Live and Let Fly Page 9

  I pulled my bicycle away from the wall and walked it down the driveway. Man, that Kyle was something. Was that how Clark Gable bewitched the moviegoers of the 1940s? I couldn’t help stealing a backward glance.

  There he was, tall and broad-shouldered, leaning against the doorjamb and talking to Rose.

  I shivered.

  Tall. Broad-shouldered. Just like the man I’d seen the night Jasmine was killed.

  • • •

  As I walked down the hill toward Rock Point’s center and Strings Attached, I drew my mind back to the night Jasmine was murdered. Could it have possibly been Kyle in the beach house? Each time I formed the picture in my brain, it seemed to get murkier. They always say that the victim’s partner is the surest suspect in a murder case. But why would he kill Jasmine? Well, it wouldn’t hurt to drop in on the sheriff and let him know.

  On Main Street, tourists continued to trawl through the shops, candied apples or ice cream in hand. I passed Martino’s Pizza and opened the unassuming door to the sheriff’s office.

  “Can I help you?” Deputy Goff said.

  Shoot. Not her. “Is the sheriff in?”

  “Why?” She sounded about as happy to see me as I was to see her.

  The door pushed open behind me. A woman decked out in shades of pink came in, a somberly dressed man trailing her. She lifted a pair of pink sunglasses up to her head. “I lost my dog.”

  “Look, is Sheriff Koppen here or not?” I asked.

  The tourist muscled me away from the counter. “He’s a parti poodle, white. He has tags, but he slipped right out of his collar.”

  “Just a moment, miss,” Deputy Goff said. “No, Emmy, Nick is out. You can tell me anything you’d tell him.”

  “Never mind,” I said.

  The second I moved away from the counter, the woman seemed to expand to its width. She waved her arms and spouted the dog’s description, from his frosted pink toenails to his brown eyes. The man stood stolidly at the back wall, hands behind his back like a general store Indian statue.

  I left. Just outside the sheriff’s office, a small white poodle sat, waiting patiently and watching people walk by. Through the glass door, I motioned to the man and pointed to the dog. He nodded once. I heard the door open behind me as I continued down Main Street.

  I really needed to get back to Strings Attached to work on my kite—and see if Sunny had burnt the place down—but the chamber of commerce was just across the street. If Darlene was in, she might be able to tell me something about Marcus. Right now, he was the sheriff’s number one suspect. Both Marcus and Darlene had been born and raised here. I needed to know more about Marcus’s background. Maybe it would provide a clue to where he was now.

  Rock Point’s chamber of commerce was too small to have its own storefront. Peggy, the owner of Old Timey Antiques, let Darlene use the old storage room at the back as an office, which doubled as the headquarters for Darlene’s real estate business. I waved at Peggy and made my way past a rocking chair, a shelf of Mason jars, and a display of Depression-era glassware.

  Darlene was putting down the phone when I arrived. For being in the back of an antiques store, her office was about as modern as you could get. She’d laid down white, plush carpeting and had a steel desk with an ergonomically correct black mesh chair. A standing chrome lamp and matching desk light filled the space with pure white light. You’d never have known that a year ago this room held mops and broken chairs.

  “Emmy. Come in. Did you come to see if I’ve had any bites on your building?”

  Fresh anxiety brewed in my gut. I’d forgotten all about the fact that Darlene was handling the sale of the building that held Strings Attached. “Have you?”

  “I’ve had some nibbles, but Frank’s insisting on a high price right now.” She leaned forward. “I think he’d lower it if you were interested in buying.”

  “I wish I could. No bank would write me a mortgage as things stand now.”

  “You’ll do fine, honey.” She set her phone on a stack of papers. “Then you must be here about Jasmine. Did you hear? It wasn’t an accident at all.”

  “I heard,” I told her.

  Darlene heaved a sigh. “Have a seat. Apparently, Marcus is the sheriff’s number one suspect. The thing is, he’s disappeared.”

  I lowered myself to a white-upholstered side chair. “I heard that, too.”

