Blown Away

  BAD DAY ON THE BEACH

  At last, the sheriff’s Suburban plowed up the beach, leaving a thick tread in the sand. I waved frantically and pulled my hoodie closer around me. The morning seemed to have somehow grown colder.

  The Suburban’s door clunked shut, and a man in his midforties, with jet black hair grayed at the temples and pulled back into a neat ponytail, approached. The star-shaped badge on his khaki shirt flashed in the morning light, then dulled as clouds covered the sun.

  “Sheriff Nick Koppen,” he said.

  “He’s over there.” I pointed to the rocks, the tide now far enough out to have exposed the body fully. The sheriff stepped on the rocks, then without changing his expression, muttered a few words into his radio before turning to me.

  “Help me turn him over,” he said.

  “Me? I—”

  He’d already leapt down from the rocks and knelt at the body’s side. “If there’s a chance he’s alive, I’ll need your help.”

  I gulped and crawled over the rocks but kept a few feet away from the body. Instinct told me there was no reviving him. The sheriff laid a hand on the body’s neck, then shook his head. Gently, with one hand on a shoulder and another on a hip, he rolled the body faceup.

  My breath froze in my throat, but I couldn’t look away. The blood in my ears roared like the surf. The dead man couldn’t have been much older than I—late twenties or maybe thirty. He wore a sand-incrusted T-shirt and jeans, but his feet were bare. His curly brown hair stuck to his skull, and tattoos formed sleeves on his arms. What seared me deepest were his eyes. Wide open and blue. That, and the three-inch gash in his chest . . .

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

  Copyright © 2017 by Penguin Random House LLC.

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  BERKLEY is a registered trademark and BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the B colophon are trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Ebook ISBN: 9780698410275

  First Edition: FEBRUARY 2017

  Cover art and design by Sandra Chiu.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Version_1

  For my father,

  whom I can always count on for encouragement

  and good advice no matter what crazy scheme I attempt.

  acknowledgments

  Thank you to editors Julie Mianecki and Allison Janice for their expertise and good natures. To my agent, John Talbot, thank you for your insight and advice. I owe cozy author extraordinaire Kate Dyer-Seeley a big thanks, too, for her encouragement.

  My critique group—Cindy Brown, Christine Finlayson, Doug Levin, Dave Lewis, Ann Littlewood, and Marilyn McFarlane—were instrumental hand-holders and plot sharpeners during the writing process. As always, I’m grateful.

  Finally, Rich Durant generously showed me around his workshop and walked me through the kite-making process, coming up with at least a dozen ways to kill someone with the tools at hand. Thanks, Rich. You’ll recognize the inspiration you provided, especially toward the book’s end.

  contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Chapter Thirty

  chapter one

  The first rule about flying kites is that when the wind lifts them skyward, you give them line, not reel them in.

  That’s why I winced when I heard the familiar rattle of my parents’ VW bus in the driveway. I’d moved from Portland to Rock Point, on Oregon’s coast, to open a kite shop, and, yes, escape their overbearing attention. At twenty-eight, I’d had enough parenting.

  My best friend—and, as of that day, roommate—Avery left the box of art supplies she was helping me unpack and crossed to the living room window. “Emmy, it’s your mom and dad,” she said. “Looks like they brought the dog, too.”

  I moaned. “Can’t they give me at least a week before they start interfering again?”

  But Avery was already at the door, letting in my mother, whose enthusiastic greetings competed with noise of the crashing surf from the beach below.

  “Oh, Avery, it’s so nice to see you again. I can’t believe we haven’t been out to your place since your parents passed away. Emmy would have to move when Mercury is in retrograde. That can never go well. But, did she—”

  “Mom,” I said, and stepped up for a hug mostly to slow her down but also because, well, she was my mother, and despite her smothering, I did love her. “Let me take that bag.” I relieved her of a grocery sack undoubtedly loaded with her idea of a housewarming gift, which could be anything from a raw-food casserole to a Chinese fountain meant to improve feng shui.

  Bear, the family Australian shepherd, wedged his way in the front door with my father. He squirmed at my feet, wanting to jump up, and I had to laugh. “Come here, boy.” I scratched him between the ears before he darted to the bedroom, where Avery’s friend, Dave, was putting together my bed frame.

  My mother lifted something from the bag—yep, a casserole—and set it down when Dave emerged from the bedroom. She dropped the bag immediately and swept toward him, hand extended. “You must be Avery’s boyfriend. I’m Deb, Emmy’s mom.”

  Avery’s boyfriend, huh? My gaze passed from Avery, who was nonplussed, to Dave, who’d colored a bit, although it was hard to tell under his close-cut beard. It seemed to be common knowledge that Dave had a thing for Avery. Common knowledge to everyone except Avery, that is. Dave owned a kayak shop in town, but most days at lunch you could find him at Avery’s coffee shop, the Brew House, or at the glorious, if run-down, beach house we lived in, finding something to help her fix.

