by Clover Tate
“I went for a walk along the cliff by the lighthouse,” Sunny started. “In that park—”
“Clatsop Cliffs State Park.” The park was just north of Avery’s house and curved gently toward Rock Point with a view of town from the cliff. It was a lovely walk, but it was useless for flying kites since wind-twisted pines covered its top and the beach below was all rocks. Locals called the rocky area under the cliffs the Devil’s Playpen for the fishing boats that had been dashed upon its boulders before the lighthouse went in.
“Yeah. It gave me time to think.”
“Did you find yourself?” I asked.
“Don’t make fun of me,” Sunny said.
“Stop squabbling, you two.” Avery scooped a handful of onions into a sauté pan. “Honestly, you’d think you were sisters or something. Anyway, I heard a few things down at the café today.”
“Do tell. You want a beer?” I asked Sunny. She was just barely twenty-one, and I hoped she’d say no. She satisfied me by shaking her head.
“First, the kite festival is on,” Avery said. “Darlene came in and said that Caitlin Ruder, Jasmine Normand’s friend—”
“And co-star on Bag That Babe,” Sunny added. “Although she did get knocked out fairly early. I think it was her conniving. Even the hunter noticed it.”
“You watch reality TV and eat meat?” I asked.
“Get used to it,” Sunny said.
“Yeah, well, Caitlin’s going to be the judge,” Avery said. “Darlene asked me to tell you.”
Relief. I tried to remember Caitlin, but my attention at the Brew House had been focused on Jasmine and Jack. I vaguely remembered another Barbie-like blond, maybe slightly taller than Jasmine and with shorter hair. “That’s good news.” I shot a glance at my sister. “I think I can salvage the frame from my old competition kite, although I’ll have to redo the pattern.” Sunny turned away. I felt bad. She hadn’t meant to destroy the kite. She never meant to destroy things, but that didn’t limit the carnage. Over the years, her clumsiness had cost me a butterfly collection, a Popsicle-stick model of Notre Dame, and a Girl Scout uniform, among other things. “I needed to make a few improvements, anyway. The kite will be even better now.”
Sunny looked at me gratefully. “What happens at this festival?”
“Lots of stuff,” Avery said. “It’s an all-day event.”
Bear trotted to Avery and lay down, his furry back to her heels. She was getting skilled at cooking with forty pounds of pooch under her feet.
“First there’s a parade,” I said. “Stella’s”—my friend and part-time employee—“Corvette’s going to be in it this year. Then everyone goes down to the beach. There’s a contest for the biggest kite and one for the funniest kite. Then there’s simply ‘best kite.’ That’s the one I need to win.”
“I have more news,” Avery said as she stripped oregano leaves from their stalks.
“What else?” I asked.
Sunny crouched behind Bear on the kitchen floor to scratch his ears. Avery might be good at cooking around a dog, but I wondered how she’d do with a college sophomore down there, too.
“Jasmine’s husband arrived in town. I made him an iced coffee.”
“Poor guy. He must be in bad shape,” I said.
“It was hard to tell. He’s one of those muscular dudes who doesn’t seem to get very emotional.”
“I feel awful for Rose,” I said. “Jasmine’s sister,” I added for Sunny’s benefit, “and my accountant.”
Just then, my phone broke into “Mamma Mia.” My first instinct was that Sunny should hide, but I stopped myself. There was no way Mom could see all the way from Portland. I answered the phone.
“Emmy,” Mom said, “I’m worried about your sister.”
I turned away from Sunny. Maybe if I couldn’t see her, Mom wouldn’t know she was there. “Why’s that?”
“She’s being strangely evasive. And the last time I talked to her, she told me about an article she’d read in the Wall Street Journal. A businessman’s paper! Imagine that.”
“Not everyone restricts their reading to Mother Jones and Croning Monthly,” I said. “Besides, she’s getting ready for the term. She’s probably too busy to talk.” With my free hand, I crossed my fingers. “She’s finding herself.” Okay, those last words faltered a bit. I peeked back at my sister.
