Live and Let Fly Page 5

  My jaw dropped. “Not you, too? Am I the only person who didn’t watch that show?”

  “Well, she was a local girl, remember.” Stella smiled with a touch of guilt. “I have the season saved, if you’re interested.”

  For the first time, I noticed the television discreetly pushed into the corner. “Maybe just a sample, if you don’t mind.”

  I sometimes watched movies while I sewed kites. Most kites I made with the sewing machine, but the delicate bits of appliqué on this kite required careful hand-piecing. Each color—say, for a sliver of rising sun—I’d stitch to the background fabric with careful, even stitches. Once it was on, I’d flip the kite over and cut away the background under the appliquéd patch so that the kite was one sheer layer, not two.

  “Just some highlights, then,” Stella said. She pulled the television over on its wheeled stand. “The show’s premise is that the bachelor is a safari hunter, and his potential dates are all—”

  “Animals,” I finished. “Oh, Stella. Really? People watch this show?”

  She pressed her lips together. “So, the women all stay in a jungle-themed mansion on a few acres.”

  “With a pool, so they can lounge in their swimsuits, am I right?”

  “Please don’t interrupt,” Stella said in her schoolmarm voice. “When the bachelor comes over, he hangs out with them, then they scatter over the property. He hunts down the babe he wants and points his gun at her—”

  “Stop! This is awful.”

  “And a little flag comes out that says, ‘Bagged.’ Then he goes on a date with her.”

  I had to set down the needle I was threading to groan. “And people watch this garbage.” Remembering that Stella had said she’d seen the season, I added, “I’m sure there’s lots of suspense.”

  “Just watch.” Stella took the remote control to the chair next to Madame Lucy, who jumped into her lap. “I’ll cue up the show where the hunter first chooses Jasmine.”

  The television erupted into sinister music with a dance beat. Stella turned down the volume a few notches. Behind the opening titles, a bevy of bikini-clad women ran from the pool like a thicket of quail chased from a bush. The camera focused on a buff man in a safari suit, complete with pith helmet.

  “I can’t believe it,” I said.

  Stella shot me a warning look. “Hush.”

  Slung across the bachelor’s shoulders was a gun. “Stay tuned as we watch Chad Bag That Babe!”

  “Okay, here’s the good part,” Stella said.

  Credits over, the show opened on a dorm-style bedroom strewn with sleeping women. An older woman in a military outfit entered the scene ringing a bell. “Who’s she?” I asked.

  “The game warden.”

  “Everyone up! Out of bed!” the game warden said. “Chad will be here any minute.”

  With squeals, the women leapt from their bunks and hurried offstage, presumably to dress. I thought I recognized Caitlin in the mix, although except for hair color, the women looked pretty much the same: nice figures, even features, fruit-toned manicures.

  One figure remained in bed. The game warden slapped the woman’s rump through the blanket. “Up!” she said.

  The figure rolled over. Jasmine. “What?”

  “Chad’s on his way. You’ve got to get up and into the wild. Here’s your outfit.” The game warden tossed a tiger-striped garment on the bed.

  Stella paused the television. “Later they discovered that Jasmine was diabetic. That’s why she slept so much.” She pressed “play” again.

  Jasmine stumbled toward a rear exit. The camera flashed to the other women, now freshly coiffed and lipsticked, scattering in the garden. A moment later, clad in a tiger-striped minidress, her hair still mussed, Jasmine came through the door, yawning.

  Just then, Mr. Pith Helmet, Chad—or whatever he was called—burst in the bedroom door. Chad and Jasmine stared at each other, each surprised to find the other one. Chad lifted his rifle and shot. “Bang,” he added. A pink flag reading “Bagged” slid out the rifle’s muzzle.

  “This is too much,” I said.

  Stella clicked the television off. “So, they go on a date. Chad lets her stay around for future safaris.”

  “And eventually she wins. Then what? Do they have to get married?” I knew Jasmine already had a husband, but I remembered his name as Kyle.

  “No. They won cash and a free trip to a safari in Botswana. Jasmine got a leg up on her acting career, and Chad ended up hosting a fishing show, I think.”

