Wuthering Kites Page 6

  “Good luck,” I mouthed to Deputy Goff. I think she actually smiled at me.

  The din of Ace and Stella’s argument faded as we walked down the hall to the sheriff’s small office at the back of the building. I inhaled deeply in appreciation. Martino’s must be simmering an especially big pot of sauce. Back here, its fragrance was extra garlicky and tinged with oregano.

  “You must get hungry working in your office,” I said.

  “What is it you wanted to tell me, Emmy?” Sheriff Koppen leaned back in his desk chair. His black hair pulled back at the temples and flowed tightly past his ears into a ponytail. His dark eyes didn’t waver.

  I reached into my pocket for the kite charm and set it in front of him. “This. My mother found it in Strings Attached.”

  One of the sheriff’s eyebrows lifted a millimeter, but he didn’t say anything.

  “She was doing some cleaning.”

  “The crime scene team didn’t clean up?”

  “A spiritual cleansing,” I answered. “She found this charm in the fireplace.”

  The sheriff picked up the charm. Mom and I had already handled it, and in the short time it spent in my purse it had already lost a touch of tarnish on the kite’s edge. Getting fingerprints from it would be useless.

  “The team is thorough. If this were on the floor, they would have found it. Are you sure your mother didn’t accidentally drop it? Or a customer?”

  “It’s not Mom’s, and I haven’t opened the shop to the public yet. A few people stopped by last night, but only for a minute.” I scooted forward in my chair. “I know who it belongs to. I just didn’t want there to be any confusion.”

  He set down the charm. “Why would there be confusion?”

  “It’s nothing, really. I just thought, you know, you should see everything in the shop. I didn’t want you to think I’d withhold evidence. Especially since Stella and I were the ones to find the body.”

  Sheriff Koppen leaned forward and rested his forearms on the desk. “Spit it out, Emmy. What do you want to tell me?”

  I squeezed my hands together. The second hand on the clock on his desk—some kind of award for outstanding service, according to its plaque—jerked its way around the clock’s face. “It’s Jack’s. He always had this charm on his key ring. I saw him last night, and he said it was missing.”

  The sheriff raised his eyes, but the rest of his body stayed immobile. “Are you sure it’s his?”

  “Yes. There.” I touched the kite’s broken tail. “His had snapped off.”

  “It looks like the weakest part of the kite. Anyone with this charm might have had the same thing happen.”

  “That’s just it,” I said. My guts twinged. “His grandfather, you know, the original owner of Sullivan’s Kites—”

  He nodded.

  “Well, he had it custom made.”

  The sheriff leaned back and steepled his fingers. “I see.”

  “I mean, it wasn’t Jack.” I laughed, but I admit it might have sounded forced. “He never would have killed a reporter, and in my store, even. I mean, why?”

  “Why, indeed?”

  “Right.” I brushed an imaginary bit of lint from my jeans. “So, that’s it. I just thought I should tell you. It doesn’t really mean anything, does it?”

  “Not on its own.”

  I didn’t make a move to leave, and the sheriff didn’t dismiss me. “Have you learned anything new about the murder?”

  “It’s an active investigation, Emmy. I can’t talk about it.”

  I let my arms flop to my sides. “But it was in my shop. You must have found out something by now. Why the reporter was there early, for instance.”

  “I can tell you that the medical examiner has the body, and I’ve been in contact with the Seattle Police Department to follow up with the reporter’s family.”

  “What about the front-door lock? Ace says it was picked. How did it get locked again?”

  “I told you, we’re looking into it.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For now, yes.”

  I knew from prior experience that a standoff with the sheriff would not end in my favor. Besides, the smell of the pizza was getting to me. I was hungry for lunch, and Mom would be waiting for me back at the shop. She must have run out of incantations by now.

  I reached for the charm, but the sheriff drew it back. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep this.”

  chapter eight

  By the time I left the sheriff’s office, Stella and Ace were gone, and Deputy Goff was hunched over her computer. She barely lifted her head to nod as I passed.

  Out on the street, I buttoned my coat. Now that autumn was tipping into winter, the nearly constant breeze carried a more penetrating chill. It might not get cold enough to freeze all winter, but the wind’s heaviness seeped to the bone.

  I had to get back to work. The wind socks weren’t going to sew themselves. Maybe Sunny had taken Mom to lunch and I’d have the studio to myself for work and a bit of reflection. Had I done the right thing by giving the sheriff Jack’s kite charm? If I hadn’t, it would be burning in my pocket right now. No, I had done right.

  Mom and Sunny were still at Strings Attached. I unlocked the back door to the smell of melted cheese and tomato sauce—a smell I’d just left behind in a richer form—and a heated discussion.

  “See?” Sunny said. “See how Emmy unlocked the bolt first, then the handle?”

  “Of course, Emmy would,” Mom replied. “It’s her shop. But a criminal wouldn’t. He’d pick the handle’s lock first, because it’s easiest.”

  “Did you two solve the murder yet?” I asked.

  “No,” Sunny said, “but we made you lunch.”

  I shut the door behind me and tossed my coat and purse on a kitchen chair. “That must be what smells so good.”

