by Clover Tate
He shook his head. “Not a story. Nothing there for me.”
“Why is this so important to you?” I asked. “Why can’t you simply report the facts and move on?”
“I’m Nicky Byrd—”
The Third, I added silently.
“—And I have a reputation not only to uphold, but to build. You think it was an accident I was here so soon after Jasmine Normand’s death? That was no accident. I have my connections.”
“Surely you can build your reputation some other way. You could look at community issues, like”—I cast my gaze around the shop, as if “issues” would leap from the walls—“like how fast Rock Point is growing. That’s a story.”
Nicky seemed to gather himself together. “That’s not a story for the National Bloodhound.” He stepped closer. “Are you in, or not? You know your options.”
We stood, face-to-face, close enough that I could make out every pockmark Nicky Byrd’s makeup covered. “I know my options,” I said. “And one of them is to file a restraining order. If you ever approach me again, I’ll make sure you spend the night in jail.”
He didn’t bother to respond. He tossed a wadded-up twenty on the counter and, clutching a blue diamond kite to his chest, he left.
• • •
“Stella! I’m so glad you’re here,” I said later that afternoon.
As she entered, she brushed shoulders with a high school-aged couple holding their new kite between them.
Strings Attached had been busy, but after Nicky Byrd’s visit I’d barely been able to keep my mind on business. I wrapped up a kite—one of my own designs—constructed from delicate tubes in shades of celadon, and handed it to a waiting customer, a collector of handmade kites.
“Thank you,” the customer said. “I can’t wait to show it off at the club.”
I waved her good-bye as Stella joined me at the back counter.
“I’m glad to see you, too,” she said. Wisps of her silvery hair had loosened from her chignon and ruffled in the coastal breeze that was coming through the shop’s propped-open door. She wore a man’s shirt with the cuffs rolled up and a baggy pair of paint-stained jeans, yet looked more elegant than I ever could in my best dress. “I had to get out of the studio for a few minutes.”
“How’s the show coming?”
“I have two paintings left. They’ll need time to dry before I can send them off, but then I’m finished.” She leaned on the counter. “I think you’ll like one of them, especially.”
“It has kites in it, doesn’t it?” Stella specialized in landscapes. I imagined a panoramic view of the beach, almost like a Courbet, but with the skyline dotted with kites.
“You’ll have to wait and see.”
“One of my kites, maybe? Oh, Stella, that would be gorgeous.”
“Will you come with me to the opening? I’ll show you then.”
“Definitely.” My smile faded. I looked around, but there were no customers in the store. “Nicky Byrd was in here this morning. He knows I was on the beach around the time Jasmine died.”
“He’s still in Rock Point?”
“I’m afraid so.”
She let out a noise that was halfway between a “tsk” and a sigh. “I suppose he tried to buy your story.”
“Worse. He threatened me. He said that if I didn’t give him an exclusive, he’d play up the fact that I was there, plus what he’d already put in his column, that I had words with her at the Brew House.” I looked around Strings Attached, at my beautiful kites swaying gently, suspended from the ceiling. “I said no, of course. Do you think I made a mistake?”
“No. Of course not, honey. But I can see how it would be tempting.”
“He said if I did tell him the story, he’d mention Strings Attached in the article and include photos.”
“The man knows his work. Wow.” She picked up my pen and started doodling on the notepad I kept near the cash register. “How did he know about the reenactment, anyway?”
“I’ve wondered myself. I think it’s my fault.”
“How?” A remarkable likeness of Nicky Byrd was quickly shaping up on the notepad.
“I mentioned it to Jeanette when I was trying to get information about Jasmine. It would have been child’s play for Nicky Byrd to squeeze it out of her.” Jeanette might be a hard nut for me to crack, but any mention of Hollywood insider stuff—say, one movie star’s weakness for tequila or the size of another’s shoe collection—and Jeanette would fold like a leaky accordion.
“He’s good. I see why the Bloodhound hangs on to him.”