  She seemed disappointed. Unlike Jeanette, she actually enjoyed spreading news. “I forgot that your roommate owns the Brew House. You’re probably pretty plugged in.”

  “I do get good coffee at home,” I said. “But there’s a lot I don’t know. For instance, about Marcus. What’s his story?”

  “He’s a strange one.”

  I waited a moment before prompting her. “In what way?”

  “He grew up here”—she looked up to make sure I knew that fact—“moved away, got married, then came back to Rock Point, a bachelor again, about five years ago. In those years, something changed.”

  “In what way?”

  She leaned back and crossed her legs. “Well, he was a regular guy before. Polite, hardworking—you know, regular. When he moved back, he’d turned sour. He wouldn’t talk to anyone, and if he did, it was to complain about how awful the town had become.” She looked like she wanted to say something, but shook her head instead.

  “What?” I prompted.

  “Marcus was single when he came back. I thought I might fix him up with my sister, Jill. When I suggested it to him, you’d have thought the house was burning down, he was so worked up.”

  That sounded like the Marcus I knew. “What happened to his wife?”

  “I’m not sure. I guess I figured she’d had enough of his attitude and divorced him.”

  I pondered this. It made sense. But it didn’t explain why he’d left town, unless he truly did have something to do with Jasmine’s death. I played with the sharp edge of my armrest.

  “You’re thinking about Jasmine, aren’t you?” Darlene asked.

  “I am. I’m also wondering where Marcus might have gone.”

  “You and the sheriff both.” Darlene picked lint off her skirt. She took her position as president of the chamber of commerce seriously and always wore suits. “He used to live in Bedlow Bay. Maybe he has friends there. Or maybe he’s camping in the woods somewhere around here.”

  “If he’s innocent, he’d be smart to come back to town.”

  “We plan to say a few words about Jasmine at the festival. Honor her.” Darlene looked into the distance, as if she were imagining herself on the dais. “Rock Point’s most prominent citizen. Murdered, right here.” She lowered her voice. “Shut the door.”

  Curious, I pulled the old storage room’s door closed behind me. The smell of paint and Darlene’s rosy perfume intensified.

  “The media is here. A fellow from the National Bloodhound. He called not ten minutes before you came.”

  My stomach dropped. “Did he talk like a radio DJ? I mean, if the DJ were Alistair Cooke?”

  Darlene waved the issue of the National Bloodhound with me in it. “Nicky Byrd himself. I saw you got a mention in his column.”

  I groaned. “Did he say he was still in town?”

  She nodded. “He’ll be by later.”

  I dropped my head to my hands. “No. I can’t believe he’s still here.”

  “Why are you complaining? You’re lucky.”

  “Lucky? How many moms are going to take their kids into a kite shop whose owner is practically called a murderer in a national publication?”

  “As a PR professional, I’m telling you that all publicity is good publicity,” Darlene said.

  “PR professional” might have been pushing it. She’d been in charge of marketing at her father’s hardware store until he retired and sold the business. Her grandest scheme had been the �
�wrench of the month” club. Junk drawers across Rock Point were filled with wrenches that Darlene had bought in bulk for a song. The problem was that they fit Chinese bolt sizes, not American.

  “All the same, I’d rather not have anything to do with him.”

  “I would. This is Rock Point’s big chance to be in the country’s eye.”

  I had to hand it to Darlene. She knew how to make lemons into lemonade. “The Bloodhound isn’t known for its puff pieces. He’ll make Rock Point sound as seedy as he can.” I wasn’t here to talk about tabloids. “Listen, do you happen to know why Marcus is so dead-set against tourists?”

  “I don’t know. His family were fishermen. Maybe he’s simply sad to see the old way of life disappearing.”

  “It seems to be more than that.”

  Darlene scrunched her lips together. “Maybe he just needs a hobby in his retirement—”

  “And being a curmudgeon is his hobby?” I thought about the threatening note, the slashed tires that the sheriff clearly suspected were Marcus’s work. “And isn’t he a bit too young for retirement?”