  I fitted a piece of orange nylon onto the blue background and anchored it with a few stitches. “This kite is going to take forever.” I threaded green into the needle. “What about Caitlin? How was she on the show?”

  “You know how every reality TV show has the character you love to hate?” Stella looked at me for confirmation, but I couldn’t say yes or no, since I hadn’t watched any. “Well, they do. And Caitlin was it. I’m surprised she and Jasmine were such close friends. But you know what they say, ‘Keep your friends close’—”

  “—And your enemies closer,” I finished. “Interesting.” I snipped a piece of pine-hued nylon to the shape of the trees on Clatsop Cliffs. “Why didn’t people like her?”

  “She lied. A lot. Really, when she said something, it was best to assume the opposite.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, she’d tell Chad that Jasmine was trash-talking him, for instance, when she wasn’t. Or she’d dump a margarita on one of the other girls’ dresses and say it was an accident.”

  “Sheriff Koppen didn’t seem completely satisfied with the idea that Jasmine’s death was an accident, but he wouldn’t tell me more than that.” I tied off the thread. “You said Jasmine just discovered she was diabetic. She died of an insulin overdose. Maybe, since she was new to taking it, she miscalculated.”

  “Could be.” Stella sipped her wine and leaned back. Madame Lucy’s purr resonated from all the way across the table. “I heard you and Jasmine went at it at the Brew House.”

  “‘Went at it’ is kind of strong.”

  Stella waited.

  “It’s embarrassing.”

  “And?” she said.

  “I was more angry at Jack, really. I know it’s stupid,” I added quickly. Unlike with the sheriff, talking with Stella was easy. She’d been my confidant from nearly the first day we’d met.

  “Not stupid. Tell me.”

  “I saw Jack all gaga over Jasmine, and I was jealous. Plus, I’d just come from Rose, who had reminded me how many new businesses fail and how I had to have a better plan for getting Strings Attached through the winter. Then I go to the Brew House, and Jack is making eyes at the festival’s judge. I lost it.”

  Stella looked at me, then at my empty glass. “You want another one?”

  “No, I’m good, thanks.”

  She nudged Madame Lucy aside and went to the refrigerator for the bottle, anyway, and added a splash to my glass. “You might need it.”

  I looked up from my stitching and caught her gaze. “Oh, come on,” I said. “You don’t think I had anything to do with Jasmine’s death?”

  “Of course I don’t,” she said. “But others might.”

  “The sheriff asked a few questions, but he didn’t lock me up. Sure, that National Bloodhound reporter made a few insinuations, but that’s what they do, see murder in an unfortunate accident.”

  Stella sighed. “It’s like we’re our own wacky reality TV show.”

  chapter seven

  The next afternoon was my date with Jack, so I’d reluctantly agreed to let Sunny watch the shop for the two hours it remained open that day. Jack and I had planned to meet at the parking lot at Clatsop Cliffs for a leisurely walk. August was the rare time of year that wasn’t rainy on the Oregon coast, and it would have been a shame to pass such a glorious afternoon
indoors.

  Thinking of Jasmine and Caitlin’s California glamour, I’d carefully combed my wavy hair and even put on some lip stain. Mom had always praised my skin’s rosy glow, saying it was the result of good gallbladder function, and Avery liked to call me Snow White for my dark hair and pale skin, but I’d never be a beauty queen.

  Jack pulled up in his old Jeep and smiled as he leapt from the driver’s side. “I thought I was on time, but you beat me.”

  “It’s such a nice day, I left a few minutes early.”

  We both leaned against the hood of my Prius and looked toward the ocean, where waves left ridges of white that flattened as they came closer in to lap the sand below. At the horizon, the sea was a slightly richer blue than the sky.

  “Ready to walk?” Jack said.

  “Let’s go.”

  Within a few yards of the trailhead, the trail plunged into woods, trees muffling the whooshing surf. Here and there between the wind-stunted pines, the ocean appeared. As the trail climbed the cliffs, it delved more deeply into the trees and the rich scent of dried pine needles and loam surrounded us.

