Live and Let Fly

by Clover Tate

  The office door opened with a chime. The yammering of the Portland morning news show drifted from a back room, and a coffee maker on the front counter gave off an acrid stench.

  “Didn’t you see the sign? No vacancy. There’s a kite festival coming up,” came a man’s voice.

  “I’m not looking for a room. I’m looking for one of your guests.”

  A short, elderly man with a bald head liberally appointed with liver spots stepped into the office. He was still wearing his bathrobe. “Which one?”

  “Nicky Byrd.” I held my breath.

  He looked at me, glanced through the glass door behind me at the Prius, then returned his gaze to my face. “Never heard of him.”

  “Ha-ha. That’s funny. Which room is he in? It’s important.”

  “No can do,” the man said.

  “I guarantee he’ll want to see me.”

  “How much exactly can you guarantee it?” He rubbed the fingers on one hand together in a recognizable gesture. “Then maybe I’d have something to say. If I knew who he was, of course.”

  So, that was it. Nicky Byrd had paid off the Cozy Corners owner so the complex served as his personal fortress. I had his business card. I could call him, but I wanted to see him right away.

  “How’s this?” I said. “I’ll write a note. If for some reason Nicky Byrd shows up, maybe you’ll give it to him. Who knows? He might be grateful enough to guarantee you a bonus.”

  I scrawled, “Nicky, please call me. Have reconsidered. Emmy Adler” and my phone number on the motel’s scratch pad, folded it, and handed it to the manager. Without taking his eyes off me, he slipped it into the pocket of his robe. I expected he’d read it before I made it back to the car.

  I took my time unlocking the Prius, and I looked up the row of rooms with cars parked at their doors. All the cars, except a run-down Chevy Nova, were new enough to be rentals. Probably most of them were. There was no clue as to which room could be Nicky’s.

  Fine. I’d call. As I pulled out of the parking lot, habit drew my attention to the view—and to the blue diamond kite bobbing above the beach. I knew that kite. I slowed down and returned to the parking lot, this time to its opposite side. I got out and scrambled down to the beach. There he was, glee written across his face. Nicky Byrd, flying a kite.

  • • •

  “Nicky!” I yelled. “It’s me, Emmy Adler. I need to talk to you.”

  Nicky cast one glance at me and took off down the beach.

  “Wait!” Why was he running? He still held tight to the kite, which was climbing now. He must not know he was giving it line. I took off after him. Thanks to the kite and Nicky’s paunch, I caught up with him after only a few moments of running.

  “Stop!” I yelled.

  He kept running, so I grabbed the back of his sweatpants, and—boom!—he hit the sand. Huffing and puffing, we both took a quick time-out to regroup. The kite dove for sea level and hit the sand almost exactly where he’d been standing when I first saw him.

  “Stay away. I can’t be within a hundred yards of you,” Nicky said. “Remember? I don’t want to go to jail.”

  In sweatpants, with a face rosy from exercise and bare of makeup, Nicky Byrd looked like a teenager.

  “It’s okay,” I said, amazed the restraining order ploy had worked so well. He must have experience with them. “The judge wouldn’t give me a restraining order, anyway.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I didn’t even try.”

  Nicky brushed the sand from his knees. “So, what do you want?”

  “I’ve reconsidered. I’m willing to tell you about the night Jasmine died.”

  Nicky shielded his eyes from the glare off the ocean and looked at me. “Why?”

  “I need your help. I’m not stupid enough to think you’ll give it without getting something in return.”

  “What kind of help?” I could almost hear the adding machine clicking in his brain. Little-boy-Nicky was morphing into oily-man-Nicky before my eyes.

  I took the spool of line from his hand and started to reel it up. “Come on. Let’s get this kite off the ground.”

  He followed me down the beach. Not surprisingly, his sweatpants hit a good inch above the recommended hem length.

  “You know how adamant I was that I didn’t want to talk to you about that night,” I said.

  “You had a few choice words about the Bloodhound, I remember.” The slick voice was back.

