by Clover Tate
“Yes. We met the other day.” I extended a hand. “Emmy Adler.”
His handshake, thankfully, was firm but not the clamping I’d feared. My fingers tingled from contact charisma. “You really were hurtling out of that restaurant. The food’s that bad?”
“The food’s great.” My breath was coming back now. “It’s the company that was bothering me.”
Kyle perked up at that. “Something you need me to do?”
“No. It’s fine. I just—It’s fine.” I couldn’t believe that I’d ever suspected Kyle of his wife’s murder. He was a big guy, sure, but protective and sweet. “Are you going in for dinner?”
“Yeah. I’m here with Rose.”
“Where is she?” The parking lot was dark, and except for the ocean’s grumble, quiet.
“A few minutes behind me. I came ahead to look around first.”
“The food’s good, you don’t need to worry about that. Unless—” Now I got it. “It’s that tabloid reporter, isn’t it?”
“Nicky Byrd?” Kyle said with a hint of sneer in his voice. “He wouldn’t dare mess with me. No, it’s—”
“Kyle. And Emmy,” Rose said. She came from around the corner. I’d never seen her in heels. She’d even put on a dress and a touch of lipstick. The glamour that had made Jasmine a star was easy to see in Rose’s face now, even with the practical set of Rose’s mouth and her wash-and-wear hair.
“Hi, Rose,” I said. “You look terrific.”
Rose ignored me. “Is she here?”
“Who?” I asked.
“I haven’t been inside yet,” Kyle said.
“Is who here?” I repeated.
Kyle and Rose exchange glances. “I suppose it’s all right to tell her,” Rose said. “Caitlin has been bothering us.”
“She won’t leave me alone,” Kyle said. “I’ve tried to be polite, but I’m afraid she’s taking things the wrong way.” The shadows under Kyle’s eyes deepened in the night’s faint light, but they were genuine.
“I just finished dinner inside, and I didn’t see her,” I said. Jack would be out any minute now. I was a little peeved he hadn’t followed me, even though I’d forbidden him to. “I never watched Bag That Babe, but they say that Caitlin was jealous of Jasmine. Maybe that extended to you, too.”
Kyle started to speak, but Rose lifted a hand and interrupted. Kyle’s mouth hardened. “It’s a mess,” Rose said.
“And now you have to clean it up,” I said. Something was going on here. How much would they reveal? “The media, the bills, the movie contracts.”
“What do you know about Jasmine’s business?” Kyle asked.
A waft of fragrance drifted from Rose. If I wasn’t mistaken, it had a kick of jasmine. “Nothing, really. I just figured it couldn’t be easy.” I kept my expression neutral.
“Oh, Kyle,” Rose said. “We don’t need to hide it. Not now. Not from Emmy.” She glanced at her feet, then at me. “Jasmine was pretty much bankrupt when she died.”
I gasped. Sure, Jeanette from the post office had said that she forwarded bills to Rose. But Jasmine had carried a designer bag and rented an expensive beach house. “She’s a celebrity. You’d think she’d have money to burn,” I said.
“That’s the trouble. She did burn it.” Rose’s hard tone softened. “Listen, I wouldn’t want it to get out, but Jasmine had a gambling problem.”
“What?” The thought of sleepy Jasmine sitting around a poker table with a bunch of card sharks flabbergasted me.
“It’s true,” Kyle said, looking into the distance.
“Gambling,” I said, just to be sure I’d heard right.
“Mostly online, but she’d hit up a casino if she got the chance,” Rose said. “I think that’s why she didn’t want to stay with me. She didn’t want it to get in the way of her hobby.”
I wondered if the sheriff had any idea. It certainly gave credence to the theory that Jasmine might have killed herself. “I’m sorry. For both of you. It must be awful.”
“We’re planning her funeral. Nothing elaborate or expensive,” Rose said.
“Cremation and a private ceremony later this week,” Kyle added. He straightened, and Rose followed his gaze. I turned at the sound of footsteps in the gravel behind me. It was Jack.