“The Bloodhound’s a weekly, right? That means the next one will be out in three days.” I felt more than heard my voice tremble. Stella laid a hand on my arm for comfort. “I have another piece of information, but I’m not sure what to do with it.”
“Tell me,” she said.
Just then, a father and son came in the shop. “We’d like to see your sport kites.”
I cast a glance at Stella, imploring her to stay. She settled against the counter. “We have a few,” I said. “Basic models. Here.” I showed them the display, touching a standard red kite.
Sport kites were all about performance. They had two leads and were designed to swoop and dive. My stock tended to focus on kites that flew well, sure, but were beautiful to watch. For me, flying a kite is a form of meditation. With a kite in my hand, I feel like part of the sky, but with my feet on the ground. Jack loved sport kites, though, and the stock at Sullivan’s Kites proved it.
“Is that all you have?” The man glanced around the shop, his gaze stopping a split second at the vase of roses by the cash register and the jewel-toned light splashing through the stained-glass window.
“You might try Sullivan’s Kites,” I said. “Jack specializes in sport kites.” The man and his son were out the door before I finished my sentence. “Tell him I sent you,” I called after them.
I had barely turned around when Stella said, “What? What extra information?”
“Well, I had dinner last night at the Tidal Basin”—to Stella’s raised eyebrows, I added—“with Jack.” Complicated, that, now that we had suspended our relationship. Sort of. I wanted to discuss it with Stella, too, but not right now. “And I ran into Rose and Jasmine’s husband, Kyle, outside. You know Rose handles Jasmine’s finances?”
“I’m glad she had someone responsible doing it,” Stella said. She was finishing up Nicky’s signature high-water pants on the notepad.
“Rose said Jasmine was addicted to gambling. She was on the verge of bankruptcy.”
Stella dropped her pencil. “No. You’re joking. Jasmine? You saw that episode of Bag That Babe. The whole season was like that. She barely had the gumption to get out of bed.”
“I’ve been thinking about it, too. Maybe she needed the adrenaline rush from gambling to counteract her sleepy personality. Rose says she did it online, mostly.”
Stella walked to the door and looked out. The caw of a seagull competed with the faraway voices of people on the beach. She returned to the counter. “I admit that I didn’t know Jasmine personally, but after watching so many hours of her on TV, I feel like I did. I just don’t see Jasmine hunched over a computer placing bets or playing poker or whatever it is they do.”
“Addiction is a powerful compulsion. Plus, remember how she never seemed to have money? Both Rose and Jack mentioned it.”
Stella let out a long breath. “I guess it must be true, then. Rose would know. So strange.”
“What I wonder is if it figures into her death somehow. Could she have owed someone major money, but didn’t pay up?”
“You think the Mafia bumped her off?”
When I thought of the Mafia, I thought of big cities, machine guns, and Italian restaurants with red-checkered tablecloths. I certainly didn’t think of small fishing towns. Although we
did have Martino’s. But . . . the Tan Man. What was he doing here? Was he still in town?
“You’re right. That’s ridiculous. But remember the tall man in linen trousers? Kind of looks like he should be lounging on a veranda somewhere in the Caribbean?”
“With the really good tan?” Stella said. “You think he might have killed Jasmine?”
The advantages of living in a small town included its speed-of-light grapevine. You couldn’t choke on a peanut without news getting out. “I admit it’s a long shot. I can’t figure out what he’s doing here, though.”
“I saw him leaving Sullivan’s Kites,” Stella said. “Then again at the Brew House. He takes a double breve, by the way.”
“Plus, we saw him in Lincoln City.”
She shook her head. “No, I think Marcus is still the top suspect. I wish we knew what happened to him.”
“I hate to think of him as a murderer.”
“I know. Me, too. Especially after learning about his wife. Grief can do strange things to a person.”
Stella had lost her husband a few years ago, then recently learned her son, whom she’d given up for adoption as a baby, had died, too. “You know grief,” I said. “You’re sane.”