  “So you know how important this must be to me. I need to know what you can tell me about Caitlin Ruder.”

  “Fascinating. She tells me never to come near her, then the next day she’s begging me for help. My, my.”

  Who was he talking to? His invisible friend? “This might be a matter of life and death. I’m not joking.”

  “And if I answer a few questions about Caitlin, you’ll tell me about the reenactment?”

  I cringed at the thought of the sheriff reading whatever purple prose spewed from “A Byrd Told Me.” He hadn’t told me to keep the reenactment to myself, but he probably didn’t think he had to. He certainly couldn’t have thought it would end up on breakfast tables and in supermarket checkout aisles. Now, not only would the sheriff never trust me again, I could kiss Strings Attached good-bye. Nicky would make me out to be suspicious no matter what I told him. It was the way of the Bloodhound. As painful as it was, it would be worth it to find whoever tried to kill Stella.

  “That’s what I’m saying.” We’d come to the blue kite. I picked it up and dusted off the sand. Its spars weren’t damaged, so I adjusted its bridle and handed it to Nicky. “Should be good to go.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Let’s start with Jasmine and Caitlin’s friendship. How long did they know each other?”

  “They met on Bag That Babe. Jasmine was either too kind or too clueless to see that Caitlin was using her for connections.”

  “Like what?”

  “Getting her into the right parties so she’d meet the right people. Things like that.” He narrowed his eyes. “Bet you didn’t know that Caitlin got the movie role that Jasmine had been contracted for.”

  The package Jeanette had seen mailed. “What role?”

  “The Kingmaker Spy’s girlfriend.”

  Whoa. The Kingmaker Spy series had run through a number of stars playing Johnny Kane, the MI-5 spy, and at least three times as many of the spy’s girlfriends, since he averaged a handful per movie. These movies were a big deal. Play Johnny Kane’s girlfriend and you were guaranteed prime placement on posters in thousands of sophomore boys’ bedrooms. Your career was golden.

  “That’s the kind of information on Caitlin you were looking for, wasn’t it?”

  Motive, check. Opportunity, check. Alibi, nonexistent. “Are you sure?”

  “My sources in Hollywood are solid. No one can beat them. Ask at Fogarty Talent, if you don’t believe me.”

  “Did Caitlin have a thing for Kyle, by chance?”

  Greasy hanks of hair blew around Nicky’s face. “Oh, wouldn’t you like to know.” He suddenly burst into laughter. “Naw. She doesn’t play for that team.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She has a girlfriend in L.A.”

  I stood, stunned, a moment. “How come the Bloodhound hasn’t reported that?”

  “We have standards, you know. Her personal life is her personal life.” He started toward the Cozy Cabins. “Come up to my room.”

  “You’re joking,” I said.

  “You said you’d tell me your story, right? My notepad is in my room. I’ll make you coffee.” Dragging my feet, I followed. As we climbed the bluff, he asked, “Is that all you wanted to know?”

  I’d learned enough to secure Caitlin’s spot at the top of my list of suspects, but I wanted every nail I could pound in
to her coffin. “What do you know about her character?”

  “Character?” he said, as if the idea that a person had character was new to him.

  “You know what I mean. Is she capable of hurting someone to get what she wants?”

  He stared at me. “You think she killed Jasmine, is that it?”

  I raised my chin. “I just need to know.”

  He shrugged and continued up the bluff. “That’s not the lead I’m following.”

  “Why not? What lead are you following, then?”

  “Get a subscription and find out.”

  “Seriously, Nicky. Who else could it be? What am I missing?” He didn’t suspect Marcus or Caitlin, apparently. He hadn’t acted overly suspicious about me, although he’d play it up for the paper. Then it occurred to me. “You don’t have any leads, do you?”

  By his wince, I suspected I’d found the truth. “I won’t say.”

  We’d reached the motel. Nicky Byrd’s room was surprisingly tidy. He led me to a small table with two chairs and a view of the ocean. I watched him fire up the room’s coffeepot and set out two Styrofoam cups.