“Emmy,” he said and grabbed my elbow, pulling me close. “Good. You haven’t left yet.”
The night was full of surprises. I closed my mouth and did my best to gather my wits. “You know Rose, of course,” I said to Jack. “This is Kyle, Jasmine’s husband.”
Kyle raised an eyebrow at me. “Everything is all right here?”
Jack’s hand was warm on my arm, and gentle. Yes, things were fine. I nodded.
“I guess we’d better be going,” Rose said. Kyle and Rose rounded the corner to the Tidal Basin. And Jack kissed me.
• • •
Jack’s kiss actually took more breath out of me than slamming into Kyle had. When Jack and I separated, he said, “I think something went wrong back there. Let’s try the conversation again.”
Wow. I still couldn’t speak. I leaned against the Suburban once again.
“I mean,” he said, “if you want to.”
“Yes. Sure.” Whew. “I’m sorry I was so rude. Will you forgive me?”
He smiled. “Forgiven.”
“Why don’t we go down to the docks?”
Hand in hand, we walked the block to the old dock. I glanced toward Ace’s boat. Its windows were dark. We were alone. We walked all the way down the dock, past the old fishing boats, past the family boats, and sat at the end, our legs dangling toward the sea.
“Just before you came to the parking lot, Rose and Kyle dropped a bomb,” I said. It was easier to talk about this than about whatever was happening between us.
“Yeah? You were talking with them a few minutes.” Jack’s shoulder brushed against mine.
“Apparently, Jasmine had a gambling problem. Rose says she was completely broke.”
“That day I bought her a latte at the Brew House, her credit card had been declined. She seemed genuinely surprised.”
“She’s an actress, remember,” I said. There was no doubt in my mind that she wanted to make time with Jack. Who wouldn’t?
“The sheriff really thinks it’s murder, huh?”
“An insulin overdose. Marcus is the sheriff’s top suspect, especially now that he’s skipped town.”
“Hmm. Something doesn’t seem right about that.”
The ocean was relatively calm, sending rhythmic waves past the dock. The night smelled crisp and briny. Some people turned their noses up at the scent of seaweed and fish and salt water, but I loved it.
“What doesn’t seem right?” I asked.
“Marcus, for one,” Jack said. “He’s a simple guy. If he were aiming to kill someone, he’d conk them over the head, not orchestrate an overdose. No, I don’t see him doing it.”
“The sheriff said that someone slashed Jasmine’s tires and sent a threatening note.”
“Now that sounds more like Marcus.”
Jack’s shoulder bumped me again. I was tempted to lean into it. “Then why didn’t he stick around? Why run off?”
Jack took a moment to think it over. “Maybe he did threaten Jasmine but didn’t kill her. He knew, though, he’d have a hard time proving his innocence, especially if he was at her beach house the night she died, slashing her tires.”
Yes. “I’ve had the same thought. After all, why would you bother to slash someone’s tires if you planned to murder her?”
“Kyle’s the one I’d worry about.”
This surprised me. “Because of the fact that most murders are committed by intimate partners?”
“No, I mean that he’s a tough SOB who likes to take risks.”
“What makes you say th
at?”
“His background in football. He was always the guy who’d try the Hail Mary, and a lot of times he got away with it. Maybe he didn’t like the idea of having a bankrupt gambler for a wife, and he didn’t want word to get around. It could have hurt his career.”
I had seen a man Kyle’s size in Jasmine’s kitchen, I was almost sure. “Stella thinks we should track down where he was that night, too.”
“What do you mean, ‘we’ should track down? This is the sheriff’s business.”
I might have said, Sure, if the sheriff cared to look beyond Marcus, close this case for good, and get the National Bloodhound off my back, but Jack was staring at me. He seemed to be examining the contours of my face. Which, by the warmth I felt, was flushing Caspian Pink.
