “You know what your father would say.”

  “What?”

  “Follow the money.” She grimaced. “So much swearing when he plays Dick Nixon. I just wish they’d let him be G. Gordon Liddy, like he keeps asking. They say he doesn’t have the mustache for it, but I don’t see why that’s a problem.”

  “Follow the money,” I repeated. Deep Throat’s famous line. It made sense. “Miles had drawn up a design for a restaurant, but he didn’t seem to have any immediate plans to start it up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I could ask around.”

  “Maybe he owed someone. Took out a loan and couldn’t pay it back.”

  “Killing someone who owes you money is hardly the smart way to get repaid.”

  “Maybe it’s more complicated than that. It bears some thinking.”