by Clover Tate
“It’s wonderful,” Stella added. “One of our friends in Rock Point, Marcus Salek, used to live here. He told us how much he loves it here.”
“Here?” the waitress said. “Ridley’s Chowder?”
“Is there a reason he wouldn’t?” Stella asked.
“No, I just . . .” She looked perplexed. “No.”
“Do you know Marcus?” I couldn’t help asking. Stella glared at me. I concentrated on my chowder.
“Sure.” The waitress managed to draw the word out into three syllables. “He said he loved it, huh?”
My pulse leapt. She knew Marcus.
“I assumed he meant here,” Stella said. Obviously covering all her bases.
To my surprise, the waitress slid into the booth next to me. Someone who had been eating pie at the counter turned around and waved his wallet. “In a minute,” she yelled to him.
We’d struck the jackpot.
Stella set down her spoon. “I’m just going to come right out and ask. What happened?”
The waitress swallowed. Her eyelashes lowered, and I wondered if she was going to leave and not come back except to give us the check. Stella continued to look at the waitress with her patented gaze of concern and firmness.
“Naomi,” the waitress said.
I could barely breathe. Naomi, what? Stella caught my gaze. Hush, it seemed to say.
“His wife,” Stella said.
“My little sister,” the waitress countered.
Holy smokes. The diner seemed to turn silent, and the ocean outside froze. Even the chowder ceased to appeal. I bit my lip to keep from asking what had happened, if she’d seen Marcus lately.
“I’m sorry,” Stella simply said.
She drew a long breath. “They never found who did it. Never. And the baby . . .”
Stella placed her hand over Naomi’s sister’s hand. “What happened?”
The waitress’s gaze lost focus. “She was crossing the road, and she was hit.” She looked first at Stella, then at me. “They say it happened instantly, she couldn’t have felt it.”
“And she died,” Stella whispered.
Junior, the old sportswriter, had been right.
“Horrible. It was horrible. They never did find out who did it. Probably a tourist. There’s so much traffic through town these days.” She picked up a napkin and smoothed it on the table. Stella let her talk. “It was so hard on all of us. But worst on Marcus. He seemed to lose his mind.”
“Marcus?” I said. Stella raised an eyebrow at me. I stared at my chowder bowl.
“Yes,” the waitress said. “First, he shut himself in the house. Refused to come out. Wouldn’t eat and barely slept.” She pushed the napkin to the side. “I tried to sit with him, talk to him, but he wouldn’t have it. We all tried.”
“So awful,” Stella said.
“He buried Naomi in his family’s plot east of Rock Point. Then one day—one day he left.” She fluffed her hair with both hands. I had the impression this gesture was pure habit. “Never saw him again.”
“Never?” I couldn’t help asking.
The waitress pulled a locket through the neck of her short-sleeved blouse. She unclipped the front, and Stella and I leaned in to look. The locket held two photos: one of a blond toddler sitting in a patch of daisies, and one trimmed from a wedding photo. The same wedding photo I’d seen at Marcus’s house. This was Naomi Salek.
“She’s lovely,” Stella murmured.
The waitress snapped the locket shut and slipped it down her blouse. “I stopped by Rock Point once, on my way north, but he wouldn’t see me.”
“Why, I wonder?” Stella said. “Why would he cut off his past like that?”
The waitress opened her mouth to say more, but the man at the counter interrupted. “Ruth, you gonna cash me out, or what?”
The spell was broken. The waitress seemed to come back to the present. She rose, all business. “Tell Marcus I said hello. Haven’t seen him since the funeral. I don’t want his to be the next time we visit.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or not.
chapter seventeen
The drive back to Rock Point was quiet. Both Stella and I were caught up in our own thoughts.
After nearly half an hour of silence but for the Corvette’s hum, Stella said, “Do you really think he would have killed his own wife?”
“I can’t see it. Not after what Ruth said. He was heartbroken. But what do I know?”