  “Every town has someone like him. But you raise a good point. As chair of Rock Point’s chamber of commerce, I should engage him. Figure out how to give him a role somehow.”

  Good luck with that, I thought. I rose. “I suppose I’d better get back to my store.”

  Darlene stood with me and opened the door. “Do you want to take the Bloodhound with you for your scrapbook?”

  I grimaced. “No, thanks.”

  “I knew that approaching Jasmine to judge the contest was the perfect choice. Even in her death, she keeps giving.” Darlene put the copy of the Bloodhound on her bookshelf. “Maybe even giving more. The chamber of commerce is going to send a huge wreath to her funeral.”

  I couldn’t help but turn to her. “You almost sound like you’re happy about her death.”

  Her tone was breezy. “Happy? No. Not at all.”

  True, she had seemed shocked when she rushed into Sullivan’s Kites to tell Jack and me about the death. But it was the threat to the kite festival that shook her, not Jasmine’s demise. “Rose is taking it pretty hard.”

  Now the humanity returned to Darlene’s face. “I take it back. Poor girl. Maybe not all publicity is good.”

  chapter fourteen

  A few minutes later, I was climbing the stairs to Strings Attached. “Any business this morning?” I asked Sunny.

  “Yeah, we sold two diamond kites and some line. You had two visitors, too.”

  “Visitors?” I wasn’t expecting anyone. Sunny knew Stella, so it wouldn’t have been her, or Sunny would have said so. “People who stopped by to ask about the building?” I was still nervous about that.

  “Nope. What did Rose say? Will she talk to me about her business?” Sunny’s face lit up.

  “Sure. Who came to see me?”

  “When can I see Rose?” Sunny said.

  “Just a minute, Sunny. I’ll tell you, but would you let me know first who came by?”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, all right. Just after the store opened, a fancy-looking guy with a nice tan stopped in.”

  The man with the accent who was interested in my kites. “Did he look like he’d stepped off a vintage cigar box?”

  “Yep. That’s him. He came in and asked for you, and when I told him you were out for the morning, he left. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “He didn’t leave a card, did he?” What did he want? He seemed so out of place in Rock Point. “Who else came by?”

  “Another man, totally different. He was tall, stringy hair. But he was super charming, almost like a television interviewer, and he talked like he was reading a Victorian novel. He did leave a card.” She reached next to the cash register for a crisp business card with a familiar red and yellow logo.

  I didn’t need to look at it, but I did anyway. “National Bloodhound. Nicholas Byrd III.” I set the card on the counter. “Did he say what he wanted?”

  “Just that he needed to talk to you.”

  I swore under my breath. He obviously knew by now that Jasmine had been murdered. “I don’t want to talk to Nicky Byrd.”

  “The Third,” Sunny added.

  “You know how those tabloids are. I don’t trust him.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”

  “That’s all, then?” I asked. I’d been away for less than two hours, but I had to admit that I was a little wary putting Sunny in charge of the shop.

  “Yep. That’s about it.” Sunny’s face looked innocent. Maybe too innocent. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  My kite. I only had parts of it basted together at this point, but I’d left it on the table in the workshop. I was headed to the kitchen door to check on it when a customer came in. At Sunny’s gasp, I spun around to see who it was.

  “Caitlin Ruder,” Sunny said and ran around the front of the counter. “I heard you were in town, but I never thought I’d get to meet you. I loved you in Bag That Babe.”

  Caitlin was dressed as if she were lounging on the Riviera. Sunglasses obscured half her face, a pink-and-orange silk scarf was wrapped in her hair, and she was Amazon-tall in espadrilles with a three-inch wedge. I was surprised that Sunny recognized her at all, until I remembered that this was likely a look she sported for a good part of her TV season.

  Caitlin slipped off the sunglasses and let her gaze sweep the room. “So, this is your shop, huh? Cute.”

  “Thank you,” I said uncertainly.

  “Can I help you find a kite?” Sunny asked.

  “Aren’t you sweet?” Caitlin said, now the grande dame. “No, I just had to get out of the house. I’m bored out of my skull.”

  “Some people fly kites for entertainment,” I pointed out.

