Live and Let Fly

by Clover Tate

  “Do you really think we’ll learn anything that the sheriff can’t figure out?”

  “You found that insulin vial, right? If it wasn’t for you, Jasmine’s death might have ended up ruled an accident. The sheriff is not infallible.”

  I worried at a piece of fabric. “Say we do poke around a bit. How are we going to find anything out?”

  She folded her arms over her chest. “We start at information central. The post office.”

  chapter ten

  I walked into the post office with more confidence than I felt. The lobby of Rock Point’s post office was no bigger than a small bedroom. Once a customer walked in the door, he or she faced a narrow counter. Post office boxes—maybe fifty of them—were stacked to the right, positioned so that the postmistress could fill their contents from her throne behind the counter.

  And it was a throne. Jeanette was the queen. She looked at me with narrowed eyes.

  “May I help you?” she said.

  “Jeanette.” I put on my most cheerful voice. “How are you? I bet you get thirsty back there. Maybe I can bring you a coffee?”

  I could tell from the look on her face that Jeanette wasn’t having any of it. This was not going to be easy. Everyone knew that Jeanette had her finger on Rock Point’s pulse. You couldn’t get a package from your pharmacy or a letter from your grandmother without Jeanette silently noting it. If you were behind on your electric bill or a subscriber to Cat Fancy, she knew. If you ordered piano music or wore a size 12 wide shoe, she knew that, too. And she remembered. Honestly, why the CIA didn’t hire her right away, I had no idea.

  “I find I’m amply lubricated, thank you. Perhaps you’d like a book of stamps?”

  “Ha-ha-ha,” I choked out. “Sure. Stamps would be great.”

  She shot me a calculating look and said, “What type of stamps? We have flowers, flags, and”—she raised an eyebrow with meaning—“movie stars.”

  “Movie stars would be great.” I cast her what I hoped was a significant glance and angled my way to the counter. “Such a shame about Jasmine Normand.”

  “Indeed.” She made a show of sorting through a few pages of stamps.

  “Her untimely death. So young. So beautiful.” Okay, I was putting it on. I watched Jeanette’s expression. Would she take the bait?

  “Tsk tsk. Such a shame,” she repeated.

  This wasn’t working. It was time to throw something in the kitty. “Have you seen my sister around? I don’t know what I’ll do about her.”

  Jeanette stopped sorting the stamps for a split second, then pulled a sheet of Katharine Hepburn stamps from the stack. “You don’t say?”

  “She ran off from college and insisted on coming to live with me while she figures herself out. Of course, it’s all top secret. No one can know. If our parents found out, we’d be toast.”

  We locked gazes. I had her interest, but barely. Sunny wasn’t going to provide the currency I needed.

  “Hmm,” she said. “Have you seen this?” She lifted a copy of the National Bloodhound. I reached for it, but she drew it back.

  I kept my eyes on the Bloodhound. “If only my sister had some of the drive Jasmine did,” I said. “That would make all the difference.” Naturally, I wouldn’t trade Sunny for Jasmine even if Jasmine came with one-hundred-dollar bills taped to her.

  “Ten fifty for the stamps,” Jeanette said.

  “Is there something in the National Bloodhound I should see?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now, do you want the stamps, or not?”

  Okay. She knew something, but wasn’t ready to give it up. Fine. “The sheriff is very concerned about her accident.” I kept my eyes trained on Jeanette’s. “Very concerned. He told me.” I drew out a sigh. “I shouldn’t say anything more.”

  Now I was getting somewhere. Jeanette turned to face me full-on. She lowered her voice. “Just the day before yesterday—the afternoon Jasmine Normand died—she sent a fat packet. Nearly eight ounces. Overnighted. You know how much that costs?” She looked both ways, although we were alone in the post office. “She sent it to Los Angeles. It might have been to a movie producer.”

  A movie producer. So, Jasmine was up for a role somewhere. But what did that have to do with her death? “I supposed she wouldn’t be getting mail here,” I said.

  “No. Rose gets all Jasmine’s mail. Mostly bills.”