“I have my moments,” she said and laughed. “Music has been a help.”
I’d been so preoccupied with my own drama that I’d forgotten about Stella’s concert. “The Lovepipers concert is tonight, right?”
Her face lit up. “It is. I’m going home to clean up in a minute and drive over to Spirit Mountain. Should be a great show.”
“I can’t wait to hear about it.”
Stella patted my arm. “Things will work out one way or another. They always do. Try not to worry about the Bloodhound too much.”
“Thanks, Stella. You’re a sweetheart. Enjoy the show tonight.”
I watched Stella skip down the steps, bouncing her head to a song she undoubtedly expected to hear tonight. Despite her assurances that everything would be fine, I was still troubled. If Marcus was going to show up, I fervently wished he’d do it soon. For instance, before Nicky Byrd’s new column hit the stands.
chapter twenty-two
Riding my bike home, I thought about the day’s happenings. The events surrounding Jasmine’s death were only becoming murkier. Where could Marcus be? He might have left the country by now, although the sheriff probably had law enforcement keeping an eye on airports and border crossings. I could understand Marcus’s running away if he was guilty. But if he was innocent, he’d better come forward. Maybe he’d seen something that night.
Bear came bounding down the driveway to meet my bicycle. “Hi, you old thing.” I ruffled my hands in his fur and kissed him on the head, then pushed my bike into the storage shed.
By the time I was around the front of the house, Sunny was on the porch, beaming. “We’re having a special dinner tonight. To celebrate.”
“Celebrate what?”
Sunny look mystified that I wouldn’t know. “My internship with Rose. Plus, I officially dropped out of college today.”
“Sunny! You dropped out? For sure?” Mom and Dad would have our scalps—Sunny’s for doing it, and mine for not telling them of her plans.
“Well, not completely dropped out. But I’m taking the quarter off.”
Thanks to the trees surrounding the house, the living room was cool. The aroma of coriander and garlic wafted through the house. I followed Sunny to the kitchen and set my bag on the counter. “You have to tell Mom. You’ve been here almost two weeks—”
“Not until this weekend—”
“—And she keeps calling, and you keep leading her on. What are going to do if she decides to make a surprise visit to deliver some tinctures or something?” I could imagine Mom unloading a basket from the VW Bus, reaching Sunny’s group house, then wailing so loud that we’d hear it all the way in Rock Point. I shivered.
From the look on her face, Sunny felt the chill, too. “That could get grisly.”
“You can’t keep putting it off. It isn’t going to get any easier. Tell Mom. She can give the news to Dad.”
Sunny tilted her head to the side and softened her eyes into the sad puppy look she’d mastered so long ago. “I just wanted to have something concrete to tell them when we talked. To show them that I can figure things out on my own.”
“By couch surfing with me and Avery and spending giant chunks of the day on walks through the woods?”
Sunny checked the rice cooker and added a handful of chopped cilantro to a pot simmering at the back of the stove. “No. Be fair. I’m making progress.” Her voice trembled.
“I’m sorry. You are. You’ve figured out that you want to explore finance.”
“Uh-huh.” Her dreadlocks bobbed as she said it.
“And you even got yourself an internship. That’s an accomplishment.” I couldn’t believe Sunny had me making excuses for her. “How’s that going, by the way?”
Sunny turned to face me, any sign of hurt replaced by the smile that had earned her her name. “It’s great. Rose was so surprised how good I am with her software.” She waved a dish towel in her hands like a toreador. “I’ve been teaching myself online since last winter. You should consider getting the program yourself, Em. I could help you set it up.”
I had to smile, too, at her sheer happiness. “Maybe I will.”
Bear’s collar jingled as he trotted into the kitchen. “Avery should be home in a few minutes. Dave’s coming, too. And Jack.” At this last name, she glanced up.
I kept my expression indifferent. “Oh, really? Great.”
“Do you think Dave will ever ask Avery out? Not for hikes or kayak rides, but for real?”
