by Kristy Tate
“To you, not to me. I already know the answer to my question.” I licked my dirty teeth and wondered if Ryan had a spare tooth brush. I would need to stop goading him if I wanted to borrow his toothbrush.
Ryan pushed away the chair and asked again in a raised voice. “Where were you last night?”
I watched as he paced across the room, making the fireplace tools jingle. “Nothing is ever so bad that it can be made better by yelling,” I said.
He ran his hand through his hair and lowered his voice. “Hailey Clements?”
“No, Emma Clements.”
He turned away, exposing a flush creeping up his neck. I watched the red spread to his ears. It would be handy to be married to or do business with someone who blushed so easily. He stomped into the kitchen.
I followed him and decided that tight jeans had benefits. “I spent the night on Otter’s Play Yard. The tide came in and I couldn’t get back until this morning.”
He stood at the stove, his large frame dwarfing the nook of a kitchen. He stirred a something in a pan while I told him about the otters, James’ tent, and the whistling eagle. His back was turned, his shoulders tense, and his ears still slightly pink. If I had known him better, I’d be able to gauge his feelings, understand what his body language was saying and what his voice was not. He seemed unreasonably angry. He handed me a plate of eggs and bacon.
“Thank you. Were you expecting me?” I asked.
He glared down at me. “Waiting for you, yes, and for a very long time.”
I sat down at the table and he poured a glass of orange juice and slid it in front of me. “You’re very sweet,” I said. The eggs were cold, but much better than the burnt chili from the night before. I tucked into the food.
He sat down beside me with a plate of his own and poured himself a glass of juice. “You didn’t think so yesterday,” he said into his cup.
I shrugged and momentarily stopped shoveling eggs. “I was angry and surprised. I’d just lost my job and my chance at the Hawthorne prize.”
He raised his eyes. “Will you be okay? Financially? I mean, artists are notorious for starving.”
I didn’t meet his gaze and returned to my breakfast. “I won’t starve.”
He poised his fork above his breakfast. He looked earnest and sincere. “If you need me to list your house…”
I stared at him, open mouthed, but then remembering the eggs, I quickly pressed my lips into a straight line. “I thought you were a commercial real estate broker.”
“I am, but I can sell both.”
He had seemed genuinely interested in me but now I realized that to him I was nothing more than a potential client. Did he think he could make me breakfast in exchange for listing my house? Did he wine and dine all his potential clients? I bit into a charred piece of bacon and hoped, for his career’s sake, that he had a wider, more appetizing menu. “I’m fine,” my voice sounded surprisingly normal, just slightly hard.
“Good. It’s a lovely place in a great location on the water.” He bit into his eggs and I watched him chew. He sounded like a realtor, the sort that chatted up to ladies in tennis skirts. I ate my eggs more slowly, registering their bland, lackluster flavor. I pushed away the plate.
“But if there is anything I can do to help.” For a moment I’d forgotten he was still talking.
I set down my fork and thought. “I have plenty of uses for you. I’d like to shower, so I need you to stand guard in case Phil Henderson returns.” My voice turned hard and bossy, like the one I used to intimidate misbehaving art students. “And I need your help rescuing my dog. Wyeth is on Phil Henderson’s boat.”
Ryan’s fork stopped mid-air. Maybe my news about Phil Henderson caught him off guard, but I also guessed that he wasn’t used to women telling him what to do. He probably didn’t have any sisters. “You can do the dishes while I shower,” I added.
By the time I got out of the shower, the fog had burned away, leaving only a trace of mist hanging above the Sound. A light breeze toyed with the English ivy that twirled through the bent willows of the moon arch.
“A perfect day for a dog rescue,” Ryan said, looking up at me, his too tight T-shirt moving with his whittling. His alder curved in a gentle S, a bulb of a head on one end, the narrowing point of a tail on the other. He used a paring knife from the kitchen. Unless he was one of those competitive whittlers I’d seen on the public television, which I doubted, he must have started his snake some time ago. I sat down beside him, my feet on the lower step and my elbows on my knees.