  “Bills?” Why would Jasmine have her bills sent to Rock Point? Surely she had a whole team in Los Angeles to deal with things like that.

  “I think I know what a bill looks like after all these years.” Jeanette waited expectantly for a juicy tidbit in return for hers.

  “I think”—I leaned closer—“Sheriff Koppen suspects it wasn’t an accident at all. It was murder.”

  Jeanette swallowed a cry and drew back. “Murder?”

  Shoot. I’d dropped my payload too soon. I could have collected more. Rookie move. I tried again. “How is Marcus Salek these days? Anything new with him?”

  “Marcus? What? Oh, he got a package from a tool company, but—murder? Really?” Her face had blanched, and she didn’t seem to be able to keep up with her breath.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “I just—I just need to sit down. Someone killed her?” she repeated.

  “I don’t know if I’d go that far.” I’d overdone it. “Maybe he was just concerned because she’s so young and all.”

  “Wait.” She sat up straight. “How do you know this?”

  “Well . . .”

  Jeanette’s gaze pinned me like steel shanks.

  “Well,” I tried again, “when we did the reenactment—”

  “Sheriff Koppen wanted a reenactment?”

  This was getting out of control. I backed away toward the door. “Come to think of it, I have plenty of stamps.”

  “But why were you part of a reenactment?” she said. She waved the National Bloodhound. “Take this. Come back. Did I tell you about the Wilson twins?”

  I grabbed the tabloid and made for the door. Safely down the street, I leaned against the ice cream shop and opened it. Jeanette had thoughtfully folded down a corner, presumably to add more stock to her coffers of gossip. “A Byrd Told Me,” the column read. I squinted at the photo of the columnist. It looked more like Cary Grant than the Nicky Byrd I remembered. I took a deep breath and read.

  Dreamy reality star Jasmine Normand’s premature demise has whipped an ill wind through the coastal town of Rock Point, Oregon, her hometown, where the hunk-bait was visiting to judge a kite contest. A snitch reports that the day the starlet died, a local kite shop owner pitched a hissy fit when the pretty prize made a play for her boyfriend. Could Jasmine Normand’s death be more than an accident?

  • • •

  As I flipped Strings Attached’s sign to “Open” and flipped on the lights, I let the column from the Bloodhound sink in. I’d been called out as a possible murderer in mini-mart newsstands across the nation. Whoa. This was not in my business plan.

  I ruminated over what I’d learned from the postmistress. Jasmine had mailed a package to Los Angeles, then was murdered that night. Maybe something in that package pointed to a motive.

  Or maybe the man I’d seen had simply been a burglar. Every once in a while a rash of burglaries hit the vacation homes now just starting to be built north of town. But what burglar keeps a vial of insulin in his pocket?

  I was pondering these thoughts when the front door’s bell dinged to announce a customer. I put on my best customer face, then let it droop when I saw Sunny. “It’s you,” I said.

  “I’m thrilled to see you, too.” The wind off the ocean had pinkened Sunny’s cheeks, and her dreadlocks were pulled back and tied with a scarf. Bear burst in behind her and did his usual trot around the store, sniffing the corners to see if there was anythin
g new. He disappeared into the workshop, and I heard him lapping from the water dish I kept filled for him.

  “Been out on the cliffs again?” I asked. Sunny wasn’t acting like she’d heard about that awful tabloid article, and I didn’t want to tell her.

  “Yep. I love it there. I can really think. It’s like Mother Nature whispers in my ears.”

  Bear emerged from the workshop and nuzzled my hand. I gave him a thorough scratching between his ears and under his chin. Man, how I loved that dog. Even if all of Rock Point turned against me thanks to the National Bloodhound, at least I’d have Bear.

  “Want some coffee?” I asked Sunny. I’d brought coffee beans in from home after Sunny’s complaint that first day, and now I was glad for it. “I was just going to make a pot. I’m still worn out from last night.”

  “Let me do it,” Sunny said and pushed behind me to the workshop. “What’s this?” She picked up my copy of the Bloodhound and flipped to the turned-down page.