“He left town after her death and never went back. Like a guilty man would. Or a grief-stricken one.”
“Why did he run this time?” I asked. “If he didn’t kill Jasmine, then he’s just plain foolish.”
“He’s certainly painted a target on his back.” Stella popped in the cassette of the Lovepipers again, but it only took one of their sunshine pop songs before she ejected the tape.
“Assume Marcus is off the list. Who else is a suspect?” Stella asked.
“Besides me, you mean?”
“Sheriff Koppen knows better than that. Forget that Bloodhound reporter right now. Now. Who else?”
I thought back. “I suppose her husband should be at the top of the list. That’s what they say, anyway. Plus, the man I saw in the kitchen window was tall, like him.”
“Do you know where he was the night of the murder?” Stella slowed as we approached one of Highway 101’s many blind corners.
“I heard he showed up in Rock Point the next day, and that he’s driving a rental SUV. He’s staying with Rose. I don’t know where he was before he came to Rock Point.”
“It might be worth finding out.”
“True.” I could ask Rose in a roundabout way. She’d probably know. “Caitlin was at the beach house the whole time. She should be a suspect.”
Stella shook her head. “I bet the sheriff had a heck of time getting anything out of her.”
“No kidding. The night of the reenactment, she seemed resentful to even have to go through it. The sheriff tried to pin her down about which bedroom she’d slept in, and even that information was tough to get.”
“Seems strange, though, that she’d kill Jasmine, then stick around in Rock Point.”
“She’s the new kite festival judge,” I pointed out.
“That’s hardly a sufficient lure for someone like Caitlin.”
We were driving through forest now. The trees whooshed by, and the air that came through the cracked windows cooled. “As Caitlin’s motive, what about Kyle, Jasmine’s husband? Maybe Caitlin wants him. That would explain why she might have killed Jasmine and why she’s sticking around town.”
“Has anyone seen them together?” Stella asked.
Only in a small town like Rock Point could you ask that question. If Caitlin had been stepping out with Kyle, word would have been at the Brew House by the next morning. “I haven’t heard anything.”
“Me, neither.”
“Who else would gain from Jasmine’s death?” I asked. “Wait a minute. What about the National Bloodhound reporter? He popped up instantly, like he was waiting in a hole next to the road for the news.”
“You think he would have killed Jasmine just to get the scoop?”
I pondered this. “No. He seems more like the type to be drafting his keynote speech for the chess club’s monthly tournament.”
Stella chuckled. “The boy does need to let out the hem on his pants. And that makeup only makes the acne scars stand out more. He’s stuck around town a lot longer than the other reporters did, though, almost like he knew it would turn out to be a murder.”
“There’s one more possibility,” I said. “Maybe it wasn’t murder at all. Jasmine’s overdose might have been an accident, like they thought at first.”
“Or suicide. There’s a lot about Jasmine we don’t know.”
S
tella was right. Except for the bit I’d seen of Bag That Babe and our brief interaction at the Brew House, Jasmine was a blank slate to me. “If it wasn’t murder, why would she inject herself with a different brand of insulin?”
“Maybe she was using a leftover bottle. I imagine the sheriff is tracking down her insulin purchases.”
“Okay, say it was an odd bottle she had around. Why would she throw it off the deck?”
“Good question.” We were coming into Rock Point now, passing Lenny’s filling station, where he’d almost certainly be taking note of Stella’s Corvette, perhaps to pass on to Jeanette that we’d been out somewhere. In a couple of miles, we’d be through town and at Avery’s house. “Could Jasmine have been on the deck when she injected herself? The bottle might simply have rolled away.”
I closed my eyes and imagined the path. I’d only seen it in the dark, by flashlight. The bottle would have had to make some lucky bounces to get that far down the path. “It seems unlikely, but I can’t say for sure. Don’t know.”
“I wish we could cross that possibility off the list.”
“Just one more possibility,” I said. There was so much we didn’t know.