  “You’ll never guess.” Sunny pointed to the counter.

  “Frozen lasagna, how could that be?” I picked up its waxy cardboard packaging from the counter. “Mom, you hate prepackaged food. You, too, Sunny.”

  “We were arguing about whether they were good or not.”

  “What’s to argue about? Neither of you likes this sort of thing. You’re both all about organic produce and cooking from scratch.”

  Sunny put a hand on her hip. “My argument was that most Americans like frozen food, so there must be some merit to it. Mom says they have bad taste, and that this kind of food should be banned for their own good.”

  “It’s a cardiac arrest in a box,” Mom said.

  “So you decided to try one? Factory-farmed meat and all?”

  “We got the vegetarian version,” Sunny said.

  “Still.” A blast of hot air hit my face as I peeked in the oven. “It does smell good.”

  “The big question is why the murderer locked the door on the way out. I mean, why go to the trouble? What does it gain him?” Mom said.

  “Maybe he wanted to keep people out,” Sunny said.

  “There aren’t a lot of people trying the doors of shops at night in Rock Point,” I pointed out.

  “There aren’t a lot of murderers wandering around, either, but one of them found Strings Attached, anyway,” Sunny said.

  “Say someone did open the door during the night and found the body. So what? Why would it matter?” Mom said.

  Neither Sunny nor I could answer her.

  Mom sighed. “When did you know the reporter was coming to interview you?”

  I sat at the kitchen table. “Last week. She called and asked if we could meet yesterday, late morning. She was driving down from Seattle.”

  “So, the murderer had to be someone who knew her schedule. Then that person somehow tricked the reporter into coming early,” Mom said. She absently turned off the oven and slid the lasagna onto a trivet before pushing open
the door to the shop.

  Sunny and I followed her. We all stared at the cash register, then the floor where the body had lain.

  “Why would she have followed him into the shop? She had to have assumed the person was somehow connected to me.”

  “Maybe she thought the person was you,” Sunny said.

  Curiosity and fear stirred in my gut. I clenched and released my fists. Someone pretending to be me? “Do you think so?”

  “A woman could be strong enough to strangle someone,” Mom said. “You should see Judith, from my croning circle, knead bread.”

  “That poor reporter,” Sunny said.

  We went back into the kitchen.

  “Besides,” Mom said. “It’s all in where you squeeze, not brute strength.” How Mom knew this, I didn’t want to ask. “This worries me. The whole thing. Oh, Emmy.” Mom gave me that look she’d mastered, the one that said, Give it all up right now and move home so I can smother you with vegan casseroles.

  “Look,” I said. “The sheriff is dealing with the investigation. He’s the expert.” As I talked, I actually felt myself relaxing. “We don’t have to figure it all out. It’s his business. Remember? You told me that, Sunny.”

  “Good point. One thing we can be sure of is that it doesn’t have to do with you. It’s the reporter’s business. You were simply the unlucky person she was supposed to interview.”

  “Someone’s coming up the steps,” Mom said.

  “The sign says ‘Closed,’” I said. With my newfound peace, I was ready to tuck into the lasagna, prefrozen or not. I pulled three plates from the cupboard before stepping through the door connecting the shop to the studio.

  A woman’s head and shoulders appeared in the shop’s front-door window. She smiled widely and waved.

  “We’re closed,” I shouted through the window. Couldn’t she get the hint?

  The woman mouthed something and waved again.

  “She wants in.” Mom appeared behind me.

  “Duh,” Sunny said.

  Shoot. I opened the door to a tall woman with short gray hair dressed a cut above the usual fleece-clad tourist this time of year.

  “I’m sorry,” I told her. “We’re closed until tomorrow. If you need some extra line for your kite or something, I could help you quickly, but I’m afraid that’s all.”

  The woman’s smile widened, and she stuck out a hand. “You must be Emmy Adler. I’m Rebecca Caswell. Reporter from Sunrise magazine.”

  * * *

  • • •

  I stared at the woman standing in front of me for so long that her smile began to falter. The reporter who was to meet me was named Rebecca Caswell. Rebecca Caswell was also the dead reporter. If this was the real reporter, who was the woman I’d found yesterday morning? My mouth opened and closed like I was a guppy gulping water.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “You said you’re from Sunrise magazine?”

  She apparently felt back on solid ground now, as her smile perked up. She handed me a business card. “Yes, Rebecca Caswell. You got my message, right?”

  “I thought you were coming yesterday.”

  “I left you a message the day before yesterday saying I had to delay our interview. I left it after hours, but I figured you’d check your voice mail in the morning. Didn’t you get it?”

  The shop’s phone was an old rotary model attached to the wall. It was too charming to take down, so I’d kept it and attached an answering machine. There were no messages on the answering machine right now.

  “What’s going on?” Mom had scrambled to my side, Sunny behind her.

  Still bewildered, I turned to her. “Mom, Sunny, this is the reporter from Sunrise magazine. Ms. Caswell, I’d like you to meet my mother, Deb, and my sister, Sunny.”

  “You can’t be the Sunrise reporter,” Mom said. “She’s dead. I just cleared her energy from the shop this morning.”