“Uh—” My heart was kicking into overdrive. I forced my mouth to form the words. “Maybe we should talk about us. Straighten things out. I guess I wasn’t very clear back there.”
Jack drew away. I sure knew how to throw a bucket of cold water on a hot situation. He swallowed. “Okay.”
I clasped my hands in my lap. “I like you a lot.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Okay.”
Was he ever going to say anything except “okay”?
“Things in my life are so unsettled now with the shop and my sister. Plus, I didn’t want to say anything before, but that reporter from the National Bloodhound seems determined to make a public spectacle out of me.”
“What? He can’t prove anything.”
“He’s not the law. He doesn’t have to.”
“You could sue him for libel.”
“Maybe. By then it would be too late. Strings Attached would be history.”
Jack drew a hand from my lap and clasped it in his. “You’re going through a rough patch.”
“Right.” He seemed to get it.
“And you want to slow things down until you feel sure of yourself.”
“Right.” His hand was so warm and comforting.
“So you want me to lay off for a while.”
“Right.” I was having trouble keeping my breathing even.
“Is that all you’re going to say? ‘Right’?”
The clouds layered the moon like Salome’s seven veils. Here at the end of the dock, we were in our own quiet space, with the ocean lapping around us.
“Kiss me,” I said.
chapter twenty-one
The next morning, humming under my breath, I trotted up the sidewalk to Strings Attached and stopped short. Sitting on the porch steps was Nicky Byrd. I crossed my arms in front of my chest. “May I help you?”
He extended a hand. “How are you this fine morning?”
I stared at his hand until he pulled it back. “I don’t have a lot of time to talk. This is high tourist season. I’ll be selling kites.”
“I’m quite interested in kites. Perhaps I’d like to purchase one.”
I dropped my arms to my sides. “Really?”
“When in Rome, as they say. I’d enjoy taking purview of your wares.”
“You’re not just saying that to get my attention?”
“‘Throw your dreams into space like a kite, and you do not know what it will bring back, a new life, a new friend, a new love, a new country,’” he quoted. “That’s Anaïs Nin.”
“Fine.” Casting him a suspicious glance, I continued up the steps and unlocked Strings Attached. “Give me a minute while I open up.”
Nicky Byrd followed me in. I flipped on the lights and hung a windsock with “Open” appliquéd down its side in spring green from the porch railing. It was another fine day. The morning sun lit the waves with brilliant sparkles, and the gulls were noisy on the beach. I propped the door open with a rock and returned inside.
“What kind of kite would you like?” I asked.
“Um. I’m not sure.”
“Do you have much experience flying kites?” There was no use selling him something that required technical skill to keep afloat if he didn’t know what he was doing.
“I spend a lot of time working. I don’t have much of a chance to get outdoors.” He was fingering a package that held a box kite.
I took the package from his hand and put it back on its hook. “Then you’re going to want a diamond kite. They’re the easiest to fly.”
“A diamond kite?”
“Like this.” I pulled down a blue diamond kite that I’d put together from a kit and hung with my art kites as a display model. “You know, the traditional kite shape.” Maybe I should have tried to hook him on one of my handmade kites—it would have paid better—but if he was going to abandon it in his motel room, it might as well be something any kid could pick up and fly.
Nicky wasn’t looking at the kite. “I imagine you have an especially nice kite for the contest.”
What was he up to? “I do, in fact. Stick around and see.” A photo of my competition kite in the National Bloodhound would be a real coup, although the tabloid would have preferred autopsy photos, I was sure, or at the very least a photo of Jasmine’s cellulite. Assuming she had any.
“Now Jasmine Normand isn’t judging it,” he added.
What was he getting at? “No, I suppose she won’t be judging the contest from beyond the grave.”
“Certainly not. Her cremation is today,” he said, keeping his gaze on me.
“How do you know?”
Now he was the one crossing his arms. His shirt puckered strangely at the shoulders. “That’s my biz. I know all kinds of things. How was dinner last night at the Tidal Basin, by the way?”