I missed Wyeth and worried what Phil would do to him. The breakfast felt heavy in my stomach.
“I left Wyeth here, didn’t you see him?” I sounded accusatory, but I didn’t care. Part of this was my fault. I shouldn’t have left him.
Ryan looked at me hard. “I’m not responsible for your dog.” From his tone I figured that he must have given up on listing my house. “After I wrote up the Dunsmuir sales agreement, I came back here and he was gone. I thought he was with you.” He looked at me steadily. “And no one knew where you were.” Ryan gouged a mouth into the snake’s head.
I changed the subject. “I need a boat.”
“We can ask the Jensons.” Ryan stood, pocketed his snake, but left the knife on the step.
I took off down the path toward town. “I thought I’d ask Lucy. I’m pretty sure she could use the money.”
We walked silently up the hill, weaving around mud puddles. The fog stubbornly clung to the meadows, but at the crest of the hill the sun sparkled through the alders. Heavy dew drops glistened on the daisies. Ryan matched his long strides to my shorter ones and I was glad for his quiet, if somewhat hostile company. “I’ve never been this way,” Ryan said. “The Jensons picked me up at the marina.”
“The village isn’t far,” I told him.
The hill descended into a valley of heavy fog. I shivered as we moved from the sunny hillside into the mist. Ryan stood beside me, frowning and watching as I lifted the hem of my T-shirt to wipe the water from my glasses. From a distance, we heard the church bells begin to toll.
“Helen Dunsmuir’s memorial service,” Ryan said.
It felt surreal to be walking through the fog with a strange man in a foreign place while church bells rang an ominous rhythm.
“Listen,” Ryan broke the silence between us. “I know you’re worried about your dog, but there are a few things bothering me too.”
We rounded a corner and came face to face with Lucy’s yak. His horns glistened in the fog, and leaves of grass poked out of his mouth. The grass twitched as he chewed. He was larger than I remembered.
Ryan took a step backward and put a protective arm in front of me. “Looks like he’s already had his breakfast,” he said softly.
The yak snorted as if to say that he preferred humans to grass. For a moment I was glad Wyeth was boating. “What are we going to do?”
Ryan took another step backwards, bumping against me. “Stay still, no sudden movements.”
I put a hand on his waist to keep him from walking backwards on to my feet. “Isn’t that for snakes?”
“Snakes, bulls, probably cougars.” Ryan snaked one arm behind him and pulled me close against him. “Let’s just back away. Maybe we can climb a tree.”
I felt awkward pressed against Ryan’s back. I spoke into the valley between his shoulder blades. “Climb a tree? This is a yak. Yaks are much more domestic than bulls.”
“How do you know? Last year something that looked just like that was on the news for attacking his owner and breaking several ribs and smashing his groin.”
The yak grunted and took a step toward us.
Ryan scooted back and I shuffled from under his feet. “That doesn’t sound good,” Ryan said.
“Cows moo, yaks grunt,” I said.
Ryan turned his head and swore right into my ear. “Do you know everything? Because, quite honestly, sometimes you sound as if you think you know everything, and it’s annoying. How cou
ld you possibly know that yaks grunt?” he whispered and his warm breath puffed against my cheek.
The yak lowered his head and shook his horns at us and my knees went weak.
Chagrinned, I wrapped my arms around Ryan’s waist. “Which tree?”
Chapter Ten
We ran through the pasture, the yak lumbering after us. “We’ll never make it to town,” I said. And by we, I meant me. I was lagging. I suspected that Ryan could be much faster. He pointed to a cedar standing the field and ran for it.
He cupped his hands together, making boost for me.
I looked at his hands and then back at the quickly approaching yak.
Ryan raised his eyebrows and I reluctantly stepped into his hands. He lifted me up and I grabbed the closest branch. Ryan scrambled after me. For a few moments he lay with his belly across the branch, his feet dangling just inches above the yak’s horns. Then he hefted himself beside me.
The yak looked up at us and snorted.