• • •
When Stella dropped me off at Avery’s, Dave was outside, carrying a ladder to the shed. From the new stretch of unpainted siding on the house, I could tell he had been helping Avery again with the nearly constant repairs the old Cook house seemed to demand.
I waved good-bye to Stella and turned to Avery, who was on the lawn in front of the porch.
“Did you have a good trip?” Avery asked.
“We found out that Marcus’s wife was killed in a hit-and-run accident.” Dave now joined us. “Are you staying for dinner?” I asked him.
He snuck a look at Avery, as was his habit. “No. I’d love to, but I’m leading an evening kayak trip.”
“Maybe the day after tomorrow?” Avery said.
A smile lit Dave’s face. “Sounds good.” He waved as he backed his car out of the drive.
Sunny and Bear bounded down the porch. “Finally, you’re home,” Sunny said. “What did you find out?”
I told them about Naomi Salek, her unborn baby, and her sister’s story about Marcus. “I understand now why Marcus is so anti-tourist.”
“Is he anti-tourist enough to kill the kite festival’s judge?”
“That’s the question,” I said, although in my heart of hearts, I couldn’t see him doing it.
“Love, grief, and sacrifice,” Sunny said. “Something for me to contemplate if you let me take your Prius to the cliffs.”
“Here. And good riddance.” I handed her my keys.
Bear jumped into the back. Sunny slipped into the driver’s seat and rolled down the window. “Not much happened at the store. Between customers, I set up a ledger for you.” She started the car. “Oh, and your kite is safe,” she added quickly.
A few minutes later, both she and Dave were gone. I helped Avery clear away the tools and sweep the sawdust away from the house’s foundation.
Avery and I had grown up together, spending summers in Rock Point when my family visited, then been roommates at art school. We’d talked about boys all the time. In my case, it was about boys I liked who wouldn’t give me the time of day. With Avery’s sweet nature and shy smile, she had more luck. Strangely, now that men and relationships were a real part of our lives, we didn’t talk about them as much.
So it felt awkward for me to ask. Maybe it was Jasmine’s death, or maybe it was the thought of Naomi Salek and Marcus’s grief, but I couldn’t hold it back any longer. “You know Dave has a thing for you, right?”
For a moment, I wasn’t sure Avery had heard me. She picked up a scrap of wood and carried it to the firewood pile in the shed. I leaned on the broom as I waited for her to return.
“I know,” she said.
“I think you like him, too.” Avery didn’t seem gaga, but she always found excuses to invite Dave over or stop by his store. Yet, as far as I knew, they’d never even held hands.
“I do. He’s a good man. But . . .”
“But what?”
“What if it doesn’t work out?”
“I know.” This was not the response I’d give just anyone, but, over the winter, Avery had dated the Tidal Basin’s charismatic chef, Miles. Although they had really cared for each other, they’d had a difficult relationship. Naturally, she’d hesitate to start something new.
“Dave is no Miles,” I said softly. Definitely not. Dave was quiet, dependable, yet had a wicked sense of humor once you got to know him. “Has he said anything to you?”
She stripped off her work gloves. “No. I think he wants to, though.”
He was being sensitive. Plus, Dave had patience. If he thought the prize was worth it, he’d wait it out. Jack, on the other hand, was more apt to act first and ask questions later.
“What do you want in a relationship?” I asked. In high school, it would have been a date to the prom and the social credibility of having a boyfriend, no matter who it was.
“I’ve been thinking about this a lot since Miles. Drama doesn’t appeal to me anymore. I don’t want to stay up late wondering if he really cares about me. I’m tired of trying to read cryptic signals.” She started up the stairs to the front porch. “What about you?” she asked as we went inside.
“The same.” I went to the refrigerator and found a beer. The day called for it. “I guess I want a co-conspirator, someone who has my back. Someone I trust and respect. Someone on my team.”
“We sure sound like a couple of romantics,” Avery said, “What about Jack? What’s going on there?”