“Fine.” Lord, he was irritating. “I had a nice piece of salmon. What does the Byrd eat? Worms?” Good grief. Nicky Byrd brought out the worst in me. I was starting to sound like a five-year-old.
“Like I haven’t heard that one before.”
I silently counted to ten while Nicky Byrd watched me. “Look. Let’s start over. You want a kite.”
Still watching me, he withdrew a stack of bills half an inch thick from his wallet and began to flip through them as if he were counting. The few bills on the top were hundreds, but I couldn’t see the others. “How much would a kite cost?”
Even if the stack were all hundreds, it wasn’t enough to get the shop through the winter, and I knew I’d never be able to live with myself if I took money from him anyway. I cleared my throat. “We’ve been there, and nothing has changed. I don’t sell information. I sell kites.”
“Fine.” Without looking, he reached behind him and pulled a few packaged kites off the rack and plopped them on the counter. “Is this enough?”
“This”—I waved at the kite packages and his wallet—“is ridiculous. No. Worse. It’s insulting. You’d better leave.”
He didn’t take the hint. He stared at me. Fine. Two could play this game. We’d see who would blink first.
“Jasmine Normand was a compulsive gambler,” he said.
“Like that’s news?”
“An addict. She was completely broke. Couldn’t pass up a bet.”
I feigned a yawn. “Blue kite or a red one?”
“Fine. Maybe money and gossip don’t work for you. But I have something you can’t get anywhere else. And you need it.”
“What?”
He dropped the oily broadcaster tone. “Half a million subscribers and a circulation that leaves the New York Times in the dust.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes. A feature, with ample photos of the kite festival and the unique creations of Emmy Adler of Strings Attached. Perhaps a few words about the kites Jasmine Normand particularly liked.”
Nicky Byrd had to know that Jasmine had never been in the shop. I glanced toward my row of art kites. Had she, though, she would have loved the garden kite. I could add a
row of faux jasmine vines to the tail in her honor. People all across the nation would see my work. And find my website. And get me financially through not just this winter, but longer.
Nicky Byrd watched me, a slight smile on his face. “We’d simply need a few words about how you saw her beach house that night, and—”
“No.” He’d almost had me. “No, you’re not going to put my story in some sleazy tabloid. Jasmine’s death deserves more than that.”
“The only other story I have is how you picked a fight with her the day she died. Readers will conclude what they must.”
“Don’t you blackmail me.”
“It’s extortion, actually. Not that I’m admitting anything. And what’s this snobbery about tabloids, anyway? You sit around reading War and Peace all the time?”
“I just mean that Jasmine’s death shouldn’t be considered entertainment. To her family, it’s not. All the National Bloodhound wants to do is sell papers, give people a thrill. It’s not real news.”
Nicky’s body moved into a more aggressive position. He stood, legs slightly apart in their high-water trousers, and turned as if ready to deliver a karate chop. “So, you never watch TV?”
“Sure I do. Sometimes.”
“And I suppose you never eat macaroni and cheese from a box.”
He had me there. I loved the stuff. “What are you getting at?”
“Just that you don’t have to be such a snob about reading. There are lots of people in this country who enjoy learning that a celebrity isn’t perfect. Is there something wrong with that? Maybe they don’t feel like slogging through the latest highbrow darling’s work. Is there something wrong with them for reaching for a few words of entertainment after a grueling day at the factory? Huh?”
It took me a moment to gather my wits. “Don’t distract me. You do what you do, and I do what I do. All I’m saying is, what I saw that night—if I saw anything—well, that’s between Jasmine’s family and me. It’s not for the rest of the world to read about in your column.”
We had reached a stalemate. Maybe he’d go ahead and slander me in the papers, but I didn’t see any alternative that I’d be able to live with. When he didn’t respond, I whispered, “Why aren’t you going after Marcus Salek? He’s the one the sheriff is after.”