  “Deb, I’d like you to meet my friend Dave,” Avery said. “He’s helping get Emmy settled in.”

  “Have a seat,” I said to my parents, and gestured to the sofa. I took an armchair, and Bear trotted over to put his head on my knee. His ice blue eyes stared from his merled face. How I loved that dog. Leaving Po
rtland had been long overdue, but I’d miss my regular visits with Bear. “I see you brought food.”

  “Gluten-free, vegan casserole,” Mom said. “And I made you a few herbal remedies. Moving is stressful, so I put together some Lassitude Tea to help you relax. Plus, a sweater. Alpaca. Loomed by blind Guatemalan girls.” She lifted a lumpy gray pullover from the bag.

  “Thanks, Mom.” She sure knew how to enhance a girl’s sex appeal. That sweater could turn Marilyn Monroe into Grandma Moses.

  “How’s the kite shop coming along?” Dad asked.

  I’d been driving to Rock Point every other weekend for months to find a space for Strings Attached and get the store ready for business. Tomorrow was its grand opening. My stomach twinged with anxiety and excitement. Maybe a cup of mom’s Lassitude Tea wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

  “The store looks great. Everything’s ready. Tomorrow’s the sand-castle competition, so, fingers crossed, I should be getting a lot of business.” I smiled in a way I hoped said “confident businesswoman.”

  “Rock Point has changed so much since we rented that cabin when you and your sister were kids.” Mom sighed. “Avery’s coffee shop, the condos up on the bluff, that new gastropub. What’s it called?”

  “The Tidal Basin,” Dave said, and Avery looked away for a second. She’d briefly dated its chef.

  “I hear they’re even thinking of building a resort,” Mom said.

  “Been down to old man Sullivan’s kite shop yet?” Dad asked.

  Dave and Avery exchanged glances. Dave was about to say something, but Avery shot him a look, and he closed his mouth.

  The visit to Sullivan’s Kites—Rock Point’s other kite store—was the one chore I hadn’t yet accomplished. Old man Sullivan was a bit of a grouch, as I remembered. Avery and I used to visit his shop when we were kids. I’d done a solid business plan, though, and I was sure the tourist town could sustain two kite shops. Plus, old man Sullivan’s kites were practical, conventional kites. Mine were innovative and artistic and would appeal to a different crowd. I’d spent four years in art school plus the six years since dreaming them up and testing prototypes.

  “Not yet.” I cast around for an excuse. “Tomorrow. Thought I’d wait until the store was, you know, up and running.”

  Mom rose. “Well, we’d best be getting home and let you kids finish unpacking. Your father has his Watergate-reenactment-club meeting tonight, and we don’t want to be late.”

  “Watergate reenactment?” Avery said.

  “We thought about a Lewis-and-Clark-expedition reenactment group—” Dad began.

  “But you know I don’t approve of firearms, and your father’s knee isn’t up to all that canoeing,” Mom said. “They’ve even chosen Tom to play President Nixon.” She beamed at him.

  “There’s no end of Watergate scripts, at least,” Dave said.

  Great. Now my father was Tricky Dick. Tricky Dick with a VW bus and a bent for composting.

  “Anyway, we have one more housewarming gift.” She looked to my father. “Tom?”

  “We’re leaving Bear with you,” Dad said. At his name, Bear perked his ears. “His things are in the car.”

  “But—” I started. “Who will play Checkers?” I asked, referring to the Nixon family’s dog. The truth was, I adored that dog and would love to keep him.

  “If it’s all right with Avery, of course,” Mom said. “Girls living alone should have a dog for protection. Besides, I know you love Bear.”

  “It’s fine by me,” Avery said.

  “We don’t need protection,” I said, secretly hoping that my protests weren’t too convincing.

  “You keep him,” Mom said. “You’ll need him. I told you it wasn’t a good idea to move while Mercury is in retrograde. Not a good idea at all. Anything could happen.”

  * * *

  I rolled over and looked at the clock. Six in the morning. It had been a late night, thanks to the bonfire on the beach and a long talk with Dave, who was surprisingly chatty once he relaxed. He was especially interested in my stories of art school with Avery. But late night or not, I was too worked up to stay in bed. Today was my big day—Strings Attached’s grand opening.

  I fluffed a pillow and sat up. I’d managed an outdoor store in Portland for five years, but it would be different running my own shop. If my business plan worked out, I’d make a modest but perfectly respectable living. Plus, I’d see my kites—all those beautiful designs in yellows and spruce greens and rich plums—sailing above the beach. Either that, or I’d go bankrupt, as my parents had warned me too many times.