She stared at me in fascination.
“It’s a mother’s instinct. I just wanted to see if you knew anything.”
“Not a thing, Mom,” I lied.
“What’s this I hear on the radio about a reality TV star dying in Rock Point?”
Mom and Dad didn’t watch TV. In fact, their old Prius (which was currently in my possession) had a bumper sticker that commanded “Kill Your Television,” right next to the one that said “Bowl Naked.” At last, someone who didn’t know Bag That Babe. “She was the kite festival judge. Now one of the other contestants is taking over. Caitlin is her name.”
“Caitlin?” Mom said. “Really? My friend Judith thinks she shouldn’t have been kicked off Bag That Babe so early, but I never liked her attitude.”
“Mom! Don’t tell me you’ve seen the show.”
“What? You know I don’t watch TV. I heard about it at the croning circle, that’s all. We can’t talk about hot flashes all the time, you know.” A hand muffled the phone, but my mother’s voice was still clear. “Honey, watch that. I put the sprouts on the windowsill.” Then, hand removed, “Sorry. Your father is refilling the bird feeder and he’s making a mess.”
“So Jasmine Normand’s death is on the news?” I asked. Marcus Salek, the town crank who’d egged me on at the Brew House, wasn’t going to be happy about that. With the media in town, he’d have to double up on his blood pressure meds. I remembered the sheriff’s warning to me, too, and gripped the phone more tightly.
“Public radio did a short clip. Poor girl.”
“Are you still coming down for the kite festival?”
“Definitely,” Mom said. “I’m thinking we might detour by the college on the way back and see how Sunny’s getting on.”
Sunny was still watching me. I raised an eyebrow to her in warning. “Well, thanks for the call.” Almost as soon as I’d hung up, Sunny’s phone rang from inside her tote across the room. “God Save the Queen.” That’d be Mom.
“Hi, Mom,” Sunny said. “The weather’s great. Blue skies.” A pause. “Oh, right. I mean, it’s overcast. Maybe a quick summer rain. No, I’m fine. Perfectly fine.”
chapter six
With trepidation, I walked to the Brew House the next day at lunch. It was time to wipe the ugly scene with Jasmine from Rock Point’s memory with friendly, dignified behavior. Besides, I never did get that tuna melt.
Donning a calm smile, I raised my chin and strode across the café to the back counter. Diana Ross serenaded my arrival from the record player with the theme from Mahogany. “I’d like a tuna melt, please,” I told Trudy, and laid a five and a one on the counter before stuffing another dollar bill into the tip jar.
I turned to face the room, to show the lunchtime regulars that the old levelheaded Emmy was back. My smile dropped with my jaw. The café was busy, sure, but not with regulars. Suited professionals, one with a movie camera hoisted on his shoulder, filled the room.
“Emmy,” Avery whispered from behind me. “They’re here about Jasmine. You’d better watch out. I saw Jeanette giving them an earful this morning. One of them asked me about you, but I refused to tell them where to find you.”
Jeanette, Rock Point’s postmistress, was the town’s locus for information. She knew everyone’s business, but good luck if you wanted to hear it. She was willing to dish, all right, but you’d better have information to offer that was at least as good as what you came for. She might have cracked for a few insider movie-star tips, though, and this crowd looked more l
ike the nighttime entertainment network than the New York Times.
“Can’t you make them go away?” I pleaded.
“Maybe they won’t recognize you. Besides, business is great. I’m already out of scones.”
A sleek-haired brunette with glossy coral lips approached me. At her shoulder, a bearded man wielded a camera. “Ms. Adler?”
“What?” I knew my eyes darted side to side. I probably looked like I’d just stolen a car and this reporter was the police. I gripped the edge of the counter behind me and tried to channel poise.
“I recognize you from your charming shop.”
This was a lie. She’d never been in Strings Attached, and we both knew it.
She smiled a confidential smile that made the rest of the room melt away—almost. The camera was now leveled at my face. “I’m Meredith Sedillo with Presto Entertainment. Such an awful tragedy about Jasmine Normand. I understand you shared words with her during her last day alive.”