It was my turn to be evasive. “I’m not sure.”
“Emmy, he asks you out, and you hem and haw.” She nailed me with her gaze. “And eventually go. And then go the next time. And you can’t tell me you aren’t attracted to him.”
“I know. I’m not ready yet, I guess. I just got to Rock Point and started Strings Attached. I’m not even sure the shop will make it through the winter.” I remembered the compliments from Cheryl at Pacific Winds kite shop that afternoon and warmed. “I don’t even have my own place.” I touched Avery’s arm. “Not that I don’t love it here. But with Jack, well, I want to be more established first. More independent.”
“I get it.”
The sun was low now and cast long shadows through the firs surrounding the house. “I want to do it right. That means I need to be more stable first.”
Avery looked at me as if she had a lot to say, but the only words that left her mouth were, “I see.”
Later that night when Sunny was in bed, worn out from “getting in touch with the real me,” and Avery was reading alone on the porch by a little yellow light, surrounded by the velvety dark, Jack called. We made a date for the next night.
chapter eighteen
As Sunny had promised, my kite was safe, exactly where I’d left it the morning before. I exhaled in pure relief and settled in to stitch the wispy lengths of tail that would portray the wind as they danced and rippled in the real wind above the ocean. Maybe I’d add a few ribbons of silver with the blue. I held a blue strip of Mylar up to the light next to a scrap of silver. Could work.
As I stitched, morning sun spilled through the kitchen window, creating a buttery puddle of light that moved across the floor as the hours went by. Sometimes I listened to music or audiobooks while I worked, but today I wanted to be alone with my thoughts. Every once in a while, the bell at the shop’s door rang, and Sunny’s perky voice greeted a customer. She was doing a good job. I even heard her recommend a particular kite “for its value.” Maybe there was something to this finance thing after all. I’d rarely known her to be so excited about a subject. Even when she was really into cob structures, she only got halfway into building a bench before she’d abandoned it. Then there was her gu
errilla mandala phase. She’d joined a group of people who showed up in the middle of the night and painted giant Buddhist geometric designs on the street. Come to think of it, she’d said they’d kicked her out when she’d criticized a mandala’s symmetry. She always did have a mind for order.
The door opened a crack, and Sunny’s head popped in. “Do we have any more high-test line?”
“Check the box under the soft kites.”
“Thanks.” The door closed, and I heard Sunny showing the customer options for length.
With my fingers busy, my mind found its meditative groove, and uneasiness set in. Someone had murdered Jasmine. Marcus was known for his bad temper, and now he’d vanished. I understood why the sheriff suspected him, but remembering Ruth’s story, I had my doubts.
Stella and I had pretty well hashed out the possibilities for Jasmine’s murderer, but they all felt thin. Rose had expressed frustration at her sister, but, thinking of Sunny, I got it. Frustration wasn’t a strong enough motive for murder. The killer could be a crazed fan, but talk hadn’t surfaced about anyone strange in town who might have done it. A shiver ran through me, and I set down the sewing needle. The Tan Man. He was handsome and slick and manicured. Jasmine would look good next to him. No one seemed to know what his business was in town. And he’d been in Lincoln City. Could he have followed us?
From the shop, the door’s bell jangled. Sunny’s sweet voice sounded strained. “You’ll need to wait outside,” she was saying. “My sister will get in touch with you when she has time.”
“I think she’ll be very interested in what I have to say.” Nicky Byrd’s clipped tones were unmistakable.
I tensed. Maybe Sunny would be able to run him off.
“Interested or not, she’s not here. You’ll have to go.”
The floorboards creaked, undoubtedly from Nicky’s bulk. “I took the liberty of peeking in the back windows just now, and she was in the kitchen, needle in hand, the very picture of Rockwellian home life.”
I bit off an oath and set my kite aside. As I pushed out my chair, the workshop’s door burst open, and Sunny, wild-eyed, entered. “Nicky Byrd the Third is here.”