  “Don’t read that.” I tried to snatch the tabloid away, but was too late.

  “It’s talking about you, Emmy.” Openmouthed, she stared at me.

  As she set down the tabloid, the shop’s front door chimed. The slender, dark man I’d seen earlier in the week at the Brew House stood just inside. Most of Rock Point’s visitors were families from up and down the coast or those who had driven the few hours over from Portland. They were generally well-fed, smiling, and clothed in sportswear. I counted on them for sales of simple sports kites and diamond kites or maybe a more whimsical kite with a flower pattern or woven tail. With these customers, I had the satisfaction of seeing children break into wide grins and jump around in place as they anticipated the fun they were going to have down at the beach.

  I’d just recently started attracting kite aficionados who searched out one-of-a-kind, handmade kites. Kite enthusiasts of that sort often had a more bohemian look about them, sporting interesting jewelry and handmade-looking clothing. I could also spot them by the way they touched a kite’s edge and hefted it for its featherweight feel. I looked forward to these customers. We could talk kites all day—artistic subtleties, kites they’d known, the entries at the international kite festival in Cervia, Italy.

  This customer was neither type. Nor did he look like a member of the media. He simply came off as expensive and vaguely international, as if he’d spent his years tanning, buying knife-pleated linen trousers, and sampling high-end rum.

  “May I help you?” I asked.

  “Yes. I understand you make kites, not just sell them.”

  I detected a hint of an accent in his voice, but I couldn’t make out where it was from. “I do. What sort of kite are you interested in?”

  I was making my way to my premier kites, hung above the dangerous toddler level, when I heard a crash come from the kitchen. The customer and I turned toward the door.

  “Sorry,” Sunny said from beyond the door. “Nothing serious. I’ll clean it up.”

  My competition kite was back there. Sunny knew I’d flay her alive if she touched it, but all the same it made me nervous.

  I turned back toward my kites and pulled one down I’d patterned after photos of Monet’s garden. The kite had a basic diamond design, but I’d loosened its edges and deepened its center to boost its flight-worthiness, then adorned the border with rose-petal-shaped snippets of chiffon-weight nylon. The kite’s center showcased a handful of bright yellow daffodils surrounded by the ridged petals of mauve poppies. It had been a challenge to keep the weight from holding the kite down, but the prototype’s test flight on the beach had drawn lots of oohs and ahhs.

  “I’m interested in all sorts of kites. May I?” The customer reached out long brown fingers to touch a petal.

  I handed him the kite. “I call this one ‘Oregon Giverny.’”

  The man’s gaze darted through the shop, even as he appeared to be absorbed in the kite. What did he really want? He surely wasn’t thinking about flying kites on the beach. Not in those polished leather loafers. He flipped the price tag and didn’t even flinch. A good sign. The kite had taken me hours to sew and was priced accordingly.

  Another crash came from the workshop, this time accompanied by Bear’s howling, interspersed with quick yips. I whipped my head toward the workshop door.

  The customer must have heard me gasp. “Perhaps I will return later. You are busy at the moment.”

  Shoot. “Don’t go,” I said. At the same time, all hell was breaking loose at the back of the house.

  The customer already had a hand on the doorknob. “Until later, then.”

  As he left, the door to the kitchen opened slowly. At least the barking and crashing had stopped. Still, from the look on Sunny’s face, I dreaded what she was going to say.

  She said nothing. Instead, she raised a hand above the counter. In it were the shreds of my competition kite.

  chapter eleven

  “I didn’t mean it,” Sunny moaned. “I just wanted to look, and—”

  I snatched the nylon ribbons from her hand. Destroyed. There was no salvaging this kite. My blood began to boil. “Do you know how long it took me to put this kite together? There’s only a week until the festival.”

  “I was just looking at it, then the kettle whistled, and I guess I must have dropped the kite, but it got stuck on the bench, then—”

  “Hush!” I couldn’t hear any more of this. My hands were already cramped up from hand-stitching the panes on the now-wrecked kite. The thought of another eight hours cutting the pieces and laying them out, then days stitching them together, oh-so-carefully cutting away the backs . . . I couldn’t bear it.