Ryan scooted back against the tree trunk. He straddled the branch and held me loosely in his arms. I tried not to lean against him, but the limb was much weaker further out. I held onto the branch with both hands. We were about eight feet off the ground, and more importantly, about a foot above the reach of the yak’s horns. He grazed the grass just below us.
“Are you sure we shouldn’t try and climb higher?” Ryan asked, looking up at the thinner, less sturdy branches.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to sound like a know it all,” I said, “but this branch is probably the only one that could support us.” I could have suggested that he stay on the stronger lower limb that we currently shared while I moved to a higher, less sturdy branch. That would have been safer. For him. I hugged the branch with my legs a little tighter. We had a milky white view from the cedar. The meadow, distant barn and outbuildings were shrouded in the shifting fog.
Ryan cleared his throat. “Have you heard the rumors about Helen’s death?”
“Artie said she died in her sleep.”
“That’s what the Jensons said too, but Jeff—you met Jeff—Artie’s cousin, right? He has a different theory. We had a very long talk on the yacht.” Ryan thought for a moment, then changed the subject. “James Dunsmuir wants the property sold immediately and the Jensons are hot to buy.”
“Sounds like a realtor’s dream,” I said, watching his expression. “I take it neither James nor the Jensons are spreading murder rumors.”
Ryan’s lips tightened. “They want a three-week escrow.”
“And that makes you uncomfortable.” It was hard to imagine being any less comfortable than straddling a tree branch. The limb pressed hard against my tail bone. Ryan’s arm felt strong and his hand warm on my thigh. It was an odd situation accompanied by odd sensations. Somewhere on a branch above us a squirrel chattered. His scampering sent leaves and twigs falling on us. I had to blink to keep debris from getting in my eyes. The yak chewed so close we could hear the working of his teeth and tongue.
“It’s so rushed,” he said. “The Jenson’s aren’t even hiring an inspector.”
I felt cold. “They’re just going to tear it down,” I said.
Ryan waved his hand at a crow that came dangerously close to his head. Ryan wavered on the branch. I grabbed his leg and he stabilized.
The crow moved to a branch about two feet above us and cocked his head. The yak looked up at us and grunted.
“That’s right, you win,” Ryan told the yak.
The animal went back to buttercup chewing and Ryan pulled me closer. “Did you know Jeff writes mysteries? He’s had several stories published in mystery magazines. Get this, he’s getting an on-line degree in criminology. So, maybe he’s looking for skeletons in closets, but what if he’s right and he’s the only one interested Helen Dunsmuir’s death?”
I nodded and squirmed on the branch. My left leg was going numb. I wiggled my toes to make sure they still worked. “Why does he think she was murdered?”
“Something about the bed sheets, but I didn’t understand all of it.” He stopped and threw a twig. The yak snorted, shook her head, and ambled toward the tree trunk. “I’ll admit I really wasn’t paying close attention. But last night when you didn’t show up and no one knew where you were…I got nervous. James and the Jenson’s obviously don’t want a murder investigation which would stop, or at least slow, the sale of the property. James wants to sell quickly so he can go to Tanzania and the Jensons want to expand their business.”
“And Jeff, and some of the other locals do want to prevent the sale,” I said.
When Ryan shifted on the branch, the inside of his thigh brushed the outside of mine. I didn’t know how much longer I could stay in the tree. I moved a fraction further down the branch and it dipped slightly. I tried to think of any other of my life predicaments that even slightly rivaled being treed by a yak and came up empty. Before my trip to Lister my most frightening life moment may have been having my wisdom teeth pulled. In the last two days I’d had my sweater eaten by a goat, unwillingly shared my home with strangers, been accosted while trespassing a Victorian mansion, slid down a smuggler’s tunnel, spent the night on an island alone with otters, and been treed by a yak. I tried to breathe deeply, to relax, but my nerves tightened. I shivered slightly.
Ryan didn’t seem to notice. “So, we have the Jensons and James hurrying a land deal, and the locals crying foul play, but as far as we know, the only actual crime committed is the dog-napping.” He thought for a moment. “Is there any chance Wyeth went willingly? Why take the dog?”