  Caitlin looked at me as if I’d asked her to stick her head in the toilet.

  “You could walk along Clatsop Cliffs. The view is spectacular,” Sunny said. “It’s a great place to think.”

  “I can think on the deck,” she said. She tapped a toe as she turned to take in the rows of kites fluttering above the old fireplaces and the packaged kites nearer the counter. “What do I have to do to get a drink in this town?”

  “The Tidal Basin doesn’t open until five,” Sunny said. “It’s a nice place. You might like it there.”

  “The Rock Point Tavern’s open now,” I said. She’d detest its ancient indoor-outdoor carpeting, decaying sailor decor, and the owner’s aged mutt, who slept behind the bar and beat a hasty exit when the health inspector dropped by. The tavern’s owner liked to brag that he hadn’t had to break up a fight in almost eight years. I wished I could see Caitlin trying to order some chichi Hollywood cocktail there.

  “Forget it. I really don’t drink, anyway.”

  “You drank all the time on Bag That Babe,” Sunny said promptly.

  “I mean drink in a tavern.”

  More lies, I thought. “Are you staying in Rock Point through the kite festival?” The festival was this coming Saturday, less than a week away. If Caitlin was bored now, she’d be comatose by the time she judged the contest.

  “Yeah. Jasmine and I came as a sort of retreat. You know, get the city off our minds, regroup. Now it’s just me.”

  “I’m sorry,” came to my lips, but Caitlin didn’t look particularly grief-stricken.

  She slipped on the sunglasses again. “I suppose I’ll walk a bit, then go home. Study my script.”

  “For a movie?” Sunny asked.

  I couldn’t see Caitlin’s eyes through the dark lenses, but her lips widened into a smile. “A terrific role. Perfect for me.”

  “What is it?” Sunny said.

  “Not public yet. You’ll know soon enough,” she said. She ran a hand over her flat stomach. “Maybe I’ll do some core
exercises this afternoon.”

  Sunny followed Caitlin to the door. “Come back anytime,” she yelled as Caitlin descended the steps and disappeared up the street. Sunny turned to me. “Have you thought about putting up autographed photos of stars who come to Strings Attached? Wouldn’t that be great?”

  I didn’t even bother to respond to that suggestion. Then I remembered: my kite. I ran behind the counter and threw open the kitchen door. My kite lay over the table, just as I’d left it that morning.

  “It’s okay,” I said.

  “Of course it is. I don’t know why you’re so worried.” Sunny turned her back on me and let the door swing shut.

  • • •

  After making Sunny promise to tell me if the Tan Man, as I was beginning to think of him, came in, and to deny I was there if Nicky Byrd dropped by, I stepped through to the workshop to make some progress on my kite. Soon, tourists and kite fans from all over would be filling Rock Point’s bed-and-breakfasts and even driving in from hotels in Cannon Beach and Newport. Caitlin Ruder might find Rock Point hard to bear for more than a few days, but the town had no problem attracting visitors.

  I pulled my kite toward me and examined it with a fresh perspective. Yes, it would be a beautiful kite. Even in its raw state, the jewel-toned view of Rock Point, with the ocean to the left and forest to the right, drew in the eye. It could hang in the shop, and customers would stare at it, picking out landmarks and admiring—if I said so myself—the clever rendering of the flowered border down Main Street, or the boats anchored in the marina.

  These details were fine, like a painting. In the shop, they’d sing. I straightened. Up close. In the shop. But on the beach? Maybe I was going about this all the wrong way. The kite festival would draw hundreds of people to the beach. My kite would get lost in the cacophony of shape and color.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it sooner. I folded up the kite and set it to the side. Maybe I’d finish it someday and display it from Strings Attached’s front porch. But now I understood that this kite was too precious. I needed a kite with drama. I wanted something that could wow from afar—sort of a Jasmine Normand of kites. Sure, it meant starting from scratch, but it was the only way. An appliquéd kite took days and days to perfect. A larger, simpler kite, on the other hand, was manageable in the week I had left before the festival. Yes. I’d do it.