Think, Emmy, think. I cleared my throat. “Jasmine was here to judge the kite festival. I own Strings Attached and make beautiful kites by hand. Come see me down by the waterfront, or find my kites online at—”
“You fought with her, am I right?” the reporter said, her mouth tightening.
“You can’t fight the beauty of my wonderful kites,” I said. My voice had jumped to soprano territory, but I was sticking to my script.
“I understand you accused Ms. Normand of making moves on your boyfriend.” The honey had evaporated from her tone.
“A beautiful kite like those from Strings Attached makes moves in the sky that will thrill your heart.” My own heart was pounding. I had no future in marketing talk, that was for sure.
“Come on,” the reporter said to the cameraman. She threw a disgusted look over her shoulder.
Trudy tapped my arm and handed me a tuna melt. Keeping a wide smile pasted across my face, I took the sandwich to the table the reporter had just abandoned. Another reporter, this one a man with teeth as white as Chiclets, took a seat at my table before asking, “May I?”
“Strings Attached,” I said and spelled out its website.
He chuckled. “I admire your spunk.”
I narrowed my eyes. I detested the word “spunk.” Who did he think I was, Tinker Bell? “I’m eating lunch.”
“And in such a wonderful town, too. Perhaps you’d like to share a few words with the nation about Jasmine Normand?” He nodded to a cameraman at the table behind him. The man lifted the camera to his shoulder.
I’d had enough. I put down my knife. “Leave me alone. You’re not going to get anything out of me. Let me eat in peace.”
“I know you don’t—” the man started.
“Didn’t you hear the girl?” a voice bellowed. “Get the hell away from her. In fact, get out of Rock Point altogether.” Marcus Salek stood at my side, hands on hips. Where I’d merely been intensely irritated, Marcus was mad enough that spittle clung to the side of his mouth. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “Out!”
The man looked at his partner with the camera. They stood. Before he left, he smiled at me. “I hope we’ll meet again, Ms. Adler.”
“Out. All of you. Go dig up your trash somewhere else.” Marcus opened the Brew House’s front door and gestured down the porch to the street.
Surprisingly, they listened. One by one, strangers in city clothes filed from the café, leaving coffee cups and half-eaten muffins behind.
“Are you all right?” Marcus asked me, his voice now gentle.
I looked up in surprise and gratitude. He’d never shown me this kind of care before. In fact, I’d suspected he barely tolerated me, since I’d brought Strings Attached to town. “Yes. Thank you.”
“Damned muckrakers,” he said. All at once, his shaggy brows and unkempt beard looked adorable, not bedraggled. With better grooming, he might actually be good-looking. Maybe he wasn’t so bad, after all.
“Thank you,” I repeated.
“I’d best be getting on,” he said. “The Brew House makes a great tuna melt.”
“Agreed.” I’d been looking forward to this sandwich for two days now.
He scooped up half of my tuna melt and wrapped it in a napkin.
“Marcus! That’s my sandwich.”
“Not as good cold, but it’ll do.” I watched him carry it out of the café.
Shoot. At least I had half a sandwich left. Two bites in, a stranger approached my table. I was wary, but he couldn’t have been a reporter. Not with the pudgy frame that lifted his pants to his ankles and the row of crooked bottom teeth that showed as he smiled. A fine layer of makeup covered acne scars.
“I admire the deft way you handled those sharks.” The man’s voice was silver-smooth, at odds with his schlumpy appearance.
“Thank you.” To show I was finished with him, I returned my attention to my sandwich.
“Nicky Byrd.” He slid his card across the table. “Nicholas Byrd III, National Bloodhound,” it read. In the corner was the tabloid’s logo, a jowly hound holding a magnifying glass.
“Nicky Byrd the Third?” I said.
“What about it?”
“Look, I’m just trying to get lunch. You heard me. I’m not going to tell you anything. You can leave now.” I bent to my sandwich and studiously ignored him. The moment of enjoying the tuna melt was over, though. My mouthful tasted like cardboard.