I moved to a less comfortable position. “Because he was barking and in the way. Phil probably accidentally let him out of the cottage and then didn’t know what else to do with him. Where were you, by the way?”
“I already told you I was writing up the sales contract,” he grumbled.
“I mean this morning before you found me on the sofa.”
He chuckled. “I was sleeping on the sofa. Imagine my surprise when you stumbled in and snuggled up.”
“I did not.” I couldn’t look at him, because what he said was possibly true and extremely embarrassing, but also because he was behind me. I shifted again and Ryan’s hand moved from the limb to my thigh.
“You’re shaking the tree,” he said.
I thought about telling him that he and the tree were making me uncomfortable. I had to remind myself that even though he had hoisted me up, my being treed wasn’t his fault or choice. Or so I thought. Treeing prospective clients for possible listings couldn’t be a standard board of realtors practice, yet, he seemed much more comfortable than me.
“Jeff really believes his bed-sheet theory. He’s kept the sheets hidden underneath his bed for evidence.”
I gritted my teeth and told myself to sit still. The crow above us jumped along his branch showering us with tiny flakes of cedar bark. “That’s crazy.”
Ryan moved his leg and the branch moaned. The yak stopped grazing to look up at us. He shook his horns then returned to chewing.
“Jeff wants to have the sheets taken to a crime lab. There’s a brown smear on them.”
“And that’s disgusting.”
Ryan nodded and the branch bobbled. “Probably.”
“I wonder how he got the bed sheets.”
“His mom worked for Helen Dunsmuir so he has keys to the house.”
Then, as if talking about him could conjure him, a bright yellow canopy emerged from the fog and Jeff rode by in the golf cart.
“Hey!” Ryan yelled, waving one arm, holding onto me with the other. The branch swayed from the movement.
“He’s deaf,” I reminded Ryan, thinking that Jeff would never hear or notice us, but somehow, he did. His eyes caught ours and then widened in disbelief. He swerved violently, corrected the golf cart, cast us another glance, and drove away. The yellow top putted up the hill and disappeared into the fog.
“What the hell?” Ryan boomed.
The yak sat down with a heavy grunt beside
our tree, as if he too was disappointed. His eyes began to droop.
I watched his big head bow as if he was praying. “Maybe if he goes to sleep we can sneak away,” I said.
Ryan looked dubiously at the yak. “I’d rather stay here,” he said slowly.
I bristled. “We can’t just stay here.”
“I can.”
I moved away from him, waited a few more minutes and then swung a leg over so that both legs hung over the same side of the branch. My movement rocked the branch, throwing me against Ryan’s chest. When the branch stopped swaying, I steadied myself, hands braced on the limb, both legs ready to jump. Ryan put his hand on my thigh.
The yak didn’t notice. He lay with his legs curled beneath his hulk, his massive head resting on the grass.
“Emma,” Ryan’s voice sounded hard and his hand on my leg tightened. “Please don’t jump down there.”
“We can’t just stay here,” I repeated and pushed away from the branch. I landed hard about six inches away from the yak’s extended hooves. My glasses flew off and landed somewhere in the grass. The yak grunted.
Again, the world turned into a foggy haze. I tried to focus on the yak’s inert form. He hadn’t budged. I knelt in the grass to feel for my glasses.
From above came a grumble of disapproval. I didn’t watch Ryan propel himself off the branch in the yak’s opposite direction. He fell several feet to the left. I continued to search the grass for my glasses. Ryan came to my side. I felt him staring down at me.
“Why don’t you wear contacts?” he whispered.
“Do you really want to know?” I cast a long, cautious look at the sleeping yak. “When I was about thirteen years old I went to the ophthalmologist to get contacts. He put the contacts in, but I couldn’t take them out. Somehow, I hadn’t been able to bring my hand up to touch my eye. After an hour of coaxing from my Gram, and growing impatience from the doctor, I’d finally managed to remove the contacts. They sat unused on my vanity for years.”
Ryan touched my arm, smiling, clearly not judging me for having the willies about touching my eyes, and slid my glasses up my nose. My vision and Jeff returned at about the same time.