“I hope so. I like him a lot.”
“Yeah, some people are clueless about relationships.” She snuck another glance at me.
“What?”
“You know what I mean,” Sunny said. “Jack is a perfectly good guy, and he likes you. And you like him.”
I turned my back to her and tossed a tennis ball down the hall for Bear. “Things are too busy now. Too uncertain. I have to get my business up and running.”
“If you married Jack, you could merge your kite shops. It would be the smart thing, financially.”
“Marry?” I started coughing. Somehow saliva had gone down the wrong pipe.
“His kites aren’t your style, but they’re not bad. Although I don’t know why he went with a bright orange competition kite.”
Bear nudged my leg with his mouth and dropped the tennis ball at my feet. I cleared my throat. “Orange?” Jack had mentioned that Sunny had come into the shop. “So, you’re spying for me, huh?”
“It was the least I could do, since I wrecked your kite. I would have told you about it yesterday, but you were out so late. With Jack.” She gave the stew another stir. “Two little lovebirds sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes—”
“Never mind that. Jack’s kite. Did you happen to notice its shape?”
“He tossed something over it as soon as I came in, but from the quick glance I got, it didn’t look like the other kites in his shop. In some ways, it looked like one of your kites, Em.”
My kites? Jack’s style was so different. A part of me was flattered that he might have taken some of my design sensibility to heart. “In what way?”
“Ask him yourself. He’s coming up the drive.”
• • •
Jack and I greeted each other awkwardly. No peck on the cheek, no hug like we might have a week ago. No passionate kiss like we’d shared last night. Fortunately, Avery and Dave didn’t seem to notice anything different. Bear danced around our feet, cadging pets and scratches where he could.
“Dinner is just about ready,” Sunny said.
“Should we eat on the front porch?” Avery asked. “The guys could move out th
e table.”
My heart warmed. When we were kids and my family visited the Cooks every few weekends over the summer, Avery’s mother had often set dinner on the porch. Those were some of my most cherished memories from childhood: Avery and I running on the beach, and Avery’s dad coming down to fetch us since the surf’s roar was too loud to hear over. We sat around the table until after dark, until the crickets chirped around us. After her parents died, Avery had quit suggesting porch suppers. I still took sandwiches to the porch sometimes, though, and thought about those summer evenings so many years ago. Now it seemed Avery was ready to try again.
“Give me a hand, Dave?” As always, Dave was ready to jump on Avery’s command. Before he went to the dining room, he shared a smile with me. He got it.
Half an hour later, we were sitting around the table. A light breeze cooled the porch and ruffled the branches from a hanging pot of fuchsia.
Sunny emerged from the kitchen holding a Dutch oven between her oven-mitt-clad hands. “Dinner’s on!”
We piled our plates with rice and waited as Sunny ladled brown, lumpy liquid over it. The table fell silent. Dave pushed at the stew with a spoon.
“Is that one of Mom’s recipes?” I asked.
“You think I’d do that to you? No, this is from one of my old housemates, Sharma. You’re going to love it.” She set the pot on a side table and looked at us. “It’s gluten-free.” After another pause, she added, “What’s wrong? Eat up.”
Avery swallowed and lifted a fork of rice and goo to her mouth. We watched. Her uncertain expression melted into a smile. “It’s good.”
And it was. The stew was rich with layers of flavor. The next few minutes were silent as we dug in.
I was truly lucky. Even if Strings Attached couldn’t make it through the winter, even if the National Bloodhound implied to the nation that I was a murderer, no one could take this away. I’d find something else to do with my life if the shop failed. I wasn’t a killer, and the truth would come out eventually. It had to. But I had something vital: good friends and family, a wonderful home. I hadn’t blown my livelihood by gambling. Paparazzi didn’t make life tough for me. My friends wouldn’t make eyes at my boyfriend. Under my lashes, I glanced toward Jack, on my left. Since I didn’t have one. Sort of.