  The dog seemed to notice my distress and leaned against my leg.

  “Maybe I could watch the shop for a while, and you can start on your new kite. Which I’ll never ever touch. Ever,” Sunny said in a small voice.

  I silently counted to ten before speaking. “Okay. I know you can’t help it. You take care of customers. I’m going for a walk.” It was either that, or push Sunny into oncoming traffic. “Come on, Bear.”

  We paused on the sidewalk below the shop. A cool breeze blew off the ocean. I thought of my kite and groaned. I had to walk off some of this frustration. I could head up to the cliffs and look at Devil’s Playpen, but remembering sitting there with Jack the day before, I felt self-conscious and decided against it. Jack’s kite was probably finished and waiting safely in a closet somewhere.

  Rock Point was built on a narrow shelf. To the west lay the Pacific Ocean, sometimes soothing and sometimes thundering with surf. To the east, a gentle hill rose to the graceful Victorian homes of Old Town. Just above the hill, into the woods, wound Highway 101. I decided to head up. It would do me good to work up a lather. Only when I was calm would I face Sunny again.

  Bear paused at my feet, waiting to see what direction I took, then trotted a few steps ahead as we walked up to Rock Point’s main drag.

  “Look at the doggie!” A grade-school-aged boy pointed an ice-cream-stained finger at Bear, who, with a dignified look, ignored him. This summer had brought more tourists than I ever remembered from our family vacations in Rock Point over the years.

  “That’s nice. Come on, Dylan.”

  We dodged another family with a caravan of strollers and waited to cross the street. A teenaged couple waited next to us.

  “Where did Jasmine Normand die?” the girl asked.

  “Don’t know,” her boyfriend said.

  “Let’s go,” I said to Bear. I was starting to feel a touch of Marcus’s resentment for tourists.

  Marcus. If I remembered right, he lived in one of the older, smaller homes just south of Old Town. Maybe Sheriff Koppen had been in touch with him by now. With a shudder, I thought about Jasmine’s slashed tires, and the threat she’d reported.

  I led Bear a few blocks past Main Street, then turned right. Aft
er a quarter hour’s walk, leaving the tourists far behind, we were on a quiet street with a gravel shoulder. It was strange how most towns, no matter how touristy, held pockets that the outside world never touched. I bet even Paris had neighborhoods the Eiffel Tower keychain sellers called home, neighborhoods that didn’t show up on the tourist maps. These few blocks of modest homes were Rock Point’s.

  Marcus’s truck was parked in the driveway of a mint green house with a tangle of pink roses beside the door. I paused in front of the house. Mail stuffed the box by the front door. The living room curtains were pulled nearly shut, but the flicker of a television showed between them. I crept closer and peered inside. No one sat in the recliner facing it. I glanced behind me, then flipped through the mail. I could tell from the advertising circulars that there were at least two days of mail here. Jeanette would have a fit and start citing federal code if she knew what I was up to.

  The street was calm. It was too far away, even, for the ocean’s muffled roar, a sound that had become a constant in my life. Each of the little houses was closed up, its owner at work. The homes were too small and run-down to draw out-of-towners to spend the night—yet. Drawing a deep breath, I rapped on the door. No one responded.

  I had turned toward the street when a thought occurred to me. Marcus’s truck was in the driveway, and his TV was on. But no one was home. What if—I swallowed hard—What if Marcus was inside, but not able to answer the door? Maybe he had been at Jasmine’s that night. Maybe he’d seen something he shouldn’t have, and—my heart skipped a beat—the murderer followed him home.

  Back up the driveway I went and, fear be damned, I knocked on the front door. No response. I called Bear and circled the house to the back door, where an overgrown lawn edged a cement patio, bare except for a rusted grill. I knocked again, and, again, no response.

  It was so quiet here, so eerily quiet. If Marcus were inside, maybe—I forced myself to think the word—maybe dead, I needed to know. Grasping the doorknob through the bottom of my T-shirt, I tried the handle. It turned.