  “How’re your preparations for the kite contest coming?” Jack asked, a bit too smugly, I thought.

  “Fine.” After my start on the kite at Stella’s, and a few hours more work this morning, I was feeling good about it. “And yours?”

  “Great, actually.”

  And there conversation flagged. Normally, Jack and I talked for hours, running through old television shows, our favorite rides at an amusement park, why we liked cilantro or not—you name it. But we’d never been head-to-head in a contest before.

  Jack probably had no idea how important winning the contest was to me. He knew I was competitive, but I’d never talked to him about Strings Attached’s finances. His grandfather had bought the building Sullivan’s Kites was in long ago, so Jack didn’t face the same financial pressure.

  He wanted to win the contest, too, no doubt about it. My guess was that it had more to do with his ego than any desire for publicity and sales. He’d always admired how my kites looked, but sometimes he couldn’t help pointing out that they weren’t built for fast maneuvers. I didn’t care. My kites were beautiful and flew just fine. For the contest, I hadn’t fooled around with an innovative shape—rather I was counting on its artistic appeal and reliable airmanship to win. I rubbed my fingertips, raw from stitching, against my thumb.

  We came to a clearing in the trees. I decided to change the subject. “I heard Jasmine Normand’s husband is in town, but I haven’t seen him.”

  “Kyle Connell. He stopped by Dave’s shop to rent a kayak while I was there. Said he wanted to be alone for a while. Seems like a nice guy. It can’t be easy for him to be here,” Jack said.

  “No. His wife’s hometown, and now a funeral. I wonder if it will be a public ceremony?” More cameras, more reporters like Nicky Byrd, I thought. More ugliness.

  “I’m sure they’ll do something private. I know I would.” Jack seemed lost in his thoughts. Abruptly, conversation took another turn. “Have you seen a stranger around?”

  “Besides the reporters?”

  “A tall guy, nicely dressed, really tan.”

  I remembered him. He’d been at the Brew House the afternoon I picked a fight with Jack and Jasmine. Maybe I wouldn’t mention that. “Yes. I have, in fact. You’ve seen him, too?”

  “He stopped by the store yesterday. Took his time looking at my stock, but he didn’t buy anything.”

  “Must be an investor. Or a visitor.” In the past few years, the town had changed so much. “Do you know why Marcus Salek is so anti-tourist?”

  “No. I guess I figured it was because he was from a family of fishermen.” That would make sense. Thanks to stiffer environmental rules and competition from overseas, fewer independent fishermen were able to make a living these days.

  We’d come to the top of the trail, just above Devil’s Playpen. Some civic group had placed a bench in the clearing years ago, and time had eroded the cliff and weathered the bench’s wood until it was a rickety seat only five or six feet from the edge. It was stable enough for two careful adults to sit on, though.

  “I love this view,” I said, taking a seat. The wind blew hair across my eyes. I brushed it out of the way.

  Jack sat next to me, a palm’s width away. He leaned back, squinting against the sun, his elbows resting on the bench’s back. “There’s town.” He looked down the beach. “It doesn’t look like much from here.”

  Down the beach, Rock Point was a collection of tiny buildings hugging a bay, with two docks and a strip of toast-colored sand.

  “So much drama down there,” I said, thinking of Jasmine and the reporters I’d seen the day before. “You’d never know it from up here.” I made out a red kite bobbing in the air just off the new docks.

  Jack saw the kite, too. “I think that’s one of mine. I sold it to a couple of boys this morning. Their mother bought them only one to share.”

  He’d had to raise his voice. The surf was louder here as it crashed against the jagged boulders of Devil’s Playpen. I thought for a moment of the dozens of ships that had met their end on the rocks below before the lighthouse behind us went in.

  “Sunny’s been coming here almost every day for walks,” I said.

  “Your sister.”

  “Yes.” Wind tugged at my hair. “I’m surprised you two haven’t met yet. You should come by the house.”

  Jack smiled. I think he actually did want to meet Sunny. It warmed me and set off a warning bell at the same time. “I’d like that,” he said.