  I pushed back the covers, and Bear, on his cushion near the foot of my bed, popped up and trotted after me to the kitchen. When you live with the owner of a coffeehouse, you can count on a good cup of joe in the morning. As the coffee machine filled the room with its rich scent and Bear snarfed his breakfast, I washed out a cup and tea ball Avery had left in the sink. I sniffed it and smiled. Lassitude Tea. Avery hadn’t been feeling well and had left the bonfire early in the evening.

  Mom would be happy to know her herbal remedies were put to good use, although at the same time I wished she would let me come up with my own remedies to life once in a while. I hoped that by living a few hours away, I’d prove I was perfectly capable of living a happy, productive life without her unbidden casserole deliveries. It had been a long time since I was an asthmatic kid who needed her protection, and I was determined to prove it to both of us.

  Cup of coffee in hand and Bear trotting behind me, I pushed Avery’s bedroom door open a crack, but she was still in full-lassitude mode. One thing I’ll say for Mom’s teas, they work as advertised. I pulled on an old hoodie and some fingerless gloves to ward off the spring morning’s chill and headed for the beach.

  Avery’s house was in an enviable location, just at the edge of town and up on a bluff. Her family had owned it for generations, and while its joists moaned during storms, and Avery had become proficient at blocking drafty windows and coaxing the chimney to draw, I knew the house and the land it occupied were worth a mint. Not that Avery would ever sell. Why should she? The sunsets from the front porch alone were worth every one of the old house’s ailments, and Avery’s talent at interior design meant that each room soothed and comforted.

  Bear was overjoyed to be out. He dashed ahead of me down the trail and set off after some sandpipers. Where the trail joined the beach, I stood a moment, sipping coffee and looking out at the ocean. Clouds thickened in the horizon, but a shaft of early-morning sun cracked the sky and met the surf where a house-sized cluster of rocks—the rocks the town was named after—jutted from the water. The tide was high now, and waves sprayed against the smaller formations rising here and there along the otherwise sandy beach. A salty tang infused the brisk air. For the millionth time since I’d arrived, I thanked my lucky stars to be living here.

  Mom would have said the stars weren’t nearly so propitiously aligned, what with her talk of “Mercury in retrograde.” She couldn’t have been more wrong. I had a stunning view of the ocean and Oregon’s wild coast, my dream career starting in a few hours, a gorgeous old home with my best friend, and a good cup of coffee. And my dog. I inhaled the morning’s fresh, cool air. What did Mom know, anyway?

  Bear ran back toward me, then quickly circled away toward a clump of jagged rocks with surf swirling around them. Up to his knees in water, Bear sniffed around the rocks. Then stopped. And began to bark.

  “Bear!” I yelled. “Quiet.” Not that I was worried about disturbing anyone. At this time of the morning, this early in the season, the beach was deserted.

  Bear stopped barking but began whining at the rock. What did he see? I drained the rest of my coffee and walked toward him. Probably a dead gull or a fish that had washed in with the tide. At my approach, Bear began to bark again.

  “Hush. What’s wrong? If it’s dead, you’d better not rol
l in it. Avery is patient, but not that patient. You don’t want to be sent back to Mom and Dad, do you?”

  Bear’s whine intensified, and he skittered in place in a nervous prance.

  “All right, all right.” I picked up a driftwood branch, still wet, to poke whatever it was—probably a jellyfish or a rotting crab—back into the surf. I stepped up to the rocky outcropping and peered over the edge where Bear had been barking. He yipped again.

  Facedown, legs licked by the surf, lay a dead man.

  chapter two

  I ran back to the house and arrived, gasping, in my bedroom, where I fumbled in my purse for my cell phone. Cell coverage was spotty here, so I took the phone to the porch and punched 9-1-1, screwing it up once and having to take a deep breath and try again. At last the emergency dispatcher answered.

  “I found a body. Rock Point. On the beach below the Cook house.”

  The dispatcher took my information and said she’d send the county sheriff.

  I shut Bear in the house, ignoring his whining, and hurried back to the beach. Would the body still be there? The tide was going out, so the body should have less of a chance of washing away. I scrambled up the rock, peeked down, and jerked my head away. Still there. I descended to the beach and turned my back toward the body.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I said under my breath, willing the sheriff to hurry. A raft of seagulls cawed to a landing farther up the shore.

  At last, the sheriff’s Suburban plowed up the beach, leaving a thick tread in the sand. I waved frantically and pulled my hoodie closer around me. The morning seemed to have somehow grown colder.

  The Suburban’s door clunked shut, and a man in his midforties, with jet black hair grayed at the temples and pulled back into a neat ponytail, approached. The star-shaped badge on his khaki shirt flashed in the morning light, then dulled as clouds covered the sun.

  “Sheriff Nick Koppen,” he said.