“What a lovely town. I’m reveling in Rock Point’s beguiling assets. Its residents are charming and colorful, and the crystalline air scented with salt and balsam fir refreshes me. I’d love to learn more about it.”
Since when did Charles Dickens write for tabloids? He scratched his nose. He could have used a manicure. I returned my attention to my sandwich. Maybe I could freeze him out.
“Into this idyllic atmosphere comes Jasmine Normand, born of this small town, but milled in Hollywood. Alas, you can’t go home again.” He tapped the table. “That’s Thomas Mann.”
“I know,” I said, not removing my gaze from my plate.
“And she tragically dies in the arms of Morpheus.”
My sandwich was almost done. All this fast chewing had really dried out my throat. “Sad,” I choked out.
“Unless there is more to the story.”
A few locals had wandered into the café, and the usual friendly chatter had arisen again around me. Trudy had changed the record, and Joni Mitchell sang to us about clouds getting in her way.
Now the reporter had my attention. “Like what?”
“Those hacks from the TV stations, they want a quick quote, and they’re gone. They’ll run some stock footage of Jasmine, try to wring a few tears from the story, and they’ll move on. They’re not real journalists.”
“You implied that Jasmine might not have died of natural causes,” I said. “What makes you think that?”
“Why don’t you tell me what you know, and we’ll figure it out together? I might be able to supply a few missing pieces.”
The reporter’s oily tone left me feeling in need of a shower. “Forget it. I have nothing to say. Good-bye.” I grabbed my plate and made for the tub where customers left their dirty dishes.
Nicky Byrd rose and dramatically slipped on a pair of sunglasses that would have looked cool on Roy Orbison but only served to accent this guy’s nerdiness. “Very well. We’ll be meeting again.”
• • •
That evening, Stella was at her door when I arrived to visit, looking as elegant yet down-to-earth as ever in a European-cut linen tunic and leggings. She glowed. “I got tickets to the Lovepipers concert next week.”
“That’s fantastic. Are they at the casino?” If my arms hadn’t been full of kite-making supplies, I’d have hugged her. The Lovepipers were a sunshine pop group Stella had adored during high school in the 1970s. Whenever I came in the shop
after Stella had been working, it was their music she’d been playing.
“Yep. Oldies tour to Spirit Mountain. I was on the phone all morning. I’m sure they’re sold out by now.” She pointed toward my supplies. “Do you need help carrying that up?”
“No, I’ve got it.” I’d struggled from the car with a bag of nylon scraps in one hand and the salvaged kite frame in the other.
Stella met me at the foot of the stairs, anyway, and took the bag. Once I was in Stella’s home, I felt my tension roll away. My sister, the kite contest, the reporters—all the drama evaporated. From the view over Rock Point to the ocean, where the sun would set in a few hours, to Stella’s paintings and waxed oak floors, I always felt at home here. After her husband’s death, Stella had retired from teaching middle school and settled in Rock Point to take up a long-delayed career of painting. Now her canvases of landscapes hung in galleries up and down the West Coast.
“Why don’t you set up at the dining room table?” she asked.
“If you don’t mind, I’ll spread out here.” Stella’s living room centered on a low, large round table in front of the fireplace. Around the table sat mismatched chairs, each from a different era, like a tribal meeting of bohemian artists. I spread my pattern over the table and placed the frame on top. The first step was to cover the frame completely in Tyvek.
“Are you doing the same pattern as the first kite? The landscape of Rock Point?” Stella set a glass of chilled pinot gris next to me. Her white cat, Madame Lucy, one eye blue, one amber, stared from the pink 1950s armchair across the table.
“Yes, but since I have to redo it, I’m going to tweak it a bit and add more detail on the bluffs. Plus, I thought I’d make the horizon a sunrise this time.” Like the wrecked kite, the background would be blue. I laid the nylon over the table and pressed it flat with my palms.
“I’m glad the kite festival is still happening, at least. Jasmine Normand, dead. In my mind, she’ll always be snoozing through an episode of Bag That Babe.”