  “Cream?” He held up a packet of powder.

  “No, thank you.” I didn’t plan to drink it, anyway.

  “Would you like some breakfast? I haven’t eaten yet.”

  “I’m fine, but please fix yourself something.”

  He rummaged in a suitcase that looked to be completely dedicated to food. I saw a box of cereal, some snack bars, and a six-pack of cola. “The life of the reporter, you know.” He fixed himself a bowl of Cocoa Puffs, topped with milk from his room’s dorm-sized refrigerator.

  As he went about his morning routine, I thought about Stella. Had she seen Caitlin at Spirit Mountain and somehow learned about the movie role? People tell Stella things they wouldn’t normally divulge. Caitlin might have let something slip. Then she’d realized she’d gone too far and had to stop Stella.

  Nicky was scraping the last spoon of cereal from his bowl.

  I had a sudden urge to get out of the room and find Caitlin. She’d gained a lot from Jasmine’s death. To make the sheriff listen, I had to rule out suicide and confirm a couple of alibis. Then, I’d go to him with the full story. He’d have to listen then. If Caitlin had caused Stella’s accident, I wanted her in jail. Now.

  “Are you ready?” I said. I could tell my story in ten minutes and be out of there.

  “Just a minute.” He chugged a glass of orange juice, also from his mini fridge, and settled at the table. He held up his phone. “Mind if I record this?”

  “Yes, I do mind.”

  “I thought you were going to tell me what I wanted to know.”

  “I am. I never said you could record me, though.”

  “Fine,” he said and put his phone to the side.

  I snatched it and flipped it over. It was recording. I tapped it off and kept it in on my side of the table. “That’s playing dirty.”

  “Can’t blame me for trying.” He picked up a pen. “Now, tell me about that night.”

  Reluctantly, I ran through the night, starting with my walk on the beach, then seeing the lights on in the house and noticing a man’s figure in what I now knew was the kitchen window.

  “The sheriff thought it might be Marcus Salek, then Marcus disappeared.” Nicky’s phone buzzed, and he reached over to answer it, but I moved it out of reach. “Why aren’t you interested in Marcus, anyway?”

  Nicky seemed distracted by his buzzing phone. Thankfully, it stopped. “Marcus? I already know his story.”

  “His wife’s death was never explained, you know.”

  “It was explained all right. Now give me my phone.”

  I didn’t move. “Tell me about it.” The sheriff was stuck on Marcus as a suspect. I needed to clear the slate of him.

  Nicky fell back into his chair with a “why me?” wave of the arms. “His wife, Naomi, was run down while crossing the street in Bedlow Bay. She was pregnant. He was totally distraught.”

  “That’s not news. He thinks it was tourists. That’s why he hates them so much.”

  “No. That’s not why.”

  I pushed back my chair an inch. “What? Marcus has been complaining about Rock Point’s tourists all summer, and probably longer than that.”

  Nicky leaned back, clearly delighted to teach me something. “It’s an interesting little story, actually. Bedlow Bay was getting a reputation as a cute beach town, and out-of-towners started buying houses there. The town was growing, so the city council decided to put in a stoplight.”

  “They’re so small, though.” I remembered maybe two four-way stops from Stella’s and my trip.

  “But a lot of traffic goes through there.”

  “A stoplight? That must have upset Marcus. I can see him railing away at a city council meeting that they didn’t need a stupid stoplight just because of all those summer homes.”

  Nicky looked at me, at first confused, then with understanding. “Actually, he wanted a stoplight for that intersection. Desperately. He was the one who brought it to the city council’s attention. It was voted down.”

  “But he hates that kind of thing. He’s anti-growth.”

  “Could have fooled me.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “Not a month later, his wife was killed at that intersection. With a traffic light, she would still be alive.”

  My jaw dropped. This wasn’t what I had thought at all. Now it was clear. Marcus wasn’t against Rock Point’s growth, he just didn’t want the town to grow without the proper infrastructure growing with it. “You knew this all along? How did you find out?”