  “I’m sorry for the confusion. Did I come at a bad time?” The reporter looked to me for help, probably suspecting my mother had escaped from an institution. I was still too flabbergasted to explain. “Look,” she continued, now leaning against the doorframe. “I’d love to do the interview. I drove all the way down from Seattle this morning. I had to get up at five a.m.”

  “I got up at five, too,” Mom offered.

  Rebecca Caswell shrugged. “Are we on for the interview or not?”

  Yes, I wanted the interview. I wanted it desperately. But it was going to have to wait. “You must be absolutely starved for a good cup of coffee. Why don’t I walk you up to the Brew House? I have to run a quick errand; then I’ll explain everything.”

  “I was hoping to tour the shop and see where you design your kites,” she said.

  “We’ll do that, too. After we chat a bit at the Brew House.”

  The reporter looked at me suspiciously, but she shrugged in a way I took for a yes. I left her just long enough to grab my coat.

  At the Brew House, I steered her to a corner table and promised to return lickety-split. As soon as I was clear of her line of sight, I ran to the sheriff’s office.

  This time, Sheriff Koppen was just slipping into his coat. He had one arm in when I burst through the door.

  “Emmy?” he said.

  I flattened a palm against my chest as I caught my breath. “The reporter—,” I huffed out.

  “Yes?” He slipped the jacket completely on. It meant he didn’t take me seriously, that he didn’t think I’d have anything to tell him worth settling in for, but for once that was okay. Wait until he got a load of my news.

  “The woman killed at Strings Attached yesterday. She wasn’t the reporter from Sunrise magazine.”

  “But she had your interview information on her.”

  “But not her ID or even a business card.”

  “The perpetrator took her wallet. That’s where her ID would have been.”

  “Was that the only way you identified her, though? Have any family members identified her, for instance?”

  “Like I told you, the Seattle PD is following up. Why are you telling me all this?” he asked. “What happened?”

  “The reporter just showed up at the shop.”

  “What?”

  “She said she’d called to tell me she’d be a day late, but I never got her message.”

  The sheriff pushed through the gate cordoning off the office from the reception area and was at my side before I’d finished talking. “I haven’t heard from the medical examiner’s office yet—they only received the body yesterday afternoon.”

  “That means you don’t have a positive ID. Yet,” I said, unsure.

  “Right.” He reached up a finger to rub behind his ear. “Wow.”

  The sheriff was a master of not revealing emotion. Once or twice I’d even made scenes just to get some kind of response. So, his “wow” was notable.

  “I know,” I said.

  “You say she’s here in Rock Point?”

  “At the Brew House. I didn’t want to leave her with Mom and Sunny at the shop.” I didn’t want the story of Strings Attached’s success to become a homicide piece. Not that Sunrise magazine was known for more than home and garden features. But I’d crossed swords with a tabloid reporter once, and that had been enough.

  “Let’s go. If you’re right, I’ll need to talk with her privately.”

  I had to try. “Do you”—I crossed my fingers—“do you think we might have our interview before you drag her to the office?”

  He didn’t even turn around. “No.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The sheriff settled once and for all that the reporter was the real Rebecca Caswell. A call to the medical examiner’s office confirmed that the body’s identity hadn’t yet been established, and a follow-up call to Seattle established that the victim co
uldn’t be the reporter. Besides Rebecca Caswell’s editor and family, no one knew she was arriving a day late in Rock Point.

  No one but the murderer, that is, once he’d listened to and erased my phone message, I deduced.

  The sheriff had quizzed me, too, on who had known about the magazine interview. I’d told Sunny and Avery, of course. And Stella. And I’d talked about it for a good hour with Jack, unable to contain myself.

  As I mentioned Jack’s name, the sheriff’s raised eyebrow told me he was thinking about the broken kite charm. Disquiet burned within me. It wasn’t because I suspected Jack—not that. It was because the sheriff might not know better than not to.

  And that’s why my mind drifted over the next few hours as I walked the reporter through Rock Point, pointing out my favorite spots—the walk along Clatsop Cliffs below the lighthouse, the boats at the old dock, the fishermen’s cottages dotted along the beach.

  A woman had been strangled in my shop.

  No one knew who she was.

  No one knew who’d killed her. Or why.

  We ended our tour at Strings Attached. The acrid scent of sage had subsided, and the warm studio was welcoming after the walk in the brisk wind, even if it did still smell faintly of boxed lasagna. A note from Mom said she’d gone home but that Sunny would return with Bear later in the day. I suspected I’d find my refrigerator upstairs full of kale.

  I heated the kettle and walked the reporter through the shop and studio, showing her the drawing table and gridded paper I used to design kite patterns. We drank tea and fingered a rainbow’s worth of kite fabric.

  As the sun was beginning to set, the reporter at last prepared to drive home.

  “I’m sorry about all the drama this morning. At least it doesn’t sound like you’re in danger,” I said. We’d come to like each other in the hours we’d spent together that day.

  “I think the fact that I was coming was used, and that’s all.

  “I know.”

  She grasped my hand in a warm handshake. “It doesn’t sound like the murder has much to do with you, either. I mean, you didn’t even know the victim. That must bring some comfort.”