  I jolted my gaze away from Jack’s mesmerizing eyes and toward the surf. Bag That Babe made dating seem so easy. I wasn’t ready to have a serious relationship in my life, not yet. But Jack was getting harder to resist.

  “Emmy,” Jack said. He placed a hand, warm and firm, over mine on the bench. His lips widened into a lopsided grin.

  The alarm in my head rang full-on now. Abandon ship! Abandon ship! it screamed. Yet I couldn’t pull myself away.

  Just then, my phone rang, playing “Strangers in the Night,” my tone for an unknown caller. “Let it ring,” I said.

  Jack’s grin faded as the phone continued to ring. Suddenly, I despised that song. Why couldn’t I have programmed in something more romantic?

  “You’d better answer it,” Jack said.

  With a mixture of disappointment and relief, I pulled the phone from my bag and glanced at its screen. It was the sheriff.

  chapter eight

  I shivered in the cold night. Per Sheriff Koppen’s instructions, I was on the beach again, in the dead of night, staring up at Jasmine’s house. The sky was perhaps a bit cloudier, and the wind rustled the beach grass with a bit more vigor, but I was there, in the same spot I’d been three nights earlier. When Jasmine died.

  I yawned.

  “Is this what you saw?” Sheriff Koppen asked. When he’d called that afternoon, he’d told me he wanted to reconstruct the night Jasmine died. He wouldn’t say why. I passed the evening mulling it over. He clearly had some reason to suspect the death wasn’t an accident, but he wasn’t sure of it himself. Yet, who would want to murder Jasmine Normand? I tried to nap after dinner to prepare myself for the long night, but instead of sleeping, I made a mess of my bedding by twisting and turning while going over that night in my head.

  At last it was three in the morning. Feeling a lot sleepier than I had three nights earlier, I left the house and walked up the beach, just as I had that night. Only, this time, the sheriff was waiting for me below Jasmine’s beach house.

  “Well, you weren’t here,” I said in reply to his question.

  “I know that. But the house. Is this how everything looked? We need to make sure it’s right.”

  As I’d instructed, the light in an upstairs bedroom had been turned on, and a wo
man’s shadow moved against the filmy curtain. A light also burned in the kitchen, and another figure stood over the sink. I gave it another look.

  “Yeah, that seems right.” Despite my exhaustion, anxiety thrummed within me. “Why is this so important?”

  “Never mind that. What about the kitchen?” The sheriff seemed to be checking the moon, the tide, even feeling the breeze.

  I straightened. “The guy inside.” Remembering how he’d looked down at me that night, a chill ran through me. “Do you think he saw me?”

  “I doubt it.” The sheriff talked into his radio, listened, then lowered it again. “Birk says he can’t see us at all.”

  My muscles slackened with relief. Why I should be so relieved, I wasn’t sure. “Why are we here?” I asked again.

  Sheriff Koppen faced me. His black hair was pulled into a short ponytail that melted into the night. “Look again at the officer in the kitchen. Does he look about the right size?”

  The sheriff hadn’t answered me. He obviously suspected that something about Jasmine’s death wasn’t right. I knew I wouldn’t get anywhere by badgering him, so I followed his instructions. “That guy’s too small.”

  The sheriff glanced to the house, then back at me. “Are you sure?”

  “The guy I saw was bigger. Not fatter, just bigger.” I squinted. “At least, I think so.”

  The sheriff moved closer. “Emmy, I want you to be sure. You’re the only eyewitness we have. Are you certain he wasn’t about that size? Take your time.”

  He sure was harping on this one detail. I looked to the kitchen again. The man leaned against what I assumed was the kitchen counter, but after the sheriff said a few words into the radio, the man stood upright again.

  “The moon is a little more full, and this is the right time of night—at least, the tide is about where it was when I came the other night.” I squinted. “No, he’s too small.”

  He let out a long breath. “Come up.”

  The sheriff and I walked up the stairs set into the bluff to the deck and wiped the sand off our shoes. The sheriff pulled open the sliding doors.