  “It’s my job to find out. I’m not some hack. Jeez.”

  “But this is huge.”

  He cracked open a diet cola. An unconventional choice of beverage on top of coffee. “Huge in what way?”

  “Marcus is suspected of murdering Jasmine Normand because he has a reputation for despising tourists and growth. But that’s not true.”

  Nicky chugged some lukewarm cola. He tried—and failed—to swallow a belch. “So?”

  Nicky was a solid journalist, just poorly directed. “Here’s your story. It’s not about some second-rate actress. It’s about growth and what it means. Rock Point and Bedlow Bay aren’t the only towns going through this. A town’s growth isn’t simply the struggle between people who want to keep things the same and people from the outside who want to change them. Look at Marcus. He knew Bedlow Bay had to change if it was going to grow. Ironically, in changing, it would no longer be what the newcomers wanted.” I leaned forward. “There’s your story. You could win prizes for this kind of journalism.”

  He stared at me as if I were speaking Mandarin. “I work for the Bloodhound.”

  “You do now,” I said. “You don’t have to forever.”

  Lips parted, he squeezed the cola can absently.

  Nicky’s phone began to buzz, and I jumped, rattling the table between us. I pushed it across the table. “Here. I’ve got to go.”

  chapter twenty-five

  I drove straight to the sheriff’s office. Sheriff Koppen was locking the front door. I leapt out of my car and caught him before he was more than a few steps down the street.

  “Emmy,” he said, catching my expression. “What’s wrong?”

  “I have something to tell you, but, first, how’s Stella?”

  “Stable, but still not conscious.” Something in the way the sheriff fidgeted with his keys told me he was troubled.

  “You found something with her car.”

  “One of her rear brake lines had a clean slash in it. It was the first thing the tech looked for, and he found it.”

  Neither of us had to say what this meant. Despite first going after Jeanette, then Nicky, I must have somehow hoped her accident really was t
hat, an accident, because for a moment, all I could do was stare at my car keys. “Is someone guarding her now?”

  “The Salem police have an officer at her door. No one goes in or out but hospital staff.”

  Someone had tried to kill Stella. She saw something, she wanted to tell me, and she nearly died for it. “I just came from seeing Nicky Byrd, the Bloodhound reporter. I need to talk to you.”

  The sheriff unlocked the door and led me in. Instead of going all the way back to his office, we sat at Deputy Goff’s desk. The shades were drawn, so the sheriff clicked on the small desk lamp.

  “Tell me about it,” he said.

  “It’s about Caitlin Ruder,” I said. “Nicky told me that Jasmine was up for a big movie role. When she died, it went to Caitlin. It’s the biggest thing that’s happened in her career so far. Plus, she was feet away when Jasmine was killed. How could she have not heard anything?” Those were my two big facts. I knew better than to tell the sheriff she was a compulsive liar and never liked Jasmine anyway. He and I didn’t give these phenomena equal weight.

  “I see.” Was that indifferent tone Koppen’s natural way, or did they drill it into him at sheriff school? A few times, as I’d sewn kites, I’d tried to imagine him laughing at a barbecue, beer in hand, or smiling at something one of his kids said, but I’d come up dry.

  “‘I see,’” I repeated. “Is that all? Jasmine was murdered, and someone tried to kill Stella, and all you can say is ‘I see’? Besides, Stella mentioned Caitlin when she called from the casino.”

  Sheriff Koppen sat up. “And said what?”

  I hated to admit it. “Nothing. She cut off the call. But why else would Stella mention her? It has to be about the murder.”

  “Emmy, the DA’s office isn’t so sure it’s murder.”

  “What?” The force of my voice shocked even me. “How can that be?” I asked more quietly. “The threats and slashed tires. The insulin bottle.”

  He shook his head. “They say that’s not enough.”

  “But I—”

  He held up a hand. “Stop. I agree with you. They’re willing to let me question Marcus Salek, if I can find him, but that’s it. And it’s only because he ran.”